by Noreen Wald
“Jake,” he said, and his gold-flecked eyes looked amused, “I didn’t bump him off to make your career path easier.”
“But you did resurrect the ghostwriting assignment from hell and turn it into a heavenly opportunity.”
“That’s what I do for a living. If you’d ever get rid of Sam Kelley and have me represent you, all your ghostwriting would be glorious.”
I ate the first of my three gin-soaked olives and steered the conversation back to the murder. “What’s Robert Stern’s story? In Allison’s office yesterday, he sounded as if he might murder Dick any minute.”
“Yeah. Robert would certainly be high on that long list of suspects. About seven or eight years ago, when Dick Peter was still married to Glory Flagg, he had an affair with Stern’s wife.”
“How did Stern find out?”
“When Dick dumped Catherine, she had a nervous breakdown. Robert had to put her away. Then she hanged herself. The suicide note told the whole sordid story.”
“Jesus. How come Stern didn’t fire Peter on the spot?”
“Oh, he tried. Manhattan’s board of directors voted him down. Dick’s scurrilous style sold millions of copies.”
“That must have been hell for Stern. What was his wife like?”
“Catherine Stern exuded class. Came from old money, a real lady...Miss Porter’s, Vassar, riding to the hounds at their estate in Virginia...yet she had an earthy charm. I liked her. And Stern adored her. They’d been married thirty years.”
“She must have been considerably older than Dick at the time of the affair.”
“Almost twenty years. She was a beautiful woman with the figure of a schoolgirl. What could she have seen in Dick? I never understood it. And Robert never got over it.”
It almost sounded as if Dennis had harbored a yen for Catherine himself. I chewed on the second olive.
“But I had the impression that whatever had Robert’s knickers in a twist yesterday had been a recent development. And why would Stern confide in a gossip columnist, for God’s sake?”
“Let’s just say that Allison Carr comforted the grieving widower for years. And while she spreads rumor and innuendo for fun and profit, she’s never mentioned the Robert-Catherine-Dick triangle. Not in the magazine. Not on TV.”
“When I told Allison that Mom and Gypsy Rose thought she was the greatest thing since acid skin peels, she invited us all for lunch. She seems totally charming and unflappable. Is that for real?”
“Wendy says Allison’s so cool that she could have sunk the Titanic quicker than the iceberg.”
Wendy Wu was not only a top news anchor but Dennis Kim’s ex-wife. She’d annoyed me even before she married Dennis. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped.
“I guess it might mean watch your back.”
“That’s not very funny, Dennis.”
He didn’t answer me but instead motioned to the waiter for another round. “I have some other news for you, Jake.” I glared at him. “According to my source at the New York Times, A Killing in Katmandu will make the bestseller list this Sunday. Number four. Congratulations.”
“Great. However, thanks to your confidentiality clause in that ghostwriter/client contract, no one but you, me, Mom, and Sam Kelley will ever know I wrote a bestseller. No royalties. No recognition. A ghostwriter doesn’t have a chance in the fame game. The dead ‘author’—who never wrote any of her own books—will get the credit. And her estate will get the money. What I get is the shaft.” I speared the last olive, almost stabbing the waiter as he whisked away my empty glass and replaced it with a fresh martini.
Dennis ignored both my comments and my attitude. “So can I take you to dinner tonight, to celebrate?”
“Why don’t you have Gypsy Rose channel your former client’s sorry spirit? That is, if she can be reached in the bowels of Hell. Maybe the devil will give her a weekend pass so you can take her to dinner.” I swallowed half the martini in one gulp.
Was I angry with Dennis over that old contract and the fact that he’d become a big-shot entertainment attorney while I remained an unaccredited ghostwriter? Or was I angry because Dennis Kim’s presence still made me feel like one of Mila Macovich’s waiting-to-be-ravaged virgins?
I went home to take a two-martini nap. My mother woke me in time for Jeopardy! She served dinner on a tray—turkey sandwiches with crusts trimmed, a pot of decaf tea, Jell-O, and Social Tea cookies—Maura O’Hara’s panacea for all life’s ills, including discovering a corpse before breakfast.
We both knew the Final Jeopardy question: Who are Amy, Beth, Jo and Meg? The answer had been: the first names of the four March sisters in Little Women. Literature was one of our best categories. Before Alex shook hands with the winner, Mom switched off the TV. “Jake, I need to talk to you.”
My mother was dressed for bed, saturated in Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion from head to toe and swathed in an old, long-sleeve cotton t-shirt, sweatpants, and white socks. Her face and hands, the only visible parts of her body, glowed.
“Isn’t it a little early to be all greased up and ready to slip between the sheets?”
“I’m getting up at five. Gypsy Rose and I are going to a sunrise ceremony in Central Park.”
“Who’s getting married at dawn?”
“Not a wedding, Jake. Some witches from Westchester are holding their fall coven. Gypsy Rose is considering having one or two of them speak at the bookstore’s Halloween Happening—so we’re going to Strawberry Fields to audition them.”
Gypsy Rose’s New Age bookstore drew large crowds from all the boroughs and out of town as well. Conservatives, compared to some of the crazies in that movement, but sometimes both Gypsy Rose and her audience were over the edge. I try to reserve judgment regarding the world beyond and the spirits residing there whom Gypsy Rose calls friends. Occasionally, she and they have awed me. It’s the live, seemingly certifiable fruitcakes who scare me.
“Well, be careful trotting through Central Park in the dark,” I told my mother, using a stern voice.
She smiled. “Don’t worry, dear. Too-Tall Tom is coming with us. He used to date one of the warlocks. And he’s hired a hansom cab to drive us there.”
“Wow. Those suburban witches will be totally impressed.” But I felt better. Too-Tall Tom was not only far more sensible than Mom and Gypsy Rose; he also belonged to my Ghostwriters Anonymous group and was my closest confidant.
“Anyway, what I wanted to tell you,” Mom said, as she stacked the remnants of our gourmet dinner on the tray, “is that Mila Macovich came into the store today.” I trailed after her carrying the empty teacups.
“No kidding.”
“She wanted an out-of-print Edgar Cayce book. Mila’s past-life-regression therapist told her how Gypsy Rose had dated Edgar in her previous incarnation—and that her bookstore had the largest Cayce collection in the city.”
“Mila’s therapist knows Gypsy Rose?”
“Not from this lifetime. But it seems this therapist—his name is Bruce Wexler—had been a woman the last time around and he…uh, that is, she, was Gypsy Rose’s chief competition for Edgar’s affection.”
Conversations like this tended to close my open mind.
“But it’s why Mila wanted to read up on the world beyond that’s of interest here, Jake.”
‘Tell me.”
“Well, Mila told us that she had to contact Dick Peter. And how her therapist believed that Cayce’s books could be a start. But when I told Mila—and God, she’s stunning—about Gypsy Rose’s successful séances, she said she’d be interested in attending one. We decided the spiritual climate would be perfect on All Soul’s Day. If you’re interested, I think we might have room for one more ghost.”
“You’re an angel.”
My mother’s hug smeared me with Vaseline.
Six
I d
reamed of Delft daggers, their blades brightly covered in red blood and green bile. The loud ring of my bedside phone jarred me awake. Edgy, my hand trembled as I reached for the receiver.
“Jake, I’m sorry to wake you, but...”
“That’s okay, Ben. What time is it?”
“Six forty. I’m operating on zombie time...got to bed at two. I’m at headquarters now, but wanted to see how you were doing before I head down to the morgue.”
I really did like this man. And felt guilty that I’d allowed Dennis Kim to tickle my toes, yet again, yesterday afternoon. I guess I could just chalk that up to a bad mix of murder and martinis.
“Confronting corpses has become a regular part of my career path. I’m doing fine.” Like he’d believe that. “How about you?”
“Good.” He sounded harried. “Just be careful at work, Jake. Don’t play Nancy Drew. Watch out for Allison Carr; all her charisma could just be a cover-up. Don’t trust that woman, and tell her nothing.”
“Do you think she…”
“I asked her to keep her opinions to herself, but there she was last night on MSNBC, then later being interviewed by Larry King. Glory Flagg was on too. Spewing venom. What a pair they are.”
“Ben, for God’s sake, Allison’s a gossip columnist. For her, talk is money.” Why was I defending her? I didn’t even know her, but she’d turned me into an instant fan. “Hey, she’s not really a suspect, is she?”
“The possible suspects in Dick Peter’s murder outnumber Scarlett O’Hara’s suitors.”
I laughed. “This O’Hara would enjoy a visit from a certain suitor. Any chance of that happening tonight?”
“I’ll ring you later. Right now I have a date with a corpse.”
“Stiff competition.”
“Ouch. It’s too early for your bad jokes, Jake. Save them for tonight.”
As I left the house to meet Modesty for breakfast at Sarabeth’s, the temperature had dropped into the low fifties and the wind whipped scraps of paper high off the ground, blowing my blunt cut and too-long bangs into a bad hair day and leaving any trace of Indian summer as only a warm memory. I’d put on a camel blazer, a beige cotton turtleneck, khakis, and caramel-color socks, matching my new Bandolino tasseled loafers, but I still felt chilly.
Modesty sat at a table overlooking Madison. She was dressed in her favorite outfit: a black wool monk’s robe, belted with amber rosary beads that, unintentionally I’m sure, matched her short, fluffy hair. The cool weather had forced her to leave her St. Francis sandals at home—so black lace-up granny boots completed her ensemble. Petite, pale, and green-eyed, Modesty might have been considered perky, even pretty; however, she worked too hard at being just plain weird. Clothes from the crypt have long been her fashion statement. And her personality matched her style. Years of ghosting for wannabe romance novelists—mostly women—had turned Modesty into a card-carrying misogynist. She tolerated me and Jane D., another member of our Ghostwriters Anonymous group, because we were the only two people in the world who’d read and critique her work-in-progress, a Gothic horror—now heading for two thousand pages.
Difficult as dandruff on a daily basis, she always came through in a crunch, and I considered her a friend. God only knows what she considered me. We ordered two cappuccinos and decided to share a fresh-baked muffin, an order of cinnamon toast, and Dick Peter gossip.
“Did you catch Glory Flagg with Larry King?”
“Damn, Modesty, I must be the only person in America who missed it.”
“Glory certainly spoke ill of the dead. And that gossip monger Allison Carr wasn’t a fan of Dick’s either. I can’t believe that you discovered the body. Your new assignment as his editor has certainly proved to be exciting. What was he like?”
I knew Modesty suspected that I’d been hired as more than an editor for Dick, but as members of Ghostwriters Anonymous we never revealed—even to each other—the names of the authors who employed us as ghostwriters.
“Grim. As big a horror as reputed. Remember, I only met him the day before his murder.”
“Well, I met Glory Flagg at that Holistic Happening I went to with Too-Tall Tom in NoHo last weekend,” Modesty said between bites of blueberry muffin. “The three of us sat together at the ‘How to Control Your Chakras’ lecture. It was all about managing your body’s inner energy and healing yourself both spiritually...”
“We’ll work on my chakras later.” I wasn’t even sure what or where they were, but figured I could contain my curiosity. “Tell me about Glory.”
Modesty smiled—such a rare occurrence that I’d forgotten what well-shaped, pretty teeth she had—and said, “Now, Jake, what would you expect a woman, formerly known as Gladys Fuchs of Flatbush, who’s reinvented herself into Glory Flagg, a nationally acclaimed stripper, to be like?”
I laughed. “Does she always wear red, white, and blue like she did on the Ramirez Now show?”
“Yeah. Glory honored our chakras class with an exhibition of her patriotic dance. Started out wrapped in the Stars and Stripes—with Sousa’s eponymous march as her music—wound up in a spangled G-string. And she has a Statute of Liberty routine where the torch-twirl is hot stuff.”
“You’re joking.”
Modesty reproached me. “You know I never joke.”
“Right. Sorry.” I wiped cinnamon flakes from my chin. “So did you get a chance to chat with her?”
“Glory doesn’t chat, Jake. She addresses her audience loud and clear, like Adelaide in Guys and Dolls. And in the same accent.”
“Did she discuss Dick?”
“Her favorite topic. Glory held her hate for him in high esteem. Claims Dick’s deviancy had closed down her second chakra. She hoped this healing session would reopen the floodgate of her passion.”
“So Glory told the whole crowd that Dick ruined her sex drive?”
“You got it.”
“Listen, Modesty, do you think you know her well enough to arrange an introduction?”
“I would hope that after your last foray into detective work you’re not planning a sequel. Let Ben Rubin, whom the City of New York overpays, do his job.”
“I just want to talk to her about...”
“Actually, you should ask Too-Tall Tom to give her a call. He became quite cozy with our girl Glory. They bonded. Seems his second chakra had gone into neutral too after he’d broken up with that tacky John Wilson. That’s why we were there, you know.”
I didn’t know, and I felt a pang of jealousy that my best friend, Too-Tall Tom, had shared his dysfunctional chakra problem with Modesty instead of me. I said, “Well, he’s off this morning on some witch-hunt with Mom and Gypsy Rose. So will you phone Glory?”
“It’s your funeral, but I’ll arrange a meeting. Maybe for today after work.”
“You’re a doll.” I smiled at her.
Modesty shuddered, then in a stern voice, advised me, “Watch your mouth.”
Seven
Once again, the guardian of the lobby greeted me with a curt nod and gestured toward the electronic bag check conveyer. I flipped out the pass card that Barbara had given me yesterday, flashed a smile, and extended my hand. “My temporary ID; I’m a Manhattanite now. Jake O’Hara. How are you doing this morning?”
His cold gray eyes met mine. “Hans Foote.” I blinked, stifling a giggle. He reached for the card, ignoring my hand. After a few seconds of intense scrutiny, Hans pointed to the subway-like turnstile to the left of the visitors’ electronic walkthrough. “Slide it into the opening, logo up. If your card is inserted the wrong way an alarm will go off here and at the police station. You must do it correctly. There is no margin for error.” I heeded his instructions. Not mechanically adept, I’ve had major trouble with hotel room doors, ATMs and, when visiting Washington, riding the Metro. When using a programmed card, I assume that it’s smarter than I am.
A NYPD patrolman standing by the elevator door also checked my ID, but he returned my smile. Santa Steve appeared somber. “Good morning, Miss. A sad chapter for Manhattan, isn’t it? And what a way to start your career here, finding a body. So depressing. But I wish you well with your new assignment. Replacing Mr. Peter, aren’t you?” The melodic strains of “Dancing in the Dark” almost drowned him out. He opened the gate; we’d arrived at the fourth floor.
“Dick’s irreplaceable,” I answered him over my shoulder as I exited the elevator.
Barbara followed me down the long hall, hauling a dolly filled with manuscripts and files. My office, pristine when I’d left yesterday, was now piled high with cartons from Dick Peter’s accumulated clutter. “The police released this stuff a little while ago, after Mr. Stern called the mayor and told him we had a magazine to publish. He’s a big campaign contributor, you know.” I wondered how Barbara was privy to that bit of information and why she would share it with me. She dumped a pile of files on my desk and continued, “Of course, the cops still have all the appointment books and correspondence and the like, but Jennifer should be able to answer some of your questions.”
“Have you spoken to Jennifer? I called her this morning but reached her voicemail.”
“She’s having a series of GI tests and X-rays taken; says she’ll be here this afternoon. Miss O’Hara, I told Jennifer that you were the new book editor. She seemed somewhat surprised.” I’ll bet.
“That’s just a temporary move...and I’m only an associate editor.” God, I hoped Jennifer hadn’t expected the job. “And, Barbara, call me Jake.”
Alone, I sat and stared at the mountains of work strewn across my desk and all of the chairs. Should I sort it out now? Or wait ’til I returned from my meeting with Keith Morrison? In my greed and glee about working alone, had I dealt myself a losing hand of solitaire? How the hell could I…