A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  “That only leaves the salad for Mom to screw up. But why, Ben? I’d hoped we’d have some...”

  “Girlie.” Christian barged back in. “Come on!”

  “Dinner at eight,” Ben said, and motioned for Hans to pass him through the gate.

  I felt guilty not telling Ben about the possible motherlode of clues that I’d tapped in Dick’s notes for his book. Then I decided—oh, what the hell—I’d deal with that tonight.

  We took the Lexington Avenue subway downtown. The city was a zoo; you wouldn’t get a cab if you bartered your firstborn. Christian and I clung to a pole shared by another half dozen hands amidst throngs of standing-room-only passengers. It made for instant intimacy.

  “Have you been at Manhattan long?”

  “Since the beginning, Girlie. Before you were a gleam in your father’s eye.”

  I wondered if Christian’s writing style was as chock full of clichés as his speech. “So I guess you must know where all the skeletons are hidden.” Clichés must be contagious.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  There you go, Jake, a direct question. Should I tell him what I was after? Well, I did want to know, didn’t I? “Okay, Robert Stern, for starters.” I’d been wondering if what Dennis told me was common knowledge. “In Allison Carr’s office on the day before Dick’s murder, Stern practically threatened to kill him. In front of three witnesses. A long­standing feud?”

  “No mystery there, Girlie. Everyone at Manhattan knows how much Stern hated him. Dick Peter screwed Robert Stern’s wife. Then told anyone who’d listen. He liked bragging about bedding anyone above his social position, which in Dick’s case could have included a streetwalker. Then he dumped her. Catherine Stern later killed herself and Stern, the cuckold, still had to face that ugly, strutting little rooster every day of his life. Peter had both an ironclad contract and the bitchiest book column in the country. The board loved Dick. They all kissed his sorry ass. One or two of them, literally.”

  A young women standing next to Christian and clinging to our pole burst into laughter. An older, conservatively dressed woman, seated beneath us, glanced up in disgust. A fully covered—complete with face veil—woman gave up her seat to distance herself from us. Fortunately, we would be getting off at Grand Central—the next stop—to take the shuttle to Times Square and then board the train down to Penn Station.

  Nine

  Madison Square Garden was as fully packed as any Rangers playoff game or Ringling Brothers Circus opening day. Every race and national origin seemed to be well rep­resented. What was missing were women. I may have been the only female in a field of fervent, flag-waving husbands. The Omaha Symphony Orchestra played “America the Beautiful” as the Pledged-For-Lifers sang along. On the stage, its backdrop swathed in red, white, and blue—Glory Flagg would have been right at home here—the Reverend Isaac Walton’s head was bowed, but his baritone boomed out: “From sea to shining sea.” Amidst deafening applause and loud cheering, he stepped up to the white marble po­dium. Walton’s preaching clothes—crisp, white linen jeans and matching collarless shirt—blended right in. As he held up a thick gold cross, the crowd went crazy. “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” Their chants rocked the rafters.

  Stunned and a little scared, I turned to Christian. “Holy crap.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” He opened his notebook. “Aim that camera, Girlie, you don’t want to miss him waving that cross.”

  The vast audience grew quiet. The sea of male faces and I all focused on Reverend Isaac Walton. Small and wiry, he was not a good-looking man and, somehow, he seemed vaguely familiar; but then he’d been plastered all over the papers and had appeared on more television shows than even Glory had graced over the last few days. His deep voice, filling the arena, was confident, charismatic, and cajoling. And his message resonated like country music; “Please, Mister, Please, Don’t Play B 17” came to mind. I realized that somewhere offstage a guitar player softly strummed that song. This conference was well choreographed. The rever­end spoke of broken hearts, broken homes, and children bro­ken in spirit, split asunder by divorce. The men’s commitment would mend, repair, and prevent such break­age. Lots of “Amens” from his assembled brother Pledged-For-Lifers accompanied him. He closed with, “You are Christ’s shepherds. You will lead your family—your own small flock—to heaven.”

  If men were shepherds, were women sheep? Isaac Walton had better get another line. “Come on.” Christian grabbed my elbow, ruining my last shot. “We want to beat Newsday and Time backstage. Walton’s press agent’s an old drinking buddy of mine. He’s arranged a fifteen-minute exclusive. You can reload when we get there.”

  Christian Holmes knew the myriad nooks and crannies of backstage Madison Square Garden better than I knew Car­negie Hill. Again, I found myself struggling to keep pace with the septuagenarian; maybe I would rethink Mom’s ex­ercise program suggestion. My power walks weren’t doing it. We arrived at a dressing room sporting a huge star before either Walton or any of our media competition. I reloaded while Christian rapped on the door.

  “That was quick,” a female voice shouted from behind the closed door. “You must have beaten your own record for rabblerousing.”

  Christian looked as puzzled as I felt. When the door fi­nally opened, a pretty, plump, blatantly middle-aged woman stood in front of us. She wore a frilly pink and white check apron and held a rolling pin in her left hand. Almost by reflex, I snapped a close-up. As the flash went off, she lashed out at the camera with the rolling pin and screamed, “Dam­nation! Who are you?”

  I didn’t need to turn around to know that Isaac Walton had arrived. His baritone soothed, “Young lady, don’t you worry, I’ve got it.” And sure enough, just inches from a crash landing, the reverend’s firm hand caught my camera. Then he addressed the lady in waiting. “Now, Mother, don’t you fret. These good folks are from Manhattan magazine. Did I forget to tell you that Jack set up an interview?” Andy reassuring Aunt Bea. Only this lady had to be Isaac’s age, not a generation older...and, despite the arcane appella­tion, no doubt his wife. Could Reverend Walton be a certified chauvinist?

  A few minutes later, the four of us sat in a dressing room as well furnished as a Plaza suite. A clothes rack holding starched white linen shirts and crisply creased jeans stood in the center. Our chairs circled a large oak table.

  Sally Lou Walton had dropped her rolling pin on the chintz-covered couch and apologized profusely in an accent I could barely decipher. Country fer sure. But where were them thar hills located?

  “Any friends of Jack Willis are more than welcome to visit in our home away from home. Now can I serve you all a bottle of pop or cup of tea?”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Walton.” Christian favored her with a big smile. “That’s mighty kind of you, but we promised Jack we’d only take up fifteen minutes of your time.” What an absolute hoot...Christian suddenly sounded more coun­try than Loretta Lynn.

  “Yes. Jack promised me that you and Manhattan maga­zine would give the Pledged-For-Lifers a fair shake. He swore you weren’t some big-shot New York writer who’d make our movement look like a pile of manure. I always have believed that Manhattan is a road map to Hell, but I didn’t want to pass up this chance to reach the scarred souls of its sorry readership. So I hope you plan to honor Jack’s word, Mr. Holmes.” The Reverend Walton leaned forward and aimed his steely gray eyes straight into Christian’s tired baby blues.

  “I treat all spiritual causes and their leaders with the re­spect they deserve,” Christian, the atheist, responded, sin­cerity oozing from him like the manure Isaac wanted to avoid. I’d bet my latest twenty percent that Walton’s press agent—Jack What’s His Name—had neglected to inform the reverend that his old pal, Manhattan’s religion editor, didn’t believe in God.

  However, Walton seemed delighted with Holmes, ac­cepting his answer as gospel. “Then let’s get started; you have tw
elve minutes ’til the mayor arrives.”

  As Walton talked and Christian took copious notes, I snapped candid shots of him, Sally Lou, and the room, fig­uring I could photograph the faithful on our way out. “Watch those profiles, Miss O’Hara. I prefer full face. No need to draw attention to my nose.” Isaac Walton issued his request lightly, but I treated it like the order I suspected it was. He returned to what was obviously his favorite topic. “Family values have been flushed down the toilet; I blame television. And sex...”

  “Sex?” Christian asked, echoing my thought process. “Without sex, we’d have no families to value, would we?”

  Ignoring Christian’s question, Walton plunged forward. “Feminism, situation comedies, gays, divorce, and the in­ternet are instruments of the devil. Too many Americans have succumbed to Satan’s temptations. The Pledged-For-Lifers movement is God’s antidote to these pervasive evils. I am but the Lord’s messenger. His scribe, if you would.” While Christian was scribing as fast as he could, I zoomed in for a close-up of the rapture on Sally Lou’s pudgy face.

  “How do you respond to critics who call your group an odd mixture of old-time religion, New Age touchy-feely spirituality, and EST? Or those who claim you hook the husbands by preaching manly virtues reinforcing their roles as heads of their families? Or that you reel in the absent wives by sending home God-fearing, committed partners who also change diapers?” Christian asked. “After all, CNN did a special on a local chapter in Butte where the men lay supine on the floor, begging God’s forgiveness for trespass­ing against their wives.”

  “We were infiltrated by media spies. And, of course, shown in the worst possible light. What’s wrong with reli­gion, spirituality, and confession? And absolution is good for the soul. Didn’t Christ build His church on those very prin­ciples? Like the good Lord, I’m used to attacks on my faith. The media is run by godless commies.” Isaac Walton turned florid with fury. Not a pretty picture. He recovered quickly. “The men who are Pledged-For-Lifers will save the world, and our Christian belief in the sanctity of marriage will open the gates of heaven. You may quote me, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Alleluia!” Sally Lou cried. I busied myself with the cam­era.

  On our way out the door, Isaac Walton pulled a Columbo. “There’s just one more thing...”

  “Yes?” Christian asked.

  “A rather ugly secret. I never discuss my past, but under the circumstances, and with you working for Manhattan...Well, the truth will come out now anyway, so I might as well give you the exclusive. I’ve already had a call from the police.” For the first time, Walton held my total attention. What was going down here?

  Christian closed his notebook. And waited. A good ploy, I thought. People speak more freely when a reporter isn’t jotting down their every word.

  “The thing is…er, well, that dreadful, evil man who wrote for your magazine...the one who was murdered...” Isaac Walton floundered. Sally Lou nodded encouragingly. I raised my camera. Christian stood pat. The reverend gulped, then spit it out. “I’m Dick Peter’s only living rel­ative. He’s my first cousin.”

  “Holy crap,” I said, repeating my first impression of the preacher’s persona, speaking for first time since entering the dressing room and staring at the face I found so familiar. “Sorry about that, Reverend Walton.”

  But Isaac, now on a roll, plowed on. “We were long es­tranged. For over thirty years...ever since he absconded with our mutual grandmother’s insurance money, and went off to study literature at Yale, leaving me to dig my way out of a West Virginia coal mine.”

  Jesus. The Dick Peter/Our Gal Sunday connection! I should have paid more attention to Morrison’s musings. Keith Morrison had attended Yale, but many years before Dick Peter was a student there. He’d also been a current friend of Dick’s, despite being much older. Did Morrison know cousin Isaac? And could the cousins have held a re­union before Dick’s death? But how...?

  A discreet tap on the door signaled the mayor’s arrival. Our interview was over.

  Ten

  “I knew there was something fishy about that Isaac Walton,” my mother said, scooping a potato onto my plate. “Ben, please pass the gravy to Jake. Take another slice of the pot roast. And Aaron’s carrots have such character.”

  Gypsy Rose Liebowitz waltzed around the round table, pouring all takers another glass of wine.

  “His style’s an in­teresting mix of Elmer Gantry’s carnival barker zeal, Deepak Chopra’s spiritual spice, and St. Francis of Assisi’s love of children and small creatures. The problem—as I see it—is that Walton’s sermons are for the birds and he’s full of...their droppings. White or red, Aaron?”

  “Did you call Walton, Ben?” I asked. “He said he’d spo­ken to the police.”

  “Yes. Early this afternoon. I found his name in Peter’s address book; that intrigued me—the critic and the clergy­man—but I had no idea they were non-kissing kin until I talked to him. You and Christian Holmes seem to have got­ten far more information out of him than I did.” Ben checked his watch. “Joe Cassidy’s at the Garden now taking the reverend’s statement.”

  “Well, it was Christian who asked the questions; I just took the pictures. We do know that Isaac arrived in New York before the murder; he was all over the local news, but could he also have made an appearance at Dick’s office?”

  “How would a visitor penetrate that fortress after hours?” Aaron asked.

  “Good question, Aaron. Ever since I’d received my pass card, I’ve been wondering about that myself.”

  Ben swallowed his forkful of Mom’s salad—iceberg let­tuce topped with her homemade Russian dressing, an equal mix of Hellman’s mayonnaise and Hunt’s ketchup—before answering. “Well, the medical examiner places Peter’s time of death somewhere between ten p.m. and two a.m. The guard, Hans Foote, went home at six. After that the secu­rity’s all electronic.”

  “You’re putting us on. His name isn’t really Hans Foote, is it?” Gypsy Rose shook her head full of red curls.

  “It’s his name all right, and he behaves like a reincarnated storm trooper,” I said.

  “Yes. He would,” Gypsy Rose said. “So many of them choose to go back into some sort of police work. They love wearing uniforms through all their lifetimes.”

  Ben reached for the bottle of Mouton Cadet.

  “You were saying, Ben?”

  I didn’t want the pragmatic po­liceman and Carnegie Hill’s favorite channeler to get into a philosophical discussion that would throw this conversation onto another plane.

  “Well, I think either Peter went down to the lobby and handed the killer his electronic pass, or possibly, the killer was someone on the magazine’s staff who’d stayed late for a rendezvous.”

  “A rendezvous with death...that’s a great title, Jake,” my mother said.

  “I’ll see if I can write a book around it, Mom. There’s a third possibility, isn’t there? The killer could be a staff mem­ber who went home at his—or her—regular time, but re­turned later and used his card to get back in.”

  “No. The tracking system would have picked that up.”

  “So, it was an insider,” my mother said.

  “Or an outsider Dick had trusted enough to escort up to his office after hours. Great salad, Maura,” Ben said.

  “When did Hans get to work yesterday morning?” I asked.

  “He said he’d arrived at eight, just in time to process you through. You were the first one to arrive at work that morn­ing and you didn’t have your employee card yet.”

  “Hans works long hours. What, eight to six?” Aaron sounded like the D.A. he once was.

  “Right, Dad. And he loves being the lobby police. Said he wouldn’t trust anyone to cover part of his watch.”

  “Hans is totally creepy, makes me nervous. And Barbara Ferris told me that he had good reason to hate Dick Peter.”
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  Gypsy Rose laughed. “Only one of a million motives for killing Dick...but I can assure you that SS attitude will always be with Hans Foote.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Ben said.

  “Okay, who would Dick willingly have handed his card to? His long-lost cousin?” I asked. “Revenge would be a casebook motive.”

  “But, darling, do you really think Reverend Isaac Walton is capable of murder?” my mother asked.

  “Mom, I believe anyone can be capable of murder.”

  “Oh, Jake, I only pray you’re wrong; otherwise, how very sad for all of us.” Mom took another sip of white wine.

  “There’s another thing...” Ben buttered one of Gypsy Rose’s home-baked rolls with a vengeance. “You’ll read all about it in the morning paper or see it on tonight’s late news, so I can tell you now.”

  “What?” Gypsy Rose and I demanded.

  “The coroner says there was semen in Peter’s boxer shorts.”

  “Did he make it with his murderer or did he have more than one caller that night?” I asked.

  “I do wish you could find a more tasteful way to describe intercourse, Jake,” my mother said.

  “Maybe I should try to summon Peter’s spirit guide from the world beyond before All Soul’s Day, Jake. Who better to help us?” Gypsy Rose offered.

  While I was giving serious consideration to both Mom and Gypsy Rose’s suggestions, Peter’s book-notes files flashed through my head. There was something...

  “Dick Peter might have been entertaining Mila Macovich—she is his wife, after all. Or maybe Glory Flagg,” my mother said as she started to clear the dishes.

  “Let me do that, Mom. You made the salad.”

  “And set a beautiful table. Thank you, Maura. I’ll help with the dishes.” Aaron stacked as he spoke.

  “Glory Flagg hated Dick. I don’t think she’d…er, have sexual relations with him in his office,” I said.