Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  “He can just take his place in line with all the other possible suspects.”

  “Am I among them? You’re sharing a lot of infor­mation with me, Ben. Why?

  “I think you know why.” This time his cheeks turned ruddy. “And you’re not a suspect. No opportunity in Barbara’s case, and if you had a motive for either murder, it’s eluded me. But you’re playing Nancy Drew. A dangerous avocation. Someone’s killing the ghostwriters; you’re one ghost I want to keep alive. If you believe I’ve followed up on your suggestions, maybe you’ll al­low Homicide to solve these murders. All I ask is that you don’t repeat what’s been said to anyone. That goes for your mother and Gypsy Rose.”

  “You have my word. As a member of Ghostwriters Anonymous, I know how to keep my mouth shut,” I said, thinking I’ve been spilling every bit of information I’d gathered to all the ghostwriters. No more. Ben was right. I didn’t want to put them or Mom and Gypsy Rose in jeopardy. In the future I’d work alone, but I saw no reason to have Ben worry about that. “Now, have you talked to Kate Lloyd Connors?”

  “Indeed. Monday evening at her Sutton Place manor, after you’d left for the day. Quite the grande dame, isn’t she?”

  “And?”

  “Kate told me she’d adored Emmie, what a fine editor Emmie had been, and how she’d cried all morning after hearing about the murder.”

  “Well, she’d pulled herself together by time I arrived. No one in that house even mentioned Emmie. I tried to question Caroline, but Kate barged in.”

  ‘‘Of course, Kate couldn’t shed any light on Emmie’s death. Jonathan was there too. He had even less to say. The stepdaughter wasn’t home.”

  “I’ll bet Kate saw to that. Without question, Caroline holds the key to the secrets in that house.”

  Ben reached around my empty wineglass and took my hand. “I’ll talk to Caroline.”

  “Thanks. Oh, what about Barbara? Did Kate admit to knowing her?”

  “Only casually. Kate claims she met Barbara through Patrick, when they all participated in some New Age seminar. And I’ve found no evidence linking Barbara to Kate as either a ghostwriter or a friend.”

  “Yet, she shows up at Barbara’s memorial with her stepdaughter and Jonathan in tow.”

  “I was as surprised as you were.” Ben squeezed my hand.

  “If only we could find out why Emmie had the Sarah Anne Hansen clipping.”

  “The file should be here tomorrow or the next day. I’d like to get into Emmie’s computer, but our computer nerds can’t crack the passcode. Did she ever give it to you?”

  “Emmie rotated her passcode as often as most people wash their hair. She loved the old soaps. Can you believe she actually wrote while they were on? I never under­stood how she did that. She was into Another World last week. Try that, or try Rachel. Emmie really identified with Rachel.”

  Ben jotted down the soap and its heroine in his little black book, then took my hand again and brought it to his lips. “Okay. Now promise me you’ll stop playing detective, Jake.”

  My mother and Gypsy Rose returned to the table, and I never answered him. I couldn’t wait to get to Kate’s tomorrow morning.

  Ben went back to Homicide at the Nineteenth Precinct, and Gypsy Rose insisted we grab a taxi home. The longtime doorman, who knew all three of us “girls” to be Algonquin regulars, hustled us into the next hotel arrival’s vacant cab, no doubt annoying the other harried hailers. Although well ahead of official rush hour, the thick traffic on Madison Avenue slowed our driver to a crawl. Gypsy Rose dozed while Mom, wound up, chatted. “Kate Lloyd Connors is very attractive, Jake, and she seems so nice.”

  There’s that “seems” again.

  “Caroline looks like a Mia Farrow reject,” my mother continued. “Kate must have known that girl would be nothing but trouble when she adopted her and brought her here from England.”

  “Actually, Mom, there’s something sweet about Caroline, or that’s how it seems to me.” God, would I ever take anything or anyone at face value again? Should we accept each other as we are or is as we are only what we want to “seem?”

  My mother, less philosophical and far more pragmatic than me, said, “Just be on guard while you’re in Kate’s castle, Jake. One of that bunch may have murdered our ghostwriters. I wish you’d quit.”

  “Oh, Mom, I’m probably safer in that house than in our home. Remember, both Emmie and Barbara were killed in their own apartments.”

  My mother brushed my bangs out of my eyes. “That’s because neither one of them lived with her mother.”

  I laughed, but I did promise to watch my back...especially the back of my head...for any heavy book aimed my way.

  Mom switched gears. “Ben’s a charmer, and so bright. He’s an attorney, you know, but prefers solving murders to practicing law. That decision doesn’t thrill his father.’’

  “I’ll bet. No, I didn’t know. You’re full of Rubin family facts. Did you play ‘Twenty Questions’ with father and son the night before last?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “So what else did you learn?”

  Gypsy Rose to my mother’s right snored lightly. The cabbie lurched left into an opening in the traffic; we all slid across the back seat, throwing me into the left passenger door. Gypsy Rose’s head landed in my mother’s lap, while her handbag flew off her own lap and landed on my aching feet. Did she carry gold bricks in her Fendi?

  My mother sighed. “We’ll probably be killed in this taxi...and all my worrying will have been wasted.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for years. Why worry? You can’t change the outcome.”

  “Well, in case we do survive this ride from hell, you should know that Ben’s an only child and lives with his father. He’s a good son.”

  Ironic; two bright thirty-somethings, each living with a parent, develop a strong mutual attraction, just as each respective parent discovers the other. Freud would have a field day.

  “Where’s Momma?”

  “In Mount Lebanon Cemetery—for two years.”

  “You like Aaron, don’t you, Mom?”

  “Yes. I think I do. You like Ben, don’t you, Jake?”

  “Yes. I think I do.”

  Our laughter woke up Sleeping Beauty.

  We dropped Gypsy Rose at her tearoom. She had to relieve the two part-time sorceresses, and Mom and I stopped at Mr. Kim’s to pick up some fresh fruit and veggies. He’d enjoyed the memorial and regretted he hadn’t been able to attend the Harvard Club reception. “Did you see Dennis there?”

  “Yes, he plowed through the masses and brought us wine,” I said.

  “Dennis works too hard, plays too little. Like you, Jake. You two should go to the Hamptons after Emmie’s funeral. Live a little. Have some fun.”

  I kissed Mr. Kim on the cheek. “We’ll see.” Mom and he made some vague plans to ride to Emmie’s funeral Mass together and we headed home.

  My mother, mulling over my romantic options, said, “To think on Friday, you had no gentlemen callers, and now three men are interested.”

  Wondering who lurked behind door number three, I asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Patrick Hemmings, of course. Didn’t you notice how he kept turning around and staring at you all through the service? You’ve hypnotized the hypnotist, Jake.”

  Fourteen

  “Kim Novak is no Grace Kelly,” my mother said. We were watching Vertigo. Somehow the master of movie suspense soothed my mother’s nerves, and I’d inherited her pro­pensity for using psychological mind games, terror, and murder as tranquilizers.

  “Hitchcock swept Kim’s blonde hair into a sleek French twist and dressed her in a classic gray suit, but you can’t turn a siren into a lady. After Grace married Prince Rainier, Hitch searched in vain for another cool goddess. Eva Marie Saint, Tippi Hedren, even
Doris Day, for heaven’s sake, but...”

  “Mom,” I interrupted her running, critical commen­tary, “if you’d quit being Siskel and Ebert, I could judge for myself.” What a novel idea. I should have picked Rear Window or To Catch a Thief. Either one would have shut her up.

  The phone rang. “I’ll pause it,” my mother said.

  “Don’t bother; the story’s so convoluted, and besides, I’ve seen this flick ten or twelve times. If I miss a plot point, it’s no big deal. I’ll get the phone.” I popped another slice of Mr. Kim’s perfect peach into my mouth and took the call on my bedroom extension.

  Modesty sounded excited. “My Auntie Charity knew Sarah Anne Hansen.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah, they were cheerleaders at rival high schools. Met at football games and a soda foun­tain fraternized by both teams.”

  I tried to picture Modesty’s Auntie Charity as a cheer­leader. I’d never met the woman, but I imagined what Modesty might be like as a little old lady. Cranky and testy. Visualizing either Modesty or Auntie Charity as a perky teenager required real effort.

  “Auntie says this Sarah Anne was a real beauty. Great shape. Long, thick, black hair and big blue eyes. But Sarah Anne never went on a date. She had no boy­friends—nor girlfriends, for that matter. Her father tracked her like a hound dog. Daddy showed up at every game, never took his eyes off Sarah Anne. He was her biggest fan. If a boy even spoke to Sarah Anne and Daddy got wind of it, she’d be grounded.”

  “What did Aunt Charity recall about the drowning and disappearance?”

  “Folks said John Hansen’s possessiveness toward Sarah Anne was unnatural, and it accelerated when Mrs. Hansen died in an accident when Sarah Anne was ten or eleven. People in Honey Bucket figured that Sarah Anne couldn’t take any more of her daddy’s unwanted attention and shoved him into that freezing water, or if he fell in, stood by and let him drown. Either way she was out of there before the cops could question her.”

  “How did your aunt call it?”

  “Said John Hansen was an angry loner, whose two reasons for living seemed to be his hobby, ice fishing, and his daughter. Maybe she was a hobby too. My auntie hoped Sarah Anne killed the bastard.”

  We talked a bit about Barbara’s funeral and the re­ception at the Harvard Club. Modesty said Bill would be in town ’til Sunday night; he planned to attend Em­mie’s Mass and hoped we could all get together before he left.

  “Jake, are you aware that Patrick Hemmings is an old friend of Bill’s? I guess that’s why Barbara claimed she’d known him forever.”

  “Well, either that or they’d been acquainted in pre­vious incarnations.” I sounded flip and almost as testy as Modesty. “Actually, I only found out today that Pat­rick and the Bernsides summered together as kids.”

  “And are you also aware that Bill Bernside dates Jon­athan Arthur?

  “What?”

  “I gather I can take that piercing scream as a no.”

  “How the hell did you discover that tidbit?”

  “Too-Tall Tom ran into them late last night, dancing at a gay club in Tribeca.”

  I asked Modesty to arrange a meeting with Bill Bernside tomorrow or Friday and let me know where and when. Then I hung up, my head reeling. How could Barbara’s brother go dancing on the night before her funeral? I’d felt guilty about ghosting this week but jus­tified my decision with my detective work. I went back to Vertigo; I could use a tranquilizer.

  Before and after Modesty’s phone calls, I tried to reach Ivan the Terrible. I wanted to see him up close and personal to ask him what he and Emmie had quarreled about on the day that she was murdered. The headwaiter at Budapest East told me Ivan had taken the day off for a funeral. I’d glimpsed him at Campbell’s but hadn’t seen him at the Harvard Club. That didn’t mean he hadn’t attended the reception; the place was such a zoo, he could have been swallowed up by the crowd.

  I called Ivan’s apartment and left two messages, prompted by his answering machine: “If you vant to speak, you vill begin ven music stops.” After several bars of “The Blue Danube” came one long beep, then a chance to record a very brief message. God, he was weird, but was he a killer?

  While the Vertigo credits played, Mom startled me. She held a tray piled with the residue of our light supper of salad and fruit as I wiped off the coffee table with paper towels. “Jake, did you notice Angela Scotti when we left Campbell’s?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She went tête-à-tête with Patrick Hemmings. As if she were scolding him. At one point, she wagged a finger under his nose. I think you and Gypsy Rose were hailing a cab about then.”

  “So it seemed as if they knew each other?”

  “Oh, no question. They not only knew each other, their body language shouted intimacy. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I forgot.”

  “But you said Patrick only had eyes for me. Should I be crushed?”

  “He looked at you with lust or longing, or at least intrigue. He looked at Angela with murder in his eyes.”

  “And this you forget?”

  “It’s been a long day, my darling daughter.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “And I, for one, am going to bed.”

  “You give money to a bum and it encourages him to loaf,” Mrs. McMahon said as I exited our front door at seven o’clock on Thursday morning on my way to the Reservoir for my power walk. Bob, a Vietnam vet, was Carnegie Hill’s longest homeless resident. He had a salt-and-pepper beard to the middle of his chest, hair caught in a ponytail, wore army fatigues, and lived, most of the time, on 92nd Street. On summer nights, he slept on a bench abutting Central Park and during the long, cold winters he slept in doorways, rotating them to keep ahead of the cops. But his daylight hours were spent walking the streets, and for some reason he’d cottoned to our block. Perhaps because Mr. Kim often fed him and people like me slipped him an occasional buck.

  I gave Mrs. McMahon a nasty look, hoping Bob hadn’t heard her. If he had, he might not have understood; some days he was really out of touch. He tucked the dollar in one of his deep pants pockets, then buttoned it, and flashed me an almost-toothless smile but said nothing. I wondered if Bob had always been a quiet man. He ambled toward Park Avenue, where he’d circle the blocks from 91st to 93rd Street, between Park and Fifth, all day. Bob had been covering the same ground on a daily basis for twenty years.

  ‘‘Quite a wingding, that party at the Harvard Club. I didn’t think much of the service at Campbell’s, though. Did you know that Barbara Barnside, the dead girl? I read in the Post that she was a writer.”

  ‘‘Bernside. Yes, Mrs. McMahon, I only attend the funerals of people I know.” Wasn’t I being a bitch? However, Mrs. McMahon either chose to ignore my snide remark or didn’t consider it to be offensive.

  She rattled on. “I’ve seen her with Dennis Kim. And doesn’t he carry on like a hotshot attorney? Pretty cozy, they were, riding around in that Rolls Royce of his. I myself don’t approve of interracial romances.”

  I literally bit my tongue. Mrs. McMahon’s bigotry drove me crazy, but I also experienced a ripple of jealously as I thought about Dennis being cozy with Barbara. That feeling was followed by a tidal wave of suspicion. Jesus, what was wrong with me? Why was I reacting to gossip and innuendo, based on one old witch’s prejudiced opinion? My suspicion ebbed. The jealousy clung to me like grainy sand on a suntan-oiled body.

  I’d worked up a sweat, and when I checked my watch, was surprised to see it was eight o’clock. Time to get these buns home and into the shower.

  Mr. Kim waved; I stopped and bought an Evian, gulping it as he and I exchanged good mornings and recapped yesterday. Then, like a jilted schoolgirl confronting a cheating boyfriend’s father, I questioned the unsuspecting Mr. Kim. ‘‘How well did you know Barbara?”

  ‘‘Dennis represented her. I met her two or three times, onc
e at one of your mother’s parties. I really liked her.”

  “Had you been in her company recently?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, Dennis and she had brunch about a week ago at Sarabeth’s. They stopped by to say hello.”

  “Did you think…er…did something seem to trouble her? A problem...?”

  “I heard Barbara talking to Dennis about a gold digger who was chasing after her brother. You know the Bernsides come from old money, Jake. Piles and piles of it. Barbara seemed very upset about Bill’s new relationship.”

  Jonathan Arthur, I presume.

  Mr. Kim continued, “Then there was that business with the Mob. Barbara wrote Scotti’s daughter’s book.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Why, Barbara told me.”

  And I’d believed that Barbara had only confided in me. How many people knew the Mob was mad at her? Had one of them used The Godfather as a herring? Then again, just how strongly had Barbara objected to her brother’s new gold-digging boyfriend, Jonathan Arthur?

  Fifteen

  On the Second Avenue bus downtown, I planned my offense. Caroline was the weakest link in the Connors’ camp, and I still wanted to talk to her first. After Mod­esty’s revelation regarding Jonathan Arthur’s love life, he’d gone up a notch or two on my hit parade of sus­pects. Now, he had mixed motives. Theory A: Either Emmie or Barbara had found out—then confided in her fellow ghostwriter—that he’d written some sort of tell-all about Kate Lloyd Connors, and Jonathan had killed them both to keep his moneymaking story a secret. Or The­ory B: he killed Barbara so she couldn’t break up his potentially much bigger moneymaking romance with brother Bill. In Theory B, I hadn’t figured out why he’d killed Emmie. But my favorite—Theory C—combined the two motives, turning Barbara’s death into a bonus for Jonathan: free reign to pursue Bill. If Jonathan had killed the ghostwriters, I needed to check out his work-in-progress to prove it. Since Mrs. Madison had caught me snooping, this presented a challenge.