Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

The planchette took on a life of its own, spinning crazily about the board, completely out of our control, and stopping, after a final bumpy bounce, on the letter W.

  Miss Bronte spoke. “That initial is the answer. The murderer’s name begins with W.”

  God help us. There wasn’t a suspect in the bunch whose name began with W.

  “Are you sure, Miss Bronte?”

  “It is not I who must be sure, Miss O’Hara,” the spirit chided me. “The message comes from Miss Rog­ers. And she is certain.”

  “What else can she tell us?” I could hear the des­peration in my voice.

  “Miss O’Hara, the word ‘aubergine’ comes into my mind. I am not familiar with this word. Do you under­stand its meaning?”

  The group muttered and mumbled among themselves. I never took my eyes off Gypsy Rose’s features, which now reflected Emily Bronte’s tense puzzlement.

  I didn’t understand the significance of “aubergine” either, but I did understand that Emmie had sent me a message. “Can Emmie explain more fully?” I asked.

  “‘Skim milk masquerades as cream.’” Emily Bronte recited the words as Gilbert had written them to be said. “Do you understand, Miss O’Hara?”

  “Emmie sent that quote to me in an email last week.” I wiped the tears from my cheek.

  “I will have to inquire of Miss Rogers what an email might be. But, for now, good day to you, Miss O’Hara. Miss Rogers and I must take our leave. Oh, my dear, here’s a final thought: Be careful, Miss O’Hara, you are in grave danger.”

  “Wait, don’t go…” But I knew my plea fell on Gypsy Rose’s ears. She’d come back, and the two Emilys were history.

  My possible dire fate brought the seance to a dead end. When Gypsy Rose was herself again and heard what had happened while she’d been otherwise engaged, she made a judgment call: all channels were off. Barbara’s spirit would not be appearing today, and everyone should go home. The show was over. But the ghostwriters and the rest of the guests proved hard to get rid of.

  “Could we somehow be part of a mass hypnosis? Did we all just imagine this happened?” Jane asked.

  Modesty, visibly shaken, said, “Ask your friend, Patrick. He’s the expert.”

  ‘‘I don’t know what to make of all this,” Patrick said. “But I do suggest that you be on guard, Jake. Everywhere and with everyone.”

  “This is as big a mystery as the murders. I can’t believe what I’ve heard.” Ginger kissed me, then added, “Take care, Jake.”

  Mrs. McMahon dashed off without a goodbye, presumably en route to St. Thomas More’s to save her soul. Dennis seemed contemplative. As he and Mr. Kim started to leave, Dennis turned and walked back to where I stood, still holding the planchette in my hand.

  “I need to check something out on Monday—before, if I can—then I’ll call you.”

  “What’s going on, Dennis?”

  “This mumbo jumbo is all a big joke to me. I came for the laughs...now I’m intrigued.” Dennis shrugged. “Listen, Jake, don’t take any chances.”

  I touched his hand. “Maybe you should be careful too.”

  “Maybe.”

  After they’d all left, Gypsy Rose said to my mother and me, “The next time it will be just the three of us and the spirits. And Jake, I want to warn you.”

  “What about?”

  “While I was in my deep meditative state, I sensed that you could be the killer’s next victim. And there’s something else—something to do with Jackie Kennedy.”

  Neither my mother nor Gypsy Rose had acknowledged Onassis. “Oh, come on,” I said.

  “It’s not all clear, Jake, but you must be very vigilant.”

  Then I had to listen as Mom and Gypsy Rose spent a full fifteen minutes on how frantic they were about my safety, suggesting various, sometimes bizarre, methods to protect me.

  Mom’s nerves hadn’t improved any when we arrived home. “Jake, I’m canceling my date with Aaron. Or you can come with us. You’re not staying home alone, tonight.”

  “Look, Mom, I didn’t want to tell you this before because I knew it would upset you, but Ben’s assigned someone to protect me.”

  “A policeman.”

  “Yes. So stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, are you staying in? Double-lock the door when I leave.”

  “I think I’ll give Too-Tall Tom a call. If he’s going to be at home tonight, I’ll go down there for a while.”

  “Take a taxi. Call the livery service and have a driver pick you up here.”

  My mother felt guilty about leaving me, but I wanted her out of the house and out of my hair.

  “Okay. Okay. Now go change or you’ll be late for your date.”

  “Is it a date, Jake? Would your father like me to date? I think of it as having dinner with a new friend.”

  “If he’s paying, it’s a date. And if you’re worried about Dad, have Gypsy Rose ask Zelda Fitzgerald to get his approval.”

  “You know, Jake, I think that’s just what I’ll do.” She went off to get dressed and I called Too-Tall Tom.

  The Carnegie Hill Livery Service had no driver available. “It’s Saturday night, madam. All our cars are booked.”

  I walked alone over to Fifth Avenue to grab a downtown bus, breaking my promise to Mom and wondering if my unknown guardian was on my tail. Inhaling the June evening’s fresh air, smelling the still-damp patches of grass in front of the brownstones, and birdwatching, “sparrows swift with a whirling of wings” came to mind. Nothing like a morning and afternoon with the dead to make you feel alive. However, a caveat—fear—colored my mood. Like an old man whistling as he passed the cemetery, my joie de vivre seemed forced.

  The Avenue’s parade of people rivaled Easter Sunday. The crowds lining the sidewalk, waiting for a downtown bus, convinced me to walk a few blocks. Near Central Park’s 85th Street transverse, I joined a large group of would-be passengers. A bus pulled in, filled up, and departed, leaving twelve or fifteen of us behind to wait for the next bus. The cars and cabs whipped by. I felt two firm hands on my back, then I was pushed, headfirst, into the traffic. A taxi barreled down on me, hitting me on my thigh and spinning me around in the middle of the onrushing Fifth Avenue traffic. Tumbling, I slammed my elbow and forearm against the cab’s bumper and then hit the ground. The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was an address on a green canopy: 1040. The apartment house where Jackie Kennedy had lived and died.

  Twenty-Six

  I’d like to say I had a near-death experience that would provide fabulous fodder for future cocktail par­ties, but the truth is—I hadn’t even realized I’d been hurt. Of course, I did come to in the emergency room of Mount Sinai Hospital with three nurses and two res­idents hovering over me, hooked up to a machine mon­itoring my vitals and sporting a tube in my left arm.

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  Ben’s voice sounded far away. “Ben?” My own voice was a hoarse whisper. I felt a gentle touch on my arm.

  “Right here, Jake.”

  “What?” I asked, then drifted away.

  When I next opened my eyes, I raised my wrist. Even that small motion hurt. The clock on the wall in front of me read nine thirty. Could it still be Saturday evening? The cubicle, partitioned with white sheets—or drapes of some sort—was still well-staffed.

  A cute, freckle-faced nurse who looked like a high school senior said, “Feeling better?”

  Better than what? My head hurt worse than any too-much-red-wine hangover I’d ever endured, and my body ached from stem to stem. “Am I okay?”

  “You’re doing great, kid.” Ben’s smiling face appeared from behind a resident who reminded me of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. Where was the real medical staff?

  I tried to smile back, but my jaw throbbed. “What’s the damage?”

  “Do you rem
ember what happened?” This doctor sounded as if she really cared.

  “A cab sent me flying. I came down in front of Jackie’s O’s building. Well, her former...”

  “Good. That’s right.” Ben made it sound like I’d just split the atom. “Your head hit the ground, hard. We were concerned…”

  “I guess I have a thick skull.”

  The doctor said, “Well, you’re bruised—your entire body—and you have some nasty abrasions on your hands and knees. And your left thigh will be painful for a while. All in all, not too bad though. You lessened the damage by landing on your hands after you’d been bounced around by the car’s impact.”

  “My head hurts like hell.”

  “I’ve no doubt.” She scratched an entry in a file attached to a clipboard. “You eventually did hit your head—a lot of blood, but no permanent damage, possibly a mild concussion. I’ll give you something for the pain.”

  My hands were red, raw, and seemed to be swelling. Last night’s burn on my finger was now lost among my more serious scrapes. “Ben, someone pushed me in front of that taxi.”

  “I know, Jake.”

  How did he know? Well, first things first. “Can I go home?”

  The young doctor looked at me as if I were crazy. “I want to admit you at least until tomorrow.”

  “Please, can’t I check myself out of here?” In a frenzy, I cried, “Ben, I want to go home!”

  “Well, let’s see if we can’t convince the doctor.” Then Ben brushed the hair out of my eyes, just like my mother always did.

  Against the ER resident’s judgment call, two hours later, after signing a waiver granting immunity to Mount Sinai and its staff, I charged the whole episode on my credit card, rethinking a health insurance plan that my mother had been lobbying for, and I left the hospital. But I didn’t go home.

  As our taxi sailed past 92nd Street and continued on downtown, I asked, “Just where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise. You’re in real danger, Jake. There’s no question that someone tried to kill you this evening. Someone desperate enough to attempt murder in front of an audience.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your tail, Hank Adams...an old pal of mine, on leave from the department.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why is he on leave?”

  “Let’s say he had a major difference of opinion with the captain. He’s on probation, but he’s a good cop, Jake.”

  “Apparently not good enough.” I rubbed my head with my gauze-covered hand.

  “Hank feels like a piece of crap about what happened on his watch. He’d realized that you were about to board a bus—he’d left his car near your house when you took off on foot—so he hailed a cab to follow you. Then—zap—you were shoved into the street and struck by the very cab he’d hailed. The taxi driver had slowed down. Otherwise, the impact would have been much worse.”

  “Did your friend see who pushed me?”

  “No. However, two people waiting at the bus stop did notice a young man in a baseball cap, but after you went flying, he’d disappeared.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “About five-eight or nine, dressed sloppy, baggy jeans, Nikes. Wore the cap pulled down over his face and dark glasses. Most of his face was covered.”

  “And he just vanished?”

  “Into the park, one witness thought.”

  None of the suspects came anywhere near this description. “Ben, this makes no sense. If this guy did try to kill me, who the hell is he?”

  “Seems strange, I agree.”

  We crossed 72nd Street. “Where are we going?”

  “To a Duane Reade drugstore to buy you a toothbrush.”

  “Ben, take me back to Carnegie Hill. Jesus, did you call my mother? She must be totally crazy by now.”

  “I did call, before we left the hospital. She wasn’t home.”

  “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t she be home at eleven thirty? She went to dinner with your father. What could they be doing?”

  Ben laughed at me. “Jake, Dad’s not Jack the Ripper.”

  “Well, this isn’t like my mother. And I want to go home now.”

  “Consider yourself in protective custody.”

  “Are you kidnapping me?”

  We passed the Plaza on our right, the fountain aglow, normal people all dressed up for a Saturday night out on the town. The hansom cabs were doing a thriving business.

  “Yes, for tonight. I don’t want you to go home. This killer is convinced you know too much. And he’s someone you know, someone who attended Emmie’s wake. He could be waiting for you to come home. Maybe ringing your bell right now.”

  For just a fraction of a split second, I questioned if Ben was all that he seemed, considering and rejecting the notion. Then I asked, “But who pushed me? Patrick has gray hair. Would the witnesses describe him as young? And he’s taller than five-nine. Bill? I guess it’s a possibility. Wait, there is someone it could be. Ivan. His outfits are always black and too tight, but he does fit the general description. Or maybe the killer has an accomplice?”

  “I don’t know, Jake, but while I’m finding out, you’re going to be in a safe place.”

  “What about Mom?”

  Ben handed me his cell phone. “Call your mother. If she’s home, tell her Gypsy Rose is on her way over to spend the night with her.”

  “Did you call Gypsy Rose?”

  “She’s psychic, isn’t she?” When I didn’t even smile, he continued. “I’ve arranged for Hank to escort Gypsy Rose to your apartment—she says she has a key to your co-op—and if Maura isn’t home yet, he’ll wait there with Gypsy Rose. Then he’ll work outside surveillance all night.”

  I dialed my mom, wondering where I’d be sleeping tonight.

  Gypsy Rose and Hank had arrived just as my mother and Aaron finally returned. After dinner, they’d gone to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s theater to see a revival of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. All four were waiting by the phone.

  My mother was crying. “I said three Hail Marys, Jake, and I’m starting a novena to St. Jude at Mass tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m with Ben, safe and sound.”

  “Hank seems like a nice man, darling; he and Gypsy Rose said you’re okay. Are you, darling?”

  “Well…”

  “Come home immediately. Ben can protect you here. I’ll get Dr. Brown to come over.”

  “I’m okay, Mom, really.”

  “I only pray you know what you’re doing.” Me too. “Jake, tell Ben that Gypsy Rose and I will be down to join you for a late brunch tomorrow.” I guess everyone knew where I was going except me.

  “Good. Thanks, Mom, talk to you later. I love you.”

  I shopped with abandon at Duane Reade’s. In addition to a toothbrush, I purchased a comb and hairbrush, deodorant, Vaseline Intensive Care, shampoo, a few cosmetics, a large bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, two Milky Ways, and even an I Love NY t-shirt to sleep in.

  Ben said, “It’s on the city.” I added a box of Oreos, Lays Potato Chips, and a six-pack of Diet Coke to my basket.

  With Ben carrying my new possessions in two Duane Reade plastic bags, we walked around the corner and into the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel. At the desk, Ben gave his name and said, “I’ve reserved the Dorothy Parker suite.” Wow. Mom, Gypsy Rose, and I had toured the celebrity suites at the Algonquin, so I knew how posh the Parker suite was. Even Dottie herself would have loved it.

  “Ben, you’re a sport.” I knew the City of New York wouldn’t spring for this.

  “Would Mr. Benchley do any less for his good friend Mrs. Parker?”

  We rode the tiny elevator to the second floor. The elderly operator and the bellman were gracious enough to ignore my bedraggled appearance, bloodstaine
d hair, bandaged hands, and tackiest of all, the discount drugstore’s plastic bags. The bellman showed us how to insert the cardkey—always a real challenge for me—then opened the door for us. I crossed the threshold and stepped into another world.

  Twenty-Seven

  “So the scoop from the spirit word is that this ghostwriter may be a dead duck.” I finished my séance saga. Ben had listened raptly, laughing often and asking lots of questions.

  “I don’t get it.” He shook his head.

  “You had to be there. Scratch that. Most of us who were there didn’t understand what happened either.”

  “Could Gypsy Rose have been putting on a show? Maybe she used to be an actress?”

  “Not in this lifetime, Ben.”

  “Well, I don’t need Emily Bronte to confirm that you’re in danger. That’s evident even to a mere mortal like me.”

  “And what about this Aubergine business? I heard about it at Emmie’s funeral and then again from her spirit guide. Whatever else is going down, that has to be a clue from the grave. Don’t you think?”

  “So it seems.” Ben picked up the big, white, fluffy towel and continued to dry my hair—very gently. My fingers were not badly scraped, but my palms were so raw that I couldn’t do much with my hands. Ben let me borrow his.

  Strange, how comfortable I felt with this man. From the moment we’d walked into the charming suite, filled with Parker memorabilia and furnished in Edwardian splendor, he’d kept up a light banter and the charade that he was Robert Benchley and that I was his dear friend Mrs. Parker.

  “Run a hot bath for you, Mrs. Parker?”

  “Maybe lukewarm.” How would I get out of these jeans? The freckle-faced nurse had literally dressed me.

  But Ben had tugged my t-shirt over my head and pulled down the zipper on my jeans as if he were my mother. “Here, wrap this towel around you and I’ll go check on the water temperature.”

  While he’d gone into the bathroom, I managed to get my Jockey-For-Her underpants off, using the tips of my fingers. The bra presented more of a challenge, but with much persistence and some pain, I’d unhooked it. I found Ben, with his elbow in the tub, testing the water.