A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  “Jake?” Allison Carr’s cheery voice caught my attention. She stood in the open doorway, glowing. “Are you okay, my dear?” Her warmth spread like sunshine, brightening the room.

  “A bit overwhelmed, but fine otherwise. Please come in, Allison.” I shoved a bunch of books onto the oak floor, clearing a club chair for her.

  She sat, crossing one well-toned leg over the other, then smoothed her navy gabardine skirt. “I wanted to tell you how well I think you’ve handled a ghastly situation. If there’s anything I can do to ease your transition from Dick’s drudge to having his job as Manhattan’s book editor, just let me know.” Allison waved a hand over the mess and grimaced. “Mr. Peter never was Mr. Clean. Ask either of his wives.”

  “Did you know Mila Macovich?”

  “Not as well as I knew old Glory. Mila is something of a misanthrope, my dear. She never made the social scene, which is, of course, my bread and butter.”

  “Did you meet Glory while she was married to Dick?”

  “The naked truth is Glory Flagg and I are old acquain­tances. I’ve known her for decades. We were in the same class in Lafayette High School in Brooklyn.”

  I felt my mouth drop. Allison’s velvet vowels rolled right on, “Oh, yes. Gladys Fuchs and Annie Carriano. One en­tered burlesque, the other Barnard. Gladdie had sex appeal, I had a scholarship.”

  “But...”

  “If you’re wondering why I sound like Grace Kelly, it’s because I worked almost full-time at Bloomingdale’s while I went to college so I could hire her voice coach. My Brooklynese diction proved to be more of a challenge than Grace’s Philadelphia twang. The old boy suffered a fatal stroke the week after I’d mastered mid-Atlantic vowels. However, he died happy, having heard me turn ‘owfill’ and ‘coughfee’ into ‘awful’ and ‘coffee.’”

  “That’s totally awesome.” Allison’s true confession had further endeared her to me. “Are you…er, that is, do most people know about your background? It’s a great story.”

  “Certainly. Gladdie’s never let me forget that I was a homely giant of a nerd while she was the Brooklyn Bomb­shell. I once did a column on our past and present collision course. She then threatened me with a hit man.”

  I laughed. “Such drama.”

  “Don’t laugh, Jake. She was dead serious.” Allison stood, adjusted her blazer, and mustered a smile. “Enough about vain Glory, I’m here to issue two invitations. Please ask your mother and Gypsy Rose Liebowitz if they can join me for lunch tomorrow. At noon.”

  Wow. Allison was a fast promise keeper. “I’ll just bet they can.”

  “Good. And naturally you’re included as well, my dear. Give me a buzz later to confirm. Then mark your calendar for ten a.m. Monday. Dick’s invitation-only funeral will be at St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue. Mr. Stern is working with the merry widow to make this a special occasion. A Manhattan requiem to remember. He asked me to be sure and ask you personally. You’ll sit in my pew.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be there.”

  Allison’s long stride had her across the room in seconds. She turned at the door and said, “Oh, Jake, do you think you could ask Gypsy Rose if I might attend Mila’s séance?” Quid pro quo? Damn.

  I stalled. “How do you know about that?”

  “My dear, you of all people should be well aware that a journalist never reveals her sources. We Manhattanites would die first.”

  Did she know I was a ghostwriter? “Allison, I don’t...”

  “Just see what you can do. You can share the results of your inquiry with me when you call to confirm our luncheon. Thank you in advance.” She swept out the door, gently closing it behind her, before I could reply.

  What the hell was the matter with me? Obviously Ben had Allison Carr pegged, while I’d behaved like a fawning fan club of one. The phone rang. Dennis, calling from his car, to tell me that he was double-parked on the northeast corner of 68th and Madison, and could I move my fanny?

  Pax Publications had its main offices on the second floor of the Chrysler Building, the grand dame of art deco skyscrapers, but Keith Morrison reigned at the top, in the tower suite on the sixty-ninth floor. His secretary, Margaret Bourke, a slim, youngish woman sporting a sleek, dark 1920s bob, toured us through the publishing house’s library before whisking us up to Morrison’s domain. I’d once dated an Ivy League bookworm. This library rivaled Princeton’s. And the Jacobean desk placed in the center appeared as large as the university’s football field. Comfortable sofas and overstuffed armchairs were scattered strategically around the desk. The smell of new books was intoxicating; the walls were lined with classics as well. I wanted to move in, send out for food to the deli across Lexington Avenue, and never leave. Books were a real turn-on for me, often delivering what their covers so tantalizingly promised, and, on many occasions, providing more fun than sex.

  Ms. Bourke let Dennis and me savor the ambiance for a few minutes, then led us to one of the building’s magnificent deco elevators. We stepped back in time into something not unlike a set design from an old black and white Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers musical. The ascent proved as thrilling as Coney Island’s Cyclone, swoosh, and we were expressed to the top floor.

  The rooms located in the scalloped steeple of the Chrysler Building were dramatically narrow. Here, with sky-high ceilings and windows to the floor, the views blew you away. Scary too. The city loomed large, from the Bronx to the Bowery. What a great spot for a suicide jump; I’d have to work that into Dick’s, or some future, plot. Morrison, greeting us at the elevator, surprised me, looking more like Norman Mailer than Michael Korda, dressed in blue jeans and a Gap t-shirt. He grabbed both of my hands in his and, almost as if he were praying, said, “Pax vobiscum.” I couldn’t wait ’til we got to the filthy lucre discussion.

  In his sanctum, we sank into art deco leather chairs, the color of Gallo Burgundy, facing Morrison with New York City at our feet. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from that awesome sight. We were so close to the window that the view made me dizzy as it dazzled me. Dennis was all business, fiddling with what looked like a contract. Morrison’s monologue droned on. “Dick is—I mean, was—something of an enigma. That Our Gal Sunday syndrome.”

  “Who?” What was the man talking about?

  “You know, Ms. O’Hara, the one from a poor mining town who pulled herself out of the coal dust and grew up to marry an English earl.”

  “When did that happen?”

  Morrison smiled, swung his chair around, stared out the window in the direction of the Empire State Building, for at least a New York minute, then swiveled back to look at me. “In another world, young lady. And in a far, far better place. Radio-land. Around sixty years ago. Our Gal Sunday was a soap opera. One of the best.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering where he was going with this. “Anyway, I’ve envisioned Dick Peter’s dreary childhood, growing up as he did in a small mining town, to be much the same as I’ve always pictured Sunday’s.” He sighed. “Even today, when faced with life’s little sorrows, I ask myself: How would Sunday handle this one?”

  Dennis squirmed, shifting his right leg to a new resting place, crossing it over his left knee. He caught my eye and winked. “Keith, we wanted to firm up Jake’s contract...”

  Keith straightened up and seemed to shake off Sunday’s storyline, returning from radio days to the world of publishing. I watched the process with amazement. The remembrance of soaps now past, Morrison seized control of the conversation. “Well, let’s see what the little lady is worth. Does Ms. O’Hara have a price in mind, Dennis, or shall we open the bidding?”

  I bit my tongue but pictured the publisher with a Delft dagger in his back. Dennis kept quiet too. Morrison continued, “Dick’s untimely demise does put Pax in something of a quandary.” Dennis nodded. I wondered why I’d bothered to come to this meeting. Morrison peered over a crystal paperweight at Dennis. “Frankly, b
ecause of our Dick’s caliber and his being a later grad from my alma mater, the editorial board waived Pax’s standard requirements of so many pages by a given date, and advanced him considerable monies...rather too freely, I’m afraid.”

  Suddenly, he swung his chair around to face me. I figured it must be my turn to nod. “Pax prides itself on hiring only the best. We had every confidence, Ms. O’Hara, that you could ghostwrite our Dick’s book when he was alive and contributing, but now that he’s dead...” Morrison spread his hands delicately, “we realize...”

  I looked him in the eye. “That you should have taken your Dick in hand instead of waiving him so freely.”

  Next to me, Dennis choked. The publisher arched his eyebrows. Then he slid his chair back, walked around the desk and extended his hand to me. “Ms. O’Hara, that is exactly the mordant mirth our own dear Dick would have shown. You are our ghost Dick. Please consent to stay on and finish the book for us.”

  “I would be delighted...”

  Dennis stopped choking. “For another twenty percent...”

  “For another twenty percent,” I finished.

  Eight

  Jennifer was a no-show. A message from Michael on my voicemail assured me she’d be in tomorrow morning, but for today the doctor had prescribed a sedative and a good night’s sleep. Sounded good to me. Instead, I started to cre­ate order out of the chaos in my office. Now that Dennis had negotiated two great-paying but demanding jobs for me, I knew I’d better get to work. As I sorted and priori­tized, I wondered if Jennifer could be pregnant. And felt a twinge of envy. As my mother frequently reminded me, “Christ was dead at thirty-three, and you aren’t even en­gaged.”

  Or maybe Jennifer’s tummy trouble was seriously con­nected to Dick’s murder. Did she know something? Suspect someone? And why had she said she couldn’t speak to the police? That odd remark had almost gotten lost in her gut-wrenching performance. Jeez, I should be ashamed of my­self, but murder made me suspicious. Even of Jennifer.

  I stuffed the new book by Harry Brett, whose adventure sagas conjured memories of Hemingway, into my briefcase, deciding that Bordello in Borneo would be my first book review as associate editor. I’d planned on reading it any­way. I’d start tonight. Then I called and ordered a pizza.

  When we’d left the Chrysler Building, hordes of men were spilling out of Grand Central onto Lexington Avenue. The Pledged-For-Lifers, a quasi-religious all-male move­ment of reborn husbands, would be holding its an­nual convention in Madison Square Garden starting this afternoon. Gridlock. East, west, north. and south. Both Park and Madison Avenues had been jammed with Range Rovers and Jeeps sporting Montana and Texas license plates; Man­hattan had never seen so many minivans. It took us over an hour to drive from 43rd and Lex to 69th and Park. Dennis hadn’t even suggested lunch, and it looked like this would be a long, lonely afternoon.

  The phone rang as I finished the fifth slice. “She’ll see you,” Modesty growled. “But only because I told her you were working for Dick.”

  “You’re terrif...er...I mean, thanks.”

  “Yeah. No question, Glory’s after something, and I’d guess she thinks you can help her get it.”

  “Whatever it takes. Where?”

  “Where all the hookers hang...the bar at the Pierre.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “Well, you just check it out when you meet Glory there tomorrow at six. She’s taping a Dateline segment, so she can’t make it this evening.” Modesty hung up. Cool. Even though I had no tangible game plan, just loads of ques­tions—like why had Harvest House, a highly respected pub­lisher, wanted to be associated with Glory’s book?—I was dying to meet her.

  By four o’clock, I’d gone through three of the files that Morrison had given me—only twenty-three more to go. And some ABCs might be lurking, misplaced in the XYZs. But Peter had these notes in far better order than his Manhattan files. I opened the “D” folder, and Barry DeWitt’s dossier jumped out at me. Dick Peter hadn’t even tried to turn the theater critic into a fictional character, except for a notation in the margin: Call him Ben Arnold. Barry’s behavior and lifestyle—according to Dick—made Don Juan look like a slacker. In addition to claiming that he’d slept with both Glory and Mila, this information indicated that Barry went both ways. One of his male lovers had been the late rock star, Mercury Rising. Peter’s vile verbs and acid adjectives both shocked and amused me. Ghostwriting in his voice wouldn’t be easy. But his murder mystery had real potential, and since the characters all appeared to be based on people Dick knew, might his notes somehow lead to his killer? Jeez. Could DeWitt be the missing link in the Peter-Flagg ménage à trois? How about Stern or Morrison? Picturing prim Robert Stern rolling around as part of a threesome, naked except for his trademark bowtie, with Glory in a star-spangled G-string and Dick wearing only his ratty rug, I laughed aloud. Polyamorous sex suddenly seemed more hilarious than hot. Imagining Keith Morrison, the old wind­bag, cavorting in bed with Flagg and Peter, proved even more difficult. He’d need a radio, retro-programmed to Our Gal Sunday, to make the scene. However, powerful men in their fifties and sixties have been known to choose some mighty strange playmates. Anything’s possible, I suppose. Still giggling, I returned to the “D” file.

  “Girlie, can you handle a flash?” Startled, I glanced at the door. I hadn’t heard it open. A long, lean man, bald and at least seventy, stood there looking around the room. “You all alone? Laughing like a hyena in heat? You must be a regular Woody Allen, entertaining yourself like that.”

  “Er—I was reading something funny.” Embarrassed and annoyed at being addressed as “Girlie,” I gestured vaguely toward the files.

  “So, can you use a flash camera?”

  I hesitated. He hopped from one foot to the other in a movement resembling an Irish jig, and peered over his glasses at me. “Well, I once photographed a friend’s wed­ding. The pictures were pretty good...Why? Just who are you, anyway?”

  He bowed. Deep. Sweeping. Courtly. Like Ivanhoe or Rhett Butler. Yet I felt the gesture to be somehow mocking, not of me, but rather himself. “Forgive my bad manners. Please permit me to introduce myself, Jake O’Hara. I’m Christian Holmes, Manhattan’s religion editor. Though it’s Christian in name only; I’ve been a practicing atheist for over fifty years.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “Miss O’Hara, don’t be modest. You’re the woman who discovered Dick.”

  We both laughed. And, for a moment, his lined, basset-hound face lost its haunted expression. “I’m really desperate, Girlie. The other reporters and feature writers have snatched every staff photographer; they’re all running around New York, trying to grab a quote and a picture of the sundry suspects in Dick’s murder in time for the whodunit pieces that’ll run in our next issue. Apparently, you’re the only one here. Even Stern’s left his ivory tower and is personally interviewing the widow, Mila Macovich, for his editorial. Barbara Ferris steered me to your door.”

  I hadn’t realized everyone was out on assignment. “What angle are you covering, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Nothing to do with Dick. And the name’s Christian. I’m doing a profile on Isaac Walton, the Pledged-For-Lifer’s spiritual leader. I need a cameraman...um, cameraperson. Will you please shoot the good reverend for me?”

  “Now how could I turn down an invitation like that?”

  “Well, come on, Girlie, shake a leg. We don’t want to miss the opening prayer-a-thon. We’ll grab a camera on our way out.”

  “Listen, I’ll call you Christian and you’ll call me Jake or the deal’s off. Okay?”

  “You got it, Girlie.”

  Juggling the camera, my briefcase, and cellphone while hustling to keep up with Christian, I was attempting to place a call to my mother when I literally ran smack into Ben in Manhattan’s lobby. The yellow tape had remained wrapped around Dick Peter’s office door,
with a flurry of police ac­tivity in evidence as Christian and I passed by; however, there had been no sign of Ben. “Hey, Ben, I’m trying to reach Mom to see if she heard from you.”

  Christian, a few feet in front of me, stopped and glared at me for causing this delay in his mission. “Girlie, we’ll miss the opening sermon.”

  “Christian Holmes, meet Ben Rubin; he’s the homicide detective in charge of the Peter investigation.” The religion editor grunted, but he did shake hands with Ben.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I never miss your col­umn.” Could that be true? I’d never read a one. Ben smiled. “I especially enjoyed that recent piece on the Big Bang and the Baptists. I’ll be dropping by tomorrow to ask you a few questions...about the article...and about Dick Peter’s death.”

  “Why would you want to talk to me? I wasn’t even in the office yesterday. I spent the day at the New York Public Library, researching the history of the Pledged-For-Lifers and Reverend Walton.” Christian sounded snide. But he certainly hadn’t been at the library before eight a.m.

  “Just covering the bases. As a writer, I know you under­stand.” God, Ben had to be the most charming cop in New York. As well as the smartest. He’d finished in the top ten percent at Columbia Law School, even made Law Review, but preferred chasing down killers to prosecuting or—God forbid—defending them.

  “Christian, I need to ask Ben something. Walk on ahead, I’ll…”

  “Your legs are too short, Girlie. You’d never catch up to me. I’ll wait outside, but make it snappy.” Christian marched out the door, and I pulled Ben away from Hans Foote’s earshot.

  “Well, are we on for tonight?”

  “We are. But it won’t be a romantic evening, Jake.”

  I winked at him. “Don’t be so sure about that, Detective.”

  “My father, Gypsy Rose, you, and I are dining with your mother. Dad made a brisket; Gypsy Rose is doing dessert.”