by Noreen Wald
I gave Ginger the nutshell versions of Barbara’s threat from the Mob, how I’d been the last one to see her before the murder, and Detective Rubin’s Saturday evening visit.
“He doesn’t suspect you, does he?” Ginger almost choked on her chocolate mousse.
“Of course not,” my mother and I answered in unison.
“Thank God.” Ginger smiled. “Bill Bernside asked if you and I and Modesty would say a few words at Barbara’s funeral. Not quite a eulogy, more like a farewell from her friends and fellow ghostwriters.”
“That’s lovely,” my mother said. “You girls were all such good friends.” She started to clear the table. “Help me, Jake. We’ve got to get to Bloomingdale’s. If you’re going to be standing at the lectern in Campbell’s, you need to be wearing Donna Karan.”
Every ghostwriter in town had left me a voicemail when we arrived home from shopping. Sandwiched among the condolences and questions regarding Barbara’s death was a message from Detective Rubin, suggesting that I call him as soon as possible. Mom and I had to be at Gypsy Rose’s tearoom/bookstore by seven. The two part-time sorceresses had this Sunday evening off, so Mom and I were hostesses du soir. I sighed but decided to wait to return my messages. I took off my Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, put on a t-shirt and jeans, stashed my new widow’s weeds in the closet, and dashed around the corner.
There was a good-size crowd gathered as Mom and I manned our station, behind a table holding a coffeemaker, cream, sugar, cups, and a tray of cookies. “Who’s the big draw, Mom?”
“Some hypnotist who studied under Brian Weiss.”
I glanced over at the makeshift stage. A poster on a tripod read: “Hypnotize Yourself to Health.” Standing to its right, Patrick Hemmings winked at me. I waved. Mom poured coffee as I put on another pot. Patrick was a hit.
“Hi, Maura. Hello, Jake.” I turned. Dennis Kim was all smiles as he accepted a cup of coffee from my mother.
“Oh, Dennis, it’s so good to see you,” my mother gushed. “Jake told me what a grand eve...” My foot met my mother’s shin with a quick kick, interrupting her probable engagement announcement, just as Detective Ben Rubin, looking grave, strode through the door and toward our table.
Seven
If someone became too pushy for my mother’s sensibilities or insisted on an unwelcome intrusion into her professional or personal life, the guilty party would be castigated: “What unmitigated gall.” If an event, experience or situation disappointed her—hey, sometimes life sucks, even for my mother—she’d say, “What a revoltin’ development this has turned out to be.” If Gypsy Rose were present, she’d say, “Chester A. Riley,” then they would giggle like the school girls they’d been when William Bendix, starring in the ’50s television series, The Life of Riley, found himself in weekly revolting developments. I’d say Patrick to my right, Dennis to my left, and Detective Rubin dead ahead qualified as a prime-time revolting development.
“Detective Rubin, how nice to see you. This is Dennis Kim, and you know my mother,” I bubbled as I walked around the buffet table and stood between them. George Sand at her Paris salon could not have been more charming.
Rubin grunted, “I know Mr. Kim.” They both nodded. Coolly. As if each believed that shaking the other’s hand might be a fatal touch.
“You two have met?” I asked.
Dennis put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. Why was he acting so cozy?
“Detective Rubin dropped by to see me this morning. About Barbara Bernside. As you know, I represented her.” Dennis sounded sincere and saddened by the horror of it all. He cast his eyes downward and applied more pressure to my none-too-firm bicep. I jerked away from his grip, rubbing my upper arm.
“Barbara told me that yesterday morning,” I reminded him, “just before someone killed her.”
Rubin spoke before Dennis could reply. “Ms. O’Hara, I left two messages, but you didn’t return my calls. I stopped by your house, ran into a Mrs. McMahon in the lobby; she sent me over here. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
“I guess we can use Gypsy Rose’s office. It’s on the third floor. Up that stairway to our left.”
“Let’s go,” Rubin said.
“Give me a minute. I need to find someone to pour the coffee,” my mother said, looking around for a candidate. “Dennis, would you be a dear and keep an eye on the tab...”
“Mrs. O’Hara, I want to speak to Ms. O’Hara, alone. Why don’t you stay here and mind the store? We won’t be long.”
“I’m a great coffee maker, Mrs. O. Please allow me be your second-in-command.” Dennis beamed those golden eyes at my mother.
I led the way up the old circular staircase, gripping the oak banister, not sure if I was more nervous about my talk with Rubin or about leaving Dennis alone with my mother. Would I wind up the evening arrested for murder or engaged to be married?
The red brick building, serving as bookstore, tearoom, and Gypsy Rose’s home, dated back to the early 1900s, when Andrew Carnegie had moved into his mansion on Fifth Avenue and the fashionable folk followed him uptown, creating a new neighborhood, Carnegie Hill. Now, Detective Rubin followed me as we climbed the Persian-carpeted steps to Gypsy Rose’s office. The door was closed but not locked. I switched on the chandelier, and the lovely little room glowed. I chose the burgundy leather chair behind the Mission period desk; Rubin sat on one of the gray tweed love seats, facing me.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this, Ms. O’Hara...”
“What? Tell me what?” I knew this wasn’t going to be good news.
“Emmie Rogers is dead.”
“Oh, Jesus...oh, God...no.” I needed air. My heart had landed in my mouth and was choking me. Emmie’s mother and father must be...I couldn’t find a word. How would I tell Mom? Rubin poured a glass of water from the pitcher on Gypsy Rose’s desk and handed it to me.
“I’m sorry, Ms. O’Hara. Eerie, isn’t it? Yesterday, you thought Emmie was the victim. Today, she is. Although she’d been murdered before Barbara.”
Sorrow gagged me. I gulped the water. A few drops spilled onto the walnut desk. Ben Rubin used his handkerchief as a blotter. “How? When?” I asked.
“The Medical Examiner places time of death as somewhere between ten p.m. Friday night and three or four Saturday morning.”
Soon after she’d left Elaine’s. “Where?”
“In her apartment at the Claridge. Her parents reported her missing this morning. I recognized Emmie’s name from our conversation last night and had the super let us in. Odd that her parents didn’t have a key.”
Odd, indeed. My mother would have a key to my apartment if she had to sleep with the concierge to get it. Why didn’t Linda Rogers have one? Poor Emmie hadn’t gone missing at all. She’d been home alone, murdered. I told Rubin how dreadful I’d felt about not reading Em’s email until Saturday. Then asked, ‘‘Detective Rubin? How was Emmie killed?”
“A sharp blow to the head with Crime and Punishment.”
God. A literary serial killer? Murdering the ghostwriters? Could that be possible? What book would he use to bash in my head? Maybe Webster’s dictionary, my constant companion; I’m the writing world’s worst speller. I rubbed my temple, then looked at my fingers, almost expecting to see blood.
‘‘Look, Ms. O’Hara, it’s getting late. You’re missing how to hypnotize yourself to health, and I’m missing sleep. Please drop by the station in the morning. I want to go over a few details with you.”
“I have an appointment with my attorney in the morning.”
Rubin smiled wickedly.
“No. No. It’s to review a book contract. I’m starting a new job tomorrow. I could see you after I’m finished with him, around eleven.”
“Good. And did you happen to save that email from Emmie?”
I stopped in th
e second-floor bathroom on my way downstairs. Even in its soft pink lighting, my skin was ashen; I felt as sick as I looked. A bolt of bile shot up from my stomach, and I spit into the john, then waited to see if vomit would follow. The sound of laughter wafted up the stairs. Patrick must be an amusing speaker. New Agers are dead serious. A tough audience. When my insides calmed down, I splashed cold water on my face, pulled my lipstick out of my jeans pocket, and rubbed Clinique’s Bronze Buff on my lips, then on my cheeks, using my index and middle fingers as a blush brush, then finger-combed my hair, shrugging at my reflection. It would have to do; I just didn’t want to frighten my mother and Gypsy Rose.
Patrick fended a question-and-answer session as I returned to the coffee and cookie station. A lady in red asked about her asthma during a previous life in ancient Babylon. Patrick explained how stress-related ailments can follow us through all our incarnations. God, would poor Emmie carry her PMS to her future lives? What if she came back as a guy? I decided not to tell Mom that Emmie’s current incarnation had ended. That sad news could wait ’til we got home.
Dennis stood, sipping coffee, seeming to savor every word Patrick said. As a kid, I’d lost enough card games to Dennis to know he had a poker face. Just how well were he and Patrick Hemmings acquainted? After all, they both provided professional services to Kate Lloyd Connors. Their paths must have crossed in her Sutton Place mansion. And why was Dennis here tonight?
“Everything okay, Jake?” Dennis whispered.
“Fine.” I busied myself rearranging the cookies. There were hardly any left; New Agers tend to gobble up free food. “Where’s my mother?”
Dennis gestured to the rear. Mom and Gypsy Rose sat in the last row, apparently spellbound by Patrick. It must have been a hell of a talk. Maybe Jane D. could make some real money if she ghosted his book. I’d give her a call in the morning. My stomach lurched again as I realized none of the ghostwriters knew Emmie was dead. I didn’t plan on being the one to tell them. I had to get out of here. Now.
“Dennis, can you cover the table ’til Mom gets back?”
“Sure. What’s wrong? You look like hell.”
“I’m okay. Just whipped. Tell Mom I’ll see her at home. Thanks.” I was gone before he could ask any more questions.
I almost made it home, but crossing 92nd and Madison, I spotted Ivan pacing from Mr. Kim’s fruit stand to my apartment house door and back again. There was no way to avoid him.
“Hey, darlink. Jake, I vant talk to you.”
“Ivan, I...I’m not feeling well.”
“Not veil. You are not veil. Veil, Emmie is dead. I call her for two days. I try to go in her apartment. Building manager is KGB. I am vorried. Vere is she? I call her Mama. Emmie’s parents like me not, still I tell them. Tonight, policeman—Rubin—answer phone. Vere she is...is dead. Jake, do you know zis?”
“Yes. Detective Rubin just told me.” I started to cry. Ivan patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. He wore black from head to toe, his jeans too tight, his t-shirt cropped, and his flowery cologne overpowered me. How had Emmie ever slept with this guy?
“Darlink, vat do ve do? I love her. I lose her. Now this Rubin policeman vants to see me in the morning. Vat are you thinkink about zat?”
“I think Rubin’s going to have a busy morning. I’m sorry, Ivan, but can we talk tomorrow?”
“Jake, ve talk now. I have somethink for you. Emmie give it to me for safe keep. You understand?”
“Yes. What, Ivan, what did Emmie give you?”
“Envelope. She laugh. Say, hold for me. Don’t lose. Give to Jake, if you no hear from me. I think she is joking. No joke, Jake.”
“When did Emmie give you the envelope, Ivan?”
“Friday, ve have lunch at Budapest East. Goulash. Emmie says she is planning to meet you that night. I am thinkink, darlink, you don’t meet Emmie, so you no receive information she vanted to give you. Zat is correct?”
“Correct.” I could barely stand.
Ivan reached into his back pocket and, with some difficulty, pulled out a twice-folded, slightly soiled white envelope. I grabbed it. “Thanks, Ivan. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I promise.”
“Vill you find out vhy our Emmie is killed? Vill you, Jake?”
“I’ll try, Ivan. I’ll try.”
Mrs. McMahon lurked in the lobby, waiting for the elevator. I dodged her, took the stairs, and cried all the way to the apartment.
Collapsed on the couch, for the second night in a row, I opened the envelope. My fingers shook. Inside was a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping. The date—February 15, forty years ago. The paper—the Honey Bucket Record. The state—Michigan.
LOCAL FISHERMAN DROWNS IN FREEZING LAKE SUPERIOR
John Hansen, fifty-eight, died under mysterious circumstances yesterday, February 14, while ice fishing in Lake Superior. The Honey Bucket police are investigating the possibility of foul play, calling the death suspicious. Sources close to the investigation say the homicide team is asking: Did Hansen fall in? Or was he pushed? Police Chief Carl Rutland said, “Sarah Anne Hansen, 17, the deceased’s only child apparently left town, late yesterday.” A detective with the Honey Bucket Police Department added, “We would like to question the missing girl.” Hansen, a widower, had been employed as a logger at Swenson’s Timber for over twenty years. Sarah Anne is a senior at Honey Bucket High School.
Who the hell was Sarah Anne Hansen? How could a town be named Honey Bucket? And why did Emmie Rogers have this clipping?
Eight
The desk sergeant at the Nineteenth Precinct reminded me of Dennis Franz with Lady Bird’s ’60s bouffant. I told her I had an appointment with Detective Rubin and she growled, “Have a seat.” Eleven o’clock, but I’d had a full morning and was grateful to just sit and wait.
Mom reacted to the news of Emmie’s murder about as I’d expected. Bad. She’d arrived home last night, flustered. “Why did you leave Gypsy Rose’s without a word? Where are your manners, Jake?” Her fluster turned to fright when I told her about Emmie. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Could someone be killing the ghostwriters? Poor Em. Oh, Jake, I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. God, I must call Linda Rogers.” While Mom made her condolence call, I packed my briefcase for my morning rounds. The contract for Sam Kelley to review. The notes I’d made on Kate Lloyd Connors’ A Killing in Katmandu. And Emmie’s envelope containing a newspaper clipping, going back forty years, for Detective Rubin. Were all these items somehow connected? How?
When I awoke this morning at seven, Mom was still on the phone. Only the fact that she now wore a bathrobe indicated that she’d ever gotten off. She was talking to Gypsy. They were making plans to visit the Rogers in their Jackson Heights apartment. I poured Mom a cup of tea, then gave her my itinerary for the day. “Mom, while you’re helping Linda and Mike arrange the wake, could you ask a few questions?” My mother nodded, buttering a piece of rye toast.
“Try to find out who Emmie’d been ghosting for, then ask the Rogers if they know—or ever heard Emmie mention—a Sarah Anne Hansen.” I showed my mother the clipping.
Her eyes brightened. I knew that as sad as she felt, my mother loved a mystery, and that she’d jump at the chance to play a Manhattan Miss Marple. Younger and more chic, of course. As I was leaving, Mom said, “Please be careful, Jake.” I’ve heard those same words for over a quarter of a century as I exited this same front door. Today, I listened.
My appointment with Sam Kelley also went as expected. He took a long drag on his cigar, blowing smoke all over me, as he expressed delight with the big advance. Then he puffed, sputtered, and stubbed out the stogie. The nasty smell filled my nostrils. “No royalties,” he groused.
“Well...”
“A shame, but Jake,” he tented his tobacco-stained fingers, peering at me over them, “take the money and write.” I knew he’d already calculated his perc
entage and planned his next trip to Belmont’s $500 Win window, without changing even one word in the contract drafted by Dennis Kim. No wonder Dennis snickered whenever Sam’s name came up.
I’d waited about ten minutes when Ben Rubin appeared, full of apologies, contrition and smiles. We walked from the civil-service-green waiting room down a dreary hall into his office. Here the color proved harder to call. Maybe mud-clay. His desk was metal and messy. However, the muddy walls were covered with posters from the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s exhibits—mostly Matisse and Monet—and scattered among the legal folders and law books spilling over his bookcases were novels: Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Dickens. Ben Rubin was more than just a pretty face. I picked up The Sun Also Rises. A favorite of mine.
“You look like Lady Brett,” he said. “Er, that is, like I’d always pictured she’d look.”
I laughed. “Minus money, title, and wardrobe, but thanks.” I brushed my hair out of my eyes. Right now I probably looked more like a sheepdog than Hemingway’s Brett. As usual, my hairstylist had left my bangs so long that I was half blind.
Rubin made an abrupt swing from bibliophile to murder investigator. “Ms. O’Hara...”
“Why don’t you call me Jake? I have a feeling we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
He got busy, rearranging the piles on his desk, completely avoiding eye contact, appearing flushed. “Okay, and I’m Ben.” For a split second, I felt as if we were teenagers who’d just experienced a spark, but then Ben blew the moment. “So, Jake, tell me again. Where were you between ten Friday night and three o’clock Saturday morning?”