by Noreen Wald
Ben double-parked and we were on our third kiss when his cell phone rang.
“Yeah...No!...When?...I’ll be right there.” He hung up, breathing heavily. And not, I suspected, from my kisses.
“Who was that?”
“Headquarters. Go on up to bed, Jake. Double-lock your doors. I’ll call in to get an officer over here...”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Sutton Place. To Kate Lloyd Connors’. Jonathan’s been murdered.”
Twenty-Two
After Ben had dropped me off, I couldn’t sleep, pacing and sipping decaf tea until he finally called at two thirty in the morning.
“Wide awake?”
“Ben! Jesus. What happened over there?”
“Just the facts, ma’am. I don’t have much time. The nuances will have to wait. But Jonathan did die by the book.”
“An attempt at gallows humor?”
“Sorry, chalk that up to exhaustion...Jonathan died from a skillfully aimed blow to the base of his neck.”
“Which book was the weapon?”
“A brass-and-leather-bound volume, a folio edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray. And the killer used the solid brass spine of the book for a heavier hit.”
“Base of the neck. Similar to the way Emmie died?”
“Yes. Hit from the rear, presumably by someone he knew and trusted. He’d been leaning over his desk, apparently reading or working on something...but that something disappeared, no doubt removed by the murderer. And Jake, it turns out that Jonathan had been a ghostwriter too. That’s how he started with Kate; we found an old contract in his desk drawer.”
‘‘Who discovered the body?”
‘‘Caroline. Says she heard a noise—like maybe the front door closing—she’s not sure, but anyway, she got up to investigate, saw the door to Jonathan’s office was open, his light was still on, and she decided to check it out. She went berserk when she found the body. The family doctor has her sedated.”
‘‘Will she be okay?”
‘‘Was she ever? I don’t know, Jake.”
A kaleidoscope of Caroline careened through my mind. Caroline—arms wrapped around Patrick—her hands on his butt. Caroline—little girl lost—relating her orphanage days. Caroline—praying without any haitches—at Emmie’s wake.
“Listen, Jake, I’ve got to go; I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“It is morning.”
“Right. Try to get some sleep. I’ll call you before the funeral.”
Our conversation had been about as sleep-inducing as a double espresso.
Ben didn’t make it to Emmie’s funeral. And as I stood in the steady, fine rain falling on her gravesite at Calvary, I missed him. Mom, Gypsy Rose, and I huddled under the big black umbrella that the funeral director had handed to Gypsy Rose as we left St. Joan of Arc after the Requiem Mass. Her Armani silk ensemble, which included a black turban, had elicited an unctuous, “Madam, we must protect that lovely outfit from nasty Mother Nature.” Many of the other mourners, not provided with Connolly’s complimentary umbrellas, were getting wet and growing weary as Father Doyle droned through the Twenty-third Psalm. Of course, one of the funeral parlor’s pallbearers had the good padre’s bald pate well covered.
The Rogers’ family plot was in old Calvary, a section filled with tombstones dating back to the early 1800s. Cherubs atop crypts and massive mausoleums complete with pictures of their occupants surrounded us, and with startling statues of androgynous angels seen through the morning mist, provided a gothic—and somewhat scary—setting for the funeral. Queens as Wuthering Heights.
The group at graveside was considerably smaller than last night’s crowd at Connolly’s or the congregation gathered earlier today for the Mass at St. Joan of Arc’s. Dale and Roy Rogers had brought their own umbrella, red and yellow stripes—more Rockaway Beach than Calvary Cemetery—and stood with their mother, Aunt Veronica, next to Linda, Mike, and their three sons. Emmie’s parents had put up a good front so far this morning, but the last—and worst—part of the service was yet to come.
Our Ghostwriters Anonymous members had turned out in force, filling several pews at church, and all of them continued on to the cemetery.
Across the grave from me, squeezed under one umbrella, Jane and Modesty had linked arms, while Ginger held tightly to Jane’s other arm. Their truce still intact. Ginger lacked spice today, appearing wan, wilted, and silent. Modesty too appeared somewhat more austere and miserable than usual, glowering at anyone who approached her. Her black shroud and high-top sneakers didn’t help. Jane’s serenity had vanished, and semi-hysteria—manifested in bouts of uncontrolled sobbing—had taken its place. Only Too-Tall Tom, standing alone, seemed to be himself.
Naturally, Kate, Caroline, and Mrs. Madison were among the missing. Nor had they been at church. Sutton Place would be under siege. Police, the coroner’s team, hundreds of media—print and television—and the curious. Bill Bernside, probably grief-stricken as well as a possible suspect, had not attended the funeral and, no doubt, wouldn’t be leaving for Philadelphia today either.
Patrick Hemmings, however, had been present at the Mass and now at the burial, stood in front of a statue of Saint Michael the Archangel. I avoided eye contact with him. Ivan and my mother had competed for the most-candles-lighted award before this morning’s Mass started. As the funeral director offered a rose to each mourner, Ivan fell to his knees alongside the casket. Dennis, Mr. Kim, and Mrs. McMahon, who’d attached herself to them, were among the many mourners who probably would have preferred an umbrella.
I asked myself: When Dennis had dropped the twins off last night, could he have detoured from the Bronx, over the Third Avenue Bridge into Manhattan, and bashed in Jonathan’s head before heading back over the Triborough Bridge to pick up Mom, Gypsy Rose and Mr. Kim in Jackson Heights? God. Next, I’d be accusing Gypsy Rose of multiple murders.
The damp grass, mixed with dirt from the mound piled by the freshly dug grave, stained my shoes as I flung my rose onto Emmie’s descending casket. The damn shoes still hurt. I decided to toss them, along with the DKNY dress, into the garbage when this day ended.
Mike Rogers dropped a handful of dirt over his daughter’s casket, then Father Doyle sprinkled holy water and waved the incense over Emmie’s remains one last time, and we all turned away from the grave. Except Ivan. He said, “I vill stay vit my beloved Emmie a little more. This is our last date.” Then he sat on the mound of dirt, defying the gravediggers, as if he were a student protesting police brutality.
We left him to his vigil. Everyone was far too drained to attempt to reason with him. Too-Tall Tom said, “Maybe he’ll jump in.”
“We should only be so fortunate,” Modesty said.
I wanted to go home. I’d had enough of death to last me a lifetime. Dennis offered to drive Mom, Gypsy Rose, and me back to Carnegie Hill, and we said our goodbyes to the Rogers.
“I’ll never hear Emmie laugh again, Jake. Her loopy giggle used to drive her father crazy. That’s what I’ll miss the most.” Linda held a rapidly wilting rose in one hand as she grabbed hold of me with the other. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. “Remember, Mike, how you’d bounce Em on your knee, and she’d giggle, giddy with…” Linda gulped, then buried her head in Mike’s jacket; the rose slipped through her fingers and fell to the ground.
My mother wrapped an arm around my waist, and as we walked away from Emmie’s grave, the sun burst through the clouds: bright, glaring, and intrusive.
“Jake!” Timmy Rogers, Emmie’s youngest brother, called to me.
“Go ahead, Mom, catch up with Gypsy Rose and Mr. Kim; I’ll be right there.”
Timmy stepped away from a small group that included his two brothers and the Bronx cousins and led me to a quiet spot in front of an old mausoleum gaudily decorated with red, white, and blue plastic flowers in St
yrofoam vases. No doubt left there by the deceased’s loved ones during a Memorial Day visit.
“My mom told you about her conversation with Emmie that last afternoon before...”
“Yes. Your mother said Emmie had stumbled on some scary stuff at Kate Lloyd Connors’ place and whatever she’d discovered had freaked her out.”
“Right. I answered that phone call last Friday, and before Emmie spoke to Mom, she asked me a strange question.”
“What?”
“Well, you know I plan to be a lawyer.” Timmy, in his senior year at Columbia, was viewed by the rest of his family as a nerd. His older brothers, both jocks, scoffed at his double majors of political science and art history. “Emmie asked how she could find out who the officers of a corporation were.”
“Did she say why she was asking?”
“Not really. She only said, ‘Doesn’t Aubergine strike you as a strange name for a corporation?’ Then she mumbled something about things are seldom what they seem, and asked me to put Mom on.”
“Think, Timmy, did she say anything else?”
“No. And I didn’t make too much of it at the time. Emmie was always asking weird stuff like that, researching for a book or whatever, but maybe this ‘Aubergine’ is connected somehow to whatever she’d found out at Kate Lloyd Connors’ place. Anyway, I thought you should know.”
“You may be on to something, Timmy.” As I kissed him, then dashed toward Dennis’s car, an itch—vague and unformed—took hold in my subconscious and wouldn’t let go.
The sun warmed us, and asking the ladies’ permission as we all settled into the cream convertible, Dennis put the top down for our drive across the 59th Street Bridge. Mom, Gypsy Rose, and I had climbed into the back, while Mrs. McMahon, who’d wangled a ride, sat, somewhat scrunched, between Dennis and Mr. Kim in the front seat.
Jonathan’s murder had provided us with a common denominator for lively conversation.
“Reminds me of Ted Bundy,” Mrs. McMahon said, “except this guy’s bumped off three people in one week.”
My mother squeezed my hand—the one with the burn on the pinkie—so hard that we both heard the crunch and she released her death grip. Mr. Kim, hampered by his seatbelt, rescued today’s Post from its resting place under the front seat and handed it to me. The headline screamed: SERIAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.
There were large photos of Jonathan and Kate in her Sutton Place mansion and smaller photos of Emmie and Barbara. The copy under Jonathan’s picture read “Murder By The Book.” Jesus, the Post’s writer had used the same sick—and unoriginal—humor as Ben had. Would this be the byline for the duration of the case? The copy under Kate’s picture identified her as the most famous mystery writer in America and Jonathan’s employer.
Mr. Kim said, “Seems like the paper has accused Kate Lloyd Connors right on its front page.”
“Yes,” my mother said, “but in most murder mysteries, the obvious suspect is never the one who done it.” Then she resumed her terminal grip on my hand.
Gypsy Rose said, “That may be; however, I hope you’re giving up that editing job with that woman, Jake. Ever since Maura told me that you were working at Sutton Place, I’ve had bad vibes about Kate’s house and all of its occupants.”
“You’re working for Kate Lloyd Connors?” Mrs. McMahon smacked her forehead into Mr. Kim’s chin as she tried to swing her black-bonneted head in my direction.
I glared from my mother to Gypsy Rose, the two blabbermouths. But they both ignored me, and Gypsy Rose rambled on, “A spirit—Emmie’s, I do believe— is trying to communicate with me.”
Dennis veered sharply to avoid a Ford Explorer’s attack on the Roll’s rear end. He grunted, as if in pain. Mr. Kim said, “I’d love to talk to Emmie again.”
“Stop by the tearoom around four thirty this afternoon,” Gypsy Rose said. “We’ll contact my spirit guide and see what she can arrange.”
My mother asked, “Via the Ouija board?”
“Oh, I’d love to come,” Mrs. McMahon squealed. Dennis said nothing. But, like me, I’d bet he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not this one or the world beyond.
Twenty-Three
I woke up screaming. A large blob of deep purple had morphed into a giant eggplant, chased me across Calvary Cemetery, then shoved me into a patriotically bedecked mausoleum.
Exhausted, I’d dozed on the couch, falling into a fitful sleep, dreaming not of visions of sugarplums, but of an attack by dinosaur-sized eggplants.
Mom had served a late lunch of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, rye bread, and chocolate pudding. An Irish gourmand. I loved it, but hoped that Aaron Rubin knew her culinary limitations.
At Gypsy Rose’s request, I’d called Ginger, Jane, Modesty, and Too-Tall Tom, knowing they wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to commune with the spirits of our dead ghostwriters. Modesty’s ghostmobile had made better time than Dennis’s Rolls. All four were at home and would be delighted to attend the séance. Then both Mom and I had napped, trying to recoup, before our séance at four thirty and Mom’s dinner date with Aaron at seven. I hadn’t heard from his son since my early morning phone call.
Splashing cold water on my sleep-deprived skin, I heard a buzzer blare through my brain, interfering with a hazy piece of fuzz free-floating there. Why couldn’t I download that memory fragment? Whatever it might be?
“Jake! Please answer the intercom.” My mother called from her bathtub where she was soaking.
Ben Rubin had been up all night and looked it. I kissed his bleary eyes, then reprised Mom’s lunch menu.
Ben finished the entire loaf of rye and two puddings. “Did you spot your tail?”
“No. Damn it, Ben. I told you I didn’t want police protection. Who was it?”
“An off-duty cop in a Ford Explorer.”
“Oh. He almost rammed Dennis’s Rolls’s rear. Following orders?”
Ben grinned. “No, but accidents happen.”
As annoyed as I was at Ben for assigning someone to watch over me, another part of me was grateful. Maybe there was something to this parts therapy. I poured two cups of tea and checked my watch. Two forty-five.
“Do you want to come to Gypsy Rose’s channeling session?”
“Take notes. I just wanted to fill you in before I go home and pass out.”
“So tell me.”
“Jonathan left Connolly’s at nine, right?”
“Right. With Kate, Caroline, and Mrs. Madison, in a limo.”
“And the 911 call was logged in at 12:57 a.m. The first cop, cruising by in a patrol car, arrived at Kate’s at five minutes after one. I’ve been filling in the whereabouts—a timeline, if you will—of our merry little band of potential book bashers—from nine p.m. to one a.m.”
“Where did Bill go after he left the viewing?”
“To Bemelmans Bar in the Carlyle for a farewell-to-Manhattan dry martini—two, in fact. Then he went up to his room alone, around ten, and ordered room service.”
“Witnesses?”
“The bartender confirmed that Bernside had left around ten, and the room service waiter served Mr. Bernside a turkey sandwich, decaf coffee, and a hot fudge sundae at eleven o’clock. That’s not to say Philadelphia Bill couldn’t have left his suite a little later and strolled over to Sutton Place.”
“Well, there you go. One motive. One opportunity.”
“Jake, do you have any more pudding?”
I pulled the last pudding out of the refrigerator and opened a box of Social Teas. Poor man, if he wanted to hang around with me, he’d have to appreciate kiddy fare.
“Kate, Caroline, Vera Madison, and Jonathan had a large pepperoni pizza delivered at ten fifteen.”
“No way. Just like real people?”
“Yes. Kate ‘withdrew’...her word…”
“Pretty fancy for a pizza-ea
ting person.”
“…to her bedroom at about ten forty-five. Claims she was sound asleep by eleven o’clock and only awakened when she heard Caroline’s frantic screams.”
“What about the Dragon Lady?”
“Mrs. Madison says she watched AMC—Rebecca…”
“Get out of here.”
“That’s what she said—and it was playing—’til midnight, then went to sleep. Kate had to bang at her door. Mrs. Madison, lost in the arms of Morpheus, never heard Caroline’s screams.”
“And Caroline? What’s her story?”
“She’d gone for a long walk after Kate and Vera had gone to their bedrooms and Jonathan had gone to his office to catch up on some work. Got back at midnight or a little later. Says Jonathan’s office door was shut then. In this murder, Caroline used the book alibi—Oliver Twist—what else? Read, then fell sleep, but thinks it wasn’t too long before a noise awakened her.”
“The front door closing?”
“That’s her story. She told it dramatically, through bouts of tears, screeching like a banshee, gasping for breath, and complete loss of control.”
“How she is now?”
“She’s been sleeping on and off for most of the day. In addition to the family doctor, Patrick Hemmings showed up again this afternoon to hold her hand.”
“Again? Where did Patrick spend the hours after leaving the funeral parlor and before one in the morning?”
“Well, he dropped Mrs. McMahon at her door in Carnegie Hill, then continued downtown in the cab. He dined in a health food restaurant in Chelsea and walked over to Murray Hill, arriving home about ten forty-five. Says he updated his files, then practiced yoga and meditation exercise, opening his mind and heart to receive messages from any souls he has known in this or other lifetimes.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Could I make this crap up?”