Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  “Yeah, right. What about Patrick?”

  “Patrick spent the rest of the night alone after putting Caroline in a taxi, reading the most recent issue of the Journal of Hypnotism.”

  My frustration grew with Ben’s every word; I was convinced that some of these people were liars. Bar­bara’s death had occurred sometime after I’d left her at eleven thirty Saturday morning and before the super had discovered her body at two that afternoon. I’d arrived at Kate’s at one. Caroline and Jonathan were there to greet me. I asked Ben where they’d been before that, espe­cially from eleven to twelve thirty.

  “Caroline jogged on the F.D.R. Drive Saturday ’til twelve thirty, then came home, and dashed upstairs to shower and get ready for lunch.”

  “As I recall, she looked pretty grubby when I met her. Does she have anyone to vouch for her alibi?”

  “Not a living soul. Neither does Jonathan, though he’s covered ’til noon. At his fencing lesson. His dueling partner turned out to be one of your fellow ghostwriters. Any­way, he says he came straight home and stayed there.”

  “Ben, he was still dressed in his tights when he let me in. If he went directly home after his lesson, why hadn’t he changed?”

  “Does he have good legs? Maybe he wanted to show them off.”

  “Or maybe he’d stopped at Barbara’s on his way home, killed her, and had just walked in?”

  I remembered that Kate had made a grand entrance. Late. Almost one thirty. She told Ben that she’d been swept away in a plotting tidal wave in the library from ten to twelve thirty, then scooted to her bedroom to dress for lunch. And where had Mrs. Madison been, since ris­ing at five? A little predawn cleaning, the shopping, then the cooking. And Vera had no idea what the rest of the household was up to: “The kitchen is so far removed from the other rooms.” What really intrigued me was that not one of the suspects had seen any of the others on the morning in question.

  Ben said, “Patrick had been at his health club from eight to ten, then was home, alone, ’til he left for Kate’s luncheon. I’m showing all their pictures to the doormen and staff at Emmie’s and Barbara’s.”

  “When did you visit Patrick?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Around six.”

  No wonder Patrick and Kate had been edgy when I’d arrived at his office. Not only me snooping, but the NYPD Homicide Department had been on their case.

  So none of the Connors household or Patrick had air­tight alibis for either murder. I thanked Ben for follow­ing up on his promise and felt guilty about not sharing my investigation results with him. But I’d played Nancy Drew despite his strong warning. He’d done exactly what I’d asked him to do; I’d done exactly what he’d asked me not to do.

  I’d tell him when I had more hard evidence. Right now I had to go to bed.

  Nineteen

  We slept late. Mom scurried around the kitchen, packing food from the Madison Avenue deli, where I often would run into former Manhattan Borough Presi­dent Andrew Stein; we both loved their chicken soup. Gypsy Rose arrived to help Mom load the two wicker hampers, filling them with ham, baked macaroni, rolls, plus Gypsy Rose’s contributions, an oven-baked turkey, string bean casserole, and two homemade pies—peach and chocolate cream.

  Linda and Mike Rogers were holding a small wake after the viewing ended at nine o’clock. Mom and Gypsy Rose had enough food to feed the French Foreign Le­gion. Mr. Kim, who’d adored Emmie, provided all the fruit, veggies, and salads, while Dennis had the wine and booze covered. With tonight’s Queens crowd and all the ghostwriters, that would be the biggest expense.

  “And Dennis is sending a limo here at ten o’clock this morning to transport all this stuff to Jackson Heights,” my mother said.

  “Are you girls staying out there?” I asked.

  My mother pointed at Gypsy Rose, dressed in slacks and a blazer, then gestured to her own cotton jumpsuit, and looked at me as if I were crazy. “No, of course not. The viewing’s at seven; we’ll come back home to change.”

  Silly me.

  “Dennis will pick up his father and us at six. In the Rolls.” My mother, the Machiavelli of the matchmakers, grinned. “Want to ride with us?”

  “Thanks, but I already have a ride.”

  “Oh?”

  I left her pondering whose chariot I’d be riding in and went to shower.

  Applying the conditioner, I decided: One of the few perks of being a ghostwriter is you get to make your own hours. Choose the days you want to work. Labor twelve hours on a Sunday; fly to Fresno on a Monday...or whatever. As long as you meet your deadline, you can pretty much call the shots. At least that had been my experience up to now. Kate Lloyd Connors, a control freak, liked her ghostwriters in-house. Usually I wrote in bed or at our kitchen table, my first draft always done in longhand—red pen and white legal pad—but with this assignment, I’d be doing most of my writing on Kate’s turf.

  Today I’d work straight through from ten to two. Two luncheons in the Connors’s Conservatory had given me more than enough food for thought. Maybe I could persuade Mom to provide me with a snack to eat at my desk.

  Jane, Modesty, Ginger, Too-Tall Tom, and I were meeting at Sarabeth’s at three for tea and empathy. Good friends hoisting a pre-wake cup of Orange Pekoe to our dearly departed ghostwriter. Emmie loved Sarabeth’s strawberry butter and homemade biscuits. I’d have a few for her.

  Dashing for the door—yesterday afternoon’s on-time mode seemed to have wound down this morning—I heard the phone ring. My mother yelled from the kitchen, “Jake. For you.”

  “I’m late, Mom. Who is it?”

  My mother appeared in the foyer, waving the portable phone at me and whispering, “Angela Scotti.”

  I called Castle Connors, spoke to Carla, and asked her to tell Kate that I’d be an hour late. Then off I went, detouring over to Serendipity’s to meet the Don’s daughter for cappuccino and conversation.

  Angela looked radiant, if somewhat nervous. Her dark hair hung in a thick braid halfway down her back. And her wide, white pants and crisp navy and white striped shirt looked very Southampton, where she was headed for the weekend.

  “The cottage’s tucked among the dunes. Do you know the area?” Angela voice reflected years of diction lessons. Probably at some finishing school like Miss Porter’s. It wasn’t easy to lose a Queens accent. I’d tried.

  “Yes. Beautiful beaches. My mother says the finest in the country.”

  I checked out the mothers and kids and well-heeled matrons—Bloomingdale’s designer customers—stopping for a frothy libation before foraying into the store for a day of serious shopping. Not a Mafia type among them.

  Angela smiled at me. “I’m alone this morning. It was tricky, but I lost the bodyguards. For the time being. They’ll catch up with me in the Hamptons. My poppa is so overprotective.”

  “How is your father?” I asked, somewhat hesitantly, unsure of proper protocol. Should you inquire about someone’s famous relative if her relative happened to be serving time in a federal prison?

  “He’s why I’m here.”

  Jesus. “Oh?” I managed.

  “Yes, our family’s concerned over rumors that Poppa had something to do with Barbara’s death. I want to assure you that those rumors are completely unfounded.” Why was this woman telling me all this?

  Angela continued, answering my unasked question. “Jake, last Saturday about eleven forty-five in the morning, I called Barbara. She was most upset. She’d received a threatening call from someone who’d claimed to represent our family, saying my father was angry about the book. Barbara also said that she’d just told you the same story. So you’re well aware just how frightened she was.”

  “Do the police know you spoke to Barbara that morning? It had to be just before she was killed.”

  “I called from a
phone booth. And, no, I haven’t discussed this with the police.” Angela made talking to the police sound like a mortal sin. “But I want you to understand that what Barbara feared so much had no basis in fact.”

  “How’s that?”

  “My poppa loves the book. Thinks it makes him look like an Italian Robin Hood. Whoever called Barbara was not a member of our family. Barbara spoke of you often, Jake. She trusted you. Now I ask you to trust me. Someone lied to Barbara. Probably the same someone who killed her.”

  “But who’d want to do that? And why?”

  Angela shrugged.

  “Does Dennis Kim know you’re telling me all this?”

  ‘‘He suggested it.”

  As we climbed into her white Jag convertible, I stared at her profile. Very Sophia Loren. This was one sexy woman. Somehow that reminded me of Patrick, and before thinking it through, I blurted, “How well do you know Patrick Hemmings?”

  Angela sparkled. “Oh, Barbara turned me on to him. Patrick’s fantastic.” Her words wrapped in multiple meanings.

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “He introduced me to the conflicting parts of my body and soul’s emotions. True joy had been smothered in my lower ribcage. Patrick helped me set it free and allowed my unbound pleasure to soar to the apex of ecstasy.” Angela’s upper lip glistened with moisture as color flooded her cheeks. “I highly recommend him for parts therapy, Jake, but I warn you: all his women patients fall a little bit in love with him.”

  “I’ll bet.” So much for Angela’s “murder” that my mother had read in Patrick’s eyes. Once again, are things seldom as they seem?

  She dropped me at Kate’s and kissed me on both cheeks, saying, “Ciao.” Then, as she put the car in gear, returned to the reason for our meeting: “And killing Barbara with a copy of The Godfather. Really! Show biz. Just show biz. Jake, our family business would never have been handled so unprofessionally.”

  Now, that was a comforting thought.

  As Angela’s Jag pulled away from the curb, heading for the F.D.R. Drive, through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel to the L.I.E., then on to the Southampton dunes, I headed for A Killing in Katmandu.

  Ghostwriters Anonymous suggested that we keep our own and our employers’ confidentiality undercover. In that spirit, I’d told the other ghosts that my Kate Lloyd Connors assignment was as an editor. While committing a venial sin of confidentiality breaking, I hadn’t totally compromised my—or her—anonymity.

  The occupational hazard of ghostwriting made me crazy: You had to write what the name-on-the-book-as-author told you to write. Kate had been particularly persnickety today. No comment about our brief encounter at Patrick’s yesterday, but instead she bustled about, all business. My vision of Katmandu’s killer-on-the-loose seemed hazy. My voice missed the magic that Kate’s readers craved. My volume proved to be less than expected.

  The Queen of Murder-Most-Cozy readily agreed that I should work straight through with no lunch. She actually said, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” No wonder Kate needed a ghostwriter; the last time she had an original idea was probably the same year she watched her father drown. Then I felt like a jerk that I’d let the royal pain in the butt get to me.

  Carla seemed to be the only other one at home; the rest of the crew were out and about. When I took my one break to go to the john, I saw Carla waxing the banister. “Where’s everyone today?”

  “Mrs. Madison’s gone to pick up Caroline. She stayed overnight at a friend’s house.”

  Aha. Caroline had gone to Patrick’s and, apparently, survived the visit. Who’d arranged for Vera to fetch her? Did Kate know whose bed her darling daughter had slept in? Or had Mrs. Madison protected her from that tidbit?

  ‘‘And it’s Mr. Jonathan’s day off. He’s spending it with a friend.” Carla grinned.

  I’d bet the co-op that friend was Bill Bernside. Caroline and Jonathan were quite the social butterflies, weren’t they? “Carla, did Miss Connors send Mrs. Madison to bring Caroline home?”

  Carla stared over my right shoulder, perplexed. I glanced behind me. Kate stood in the open French doors to the library. “Jake, if you any questions about either my daughter or my staff, why don’t you ask me?”

  I apologized—blaming the mystery writer in me—and promised that it wouldn’t happen again. Kate Lloyd Connors didn’t believe me, though she said she did, but surprisingly, I still had my job. For now.

  I sat with my fellow ghostwriters, feeling fortunate to have four good friends who’d listen to my gripes. They empathized with an abridged version of my day and when the ghostwriters’ reassurances had calmed me down, we all tea-toasted Emmie and Barbara too.

  Both Too-Tall Tom and Jane had news. Jonathan and Bill had been regulars at a sedate little bistro on Prince Street. Too-Tall Tom told us that his informant had said, “They’d been seen quarreling—then passionately making up…”

  “What were they fighting about?” Ginger asked.

  “My friend says money. He overheard Bill telling Jonathan that he needed big bucks to buy out some computer company and that they weren’t going to Cannes as planned. Jonathan had shouted, then left in a huff, with Bill right behind him, begging him to try and understand.”

  ‘‘I believe that Barbara had control over the family trust fund, but I don’t know why,” an angry-sounding Modesty said. ‘‘Was this lovers’ spat before or after Barbara’s death?”

  ‘‘Before.” Too-Tall Tom patted Modesty’s arm and, surprisingly, she didn’t pull away.

  Jane reported on her new assignment as Patrick’s self-help book “editor.” ‘‘He’s really great,” she said, as if challenging me to disagree.

  But before I had the chance, Modesty snarled, ‘‘Has your seldom-used libido finally driven you to madness?”

  I figured Jane would lash out at Modesty, but she said, “That’s exactly right. I’d covered my natural lust for life with prudish behavior. Patrick unleashed that lust from where it had been hiding, deep in my left elbow. That’s why I could never play tennis.”

  Ginger was the one who reacted. “Jane, you’re a rotten Macintosh turned into applesauce by the snake-hypnotist from hell. I’ve always thought chastity was a choice you’d made to enhance your serenity. No men in one’s life does tend to make it less complicated. But for once I agree with Modesty. Falling for Patrick’s line of bull is a disgrace to womanhood and to Ghostwriters Anonymous.”

  Too-Tall Tom jumped in, pointing out that it was getting late. Wondering where my repressed emotions might be hiding, I said I still had to pick up a Mass card at St. Thomas More’s rectory and press my dress. Then we all went home to get ready to visit our second dead ghostwriter in as many days.

  I had one message from Ben. He’d be here at six. And one unsigned email. It read, “Meddlers will be murdered.”

  Twenty

  “You’re pale as a ghost.” My mother whirled through the front door, blow-dried and looking great, direct from the talented hands of her longtime hairstyl­ist. ‘‘What’s wrong, darling? Why aren’t you dressed? Aren’t you feeling well? Can I do something?” Mom’s questions were both rhetorical and on target. When I didn’t answer, she added, “We don’t want to be late for Emmie’s wake.”

  “She’s not going anywhere, Mom.”

  “Don’t be cynical, Jake, it’s tough enough.”

  “You’re right.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And why aren’t you ready, Maura O’Hara? Dennis Kim’s probably outside by now tooting his own horn.”

  “God, what time is it?”

  “Five thirty-something.”

  “Let’s get moving.” My mother patted my head while fluffing a pillow, then bolted down the hallway to her bedroom.

  What would she say if she knew that I had just re­ceived a death threat? By email, yet. Her only daughter, her pride and joy—though she sometimes stashe
d those emotions; maybe Patrick could release them from her right kidney or some other more interesting body part. Would I live long enough to use this plot twist in a future cozy? I should be more frantic. Why wasn’t I? Did true terror freeze the central nervous system? Ben’s ETA was less than a half hour away. That seemed an eternity.

  As I pressed the DKNY black linen, I decided I was getting my money’s worth out of this dress. What would Ginger, Modesty, and Jane wear to my funeral? Would they buy new outfits or just recycle their mourning threads from this week’s funerals? God Almighty. I draped the dress over the dishwasher and poured myself a goblet-sized glass of my mother’s Old Cave Tawny. I’ll never understand why Mom and Gypsy Rose drink this stuff, but any port in a storm. I downed it in record time and considered pouring a second as my mind went into spin cycle and my body started to shake.

  Now terror thundered through me. My speeding heart rate might soon prove fatal. A trembling finger landed on the hot iron. God, what next? I watched a red welt appear on the back of my right pinkie. While applying ice to the burn, my mood changed. Fear, still entrenched in my soul, moved over, allowing room for anger. Hot as the iron. I would not become the next victim of some serial killer who had it in for New York’s ghostwriters. I’d out this murderer and use my fear and anger to help me do it. But first I had to pull myself together. On my way to get dressed, I knocked on my mother’s bedroom door. “Mom, can I borrow your red lipstick and maybe those gold hoop earrings?”

  I printed a hard copy of the terse threat. The email address was from the FedEx Kinko’s near Lexington Avenue at five ten this afternoon with, of course, no clue as to the sender.

  Does a person have to give his—or her—name and ID in order to use a computer’s email at a mailbox services store? Probably the killer would have given false ID; Ben could check that out. Aloud, I addressed my subconscious: “Well, I guess we’ve decided to tell Ben.”