Ghostwriter Anonymous
Page 22
“Ginger!” But I spoke into a dead line. She’d hung up.
The driver handed Patrick his change, and I grabbed the door’s handle, shouting, “Patrick, tell Ben to get to my house immediately. Tell him Ginger’s there. That she’s Virginia Woolf. And I need him.” Then I pulled the door shut, before Patrick had a chance to stop me. “Please take me to 92nd and Madison Avenue, driver, just as fast as you can,” I said, as Patrick sprinted toward Kate’s.
Ginger stood in my living room, impeccably groomed, as always. Pale green flowing pants and a matching cotton-knit, ribbed sweater were covered with a crisp white apron. Her sandals were a shade darker than her outfit, and her blonde hair was swept away from her face, secured with a green ribbon. She had one hand behind her back, holding something. “Come into the kitchen, Jake. I’ve brought peach pie just out of the oven; I know how you love it. And there’s fresh coffee too.” As she turned, I slid the lock back open.
The afternoon sun flickered through the white shutters, and the apartment seemed as golden and gracious as Ginger. As we passed through the dining room, Ginger laid the book she’d been carrying down, cover up, on the dining room table. To Kill a Mockingbird.
My mother’s head was on the kitchen table. I shrieked, “What have you done to her?”
“Just a shot of chloral hydrate in her English Breakfast tea. She’ll wake up in time for your last goodbyes. So, have you figured it all out, Jake?” Ginger asked, as she poured the coffee.
“Jesus, please let my mother go. You can’t hurt her.” Even in my terror, I smelled the fine aroma of Ginger’s fresh-ground brew.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. And it’s all your fault, Jake.” Ginger smiled. “You always were too good at solving puzzles and guessing who done it before the second reel.” Ginger crossed the kitchen and held up her goddamn perfect peach pie. “Would you like a piece, Jake?” she asked. Speechless, I shook my head.
I might never be able to eat peach pie again as long as I live...if I lived. “Well, drink your coffee.” Ginger handed me a cup. She could have been playing hostess at a Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting or a brunch at her house. “The beans are imported from a remote plantation in the Argentine outback. You’ll never enjoy anything like it again.”
“Ginger, for God’s sake…”
“I hope you understand, Jake. An international cooking cable channel will allow me to bring good taste to the world. Nothing can stop me. Not even you.” Then, in one swift movement that I almost missed, Ginger put the pie down and removed a long, sharp knife from the cutlery rack standing on the counter. In her deep, sexy voice, she said, as if pondering her options, “I could kill you in the kitchen.”
Déjà vu. I ducked as she lunged at me, dropping the coffee cup, and throwing my hands in front of my face. The blade made contact, nicking my right wrist. Christ, Ginger was going to kill me. George Sand flitted like a firefly through my brain, accompanied by Chopin’s music. A previous life flashing through my mind before I died? I wondered if my next incarnation would be as good as that one must have been; however, I had no complaints about this time around and really didn’t want to depart. Then I screamed, as Ginger loomed large above me, the knife thrust in a downward motion, aimed at my heart.
“You killed Kate!” Startled, both Ginger and I swung around to face the archway leading into the dining room. Vera Madison stood there, looking completely disheveled, but in total command of the compact pistol that she had pointed at Ginger. “You greedy, bloodsucking blackmailer. You got your TV station and Kate became expendable.”
I heard a moan and turned back to the table. Mom held her chin propped up in her hands and gave me a silly smile, looking like someone who’d just downed four martinis. Then her head flopped down again.
Vera ignored my mother and continued talking. “I overheard Patrick tell Detective Rubin that you’d gone to Jake’s. So I slipped out the garden gate. This is payback for Kate. I’m going to kill you, Virginia Woolf!”
I screamed again as Vera shot Ginger in the chest, then aimed the gun at me. I watched Ginger crumple to the floor, then closed my eyes, starting a Hail Mary, wondering how Gypsy Rose would get along without me and Mom. George Sand and Chopin returned.
Ben’s loud and clear “Jake!” brought me back to my kitchen. I opened my eyes, and over Vera Madison’s shoulder, I glimpsed his wonderful face. Then he shot Vera in her left leg, bringing her to her knees and sending her gun flying across Mom’s highly polished floor.
Epilogue
While the cleaning crew was sopping up the splatter, scraping bone fragments from our kitchen appliances and scrubbing bloodstains from the walls and floor, Mom and I had moved into Gypsy Rose’s third-floor guest suite. The three of us sat, sipping tea and sharing our shock and sadness.
“Even Zelda never suspected Ginger.” Gypsy Rose shook her red curls in disbelief. “So it’s no wonder that we didn’t have a clue.”
“Oh, but we did. On that first Saturday, at the Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting, I’d asked Ginger why she’d missed Mom’s lesser-literary-lights cocktail party. She never had before, you know...but she’d been murdering Emmie that Friday night. And Ginger kept insisting Ivan was the killer, while trying to keep the focus off Kate. Then Ginger disappeared from the receiving line at Barbara’s memorial—to avoid coming face-to-face with Kate—and only returned, claiming that she’d been in the bathroom throwing up, after we’d all been seated.”
“That’s when I felt the killer’s presence,” Gypsy Rose said.
“And if I’d remembered either my high school French or Ginger’s real last name…” I knew tears were coming, so I changed the subject. We’d all been doing that a lot. “Listen, thanks to Dennis, I still have my assignment...and that big advance. Mom, I think we should buy a beach house in the Hamptons. I’ll even let you invite Dennis and Ben out to visit. Of course, not at the same time. Gypsy Rose, why don’t you close up shop for a month or so and come with us?”
My mother’s blue eyes widened, as a light missing from them since that sunny afternoon when we’d entertained two killers in our kitchen, returned. But then she crossed her arms and hugged her shoulders, shaking her head from side to side.
“Come on, Maura.” Gypsy Rose sounded firm. “We have to accept what happened and get on with our lives. The Ginger we loved was gone long before she died. Her spirit guide tells me she’d suffered both a mental and a spiritual breakdown. Someday, she’ll have another chance in a future incarnation. Let’s all go to the beach.”
“You’re right, Gypsy Rose. The truth is painful, but not only can I accept it, I can live with it.” A small smile lifted my mother’s lips as she nodded sagely. “Ginger snapped.”
About the Author
Noreen Wald lives in downtown Sarasota, Florida with her husband, Steve. Their sons visit often. Hey, surf and sun are great lures. She has served terms as a local chapter president for Mystery Writers of America, as well as Executive VP and Secretary for their National Board of Directors. A winning contestant on seven television game shows—including Jeopardy!—Noreen later worked for Goodson-Todman and Merv Griffin Productions. She’s lectured at the Smithsonian, the CIA , the National Press Club and aboard the QE II. Her Ghostwriter Series was a Mystery Guild selection and praised in The New York Daily News, The Sun-Sentinel, and hit #1 on The Dallas Morning News bestseller list.
The Jake O’Hara Mystery Series
By Noreen Wald
GHOSTWRITER ANONYMOUS (#1)
THE LUCK OF THE GHOSTWRITER (#2)
GHOSTWRITER TO DIE FOR (#3)
REMEMBRANCE OF GHOSTWRITERS PAST (#4)
GHOSTWRITER FOR HIRE (#5)
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