Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  Engrossed, I rode a block past my stop and would have gone all the way to the Bowery if the man in the next seat hadn’t offended my sense of smell when he unwrapped a salami and provolone hero. I maneuvered past his bulk, disturbing his breakfast, and scrambled through the standees to the rear exit. Most of my life I’ve run ten minutes behind. Today proved to be no ex­ception.

  Carla was vacuuming the foyer and Mrs. Madison, carrying a tray filled with goodies, was climbing the stairs when Caroline opened the front door, wearing a string bikini—black. I’d like to buy this kid a coat of many colors.

  “’Ow are you, Jake?”

  “Hi, Caroline...”

  “Is that you, Jake? Come right upstairs, darling, I’m ready to go to work.” Kate stood on the second-floor landing, ushering Mrs. Madison and her tray to the li­brary.

  Before I could reply, Kate scolded Caroline, “Put something over that bikini, now.”

  Caroline scooped up a long, black cotton t-shirt from the small love seat near the Conservatory, put it on, and yelled up to Kate, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  Carla smiled, then moved the vacuum so I could go to work.

  Kate was all business; we drank our coffee and ate our cream cheese and bagels as we line-edited A Killing in Katmandu’s first chapter. Whatever thoughts Kate may have harbored about Barbara and yesterday’s me­morial remained private. At eleven o’clock, she stood, stretched, started across the room, and said, “I have to leave for an appointment. Luncheon will be at one o’clock. You can enter the changes and start chapter two. I should be back before you leave. Have a grand and productive day.” Kate knocked on Jonathan’s door.

  He opened it at once and said, “Good morning, Jake.” Then he asked Kate, “Can you just give me a moment to go through my mail before we leave?” Al­though, as always, Jonathan was impeccably turned out in a blue linen blazer, crisp chinos, and school tie, he appeared harried and his eyes were puffy, as if he hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

  “We’re going now or else we’ll be late. You can open your mail when we return.”

  “But...”

  “No buts about it. We’re leaving. This very minute. Move it, Jonathan.”

  Jonathan retrieved his briefcase from his desk and locked his office door behind him. Kate grabbed her Gucci carryall and her coral silk jacket, then they were off. And I was alone.

  From the library’s bay window facing the front of the house, I watched Kate and Jonathan get into a waiting limo, wondering where they were going. Carla had reached the second floor and I could hear the constant noise as she ran the vacuum across the Oriental rugs and dark oak floors. So the library door into Jonathan’s office was locked; I hadn’t expected otherwise. I went back to my computer.

  By twelve thirty, Carla had moved up to the third floor and I’d ventured out of the library for a quick look-about. Only the now-distant hum of the vacuum indi­cated anyone else was in the house. I tried the hall door into Jonathan’s office. Locked. One door down, I dis­covered a bathroom and decided to use the facilities. The vastness overwhelmed me. This john was bigger than many of my friends’ Manhattan studios. Its gleaming, ultramodern plumbing included a Jacuzzi, a bathtub big enough to hold the entire Connors household—that con­jured up an interesting picture—and two separate johns, each enclosed and equipped with its own bidet, sink, and dressing table. Its futuristic design contrasted sharply with the English manor theme that prevailed in the rest of the house.

  The salon section of the bathroom had two doors. The one on the left opened into a guestroom. And the one on the right, though locked, had to open into Jonathan’s office. The lock looked uncomplicated. I returned to the library, grabbed my Visa Gold credit card, ran it be­tween the door frame and the lock and, voila, the door opened. I was glad for the opportunity to use my Visa; I certainly couldn’t charge on it.

  Inside Jonathan’s office, the drawers to his desk were still locked; however, I scanned the room, even tidier than Mom’s kitchen, searching—in vain—for a hiding place for a key. His desktop was in perfect order, except for the scattered pile of unopened mail. I rifled through it.

  There were about a dozen envelopes and assorted magazines and catalogues for Kate. Jonathan’s personal mail included bills from Brooks Brothers and Bur­berry’s, a postcard from his Park Avenue dentist re­minding him of a July first appointment, and a letter from the National Enquirer. Did Jonathan always open his and Kate’s mail? Who picked up the mail from the out­side box and brought it into the house? Hadn’t it oc­curred to Jonathan that a letter from the National Enquirer might pique somebody’s curiosity? It sure as hell piqued mine.

  I took the letter into the bathroom and, with all three of its doors locked, turned the Jacuzzi on hot and high, and steamed it open. The National Enquirer confirmed the tabloid’s offer of five hundred thousand dollars for Jonathan’s three-part expose of the Queen of Murder-Most-Cozy’s multiple ghostwriters. Final acceptance of the project, as had been previously discussed, required the newspaper’s at­torneys’ review of supporting documents: contracts, correspondence between Kate and her ghostwriters-for-hire, and tape recordings. Wow. Jonathan’s work-in-progress would be sensationally serialized in America’s leading tabloid. And his story appeared to be more true confes­sion than true crime. What a snake.

  The last paragraph puzzled me. We could be inter­ested in the other angle in your proposal. However, be­fore we can either make an offer or even consider publication regarding the identity issue, you would need to present positive proof. Our legal department advises that what you’ve submitted is inadequate. If you can prove your allegations beyond any doubt, we can reopen negotiations.

  Identity issue? What the hell was that all about?

  I returned to the library, made a copy, stuffed it in my bag, located some glue in my desk’s bottom drawer, re­sealed the envelope, scooted through the bathroom into Jonathan’s office, replaced the letter exactly where I’d found it on his desktop, then, again via the bathroom, started back to the library. But as I opened the door from the john into the hall, I ran into Mrs. Madison. Her puss was sourer than ever.

  “Luncheon is served, Miss O’Hara. I see you’ve al­ready washed your hands.”

  Caroline sat in the Conservatory at the table set for two. She’d changed into black jeans and a t-shirt and piled her hair into a washerwoman’s topknot; with no makeup, she looked pretty, but paler than death. “Hi,” I said. “Just the two of us?”

  “Righto. Kate and Jonathan popped over to Dennis Kim’s. ’E’s ’er solicitor. Do you know ’im?”

  “Yes. We grew up on the same block.”

  “It’s a small world after all...” Caroline sang the Disney attraction’s theme song very well.

  “You have a great voice.”

  “A regular Spice Girl, aren’t I?”

  Mrs. Madison marched in with a serving cart holding plates filled with chicken salad, a basket of hot rolls, and a pitcher of ice tea. I realized that I was starving. Playing Nancy Drew worked up an appetite. Vera served the meal in silence and left. I guess she only ate with the family when Kate was in residence.

  “So, would you like to be a singer?”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “Why?”

  “No one in this ’ouse even believes I’m capable of going out alone. ’Ow can a crazy woman ’ave a career as a singer?”

  “Caroline, you’re not crazy.” I buttered my roll, thinking, well, no crazier than the rest of the Connors loonies. Now that I finally had Caroline all to myself, I didn’t know where to start. With her adoption? With Emmie’s employment and what she might have uncovered? With Patrick’s unprofessional relationship with Caroline and possibly Emmie? Perhaps I’d start with her remark, that first day, about the sour cream being poisoned.

  “Listen, Caroline, I’ve wondered why you believed that there w
as cyanide in the sour cream. Who did you think put it there?”

  “Why, Jake,” she said, swallowing half a roll in one gulp, “Kate put the poison in the sour cream, didn’t she?” Caroline sounded surprised that I wasn’t privy to this information. “Who else would it be? Kate’s in love with Patrick, but everyone knows ’e’s in love with me. Don’t you see? She’s trying to kill me.”

  Jesus, maybe she was crazier than the rest of them.

  Sixteen

  When my mother had said that even Mia Farrow wouldn’t adopt this kid, I figured she was only being her snobby self. Caroline was grunge incarnate. Mom and Gypsy Rose, dearly as I loved them, were two of the most judgmental women I knew. Maybe it was gen­erational. They’d grown up reading all those Emily Post columns while wearing white gloves, pretty dresses, and hats. Their notions of proper behavior were archaic. I don’t believe either one of them was aware that she could be considered snooty, and if she were, might con­strue it as a compliment. Anyway, my lunch with Car­oline left me with both indigestion and the distinct impression that this time my mother’s call had been right on.

  After we’d finished eating, I’d gone back to my desk, but not back to work on Kate’s A Killing in Katmandu’s chapter two. Instead, I pulled my legal pad from my briefcase and recorded as best I could the conversation that had transpired between Caroline and me.

  I almost choked on a piece of chicken when Caroline had stated so cavalierly that Kate was trying to kill her. I’d taken a swig of my iced tea, wishing it were a martini, and decided to keep my questions coming. Caroline had been delighted to answer them all.

  “Caroline, why did you say ‘If you don’t believe me, ask Em’ in reference to the poison in the sour cream? Was Emmie aware of your…er…your mother’s jealousy over your relationship with Patrick?’’

  “Not Emmie. I wasn’t talking about Emmie. I’d started to say, ‘’Emmings.’ Patrick—’e knows Kate’s trying to kill me, but the wicked witch, Mrs. Madison, dragged me out of the room before I could finish.”

  All this time, I’d thought Caroline believed Emmie had knowledge of a possible poisoning. Things are seldom as they seem. Not Emmie, but Hemmings.

  Caroline’s Cockney accent dropped haitches all over the place. And wasn’t it interesting that Patrick, who’d supposedly believed there was cyanide in the sour cream, had been the first one to dive into it? Could Caroline’s cyanide concern be a figment of her imagination? Or could it be that she suffered from hallucinations because she was on drugs?

  “Have you and Patrick actually discussed the possibility of Kate’s killing you?”

  Caroline took umbrage. “And ’aven’t I been telling you that? Patrick says Kate’s the one who should die. Then I’ll inherit most of ’er money.”

  Could any of this be true? Or was Caroline certifiable? I changed tack. “Tell me about your adoption. How did Kate come to choose you? She must have loved you then, don’t you think?”

  “Gawky and plain as plum pudding, I was. My fourteenth birthday less than a month away. But Kate seemed bound and determined to ’ave me. God knows why. She’s a strange one, isn’t she?”

  Strange couldn’t begin to describe any of the Connors clan, but I kept that opinion to myself.

  Caroline continued, “Before I knew what ’ad ’appened, I was adopted and on a plane for New York.”

  “I noticed you never refer to Kate as mother.”

  “She said we were more like mates than mother and daughter. I even kept my own surname, Evans.”

  “Did you know your birth mother, Caroline?”

  “No. Both my parents were killed in a car accident. They’d been drinking. Flew right over the White Cliffs of Dover, didn’t they? I was two months old, left behind at the flat with a babysitter. Neither my mum nor my dad ’ad any family. Off I went to the ’ome.”

  “And you have no information about them? No clue as to who they were?”

  “Only their certificate of marriage and a copy of my birth record. All in the correct order. I’m not a bastard.”

  I grinned. “I never thought you were.”

  Caroline laughed. “My mum was an American.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right. You know where it says place of birth on a wedding certificate...”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, my mum was born in Detroit. My dad came from Liverpool. But the authorities couldn’t locate any living family on either side of the Atlantic. When the police in Detroit checked out my mum’s background, they said she’d lived in foster ’omes and ’ad no known relatives. Her mother ’ad given ’er away—straight from ’ospital. At least my parents ’adn’t dropped me on the orphanage doorstep. They died. I was a proper orphan, wasn’t I?”

  “What was your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Hansen. Lily Hansen.”

  Then, as my mouth hung open, Mrs. Madison had wheeled in the apple pie and ice cream, and my heartburn kicked in.

  I knew writing Kate’s fiction would be impossible this afternoon; her real-life mystery had become so much more intriguing. And Caroline had proved to be an enigma. On one hand, relating the story of her adoption, she’d seemed more than credible, but the love triangle and the tale of poison, with Kate as her daughter’s potential killer, sounded inane as well as insane.

  Or did it?

  This case had gotten out of control. The suspects running amok all over the board like pieces in an erratic checker game. Kate Lloyd Connors had just jumped over all the other checkered players and been crowned most-likely killer.

  Sarah Anne Hansen? Lily Hansen? Coincidence? I didn’t think so. Our Ghostwriters Anonymous program tells us there are no coincidences. Caroline’s mother, Lily Hansen, had been born in Detroit, Michigan, forty years ago, then raised in foster homes. Eighteen-year-old Sarah Anne Hansen had fled Honey Bucket, Michigan, on Valentine’s Day, forty years ago, after her father had been pushed—or fallen—through the ice and drowned. Kate Lloyd Connors and Sarah Anne Hansen would be about the same age. Were they the same person? I’d always thought of Kate as a native New Yorker—things are seldom as they seem—she could be from Upper Michigan, have a wretched past, and maybe no one knew it. Not her publisher, not her readers, not Dennis Kim, certainly not Caroline. And not her ghostwriters—until Emmie stumbled on Kate’s sordid secret and shared it with her sponsor, Barbara. If Kate had killed John Hansen and changed her identity, wouldn’t she kill again to keep Emmie and Barbara quiet?

  I needed to dig for proof. Evidence that Kate and Sarah Anne were one and the same. Evidence that Kate knew Emmie had not only unearthed her past but had also told Barbara. I’d find that proof, and I’d solve this case. For Emmie and for Barbara.

  Kate may have been the current king, but she wasn’t the only player remaining on my checkerboard.

  Either Jonathan or Patrick was in position to jump over Kate and be crowned as king of suspects. And Ivan, Vera, Angela, Caroline—even Dennis—might be only a move or two behind.

  Jonathan’s dirty deal with the National Enquirer now took on a whole new dimension. Was the “identity issue’’ that the editor had referred to in his letter the Sarah Anne Hansen/Kate Lloyd Connors connection? Jonathan was getting half a million dollars for his ghost story. What could he command for exposing America’s Queen of Murder-Most-Cozy’s long-ago real-life incest/murder/baby abandonment story? A million-dollar motive. Barbara might have told Kate’s secret to her brother—God knows she’d told Mr. Kim and, for all I knew, the immediate world about her threat from the Mob—and Bill might have slipped that information to Jonathan during pillow talk. If the ghostwriters had talked to the police before his publication date, Jonathan’s golden goose was cooked. Then, too, Jonathan was a greedy bastard, and with Barbara dead, Bill controlled the Bernside fortune.

  Was Patrick really romancing both Kate and Caroline? How much co
ntrol could a hypnotist exert over a patient? I called my good friend, Gypsy Rose Liebowitz—an expert in parapsychology, New Age soul-searching, and those people, who for a price, healed other folks’ spiritual woes.

  She launched into an in-depth discussion of hypnotherapy, explaining regression and parts therapy. Regression brings a patient back in time, often to his past lives, in order to deal with current emotional, psychological, or physical problems. The theory: Confront the past, enjoy the present. In parts therapy, a patient faces the negative and positive side of all her emotions.

  “For example?” I asked.

  “You see, in a person’s heart—or soul—creativity may dwell side by side with fear and negativity. They’re two parts of the same feeling, the latter stifling the former’s chances to express itself. The patient’s conservative side, afraid of rejection, prevents his wild side from the joy of creating. Get it?”

  I sure as hell didn’t, but I just said, “Go on.”

  “Sometimes, the patient will find his wild part in, say, his right foot. After successful treatment by a competent hypnotist, he’ll know where he needs to channel his energy and what body part to concentrate on when he needs to take a risk.”

  Well, that certainly cleared everything up. “Gypsy Rose, can a person be hypnotized to do something that she’d rather not do? Wouldn’t, in fact, ever do under normal circumstances?”

  “No. Never. The power of the hypnotist’s suggestions can be strong; however, an honest person would not, for instance, turn into a thief.”

  Or a murderer, I thought. But would Patrick himself kill if the reward was marrying into Kate’s empire? My gut feeling was that he’d kill for a lot less.

  What I really wanted to do was call another emergency meeting of the ghostwriters, but hesitated, not wanting to share dangerous knowledge with them. I decided to get out of Dodge before Kate and Jonathan came home. I had places to go and people to see...and a killer to catch.