Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  Glancing around, I noticed that Dennis and Mr. Kim were scrounging for seats in the last row. They had a lot of company. Ginger dashed in, just as the staff pulled the doors shut, and the string quartet began playing “Clair de Lune.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve been tossing my bran muffin. And I tried a new recipe too.” Ginger managed a brave smile. I patted her hand, thinking that even perky Ginger had succumbed to today’s horror.

  Just then, the door reopened, and Patrick Hemming entered, with the very displeased funeral director on his heels. Patrick strode across the chapel and kissed Bar­bara’s Aunt Lucy, shaking hands with her Uncle Henry and hugging her brother Bill. He then sat in the front row seat they’d been saving. Who’d have ever imagined that Patrick would be the one to fill it?

  “That’s the hypnotist,” I whispered to Ginger, while pointing to Patrick. She looked too sick to care.

  But my mother, seated on my left, nudged me. “The plot thickens.” For once, I had to agree with her.

  The string quartet’s rendition of “Claire de Lune” drew to a close and the memorial service began. Bill Bernside stood at the podium, surrounded by mounds of white flowers. Baskets of lilies, wreaths of roses, vases of tulips. Their scent suddenly seemed sickening in the silence before Bill spoke. Barbara had loved white flow­ers in simple arrangements and often sent baskets of them to her friends. Her signature. Now her friends had sent them to her...for the last time. Tears spilled from my eyes. My mother wiped hers as Gypsy Rose took her hand. Ginger, usually posture perfect, slumped in her seat, her chin almost on her chest. Modesty, who sat in an aisle seat next to Gypsy Rose, groaned. I prayed we’d all get through this.

  There was no casket. Barbara’s ashes were in an urn, perched somewhat precariously, in my mother’s opinion, on a narrow table to the right of the podium. An 11” by 14” portrait of her—taken in the hope that one day it would appear on a book jacket—had been placed next to the urn. One lonely lighted candle flickered on the other side of the um. I contrasted the Ethical Culture Society’s memorial service with the Roman Catholic Requiem Mass send-off and decided no contest. This humanistic atmosphere’s cold comfort could have used a little old-time religion: the smell of incense, a splash of holy water, a few familiar prayers, gold and white vestments draped on a sympathetic priest, and an organ filling the aisles with “Amazing Grace” and “Ave Ma­ria.” Not to mention the mourners receiving Jesus Christ’s body in the sacrament of Holy Communion, then offering it up for the dearly departed’s soul. Prac­tically a passport to heaven.

  Bill’s tribute to his sister celebrated her life and sug­gested that she would live forever through her books. Except for the ghostwriters, none of the mourners seemed to grasp that ghostwriters don’t have any more credit piled on them after they’re dead than they’d received when they were alive.

  When Bill finished, the quartet played the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby” as I mulled over possible murderers and motives. What were Kate, Caroline, and Jonathan doing here? Barbara must have ghosted for Kate at one time, unless the Connors knew the Bernside family so­cially. I’d never heard Barbara talk about Kate and company, and as far as I knew, she’d never mentioned the Connors to any of the ghostwriters. When…if…Barbara worked for Kate, had she stumbled on dangerous knowl­edge? Or was Barbara murdered, for the reason I’d orig­inally suspected, because Emmie had confided in her and the killer had somehow found out? But what could that secret be? The Sarah Anne Hansen case? Visions of plot points danced in my head. Could Jonathan’s writing project compromise Kate? Could Emmie or Barbara have threatened to expose him? Caroline did carry on like a sex-crazed Lolita. But was she as loony as she looked? Or, as I believed, too smart for her own good? Was the teenager kept on a tight chain and, maybe, given drugs or hypnotized, so she couldn’t talk, or if she did, wouldn’t be credible? Then what about Kate and all her ghostwriters? Wouldn’t she be ripe for blackmail? I’d no doubt Vera Madison would murder to protect Kate. From what?

  And other than the Connors’ household? Well, Ivan was a dark horse’s ass. Ginger liked the Mafia. But if Barbara’s death was a hit, who killed Emmie? A Mob doubleheader? Why Em? Could Dennis Kim, the boy I’d bitten with such fervor and the man I’d so cavalierly kissed the other night, be involved? He had introduced Angela Scotti to Barbara, and he did seem to be crawling all over these crimes like an omnipresent cockroach. I was convinced that he knew a hell of a lot more than he admitted. Riding high on my list of suspects was the Marlboro Man poster boy, Patrick Hemmings, hypno­therapist to the stars, alleged womanizer, and obviously a close family friend of the bereaved Bernsides.

  My mother interrupted my next plot twist. “Jake, Bill called you to the podium. You’re on.”

  Jesus, I’d completely forgotten I had to deliver a eu­logy. We’d decided that I’d go first, then Ginger, with Modesty as the closing act. In a service with no prayers—except silent ones—no hymns and no talk of an afterlife, the eulogies set the tone. Mine wished Bar­bara Godspeed on her final journey and, speaking for myself, said I thought we’d meet again. My mother winked at me. Then I read “The Funeral of Youth,” Rupert Brooke’s poem that Barbara, the humanist, had loved. Ginger followed me, seeming to have recovered both her poise and physical well-being, delivering an elegant eulogy on the writing life—its sorrows and its joys. Neither of our talks replaced the stirring emotions of the 23rd Psalm, but the mourners were moved to tears. Finally, Modesty clutched the podium and began to moan. This was one wordy woman. She’d told me last night that her gothic romance had reached twelve hundred pages, with no denouement in sight.

  Fearing the worst, my hands grew clammy. I turned to my mother. “Do you have a tissue?” The best ladies’ room in Manhattan could be found at the Waldorf As­toria. Private rooms in lieu of stalls, with your own sink, flattering lighting, beauty supplies and tissues. Unending tissues. My mother managed to carry a Waldorf mini-john in her purse.

  “How could you come to a funeral without a tissue, Jake?” My mother stuffed several—white, unscented Kleenex—in my lap. I wiped my hands, dried my eyes, and placed the extras in my tiny, new mock-croc purse that my mother assured me went perfectly with my DKNY black crepe and the drastically reduced Ferragamo shoes that were killing me.

  I listened to Modesty and felt her pain. Barbara, her one friend in all the world, was gone. “Murdered...” Modesty raised her voice and repeated, “Murdered. Is her killer among us this morning? Is he or she sitting to your right or left?”

  Her audience squirmed, stealing furtive glances at their neighbors. My emotions were mixed. On one hand, Modesty had voiced what I’d been thinking but wouldn’t dare speak aloud. On the other hand, the shock value seemed tasteless and out of place at Barbara’s funeral, as her family and friends mourned her loss. Bill half rose from his chair. God, would he remove Modesty from the podium? But she removed herself, closing with, “My friend’s death will be avenged.” The quartet broke the deadly silence, closing with Chopin.

  Then Bill Bernside made his second big mistake in memorial planning. He invited all the mourners to a re­ception at the Harvard Club.

  Twelve

  In the cab downtown to West 44th Street, Gypsy Rose managed to repair her makeup while having a psy­chic experience. I’d never seen her in black before and suspected that the last time she’d worn it had been at the late Louie Liebowitz’s funeral. A colorful woman, Gypsy liked bright outfits to match her bright outlook. However, her St. John’s knit suit and cloche were flat­tering, and with that red hair and those coral lips, Gypsy Rose could never look drab. She returned her eyeliner brush to her cosmetic case. “It still has me shaking. God knows how I lined my eyes without a smudge.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The same evil aura that overwhelmed me at the ser­vice just grabbed me again.”

  “Evil?” My
mother shuddered.

  “Yes. When Modesty said the murderer might be sit­ting among us, I knew she was right. Barbara’s killer attended the memorial service. The presence of evil I felt in that room leaves no room for doubt.”

  “Could you put a face on this feeling?” It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Gypsy Rose. Her hunches, readings, and predictions had too often been right on, even convincing a skeptic like me. But I wanted more details. As Gypsy Rose frequently said, the devil is in the details.

  “No; but the presence of evil can be well covered. The murderer could be anyone, seemingly as innocent as you or I or Maura. I only know he—or she—was there.”

  “Things are seldom as they seem,” I quoted.

  “Exactly.” Gypsy Rose passed her cosmetic case to me. “You could use a little blush, Jake.”

  The Harvard Club, along with several other private clubs, was on 44th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, its location a few yards east of the Algonquin Hotel. Grand Central Station rose out of the ground to the east and Broadway beckoned to the west. I’d never been inside the club, although I’d passed its austere facade countless times on my way to the Algonquin, where the 1920s literati lunch bunch had met at the Round Table and where today’s writers still gathered to swap stories in its old-fashioned lobby. Unless you wanted to be trendy, then you drank where Tina Brown used to hang out across the street at the Euro-trash-trendy Royalton.

  “Maybe, if this day ever ends, we can stop at the Algonquin for drinks,” my mother said, paying the driver. Gypsy Rose and I agreed that was a splendid idea.

  Most of those who’d been in attendance at the service—who’d miss a freebie at the Harvard Club?—now crowded round the buffet table and two open bars. Bill, Aunt Lucy, and Uncle Henry gamely walked among the throng, introducing themselves and inquiring of their guests: How did you know Barbara? The problem was that the majority of these people hadn’t known or cared about Barbara, much less her family.

  Gypsy Rose gestured grandly over the masses. “All this Park Slope polyester and Staten Island mall hair could ruin the Main Liners’ appetites.”

  “Probably just proves to them that the Philadelphians’ jaundiced view of all New Yorkers is correct.” I smiled as a woman dressed in sneakers and a lavender jogging suit snapped pictures of the buffet table.

  My mother recoiled as a reporter shoved a mike in her face while a hand-held camcorder closed in. “Please, go away,” she said.

  “Get lost,” I said, leading Gypsy Rose and my mother away from the manic media. How did American News Network get in?

  Dennis Kim, holding what looked like a stiff scotch, joined us. “Anything I can do for you ladies? May I bring you something to eat?”

  A waiter, carrying a tray of drinks, breezed by. “No thanks,” I said. “But how about three white wines?”

  “Be right back.” Dennis trailed behind the waiter, attacking from the rear, then backtracked, victorious, with the waiter and wine in tow.

  “To Barbara, may her spirit soar.” My mother raised her glass. We all raised ours, clicked them together, and drank.

  “What will the family do with Barbara’s ashes?” Gypsy Rose asked.

  Dennis said, “They’re taking them home to be buried in…”

  And my mother interrupted, laughing. “All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.”

  “Is Kate Lloyd Connors here?” Gypsy Rose asked Dennis, just as a boy about twelve, dressed in long, loose shorts and a baseball cap worn backward, slid down the banister, as his mother screamed, “Bruce, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  Dennis grinned. “No, she said they’d pass.”

  “Smart move,” I said, as the kid landed on my aching feet.

  “Let’s pay our respects to the Bernsides and get out of here,” my mother said. “I’ll treat you and Gypsy Rose to lunch at the Algonquin.”

  “Cool.” I looked around, but brother Bill and Barbara’s aunt and uncle had been swallowed up by the maddening crowd. “I’ll find them. Stay right here.” I pointed to a window facing the street. “And never fear, I shall return.”

  Dennis moved with me into the fray. Too-Tall Tom’s head, like a beacon, drew me to the dessert table. “Hi, Jake, looking for someone?”

  It helped at moments like these to be acquainted with the tallest person in the room. Too-Tall Tom zeroed in on Bill in seconds. Barbara’s brother was in deep conversation with Patrick Hemmings. I decided to skip the goodbyes to the family, but to my surprise, Dennis decided to join Patrick and Bill. On my way back to collect my mother and Gypsy Rose, I ran into Ben Rubin.

  “This place is a zoo,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you, Jake. It’s all arranged; I’ve just left the morgue. Emmie’s body will be released in time for a viewing on Friday.”

  “Thanks, the Rogers will be so grateful.” I smiled. “And so am I.”

  He stared at the floor. “Jake?”

  “Yes, Ben?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s something else I think you ought to know. The results of the post mortem conclude that Emmie was three months pregnant.”

  Thirteen

  Impulsively, I asked Ben to join us for lunch at the Algonquin, figuring if my mother could have din­ner with Rubin père, she could pick up the lunch tab for his son. Of course, Mom was delighted with this unex­pected opportunity to brainwash Ben with all my best attributes. Dennis may have been her first choice, but having been a runner-up herself, my mother respected and carefully considered all contenders.

  “Oak Room?” Gypsy Rose asked, as the four of us stood in the lobby. I disliked its recent redecoration, which aped the shabby original, but totally lost its won­derfully frayed old-world charm. Matilda, the longtime Algonquin cat, had died about the same time as the lobby; her replacement brushed against Ben’s leg. I smiled as Ben knelt to stroke her ears.

  “Oh, let’s sit at the faux Round Table.” I gestured to its new location. “I can still pretend I’m Dorothy Parker.”

  Ben asked, “Can I be Robert Benchley?” I smiled again.

  “Certainly,” my mother said, getting in the spirit of times past. “And I’ll be Lynn Fontanne. You can be Tallulah, Gypsy Rose.”

  “Typecasting, darlings,” Gypsy Rose drawled. Then, still using a husky southern accent, she asked the maître d’, “Please bring us a bottle of Mouton Cadet, just as quickly as you can, darling.”

  We talked of Kaufman and Hart’s The Man Who Came to Dinner, of Woollcott’s wit, and of whether or not Mrs. Parker had ever slept with Mr. Benchley. When the wine arrived, we toasted Barbara, and Mom, Gypsy Rose, and I shared our favorite Barbara stories with Ben. That launched a discussion of the ghostwriters’ double mur­ders, where Gypsy Rose, Mom, and I spewed forth opinions and hypothesized on motives and opportunities. Ben talked in generalities about his previous murder cases with zest but offered no information or specifics in this investigation. As a big fan of true crime—I’d once flown to New England to attend an au pair murder trial—I reveled in the company of a man who thrived on homicide both as a professional and an armchair de­tective.

  Ben and I both considered In Cold Blood to be the finest piece of nonfiction, providing insight into the minds of two murderers. And in the genre of detective novels, we agreed on Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, but disagreed on P. D. James. Ben found her too talky. In the middle of our heated conversation, I glanced over at my mother and Gypsy Rose, whose smug, satisfied smiles stopped me cold.

  “More wine, ladies?” I asked, ready to pour it over their heads. Ben ordered Irish cof­fees, the conversation veered back to Barbara, and by three o’clock that afternoon, when Ben asked for the check, over Mom’s feeble protests, we were all a tad tipsy. Our Algonquin luncheon had turned into a mini wake. And I felt better for it.

  My mother and Gypsy Rose went downstairs to the ladi
es’ room, but I had a few questions for Ben. “How did your meeting with Patrick go? What did he say about Emmie?”

  “That she’d been one of Kate’s editors, and while he regretted violating Kate’s confidentiality regarding her employees, he assumed I knew that anyway. And I did. In addition to what Mrs. Rogers had told your mother, I found a contract proving Emmie had ghosted for Kate.”

  “Did Patrick say anything about his personal or pro­fessional relationship with Emmie? Remember, I told you that Laura, one of the ghostwriters, spotted Emmie in his office.”

  “Denied the former. Admitted to the latter. Said Em­mie had been his patient. They’d been doing regression therapy—having chats with her younger selves.” Rubin shook his head. “Smooth as silk, that Patrick is.”

  “He knew you’d be privy to that information. He had to tell you.”

  “You’re on target. I did know Emmie had been seeing him professionally; her check stubs confirmed it.”

  “But do you believe he was romantically involved with her? Patrick’s quite the Don Juan.”

  Rubin grinned. “Do you think so?”

  Already warm from the Irish coffee, I felt a full flush spread across my face. “That opinion is based on what I’ve been told and what I’ve observed, Detective. Not from personal experience.”

  “Well, Patrick told me that he never allows his pa­tients to become emotionally attached to him.”

  “Not true. I’ve watched Caroline with him. Emotion­ally attached? She’s hot as hell for him.”

  “Jake, I’m not dropping this, especially now that we know Emmie was pregnant.”

  I pulled out one of my mother’s tissues, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. “Jesus, could Patrick be the father? That would explain why Emmie and Ivan quar­reled during lunch at Budapest East on Friday. Oh my God, Ben, maybe Ivan did kill her.”