A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  I switched shoes in the lobby while the uniformed guard announced me. The elegant building had once been a private home; a small bronze plaque next to the wrought-iron front door indicated its designation as a landmark. A century ago, the owners would have graciously greeted their guests in this fourteen-foot-high marble rotunda, leading them up the red velvet steps of the sweeping staircase to the second floor salon. Today, the guard sniffed at me suspiciously as I passed through the electronic archway after sliding my brief­case through the baggage check. Just like a mini midtown airport.

  “Mr. Peter is on the fourth floor. The receptionist there will direct you. Elevator’s straight away on your right.” The guard had an indefinable foreign accent, bad teeth, and a rotten attitude. But the elevator operator was an old charmer. Small, squat, and looking like a street-corner Santa Claus who’d arrived two months early. He greeted me with a warm smile.

  “Welcome aboard. I’m Steve.” The sounds of Cole Por­ter’s “Anything Goes” filled the elevator. “Anybody ever tell you that you look like Annie Hall? Top floor? You a new critic?”

  “Is that where they keep them?”

  “Nearer to God,” he said.

  While assuring Steve I was no critic and, yes, people have mentioned Annie Hall to me, I noticed his uniform matched the guard’s, the jacket sporting the magazine’s logo, a bright red apple—with Manhattan embroidered underneath in leaf green—on the breast pocket. And, like the lobby guard, Santa Steve wore a holster on his hip. Stepping out on the fourth floor, I wondered if the elevator operator had referred to God—as in how most of us perceive the Al­mighty, or to God—as in how Dick Peter perceives himself.

  The receptionist stood at a small Louis XIV desk—no computer in sight—smiled and placed an antique phone, mi­nus push buttons, back on its cradle. Manhattan’s ubiquitous uniform—Jesus, what would the editorial staffs dress code be?—couldn’t hide her shapely figure. “I’m Barbara Ferris. Welcome to Manhattan.” Barbara’s deep voice oozed warmth as we shook hands. “If you’d follow me, please.” Her age could have been anywhere from thirty to forty. I admired her lush dark hair, braided into a plait long enough to swing back and forth over her pistol as we walked. Ripe now, I’d bet that in a few years, when the sand shifted in her hourglass figure, Barbara would battle the bulge big time. Her holster rested on a well-rounded love handle, but the Windsor knot in her tie presented a subtle style statement.

  The dentil molding, William Morris wallpaper, and Hop­per originals continued on with us as Barbara and I walked through French doors and down a small hall, passing two oak doors on the left. She rapped on the third door.

  “Enter.” Never had a voice left me less inclined to obey an order.

  “Well, good luck now,” Barbara said, and retreated at a fast pace.

  I placed a sweaty palm on the brass knob and stepped into Richard Peter’s realm. Dead ahead were two bay win­dows and between them, facing the entrance, was a long, cluttered desk. Mahogany, I guessed. Papers and magazines piled on its top obliterated any smidgen of wood, and big boxes of books blocked a glimpse of its legs or sides. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, crammed with yellowed manuscripts, files, and old and new novels lined the walls. So much stuff—cartons, legal pads, galleys, magazines: Manhattan, New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Harpers—covered the rug that I had to forge a path through to greet Dick Peter. He remained hidden behind a stack of manuscripts, but his voice boomed, beckoning me forward. “Come in. Take a seat. And hurry up. I don’t have much time for you.” Peter sounded like Edward G. Robinson playing Little Caesar. I asked myself could a man surrounded by so many books be all bad.

  Jennifer Moran popped out from behind a carton and held out her hand. “Hi, Jake.” She cleared some papers off a crushed velvet wing chair the color of old port wine that faced Sixty-ninth Street and Dick Peter’s desk. “Please sit down.”

  I sat. Jennifer wedged an opening between two piles on Peter’s desk. His enormous nose, followed by the rest of his ferret-like features, poked through, his head covered with his signature ratty rug. He didn’t stand, attempt to shake hands, or even smile. I’ve worked for some sourpusses in my career as a ghostwriter, but Peter’s looked as if it had been pickled in brine. “Ms. O’Hara,” he growled.

  I couldn’t resist. “Mr. Peter, I presume.” Jennifer grinned. Dick Peter didn’t.

  “Let’s get you up to snuff.” The social niceties appeared to be over. “I’ve written an outline for a murder mystery.” He nodded at Jennifer. “Ms. Moran’s read it.”

  “A plot to die for,” she said on cue.

  “Yes, isn’t it? Well, Ms. O’Hara, you’ll just fill in the blanks...dialogue, character development, subplots...the meat and potatoes to go with my soufflé. Do you under­stand?”

  Oh, I understood, all right. “Mr. Peter, as a ghostwriter, turning a soufflé into a full meal is my specialty.”

  “Good. Now, in my novel, someone’s killing all the critics at a glossy magazine. A fictional one, mind you, but an astute reader will glean that the magazine is really Manhat­tan. So you’ll need to work here to absorb the atmosphere.” Peter tented his fingers and stared at his small hands for a moment. “Yes. You’ll work undercover and we’ll pass you off as my new assistant. Everyone knows I should have another one. Jennifer will find you a small corner...”

  “I usually work at home.”

  “That’s not possible. At least not in the beginning. You need to soak up the scene, and I need to oversee your first few chapters at my convenience.”

  “But...”

  “No buts about it. Review your contract, Ms. O’Hara—Jake—you’re a Manhattanite now.” Abruptly Dick Peter turned to Jennifer. “Waltz Jake around the floor.” He bared tiny teeth in what I supposed passed for a smile. “Introduce her as an editor or a reader, here to help me sift through this garbage.” This last was accompanied by a sweeping gesture toward the cartons of books in front of Jennifer. He finally stood up. I’m five-four and about one hundred and eighteen pounds, most of which seems to have settled on my hips. Though he was shorter and slimmer than me, most of Dick Peter’s weight had gone to that remarkable nose. Again he tried for a smile, while barking, “Then, Jake O’Hara, you and I will go to work.”

  I could hardly wait.

  Jennifer led me to the employees’ lounge, all chintz and charm, and served me a hot cup of tea in a Lenox cup. Somewhat soothed, I asked, “What fresh hell have I con­tracted for?”

  “Did you come to my Dorothy Parker reading at the Algonquin?”

  “Yes, Jennifer, and you were awesome, but I’m facing a minimum sentence of five months here, ghostwriting for this creep.”

  “Just yes him to death; that’s what I do.” Jennifer downed her espresso. “Now come meet Manhattan’s Goddess of Gossip.”

  I perked up. “Allison Carr?” The “Bites From the Big Apple” editor had taken a page from Walter Winchell and gave great gossip. My mother and Gypsy Rose never missed her column, quoting from it copiously. “Let’s go.”

  Barry DeWitt, the magazine’s handsome theater critic, darted out of Allison Carr’s office as we arrived. His reviews had ravaged—and closed—countless Broadway and off-Broadway productions—while his words of scorn had dec­imated playwrights, directors, and actors; however, DeWitt himself was considered a star attraction by New York so­ciety hostesses: Heathcliff with Darcy’s snob appeal. Now his big frame abruptly barged in front of Jennifer, almost knocking her over. Swinging around, DeWitt looked back in anger at the room he’d just left, his icy voice filling the hallway. “Dick Peter’s on his last ego trip, Allison. Don’t be a fellow traveler.” Then he slammed the door and plowed past us, without as much as an “excuse me.” Despite his well-tailored Burberry blazer, shock of black curly hair, and aquamarine eyes, DeWitt appeared to be as rude and mis­erable as his reviews.

  A surprisingly cool and calm Allison Carr
jumped up from her seat behind a rattan desk and pumped my hand, treating me like a real live celebrity instead of an incognito ghostwriter. “Don’t mind DeWitt; all those melodramas have turned him into a half-baked ham.” She spoke with gaiety and gusto. “So, working temp for Dick Peter, are you? Well, a few months in Purgatory beats an eternity in Hell, I always say. But welcome to Manhattan, darling girl.” Management must have indoctrinated the magazine’s entire staff to mouth these words to all newcomers. Allison waved Jennifer and me toward high-back cane chairs. “I like your look. So An­nie Hall.”

  I stared at her in amazement. She had tawny hair and was tall and tight—this woman worked out big time—with long legs, big feet, and a flat stomach. Allison looked no older than I did, yet I knew she’d been writing “Bites From the Big Apple” for almost twenty-five years. But what really caught my attention was her dress. Allison Carr wore a short sleeve Black Watch-plaid cotton sheath, showing off her excellent upper arms. Totally transitional.

  “And my mother would absolutely love your style, Ms. Carr. Mom and her best friend are your biggest fans. Your columns have replaced Photoplay and Cholly Knickerbocker in their lives. Filled a real void.”

  “Call me Allison, and do bring your mother and her friend over; we’ll all do lunch.”

  Wow. Mom and Gypsy Rose would be thrilled. And who’d have believed that a woman who wrote so caustically could be so charming?

  The door flew open. A big man with bushy black eye­brows and a snow-white crew cut shouted, “I’ll have Dick Peter drawn and quartered. I swear I’ll—” When he spotted Jennifer and me, he shut up, looking flushed and flustered, then said, “Oh, please forgive me, ladies. I didn’t know Miss Carr had visitors.”

  Allison’s smooth-as-Jell-O-pudding response combined just the right amount of amusement and insouciance. “Rob­ert, I think you know Jennifer Moran—she’s Dick’s editorial assistant. And this is Jake O’Hara, his newest recruit.” Al­lison flashed a rueful smile at me. “Jake, say hello to Robert Stern, Manhattan’s managing editor.”

  Three

  If I hadn’t been working on my time management skills—almost as appalling as my money management—someone else would have discovered the dead body. If this was my reward for being an early bird, I should have stayed in bed.

  On Tuesday night, Mom, Gypsy Rose, and I had dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant. The brisk walk down Madison Avenue always revved up our appetites, while the stroll back uptown burned off a small portion of the pasta and better-than-sex desserts. Well, better than some sex. I scooped up more of the chocolate sauce, spooning it onto the ice cream-filled pastry puff, thinking that the eight blocks home wouldn’t be making a dent in these calories and that I’d given my mother a canyon-sized opening for her ongoing diet and exercise lecture. However, Mom not only overindulged herself, but her delight in discussing every detail of my meeting with Allison Carr kept her from harping on my unhealthy lifestyle.

  On my third recounting, Gypsy Rose said, “Enough. Now, Jake, tell us why Robert Stern wanted to pull Peter apart. I’ve met him and he’s a really nice guy. Stern that is, not Peter.”

  “I’m clueless. Everyone at Manhattan seems to detest the man. Jennifer says even the elevator operator has a grudge against him. Peter’s easy to hate; I felt like killing him myself.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to work for him, Jake?” my mother asked.

  “Well, no one hates him more than his about-to-be-ex-wife.” Gypsy Rose adjusted her eyeglasses, halting their slide down her nose and into the sauce.

  “I’d forgotten that he’s married to Mila Macovich. Do you know her romance novels taught me more about sex than...” My mother’s raised brow veered me away from that red flag, and I changed my direction. “How could Mila be married to that Dick?”

  “Separated at the moment,” Mom said. “And please watch your language, Jake. The Post reported that she punched him on his just-lifted jaw at the Miami Book Fair. Must have been quite a row. Anyway, she locked him out of their townhouse when she returned to New York.”

  “I wonder why. And why didn’t he have his nose nipped while he was having his face done? It’s as big as the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Cindy Adams says Mila’s the top candidate for the Lady Clarice Heartland Romance Writers’ Award,” my mother said. “The ceremony’s next month at the British Embassy.”

  Gypsy Rose winked at me, then turned to my mother. “Maura, the Post ought to give you a loyal readership award.”

  “Do you know why they were fighting, Mom?”

  “Who, darling?”

  “Come on, Mom. Mila Macovich and Dick Peter. Why did she bop him at the Book Fair?”

  “I only know what I read on page six.” Mom reached over and snatched one of Gypsy Rose’s puffs. “Mila wasn’t talking, but her punch sent Dick flying to the hospital for a few new stitches to replace the ones that she’d ripped open. Then again, Mila’s a big, beautiful, bold woman; she refers to herself as a yogurt-eating Russian peasant. Of course, her family’s been here since 1917, but...” Thankfully, just then the waitress brought us the check, interrupting Mom’s history lesson.

  During our faster-pace-than-usual jaunt from the restaurant to our house on 92nd Street, I had Mila on my mind. I’d cut my adult lit teeth biting into Mila Macovich’s romances. The first throbbing member I’d ever encountered had been on page thirty-six of The Virgin and the Vagrant, her biggest blockbuster. A Macovich romance still occasionally popped up as a miniseries. But somehow all those aching loins performed better in the pages of a book than on a television screen. The adaptations of her novels were worse than those of Judith Krantz.

  She’d married Peter, following his messy, rumor-riddled divorce from exotic dancer Glory Flagg. New York’s literary community had been aghast; however, compared to Mila’s flamboyant past, she’d kept a low profile ever since. Why had two such gorgeous women married a gnome like Dick? Maybe his member was as huge as...

  All my ruminating remained unresolved as I fell asleep.

  Then I walked into the office this morning at eight-fifteen, only to find old Dick facedown on his desk. He’d been stabbed in the back—a killer with a sense of irony?—with a Delft dagger. His rug had shifted to the right; his nose protruded to the left. I screamed, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” When no one answered, I dialed 911. Standing pat, still using my phone and touching nothing, I called all three of Ben Rubin’s numbers, leaving frantic messages, as I tried to decide if I’d rather wait alone or fetch the guard—who seemed to work from dawn to dusk—from the lobby. The elevator operator hadn’t been at his station when I arrived and, apparently, hadn’t gotten here yet—or he’d have heard me scream. I glanced at my watch. 8:18. Maybe I should go...

  “Oh my God! What happened? Who killed Dick Peter? Jake?” Jennifer stood in the doorway, staring at me, a tremor in her voice and horror in her eyes.

  “Well, you can be damn sure I didn’t, Jennifer. The police should be here any minute.”

  My cellphone rang. One of the things I love about Ben Rubin is that he doesn’t ask a lot of foolish questions. “I’m on my way.”

  “Thank God. And Ben, hurry.”

  Jennifer had heard my end of the conversation, but far from being reassured, she appeared to be in shock. I cleared off a chair, facing away from the corpse, and led her to it.

  “Sit down, I’m going to...”

  “Don’t leave me alone with him. He’s dead. I’m afraid of dead people; I want to go home. Take me with you. Now.” All color had drained from Jennifer’s face and she closed her eyes, while her white knuckles clutched the arms of the chair the way mine did at the dentist.

  “We can’t go anywhere, Jen. Dick’s been murdered; the police will...”

  “Jake, listen to me.” She sounded sick. “I can’t talk to the police.”

  “And why would that be?” a burly
policeman asked from the doorway. Steve, the elevator operator, stood two paces behind him, holding the door open, probably in acknowledgment that the officer’s uniform outranked his. Jennifer threw up. All over the Persian carpet, all over a pile of books and all over her shoes. As a second cop, an attractive woman about my age, entered, the first one looked over at me, pointed to Jennifer and said, ‘Take her to the ladies’ room; Officer Conway will wait there with you until she gets cleaned up. Who called 911?”

  “I did.” My voice cracked. Damn him. I couldn’t be more nervous if I’d done it. And it showed.

  “And you are?”

  “Jake O’Hara. I work for Mr. Peter—er, that is, I would have been...”

  “I’m Officer Franco.” He looked grim. “We’ll talk when you get back.” Then he turned away from me, heading for Dick Peter’s body. Jennifer slumped in her chair, weeping softly. Officer Conway and I each grabbed one of Jennifer’s arms, gingerly attempting to lift her up, while sidestepping to avoid the mess.

  In slow motion, we half-carried, half-dragged Jennifer down the hall and into the john. Conway propped her up against the sink and I scraped the gook off her shoes, washed her face and combed her hair. Not only wouldn’t Jennifer respond, but she seemed to have left the zip code. I couldn’t reach her.

  By the time the three of us returned to the scene of the crime, we found the room filled with busy people. Someone had strung yellow tape around the door and across the hallway on either side of it. An Abbott and Costello lookalike team from the coroner’s office were spreading plastic on the carpet, covering up Jennifer’s breakfast, while a third man laid open a body bag. A fingerprint expert, an older woman, severely impeded by the clutter, dusted Dick’s bookcases. In one corner, I spotted the medical examiner, holding his little black bag, talking to Ben Rubin.

  Ben waved at me, just as Officer Franco, appearing no less grim than when I’d last seen him, stopped me. He flipped his notebook to a clean page. “Okay, Ms. O’Hara, please take it from the top.” I threw a help-me-I’m-desperate look at Ben, who grinned, gave me a thumbs-up, and continued to chat with the M.E. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Ben was getting some perverse pleasure from my impending inquisition by Officer Franco.