Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  “This bathwater is so perfect that someone as special as you should bathe in it, Mrs. Parker.”

  “Thanks, I’ll holler if I need help.”

  I’d gingerly washed myself without using my palms— or getting the gauze wet. Then I globbed some shampoo on my head, then flat on my back, stuck my hair under the tub’s faucet and called it a wash. A trick I never want to repeat. Dried, I’d called for help and Ben had pulled the I Love NY shirt over my head, while I stood modestly wrapped in the towel. Then we’d shared the sodas and treats, me propped up like a princess in the pretty bed, my knight in a rumpled suit sitting beside me in an armchair as I recounted my long day dealing with the dead.

  “Enough about me,” I said, swallowing four Tylenols for dessert. “Tell me about your day. What’s new on Jonathan’s murder?”

  “Not a whole hell of a lot. I did show Kate Lloyd Connors the Sarah Anne Hansen clipping.”

  “No! What did she say?”

  “She claims she has no idea who the Hansen woman was or why Emmie had the clipping. And Kate’s sure that Emmie didn’t find it in her house.”

  “What about Caroline’s birth certificate? How about her birth mother’s name being Hansen? Did you ask Kate that?”

  “Kate says it’s just a coincidence.”

  “There are no coincidences.” I love Ghostwriters Anonymous program speak. “I say Kate’s a liar.”

  “Yeah. Well, Caroline’s psychiatrist wouldn’t allow her to be interviewed today. I’ll try to get some straight answers out of her in the morning.”

  “It is morning.” I glanced at the bedside clock: two a.m. “I think Caroline’s the key here. Could you do a blood test? DNA—or something—to see if Kate’s really her grandmother?”

  “Not without some hard evidence.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a diary or revealing letters that Kate might have kept. Or Kate’s own birth certificate. But so far our search of Sutton Place has turned up nothing.”

  “Well, I’m sure Emmie found something.”

  “I did talk to Bill Bernside.” Ben smoothed out a wrinkle in the blanket. “He’s going to accompany Jon­athan’s body back to England as soon as the medical examiner releases it.”

  “Thank God that’s one funeral I won’t have to at­tend. Hey, as a suspect, can Bill leave the country?”

  “There’s not much of a case against him.”

  “I don’t think it’s Bill—he wouldn’t have killed Bar­bara.”

  “Why? Because she was his sister? Think of your Greek tragedies.”

  “Mostly mothers, fathers, or children are the ones get­ting bumped off, not siblings.” A question came to mind. “Ben, how come you live with your father?”

  “That’s some segue, Jake. When my mother died two years ago, he fell into a deep depression, so I moved back home. He’s much better now. Actually, my father’s turned into a Jewish mother, wants me to get married...I guess...Why are you living with your mother?”

  “Money. I love Carnegie Hill and our co-op. Mom loves having me live there. Neither one of us can afford to keep it on our own, so…”

  “Well, if my father married your mother, maybe…”

  “Ben, I’m totally sleepy.”

  He tucked me in, grabbed an extra pillow and blanket from the closet, kissed the top of my head, and opted for the couch in the living room.

  “Good night, Mr. Benchley,” I called to him.

  “Sleep well, Mrs. Parker.”

  Ben was gone when I woke up at nine thirty, as room service—at Ben’s request—delivered juice, coffee and bagels. He had left a note, reminding me that Mom and Gypsy Rose would be here at noon, and they would be bringing me some clothes. He’d reserved the suite again for tonight: “Stay put, don’t leave the hotel. I’ll be back in time to escort you to the Oak Room for dinner at eight.”

  I struggled to get washed and to brush my teeth—even my gums seemed to hurt—and decided to wait for Mom to get dressed. I didn’t have a thing to wear anyway. My mother would probably arrive with half my closet. I put on a little foundation, trying to cover some of the damage, and added lipstick. Then I checked my messages. There were seven in all. Maybe I’d get lucky.

  “Jake. It’s Kate. Isn’t it too tragic about poor Jonathan? Please come to work at ten on Monday. We’ll just meet briefly. You can gather the material you need to work at home. Frankly, I’m far too upset to work on the book; but my publisher’s deadline doesn’t stop for murder. Thanks.”

  Her message had been left at eight thirty last night, just about when I’d been landing in front of Jackie’s. Well, good. I needed a reason to get back into that house as soon as possible; Kate had given me one.

  “Jake. Where are you? It’s almost nine thirty. I’m growing more frantic by the minute. Call me.”

  Too-Tall Tom. Lord, I’d stood him up. With good reason, of course. But I’d never called him after the accident. No, attempted murder. I still couldn’t accept that someone had tried to kill me. Someone I knew. I’d call Too-Tall Tom as soon as I finished listening to the messages. Maybe he’d reached Mom and she’d explained why I hadn’t made it down to the Village.

  “I should have figured that a girl like you wouldn’t be at home on a Saturday night. But this lonely old bachelor is. Jake, it’s Patrick...”As if I didn’t know. “Can you stop by my office tomorrow afternoon or evening? I have some information that concerns me, and I’d like to share it with you. Give me a buzz to set up a time.”

  Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. Patrick had called at ten p.m.

  “Caroline ’ere. Jake, they’re trying to kill us. I told you so. I found a journal. We ’ave to talk—not at the ’ouse. ’Ow about...”

  Caroline seemed to have been cut off in mid-sentence—at two fifteen Sunday morning—and she’d sounded either drunk or drugged.

  “Jake, hi, it’s a beautiful Sunday morning. Jane and I are doing brunch at Tavern on the Green at eleven thirty. Call me if you want to join us.”

  Ginger. She’d called about an hour ago. How I wished I could go meet my girlfriends. And wouldn’t they have been impressed to know that I’d slept—in a manner of speaking—with a detective in the Dorothy Parker Suite at the Algonquin.

  “This is Ivan. I vant to tell you somethink. I vill be by this afternoon.”

  Ivan the Terrible. He’d phoned at nine fifteen. One of my possible pushers. But the truth was, as much as I couldn’t stand Ivan, I didn’t think he’d done it. When he arrived at my apartment, no one would be home. I wondered what he “vanted” to tell me.

  “Jake. Dennis. It’s nine thirty or so, Sunday morning. I’ve been reviewing my files…how in God’s name could that spook have known about Aubergine? I’m telling tales out of the office here, but I’m intrigued. Call me. Maybe, we can have dinner.”

  Well, well. It seemed I’d become the most wanted woman in Carnegie Hill.

  Twenty-Eight

  My cosmetic camouflage proved less than effec­tive. My mother burst into tears as she entered the suite, and Gypsy Rose suggested a trip back to the emergency room. “You’re the walking wounded, Jake. You belong at Mount Sinai, not the Algonquin, charming as this suite may be.”

  My mother placed a careful kiss on my left cheek, a relatively unscathed area. “I do hope you feel better than you look.”

  “Ladies, we’re going to the Oak Room for brunch as scheduled. I’m feeling fine,” I lied.

  Gypsy Rose opened one of the two suitcases that she and Mom had dragged downtown and pulled out a long-sleeved, navy cotton knit top and matching pull-on pants—the kind that those older women who have given up belts wear—and the outfit appealed to me. She added a cheery red, white, and blue scarf, big Jackie O dark glasses and navy flats to the neat pile on the bed.

  “Voila. Come along, darling. I’ll help
you dress. Then we’ll tackle your makeup. You’ll be chic yet comforta­ble.”

  “For God’s sake, Gypsy Rose, you sound like a Home Shopping huckster,” my mother said.

  Before they’d stormed the suite, I’d made a few tough decisions and several phone calls.

  The first decision had been the hardest: I couldn’t spend another night in the Dorothy Parker Suite. Ben Rubin was too damn appealing to remain Mr. Benchley, and neither my tattered psyche nor my sore body was in any condition to start a love affair. Ben and I seemed destined to be more than friends; I wanted to be totally “present” when that transition occurred. I called the front desk and canceled the suite for tonight. Why should Ben, or even the City of New York, be stuck with a hotel bill for a suite we wouldn’t be sleeping in? Then I’d called Ben.

  “Can we still have dinner at eight?” he’d asked.

  “Damn right. Pick me up at home,” I’d answered. “And in the meantime, Ben, please don’t assign another guardian angel to me.”

  Dennis was up next. His machine picked up. Telephone tag—the game we all play far too often. “Dennis, it’s Jake. I can’t make dinner tonight, but I do want to see you. Why not stop by the house at five-thirty? I’ll have a batch of martinis mixed. Leave a message only if you can’t make it. Thanks.’’

  Reaching Caroline would be tough, but by calling Kate, maybe I’d manage to chat with Caroline. Carla picked up the phone on the third ring. “Hi, Carla, this is Jake O’Hara. Is Kate there?”

  “Miss Connors has gone to church. May I give her a message?”

  “Yes, I’ll see her in the morning.” I felt guilty ignoring Ben’s warning. “Is Caroline around?”

  “She is, but she’s with Mr. Patrick...they’re in a therapy session. Miss Caroline’s been in a bad way, Miss O’Hara. We’re all worried about her.”

  “Please tell Caroline I’d like to talk to her tomorrow.”

  “I will. She’ll be happy to hear that.”

  “And Carla, don’t mention that I left a message for Caroline to Miss Connors. Okay?”

  Patrick would probably be tied up with Caroline—not literally, I hoped—’til this afternoon.

  If I could dump Mom and Gypsy Rose, maybe I’d just detour, drop by his Murray Hill office and surprise him before heading home.

  I’d figured later for Ivan. Maybe Ben and I could dine at Budapest East—actually, I loved their food and on Sunday nights they had a strolling violinist—and talk to Ivan over our Hungarian goulash.

  By the time we were seated in the Oak Room, my insides full of Tylenol, and my outside a Gypsy Rose fashion statement, I felt well enough to order the eggs Benedict. I had missed dinner last night.

  Too-Tall Tom had reached Mom last night, and after inquiring about my missed appointment, she’d invited him to join us for brunch.

  “I’ll have the French toast with sausage and the basil and tomato omelet. Oh, and a bagel.” Too-Tall Tom had a lot of space to fill. “Jake, this serial killer is a madman. We need Alec Cross. Why, you could be dead. Thank God you”—he caught the departing waiter’s eye, “Waiter, could you bring cream cheese and strawberry jam for the bagel? Thanks a bunch”—then turned his attention back to me, “escaped this time.”

  “This time?” my mother asked. “Jake, that killer must be caught. What’s Ben doing to find him?” My mother fiddled with her cup, spilling coffee onto the saucer and the sparkling white linen tablecloth. “It seems as if you’re in a witness protection program. Next, they’ll change your name and send you to Madison County, Iowa. I want action. Now.”

  Gypsy Rose, perhaps to change the subject, asked, “Ben didn’t become too, um, romantic, did he? That suite’s quite conducive to seduction.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” my mother said, more in prayer than anger. “Of course not.” Then she turned to me, “He didn’t, did he?”

  The waiter arrived with our mimosas.

  Ignoring my mother’s question, I said, “I’ve canceled the suite. As soon as we finish brunch, we’re going to get the bags, then we’re out of here.”

  “Jake, it’s after twelve. Won’t you have to pay for another night, even if you don’t stay?”

  A good diversion. Now my mother was more worried about money than sex. “No. I arranged for late checkout.”

  “But who’ll protect you if you don’t stay here with Ben?”

  “Mom, a minute ago, you were trying to protect me from Ben.”

  Gypsy Rose hoisted her champagne glass. “To health, happiness and finding out the identity of the killer.”

  I drank to that.

  Too-Tall Tom and I loaded Mom, Gypsy Rose, and their baggage into a taxi. Then, on the pretense that I was going to Too-Tall Tom’s—over much noisy protestation from Mom—he and I shared a second cab downtown.

  “Let me off on Lex and 31st,” I instructed the driver as we passed 32nd Street.

  “What are you doing, Jake? You promised your mother you’d let me take care of you this afternoon. Where are you going now?”

  “We’re going nowhere. I have to make a quick visit to Patrick Hemmings. Then I swear I’m heading straight home.”

  “But…” I started to ease out of the cab while Too-Tall Tom continued, “I just hope you know what you’re doing. You could be dropping in on a serial killer.”

  The cabbie turned around. “So, you going or coming, lady?”

  “Gone,” I answered, closing the door as the driver pulled away.

  “Jake O’Hara. What a pleasant surprise. Come in.” Patrick wore a shirt the exact color of his blueberry eyes, jeans, and boots. But his handsome face looked grim. “What happened, Jake? Were you in an accident?” Gypsy Rose’s repair job certainly hadn’t covered the damage.

  I decided to tell him the whole truth; maybe I’d get a little of it from him in return.

  Patrick’s living quarters were adjacent to his office. We now sat in his open, airy kitchen-sitting room, the sun streaming through the louvered windows, sipping Irish Breakfast tea. The cups were Belleek.

  “I’m not surprised, Jake. I’ve been concerned; that’s one of the reasons why I called you. You’re a very verbal inquisitor, and we’re dealing with a most determined murderer here.”

  “What were your other reasons? Why did you think I needed to be warned?”

  “It’s a long sequence of events.”

  I poured another cup of tea. “I have all afternoon.”

  Patrick sighed. ‘‘Kate Lloyd Connors’ years of regression therapy have revealed some unsavory stuff that I shouldn’t discuss with anyone. But with people I know being murdered with such regularity, I have to do something. Do you realize that all of the victims have been Kate’s former ghostwriters?”

  So Patrick knew that Jonathan—and Barbara—had been Kate’s ghostwriters. I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise. “And you believe that I’m the next victim?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Hell yes. Ethics be damned. Go ahead and break your client-hypnotherapist confidence. The life you save may be mine.”

  Taking a sip of tea, Patrick, seemingly with great difficulty, began.

  “Kate’s regression released memories of childhood trauma—so ugly—she’d buried it in a subconscious grave that she never wanted to have dug up. Her father was a real bastard.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe that Caroline might be Kate’s blood granddaughter?”

  Patrick blanched. “How could you know that?”

  “So it’s true?”

  “Caroline discovered a journal that she says proves her mother was Kate’s illegitimate daughter. But she left it in its hiding place. Caroline’s afraid of Kate; the last thing she wants Kate to know is that she read the journal.”

  “Where is this journal?”

  “Caroline claims it’s in Vera Madison’s r
oom. Jake, the problem here is that Caroline suffers from delusions and more than a touch of paranoia. She’s heavily medicated—has been for a long time. I’m frantic. It’s a tough call with Caroline. I never know if she’s in real or imagined danger. And why would Kate be lying to her all these years? To all of us?”

  “Patrick, on that first day I came to Sutton Place, why did you tell Caroline that there was cyanide in the sour cream, then eat it yourself?”

  “I’d warned Caroline to be careful. My suspicion that day had been vague and unformed...but growing. Something just didn’t seem right, you know?”

  Oh, yes, I knew.

  Patrick continued, “Caroline decided that Kate was trying to kill her. A delusional patient’s therapist walks a thin line; the poisoned sour cream was one of Caroline’s fantasies...that’s why I ate it.”

  “What’s your real relationship with Caroline?”

  Patrick squirmed in his chair, but he answered me. “Sometimes I ask myself that question. She’s my patient, and I’m worried about her well-being; however, there’s no doubt that I’m very fond of her. It’s complicated because I’m also Kate’s hypnotherapist. I’m tom professionally. I never should have taken Caroline on as a patient.”

  Or maybe the conflict came from Patrick’s wanting to stay on the well-heeled mother’s payroll more than he wanted to help her stepdaughter.

  Patrick walked me over to Third Avenue and attempted to hail a cab. “One more thing, Jake.”

  “Yes?”

  “I never slept with Emmie. I guess one more broken confidence won’t matter. Em was my patient, as you know, and she was drinking too much. Were you aware of that?”

  I felt ashamed. “I should have realized that she was in trouble. Ginger and Jane both mentioned her drinking to me.”

  “She wanted to end it with Ivan, but there was something else bothering her too. Something she hadn’t shared with me; she’d hidden whatever it was deep inside, and she seemed in denial. Anyway, she got roaring drunk one night at a local bar, then wound up in bed with the bartender. And he fathered her child. The last time I saw her—late morning of the day she was murdered—Emmie was frightened and confused. I only wish I’d reached that secret part. I might have saved her.”