by Noreen Wald
I recapped. Then offered my unasked-for opinions, along with a copy of Emmie’s email and the clipping Ivan had delivered. Regarding my theory that the ghostwriters’ deaths must have been connected to what Em had told Barbara, and that I believed the murders were job-related, that ghostwriting somehow had gotten them killed, Rubin assured me that he’d be talking to their former employers. He didn’t mention who they might be. Regarding the newspaper article, Rubin told me Ivan was due in five minutes.
“Maybe he knows something more about this clipping, but I don’t think so.”
“Thanks for coming in, Jake. I’ll be in touch.” I was dismissed.
After a lunch of bagel, banana, and coffee at the Third Avenue deli, I arrived at Kate Lloyd Connors’ house at one o’clock. Mrs. Madison—still as dour as Mrs. Danvers—opened the door. “Miss Connors is on an international conference call. There’s coffee in the Conservatory, you can wait for her there.” She motioned me down the hall, then retreated upstairs. I poured a cup of coffee I didn’t need and walked over to the French doors with their great view of the river. Caroline waved to me from the garden, a basket of fresh-cut roses in one hand, a pair of shears in the other. I opened the door and she bounced in. Caroline wore black shorts, cut off to show lots of cheek, a black leather bra, and high-top black sneakers. Her raven hair was hidden under a black baseball cap, but she sported full war paint. She gave me a warm smile. “Welcome to our ’appy little family.”
“Thanks. Want some coffee?” I wanted to talk to Caroline, believing that she would be the most likely of the looney toons to confirm Emmie’s employment at Kate’s ghostwriter, as well as to ask about any problems Em might have encountered on the job. “Lovely roses, Caroline, do you enjoy gardening?” I handed her a cup of coffee.
‘‘I like being out of this ’ouse, even if it’s only in the garden.”
‘‘How long have you lived here?”
‘‘Since me foster mum plucked me out of a London orphanage five years ago. Annie had Daddy Warbucks, didn’t she? I’ve got Mummy Connors.”
‘‘How did Kate find you?”
“She was writing Larceny in London, it had to do with baby brokering, and she’d visited our orphanage for her research. As the oldest girl in the ’ome, I presented the famous lady with a bouquet.” Caroline placed the roses in a Waterford vase on the Chippendale table near the French doors. “Roses, in fact.”
“I guess you’ve seen lots of Kate’s editorial assistants come and go.”
Caroline giggled. “Vanish right into thin air, don’t they?” She smelled like Coppertone. I guess she didn’t want to lose that vampire pallor.
“Did Emmie Rogers work for Kate?”
The door from the foyer flew open and Kate Lloyd Connors swept in, wearing a flowing white caftan that matched both her hair and her snow-capped teeth, bared in a wide smile. “Jake, hello and welcome.” She extended her hand and took hold of my arm, steering me toward the door, bubbling, “We’ll go straight to the library. I can’t wait to get to work.” As we exited, she called back to Caroline, “Tea in the drawing room at four thirty, darling. Plan on joining us.” Caroline shrugged her bare shoulders and said nothing.
Kate and I spent the next few hours discussing Suzy Q’s style, voice, and point of view. Caught up in A Killing in Katmandu, I almost forgot the Manhattan murders of my two dear friends.
Jonathan Arthur tapped at the door. “Tea time, ladies.” And we all trooped down to the drawing room, where Mrs. Madison’s spread must have outdone Buckingham Palace. I devoured three scones while Jonathan and Kate planned an upcoming book tour.
Then the conversation shifted to the new book and never veered from it. Amazing. All the morning newspapers and television shows had carried the story of Emmie’s death and the probable link to Barbara’s murder. This household either was totally unaware that someone had killed the ghostwriters or, if they knew, it wasn’t considered tea time talk. I put down my cup, agreed to report to work at nine the next morning and left. Caroline was a no-show.
Turned out that she was otherwise engaged. As I walked past the staircase to the front door, I glanced up. On the second-floor landing, Caroline was wrapped in Patrick Hemming’s arms. Her hands, under his running shorts, gripped his ass. A t-shirt, sneakers, and a towel draped around his neck completed his outfit. I had to admit he looked great. Suddenly, Patrick broke away from her and bounded down the stairs. Caroline’s Cockney whine turned into a loud screech. “You can’t run away from the truth, ’Emmings.” She picked up a Ming bowl from a small lacquered table on the landing and heaved it at him, barely missing her moving target’s head. Patrick reached the first floor in seconds and stood, agape, when he spotted me.
“Oh, Jake, please don’t be upset, Caroline’s not herself today.”
Figuring ghosts rush in where angels fear to tread, I asked, “What happened? She seemed fine earlier this afternoon.”
Patrick looked embarrassed and sounded frantic. “It’s her medicine. Needs adjusting.”
I smiled. “What seems to need adjusting is your shorts. They’re bordering on indecent exposure.” Caroline’s laughter followed me out the door.
My mother had information to report. “Jake, your hunch was right. Emmie swore Linda to secrecy, but now that she’s gone,” my mother’s voice cracked, “Linda thinks you should know. Not only did Emmie ghostwrite for Kate Lloyd Connors, but Linda said Emmie was really upset when she spoke to her on the phone Friday afternoon.”
“What did Emmie tell Linda? Anything about Sarah Anne Hansen?”
“No. Neither Linda nor Mike has ever heard of Sarah Anne. But Emmie did tell her mother that she had to decide what to do with some very disturbing information she’d discovered at Kate’s. Em planned on discussing whatever it was with you.”
“And what did Linda think about that?”
“At first, Linda hadn’t been too concerned; you know how Emmie can overreact. But Linda never heard from Emmie again. On Sunday morning, she called the police.”
Emmie had tried to reach me. I didn’t read her email in time to meet her Friday night, and someone had bashed in her skull. Barbara’s too. All because I didn’t show up at Elaine’s. Goddamn, I felt responsible. I’d find out who murdered my two friends if it killed me.
Nine
I called an emergency meeting of Ghostwriters Anonymous. Ginger not only agreed to help round up the ghostwriters, but offered her home for the impromptu meeting. She’d just finished baking a batch of fresh-picked blueberry pies, experimenting with a new crisscross crust recipe. Instead of freezing them, she’d serve them, still warm, to the ghostwriters. “Maybe with a little homemade vanilla ice cream. And, Jake, I have some wonderful, bold, French roast beans, I’ll make espresso. We’ll need to be wide awake, and it will give me a chance to use my new demitasse set from Williams-Sonoma.” Even in my bleakest moments, Ginger could serve up a splash of sunshine.
Before leaving for Ginger’s, Mom and I shared a sad little supper, toying with our scrambled eggs and English muffins, much too glum to eat. Both the eggs and the muffins were overcooked. Mom was no Ginger in the kitchen. But who, short of Julia Childs, was? I doused my eggs with ketchup, then gave them another push around the plate. My mother said, “Linda and Mike would like to have the funeral at Saint Joan’s on Saturday, which would mean a viewing on Friday. Do you think the Medical Examiner will have released the body by then?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Have Mike talk to Detective Rubin. Maybe he can hustle things along.”
Saint Joan of Arc’s in Jackson Heights was the church where Linda and Mike Rogers had been married and where, coincidentally, both Emmie and I had been christened. Now she would be buried from there.
“Two of our ghostwriters’ funerals in one week. I can’t believe it, Jake.”
I’d forgotten that Barbara’s memorial service would be Wednesd
ay. If this didn’t qualify as the week from hell, I couldn’t imagine what week would. I grabbed a quick shower, threw on my sweats and sneaks, kissed my mother goodbye, and arrived at Ginger’s at eight forty.
The ghostwriters, united in their grief, made a strong showing. Joined together in our sadness, we held what amounted to a private wake for two of our own. However, combined sorrow, fear, and anger had made us edgy. We weren’t there five minutes when Modesty got in Ginger’s face as our hostess poured her French roast espresso. “Well, why don’t you have any decaf espresso?”
Ginger jumped all over her. “A decaf espresso is an oxymoron. Just for tonight, try not to be such a miserable mango, Modesty.”
Then Jane’s serenity was severely jolted when I blurted out that there might be a serial ghostwriter killer loose in Manhattan. But she bravely suggested we turn that concern over to our Higher Power. Too-Tall Tom, a how-to handyman ghostwriter who moonlighted as a carpenter, where he doubled his writing salary, chided Jane: “God helps those who help themselves.” Other ghostwriters flipped out, demanding to know what steps we should take to protect ourselves.
Seeing Jane so upset, Ginger relented. “Sorry, Modesty, why don’t you brew some of that Irish Creme decaf? I know you like it.” I then officially opened the meeting.
“My name is Jake O. and I’m anonymous. I’ve called this special meeting of Ghostwriters Anonymous to discuss the brutal murders of our members and to share my guilt over their deaths with you. And to ask all of you to consider breaking our tradition of confidentiality and to share any information that might help solve Barbara’s and Em’s murders.” A collective gasp filled the room. I then related all I knew regarding the events of the past weekend, concluding with why I held myself responsible for Emmie’s and, probably, Barbara’s death. In return, the ghostwriters showered their love and support on me.
Buoyed by their acceptance of my controversial stand, I went on. “In Ghostwriters Anonymous we share our experience, strength, and hope. Tonight, let’s share all that we think, feel, or know about Emmie and Barbara’s recent activities. New York, New York’s literary community is not unlike Smalltown, USA. Let’s get to work and find out who killed our fellow ghostwriters.”
With a sense of purpose, we devoured our pie, dropped some of our anonymity, and discussed our strategy. No one had ever heard of Sarah Anne Hansen, but everyone agreed that the clipping had to be connected to Emmie’s death. Modesty had grown up in Michigan and had an aunt in the Upper Peninsula. She’d give her a call and see what Auntie remembered about the Honey Bucket drowning. I asked if any of the ghosts had ever heard Em or Barbara mention any of the looney toons who made up Kate Lloyd Connors’ household.
Laura T., a celebrity ghostwriter, whose White Diamonds perfume competed with the aroma of the freshly baked pies, sat next to me. Her Ivana hairdo and Lagerfeld pantsuit identified her as one of the rich...but not famous. Ghosting for the stars, Laura made tons of money, yet still suffered from the same anonymity as the rest of us ghostwriters. She told us that her current work-in-progress was an “autobiography” of a rock star who couldn’t read. Laura’s advance was over three hundred thousand dollars, but she claimed to spend it as fast as she wrote. Checking out her outfit, which included a Rolex with a price tag higher than most compact cars’, I, for one, believed her.
Laura called for the group’s attention. “Last week, I went with Gen-X to his hypnotherapist, Patrick Hemmings. We’re including Gen-X’s past lives in the book, and I sat in on a regression session, so I could meet some of the people he used to be. Anyway, according to Gen-X, this Patrick is quite the ladies’ man. While we were in his office, Patrick took an important phone call from a woman named Kate. It sure sounded as if she were more than a client. Patrick kept saying, ‘I’ll be over later. Everything will be fine.’ He seemed embarrassed that he’d taken the call in front of us. And guess who was in the waiting room when we came out?” Laura paused for dramatic effect. Her audience hung on her every word. “Emmie. Of course she recognized Gen-X and never said a word to me. I asked her later and she told me she’d been in regression therapy with Patrick for several months.” The enraptured ghostwriters digested this information, and they all promised never to reveal the name of Laura’s famous client.
Patrick got around. Modesty had met him at a New Age seminar, where he enjoyed a long conversation with Barbara. When Modesty had pressed Barbara about where she’d met him, Barbara only said, “Patrick’s an old soul. It seems as if I’ve known him for an eternity.”
Too-Tall Tom said, “I saw Em and Igor...”
“Ivan,” I said, by rote.
Too-Tall Tom moved right along, “Anyway, they were having lunch on Friday at Budapest East. They appeared to be quarreling. I wouldn’t count that crazy Hungarian out. Emmie did give him an envelope. I guess it held the Sarah Anne Hansen clipping, but then Emmie left in a huff, and Ivan screamed after her, ‘You vill be sorry.’ He almost knocked over my waitress on his way to the kitchen.”
Charles K., a true-crime ghostwriter, took lessons at the same fencing school as Jonathan Archer. Jonathan told Charles that he had a potential award-winning true-crime exposé work-in-progress, and Charles had replied, “Haven’t we all?” I wondered if Kate knew that she harbored a budding writer in her household.
Who’d have guessed what a fountain of information my fellow ghostwriters would turn out to be? I tried to take notes as fast as they talked. Jane thought Barbara might have been one of Kate’s earlier ghostwriters; Barbara had once mentioned working for a bestselling mystery writer. But Ginger felt strongly that we shouldn’t rule out the Mob’s involvement in Barbara’s death. Ginger stressed that Barbara had been terrified at the Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting on Saturday morning and, while Barbara hadn’t revealed her client’s name to Ginger, she did indicate her upcoming book might have triggered a Mob-related problem. My later conversation with Barbara confirmed that fear. Modesty seemed convinced Kate Lloyd Connors had to be guilty. “She’s a real bitch, just like all my clients. I met her at Sleuth Fest last year; believe me, the Queen-of-Murder-Most-Cozy is capable of killing the ghostwriters. Probably to make sure they never talked.”
Ginger glared at Modesty. “Do you have baked beans for brains? Based on that one meeting, you’ve judged this woman to be a murderer?” And we seemed to be back where we started.
I walked home, full of new and confusing notions, but without a theory, much less a strategy. Ginger and Modesty would pick up Barbara’s brother at Kennedy tomorrow morning. I had to work from nine to one and couldn’t join them, but we’d all agreed to get together later in the day. Maybe a good night’s sleep would make my head stop whirling. As I reached 92nd Street, I watched my mother exiting the Wales Hotel on Madison Avenue, between 92nd and 93rd Streets. She was with two men. I waited on our corner, tapping my left foot, my arms folded, my expression stem. My mother noticed me, after pulling her eyes away from the older of the two men, as they all crossed the street. The object of my mother’s attention looked like the patriarch in a Ralph Lauren ad. His gray hair was curly and thick; his stance was straight and tall. The younger man was Detective Ben Rubin. What the hell was going on?
“Oh, hi, Jake,” my mother bubbled. “Say hello to Aaron Rubin, Detective Rubin’s father.”
I uncrossed my arms and shook the elder Rubin’s hand, giving my mother a disapproving glance. “And just what have you three been doing?”
“Detective Rubin...Ben...happened to be in the neighborhood and dropped by with his father. Ben wanted to see you. They caught me at a bad moment; I’d been talking to Linda about Emmie’s funeral, and I was crying. Aaron suggested we all go to Sarabeth’s for decaf cappuccinos, and afterward I felt so much better that I showed them the Wales lobby and Pied Piper Salon.” My mother flashed her Miss Rheingold second-place smile at Ben’s father. “Aaron’s a retired Manhattan district attorney. Worked under Ed Koch. Jake, his
insight into the ghostwriters’ murders is wonderful. And Ben will try to have Emmie’s body released in time for the wake on Friday.”
“Yeah, well, it’s late and I have to go to work in the morning. What was it that you wanted to see me about, Detective Rubin?” Ice wouldn’t melt in my mouth.
Ben Rubin got the message. His reply was all business and his delivery as cold as mine had been. “I spoke with the detective who’d covered the Hansen case. He’s long retired, but he remembers rumors that Sarah Anne, who, incidentally, was never found, had been sexually abused by her father at the time of her disappearance. The Honey Bucket Police Department is sending us the case file. Just thought you might be interested, Ms. O’Hara.”
Conflicting emotions swept through my soul. Detective Rubin had gone out of his way to keep me informed. Why was I so bothered by his showing up at our house? And even more bothered by my mother’s obvious interest in his father? I wondered what the late, now sainted, Jack O’Hara would think about all this. He’d think his daughter was a jerk, that’s what.
“Look, I’m sorry if I sounded short. Overtired and cranky, I guess. I really do appreciate your keeping me posted and please let me know what the Michigan records reveal.”
Ben’s sleepy-eyed smile warmed any lingering chill.
Ten
A pretty Hispanic maid wearing a crisp uniform answered the door at Kate’s townhouse. “Good morning, Miss O’Hara, I’m Carla. Miss Kate said you’d be working in the library. I’ve put out coffee and sweet rolls for you.”
“Thanks, Carla. Nice to meet you. Isn’t Miss Connors at home?”
“They’re all out. Miss Kate and Mr. Jonathan are at the publisher’s and Mrs. Madison has taken Miss Caroline to see her therapist. I’m the only one here, and after I get you settled in, I have to run an errand, if that’s okay with you.”