Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  A taxi deposited a passenger, and Patrick held the door open for me. “Yeah, me too. And, Patrick, thanks.”

  When I arrived home, my mother fussed and fumed, and I escaped to my bedroom to check my email. Only one: “Is To Kill a Mockingbird still your favorite book?”

  Twenty-Nine

  The second threatening email, like the first, had been sent from an uptown mail service franchise, arriving at 4:10 p.m. An hour ago. I called Ben, leav­ing a rambling, highly charged and frustrating-to-me message on his voicemail. Then I called Mail Boxes Etc. on First Avenue and 78th Street. When a loud, un­friendly “Yeah?” hurt my ear, I introduced myself as Detective Bea Rubin of the Nineteenth Precinct. It worked. The gruff tone took on a more helpful quality, and I learned that the email in question had been a cash transaction, that the sender—a youngish man in big jeans and a baseball cap, wearing dark glasses and a denim jacket—had given a New Jersey address and tele­phone number, both probably phony.

  Patrick had been pouring the last of the tea when the threat had been transmitted, pretty much putting him out the running as the ghostwriters’ book-bashing serial killer. Unless he had an accomplice. Part of me regretted crossing him off the list. He’d been so easy to hate. Even today, when I’d asked him what he’d done before becoming a certified hypnotist, his response scratched my soul. “The health field. I worked as a personal trainer and offered private classes on a seaweed and chocolate nutrition plan.”

  “Quite a career change.” I hadn’t even tried to hide my disdain.

  That didn’t stop Patrick. Into true-confession mode, he seemed to need to purge his past and to offer proof of his salvation. “Then I got in touch with my spirituality during a hypnotherapy session to stop smoking. And I found my path in this incarnation would be in service. You know, helping people to cope, and to live in the now, by regressing them to confront their long-ago problems during past lives.”

  “This, er, profession requires no degree, in say, psychology, or any medical training or licensing?”

  “No, I earned my certified hypnotherapist’s title through the mail. A study-at-home program. Now I’m in a theology course, where I’ll become the Reverend Hemmings. I’m getting straight A’s. The Divinity Center’s based in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.”

  Naturally.

  “It will be the perfect combination for counseling souls in distress.” Patrick the apprentice preacher.

  My mother appeared in my bedroom door and broke into my reverie. “Jake, Dennis is on his way up.”

  As I limped into the john, I called out, “Entertain him for a few minutes, will you, Mom? And try not to arrange an engagement while I’m in the bathroom.”

  “You’ll die an old maid, Jake, if I don’t do something.” My mother could be right.

  For the third time today, I decided that my face was irreparable—at least for the short term—but I valiantly applied more base and blush, then combed my hair over my bruised forehead and cheeks. With great anticipation, I then tottered into the living room to learn what Dennis Kim knew about Aubergine.

  But first I had to get rid of my mother. “Mom, I promised Dennis a martini or two. Could you be a dear and make a pitcher of them? You know yours are as good as Nick and Nora’s must have been. And maybe some cheddar cheese and crackers?”

  “Dennis and I will have martinis. You’re on drugs; I never should have allowed you to down those mimosas at brunch. I’ll bring you a club soda.”

  I waited ’til she’d gone down the hall. “Okay, Dennis, tell me about Aubergine.”

  “What I don’t get is how Emily Bronte or Gypsy Rose Liebowitz, or whoever the hell had use of her body, or, for that matter, anyone else in that room, could have heard of Aubergine.”

  “So I guess you’d be surprised that I’ve heard of it.”

  Dennis sank into the sofa. “How? When? Who told you?”

  I debated if I should go first, then figured, what the hell. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t going to tell me what he knew. “At Emmie’s burial. Her kid brother had talked to her on the afternoon of the day she’d been murdered. And Emmie’d asked him about Aubergine, even indicated that she thought it was an odd name for a corporation.”

  “Funny, I’d thought the same thing when I heard the name.”

  “A Kate Lloyd Connors company, I presume?”

  Dennis smiled. “Jake, you’re always one step ahead of me. But then I’ve known that for twenty-five years. When Kate decided to form the corporation...”

  “When was that?”

  “Less than two weeks ago. Anyway, I referred her to a colleague of mine in corporate law. A Larry Helms. And I reached him this morning. I’ve not been involved in the details, but I did know it was all very hush-hush, right down to the name of her silent partner. Who that might be was my first question to Larry.”

  “A silent partner...”

  My mother came in, carrying her best silver tray, holding stem glasses, a pitcher of martinis, an arrangement of cheeses, crackers, nuts and olives, and a club soda for me. “Who has a silent partner?” she asked.

  I poured a martini into the tall glass that she’d intended for my soda water. Then I poured their cocktails. My mother grimaced. “Not a word, Mom. I’m having one while Dennis and I finish our chat.”

  “And may I stay for the denouement? Or shall I go to my room?” She actually pouted.

  “Sit down, Mom. But, like with Bond, this is for your ears only.”

  “That was ‘eyes,’ darling, but not to worry, my lips are sealed.” My mother sat, obviously delighted to be part of the action.

  Since Mom knew how Aubergine tormented me, it took no time to bring her up to speed.

  “Who is this silent partner?” I asked Dennis.

  “One V. Woolf. That’s the name listed in the corporate papers. Larry’s never met this mystery man or woman in person. Kate gathered up all the papers and the contract, then had V. Woolf’s signature witnessed—I’d assumed at Sutton Place—by Vera Madison.”

  “W. The murderer’s initial on the Ouija board,” my mother said.

  “That’s right. Jesus.”

  “That’s spooked me since I left the séance,” Dennis said. “And when Larry Helms cried, ‘Woolf,’ I became a believer. I’d go buy some spirituality if I knew where it was sold.”

  I chuckled, then asked, “Could Vera Madison be this V. Woolf?”

  “Not legally. Then she’d have witnessed her own signature. But who knows, Jake? This case gets curiouser and curiouser.” Dennis took a good swing of his martini. “Excellent as always, Maura.”

  My mother raised her glass, “To you and Jake, Dennis. To a happy future.”

  I choked on my drink. When all this is over, I might murder my mother.

  Dennis just grinned and changed the subject. “Hey, Jake, what happened? You look like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck.”

  “No, just hit by a New York cabbie.” It took a little longer to fill Dennis in on last night’s murder attempt.

  He absorbed every detail, then said, “I’m hiring a private investigator tonight to watch out for you, Jake.”

  “Don’t you dare.” I envisioned my designated tails watching each other while the killer closed in on me. “The NYPD has taken care of that, but thanks, Dennis.”

  “I suspect that Detective Rubin would like to snare more than a murderer in this case.” Dennis leered at me. “And how does the fair maiden feel about that?”

  Like a schoolgirl, I thought. “Listen, Dennis, let’s get back on track here. Do you have any idea why Kate formed a corporation now? She never had one before, did she?”

  “No. She didn’t.” Dennis accepted a cheddar-topped cracker from my mother. “And I only found out today—from Larry—that Kate wanted to incorporate because she’s going into show business.”

  “Sho
w business?” My mother sounded as surprised as I felt.

  “Yes,” Dennis said, swallowing the cracker. “It seems that Kate’s become an entrepreneur. When I called Larry, he’d been ready to call me to handle the business end of the deal. As Kate’s literary and entertainment attorney, I’ve been doing those kind of contracts for her for years, movies, audio rights and all that jazz. But this is the biggest deal yet.”

  “What kind of deal, Dennis? You’re not in court. Don’t make me cross-examine you.”

  “Sorry. Must be an occupational hazard. It is a big deal, Jake. Kate and her silent partner are going to buy a cable television station.”

  “Totally mind-blowing. Does Kate have that kind of money?”

  “More money than you can conjure. Kate’s one sharp cookie.” Dennis turned his attention to my mother. “May I pour you another, Maura?”

  “No, thank you. Now tell me what are Kate Lloyd Connors and her oh-so-silent partner planning to do with this station?”

  “I don’t know.” Dennis seemed stumped. “Maybe an all-mystery channel featuring her works. God knows enough of them have been turned into movies. She could write the teleplays for the rest of her books and create new ones as well. That’s just a wild guess.”

  “Kate couldn’t write an excuse good enough to get her out of school. How the hell could she develop a scenario?” I started to pour myself another drink. My mother glared at me, and I put the pitcher down.

  “Well, she has plenty of ghostwriters.” Dennis looked a bit guilty as he admitted that.

  “Not at the rate they’re being bumped off,” I said.

  “Stay tuned,” my mother said.

  Thirty

  I sat across the table from New York’s finest detective—in my opinion—at Budapest East, the room filled with red tulips and the strains of a strolling gypsy’s violin, thinking how handsome Ben looked. And how lousy I felt. All my aches and pains had magnified as the day had waned and now, at eight thirty Sunday eve­ning, I hurt. Popping three Extra Strength Tylenol into my mouth, I washed them down with a sip of Diet Coke. Listening, for a change, to my mother’s advice.

  It had been tough getting out of the house. As soon as Dennis had gone, the buzzer rang again. Ginger, Modesty, and Jane trooped in. Too-Tall Tom had told Jane that someone had tried to kill me and how I’d wound up at Mount Sinai, then in the Dorothy Parker suite at the Algonquin. I’d also made the late editions of both the Post and the Times. Modesty clutched a copy of each. However, there had been no mention in either paper that my being shoved in front of a cab had any connection, however tenuous, to the book-bashing-ghostwriter serial killer.

  “So, who done it?” Modesty asked, as my mother went to freshen the martinis and replenish the cheese and crackers. I checked my watch. Six forty-five. I still had time before Ben would arrive.

  “Too-Tall Tom and the papers say some young man tried to kill you,” Jane said. “Anyone we know? From the description it could be Ivan the Terrible, but his last name doesn’t begin with a W.”

  “Don’t believe everything you see or hear at a séance, Jane,” Ginger said. “Isn’t that right, Jake?” Ginger knew and shared my skepticism of things arcane or too New Age.

  “Well, I certainly believed that going in, but neither Mom nor I moved that sucker round the Ouija board; so my guess is the spirit moved it.”

  “You see?” Jane said. “I’m convinced that Emmie sent Jake a message from the world beyond, and it’s only a matter of time before Jake solves these ghastly crimes and catches the killer.”

  “Unless the killer catches up with me first.” A nervous laugh escaped, rumbling from deep in my throat, and I felt foolish and melodramatic. My mother came back with the tray, and Ginger helped her serve the drinks.

  Modesty drained her martini in two gulps and reached for a refill. “I had lunch with Bill this afternoon.”

  “So that’s why you couldn’t come to brunch with us,” Ginger said. “More interesting fish to fry. What did he have to say?”

  “Bill’s leaving for Philadelphia this evening. There’s some family business he has to take care of. But he’ll be back later in the week, probably Thursday, to accompany Jonathan’s body to London. And guess who wants to go along for the ride?”

  ‘‘No contest,” I said. “Kate Lloyd Connors.”

  “Give that little lady a great big cigar,” Modesty said. Then lit one herself, dropping the match in her saucer.

  Ginger jumped on Modesty. “Lettuce head, you’re giving us cancer.”

  Modesty put it out as Jane opened a window. My mother carried its smelly remains to the kitchen. Ignoring the commotion she’d caused, Modesty continued, “Bill’s a wreck. Barbara had warned him about Jonathan Arthur; she had bad vibes from the get-go. But Bill had not taken her advice and Jonathan broke his heart and borrowed his money. Almost fifty thousand dollars, never repaid. Now I guess it never will be. Bill says Jonathan—greedy and less than gentlemanly—had sold his soul and Kate Lloyd Connors’ secrets to a tabloid. And he was murdered just as he’d been ready to deliver an even dirtier story. Do you think Kate killed him to stop the presses? That’s what Bill believes; he’s worried about you, Jake. Three ghostwriters are dead. All somehow connected to Kate.” Modesty drank her second martini in one fell swoop, then pointed her index finger with its lacquered black nail polish at me. “You could be her next victim.”

  “You’ve been accusing Kate from the beginning, Modesty, and with no proof,” Ginger said. “Why do you hate this woman so? Could it be you’re jealous of her?”

  “Jealous? Of those bilious little cozies that America’s great unwashed Babbitts devour? They should be sold with a Pepcid AC chaser. My work is literature. She’s a hack and so are her ghostwriters. How dare you accuse me of envying that talentless tramp?”

  My mother returned to the living room just in time to prevent mayhem.

  I excused myself, saying I had to lie down for a while before Ben arrived, wondering if Kate really was a tramp, but certain she was a killer. Almost certain. Had I ever told her that To Kill a Mockingbird was my favorite book?

  When I reappeared forty minutes later, all the ghostwriters were gone and my mother was entertaining Mrs. McMahon. She’d read the Post’s late edition and decided that her homemade chicken soup would cure my injuries as well soothe my nerves.

  “Oh yes, Maura, I’d be delighted to have a martini.” Mrs. M seemed to have squirreled in for the evening. Ben’s arrival saved me. Only a miracle could help my mother.

  Ben brought my fingers to his lips as the gypsy stopped at our table and played “Fascination.”

  Enjoying the romance of the moment and the music of the violin, I looked into Ben’s kind, dark eyes, asking myself: Could this be the look of love? Or would I even recognize that look if it bit me on the nose?

  We’d asked to be seated in Ivan’s section and the owner had taken our drink orders. Now Ivan, in all his pale flesh, stood before us, menus in hand.

  “Jake, you are vit the police?”

  “That’s not a crime, Ivan.” I smiled at him, resenting his tone but wanting his cooperation.

  “You vere shoved in front of car, no? Someone tries to kill you, Jake. Vat do you know?” With a flair, Ivan opened the menu, and with great drama, placed it in front of me.

  Ben reached for his before Ivan could repeat the performance. “Say, Ivan, where were you last night at eight thirty?”

  “Right vhere I stand tonight, Detective Rubin. You not believe, I call owner over.”

  “I believe you, Ivan. It’s just that you fit the description of the man who pushed Jake.”

  Ivan shrugged. “Is the look of every man.” What the hell did that mean? With Ivan you never knew.

  “Veil, I vant to tell you somethink. Emmie, I love too much, she vanted to end our love. I think I frighten her.” How perceptive, I t
hought. Ivan scratched the side of his generous nose, “So, vhen Emmie tells me she is having another man’s baby, I tell her ve marry anyvay.”

  “But...” I said.

  “She vants to keep baby, but not me. Emmie says she will raise child alone. This is vat ve fight about that last day of her life.” Ivan sounded stricken.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Emmie had been drunk; she sleep vit married man, but he no vant her or their baby. This man has no morals. You know him, Jake.”

  “I do?”

  “You do. Is bartender at Elaine’s. Joe Vynn.”

  “Joe Wynn is the father of Emmie’s baby?” I said, shocked.

  “Vat did I just tell you?” Ivan said. “He’s a no goodnik. Don’t tip him ever again, Jake. Now, do you both vant the goulash?”

  Ben ordered the trout. “I have a Hungarian grandmother, the world’s worst cook; I haven’t eaten goulash since I left for college.”

  When Ivan left, I shook my head. “Joe Wynn told me all about Emmie’s last night at Elaine’s, what she’d done while she waited for me, even scolded me for not showing up. He’d spoken about her as if she were just another customer. Boy, for sure, people seldom are as they seem.”

  “This is one strange case, Jake. When I called the mail services store to check out the email, I learned that a Detective Bea Rubin had already called. Impersonating an officer, lady?”

  ‘‘Sorry, Ben. I’m so nosy and I was scared. I couldn’t wait. Am I in trouble?”

  ‘‘Yes. The killer wants you dead. Don’t run the police investigation, Jake. We’ll get him.”

  Chastened, I changed the subject. ‘‘Let’s assume that Kate is Sarah Anne Hansen and someone had been blackmailing her...”