A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Gypsy Rose said. “They used to have matinees there all through their mar­riage. Sometimes with a rumored mystery guest.”

  “Who? And where did you hear this?” I sat back down. Let Aaron help with the cleanup. He wanted to score brownie points with Mom. This could be his golden oppor­tunity.

  “From Robert Stern. I spoke to him this morning,” Gypsy Rose said. “We’re both on the Met’s board, you know. Nice man...” She sounded defensive. “Anyway, he said that most of the staff thought the other member of their sexual trio had to be Barry DeWitt. This was in the sexy seventies. Manhattan’s good old days before AIDS, armed guards, and electronic cards. Glory liked to torment Peter, flirted with DeWitt at every opportunity, but Robert says it could have been anyone. Male or female.”

  “I guess Glory and Dick ran an equal opportunity ménage à trois,” I said.

  Over the rim of his goblet, Ben stared at Gypsy Rose. “I’d be interested in your opinion of Robert Stern. You’ve known him for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but...” Gypsy Rose fiddled with the flower arrangement. It occurred to me that she must have known about the affair Dick Peter had with Stern’s wife; however, she’d never mentioned it, or Catherine’s subsequent sui­cide. I had no doubt the same thought had just occurred to Ben.

  “Do you think he could be our killer?” Ben asked.

  “Oh God, Ben, I don’t want to think so. You know about Robert’s wife, don’t you? And how he hated Dick...blamed him...”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Gypsy Rose bent her head and, suddenly, looked her age. She sighed. “And the Delft. Do you know about the Delft?”

  “What about it?” I asked.

  Ben answered me. “Robert Stern has one of the largest collections of Delft in the country. And now he claims he’s misplaced one of his daggers.”

  Eleven

  The pianist’s magic fingers spread across the key­board as I hummed along. Quietly. Casablanca was Mom’s and my favorite flick—even though a few years ago it was rated number two in the One Hundred Best Ever Movies list. Who quotes from Citizen Kane on a daily basis, for God’s sake? In the immortal dialogue spoken by Claude Rains—“I’m shocked! Shocked!”—at those results. There’s no one in the city who can play “As Time Goes By” like Bobby Short, but this was close.

  When Ben had suggested that we skip dessert and catch the last set at the Carlyle, I jumped out of my seat so fast, I almost knocked Gypsy Rose, still pushing the wine round the table, on her fanny. A little romantic nightcap might help me get murder off my mind.

  The song reached the line “…the fundamental things apply” and I nibbled on Ben’s ear. As intended, that move caught his attention, but it also reminded me of my first, brash childhood encounter with Dennis in front of his father’s fruit stand. I turned my attention back to humming along with the smooth rendition.

  By the opening bars of “Someone to Watch Over Me,” Ben and I were on our second round and again mired in murder.

  “Do you really believe Robert Stern could be the killer, Ben? He seems like such a decent sort, giving me this job and all...and Gypsy Rose thinks he’s a saint.”

  “You said yourself that he threatened to kill Peter the afternoon before he was murdered. And Stern doesn’t deny that he had a motive, even admits the dagger used as the murder weapon might be his—there were no prints—but there’s no way he can be sure. Claims he only discovered it was missing after the fact...and that there must be thousands of those Delft daggers in Manhattan.”

  “Thousands. Really? Where does Stern say he was the night of the murder?”

  “Home alone. The butler’s night off. Says he came straight to his townhouse from Manhattan around nine, ate in the kitchen, worked in his den ’til midnight, then went to bed. And that he neither made nor received any calls.”

  “But there’s no way of knowing if any of the magazine’s staff stayed later than ten, is there? You don’t need a pass card to get out of Manhattan, only to get in.”

  Ben sipped his Remy Martin. Brandy snifters are so cool, and brandy enthusiasts always make such a production out of imbibing their after-dinner drinks. If only I could stomach the stuff, I’m convinced I too would enjoy cuddling the big, fat glass in my hands to keep it warm, savoring the smell, and twirling the amber liquid round and round for most of the evening.

  Instead, I’d finished my second pedestrian wine spritzer and was ready for bed.

  “Allison Carr seems to have been the last one to leave that night,” Ben said. “Says she went home at nine thirty, and never noticed if Peter was still in his office...with or without company.”

  “Oh damn. Allison asked Mom, Gypsy Rose, and me to have lunch tomorrow, but the invitation smacked of a bribe. I have to call her and...” I checked my watch.

  Almost eleven fifteen. “Guess I’ll have to wait ’til morning to cancel.”

  “What did she want in exchange?”

  I hesitated, knowing how Ben felt about Gypsy Rose’s dallying with the dead, then figured what the hell. “I don’t know how she got wind of it, but Allison wants to crash a channeling. Mom told me that Mila Macovich asked Gypsy Rose to contact Dick Peter. Apparently Mila has some un­finished business with her dead husband.”

  “So that’s the All Soul’s Day séance Gypsy Rose referred to at dinner. I wondered what the hell she was talking about but was afraid to ask. Is Mila a friend of Gypsy Rose’s too?”

  “Well, actually, it seems Mila’s therapist recommended her.” I abridged the information that the therapist and Gypsy Rose had been romantic rivals for Edgar Cayce’s affections in their most recent mutual past lives.

  Ben’s response surprised me. “I’d like to crash that séance too...and, Jake, by all means, arrange for Allison Carr to attend.”

  During the cab ride home, my mind wrestled with not one, but two, moral dilemmas, thus missing out on the full measure of enjoyment I should have been deriving from Ben’s seriously skilled kissing.

  Would Ben’s requesting Allison’s presence at the channeling make her bribe-induced invitation to a fancy lunch ethically acceptable? It sure as hell would make Mom and Gypsy Rose happy. Why look a gossip monger’s gift in the mouth? Better to fill ours with pate de foie gras.

  And why hadn’t I told Ben what I’d discovered in Peter’s “D” file? Barry DeWitt might very well be the third member of Glory and Dick’s ménage à trois. If so, he could be our number one suspect. Something still ragged at me about those notes. Yikes. Carr, of course. I’d gone through the “C” files. There’d been no mention of the lady. Why?

  Certainly, Dick Peter would have planned on using a character based on Allison. Could she somehow have stolen her data from the “C” file? When? How long did Keith Morrison have Dick’s notes in his possession?

  Then again, maybe Allison might still show up under her character’s fictional name, in a file further down the alphabet. I had to turn Peter’s notes over to Ben, but selfishly, I wanted to go through them first. Lord, would I be guilty of obstructing justice?

  A sudden wave of pleasure as Ben’s tongue tickled my teeth pulled me out of the files and into the now. We behaved like two horny teenagers for the rest of the ride up Madison Avenue.

  My mother had waited up. She wore her cotton jammies, a pound of grease and a pained expression. “Jake, I need your advice.”

  An absolute first. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  I’d swear that she blushed, though it was a tough call, viewed through all that slime covering her neck, cheeks, and forehead. “Well, I…er, that is, I...” She sat, then hopped back up and rearranged the pillows on our sofa.

  “Mom, please, tell me. It’s twelve thirty in the morning.”

  “I just wonder what your father would say about it.”

  “He’d say let your daughter get so
me sleep. Just what are we talking about here?”

  “Aaron’s invited me for a drive this Saturday. Upstate to see how the leaves have changed color.”

  “Well, that’s great. Remember how Dad used to take us every fall when I was a kid? Go, you’ll love it.”

  “Oh, Jake.” She sounded close to tears. “You don’t understand. He suggested that we stay overnight in Saratoga. In a bed and breakfast.”

  There you go. My mother was going to get laid before I did.

  “I can tell by your face that you’re shocked by the thought of my...”

  Shocked? More like jealous. “No, Mom. I think it’s a great idea. Like we say in Ghostwriters Anonymous...don’t project, take it one day at a time. How long has it been since you...well...had some fun?” Now, there was no doubt. My mother blushed.

  “So, you think it’s okay?”

  I giggled. “It’s great. You want to borrow a condom?” She threw a pillow at me.

  By one o’clock, I was in bed and ready for sleep, having made some ethical decisions regarding my sundry moral dilemmas. Mom had jumped at the chance to dine with Allison at a fancy French restaurant. She and Gypsy Rose would be spending Friday afternoon doing second interviews with those witches and warlocks who’d made the first cut for the Halloween coven—or whatever the devil they were hosting at the bookstore—next week. However, they had no plans for lunch, and Mom had no compunction, even with the quid pro quo caveat, accepting at once for both of them. “You know that Gypsy Rose would love to have another believer, especially one willing to spring for such a nice lunch, at her séance. And maybe Allison Carr will plug our bookstore in her next ‘Bites From the Big Apple’ column.” I decided to wait a while before mentioning to Mom that Ben, definitely not a believer, would be there too.

  Then I got to thinking...a ghostwriter needs to know her employer’s characters, especially if he’s dead. Not to mention my compulsive curiosity disorder. And after all, Peter’s book was fiction, and the entire contents of his file could be figments of his imagination. Maybe that was why there’d been no mention of Allison in the “C” file. My second decision was to get up early and to copy Dick’s files as soon as I arrived at work. When that task was completed, I’d call Ben and offer them into evidence, as if it had just dawned on me to do so. Then I’d go see Allison Carr and tell her we were on for lunch. Ethics with ease. Or, maybe, easy ethics? I rolled over.

  Twelve

  Feeling perkier than I ought to after only five and a half hours’ sleep, I walked briskly by Mr. Kim’s fruit stand well before sunrise. The city that never sleeps seemed to be snoring...at least on Madison Avenue. Two joggers, three or four cars, a few alley cats. Spooky. Suddenly, the door to Mr. Kim’s store popped open, startling me. “Hi, Jake, what are you doing out so early?” Dennis. What was he doing here at dawn? “I was on my way home and decided to give Dad a lift to work.” He certainly didn’t look like a man who’d been up all night. His Brooks Brothers suit ap­peared freshly pressed and his white shirt couldn’t have been crispier or cleaner. Where had he been? Why did I care?

  The lights went on inside the store and Mr. Kim stuck his head out. “Hi, Jake. Wait a second.” He joined Dennis and me on the sidewalk in less than that. ‘Take this banana with you. And don’t walk downtown in the dark. Dennis will drive you to work. Right, Dennis?”

  Mr. Kim, a late-blooming poet who composed in the style of Rupert Brooke, was a charter member of my mother’s regular last-Friday-of-the-month cocktail party for the lesser literary lights of Carnegie Hill and a dear friend to Mom and me. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but the last thing I needed this morning was a ride in Dennis Kim’s Rolls Royce.

  “Well, I could use the exercise…”

  Mr. Kim waved the banana at me. “Nonsense. Dennis, get the car.”

  Knowing better than to argue with his father, Dennis headed across 92nd Street in the direction of the Wales Ho­tel, where his car was illegally parked in front of the lobby door. I followed him.

  As always, the rich aroma of the cream leather seats and their comfortable fit which almost embraced me soothed my body but troubled my soul. Dennis Kim’s extravagant consumerism could turn an overextended credit-card capi­talist like me into a communist.

  “Sitting up all night with a sick client, Dennis?” I shoved the banana in my briefcase.

  “You’re almost on the money. You may have noticed that Keith Morrison is a little strange.”

  “I’d say that a guy who makes this century’s judgment calls based on the moral values of a 1940s soap opera her­oine would qualify as being more than a little strange. How does Morrison manage to run a huge operation like Pax?”

  “Actually, very well. His obsession with Sunday hasn’t interfered with his sound publishing decisions. Pax has more bestselling authors than any other house in Manhattan. I will admit their list is a bit top heavy, tilting toward ’40s trivia.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Part of his success comes from his hands-on approach. You know, Keith plans on personally editing Dick Peter’s…er, your manuscript.”

  “Yuck.”

  “You’ll enjoy working with him, Jake. All his authors think he’s cool. And you might even learn something.”

  “So what was Morrison’s problem last night?” Had Den­nis really held the publisher’s hand ’til six thirty in the morning? Now if his client had been Glory Flagg or Mila Macovich, I’d have no trouble believing he’d spent the night counseling her...or whatever. And, for all I knew, either one—or both—of those women could be his client.

  “Suffering from some soul-searching,’’ Dennis said. “Says he’s reached the age where he’s asking himself: Is this all there is?”

  “Running a multimillion-dollar publishing empire would be enough for most people. What does Morrison want?”

  Dennis swung onto 69th Street. We must have set a new record for a morning drive down Fifth Avenue. Early birds catch every light. Double parked, he turned his golden eyes toward me and smiled. “What Keith wants is purpose and passion in his personal life. Client confidentiality prevents me from giving more details. But isn’t that what we all want?” Dennis placed his hand on my cheek. “Don’t you harbor that desire, Jake?” The charge that surged from face to feet left me faint but furious. “Well?” he asked.

  “I have plenty of purpose and passion in my life,” I said, struggling to unbuckle my seatbelt. Dennis Kim’s loud laughter followed me as I exited the car and entered Man­hattan.

  I planned on putting all that purpose and passion into copying Dick’s files as quickly—and privately—as possible. It turned out I wasn’t the only early arrival. Grumpy Hans Foote stood at his post in the lobby. Maybe since the murder he’d decided to work round the clock. Then I ran into Man­hattan’s editor-in-chief in the photocopy room, where he was almost straddling the machine. “Hi, Mr. Stern. Can I finish those for you? I’ve a pile of my own stuff to copy,” I said, as if he could miss my bulging briefcase hanging heavy from my shoulder and my arms filled with files.

  “That’s okay, Jake. I’m finished.” Like a startled buck, he lurched, then grabbed his copy and original, clutched them to his heart and bolted from the room. Now wouldn’t I like to know what he was holding so close to his vest?

  I’d reached the “X” file when Jennifer Moran popped in. “Oh, Jake, here you are. I thought we were the first to arrive...but then I heard a noise.” Her husband, Michael, dressed in his usual biker’s black, stood behind her, scowling.

  “If you’re sure you’re feeling okay, Jennifer, I’ll head on downtown. I don’t want to miss the opening.” Michael man­aged to sound solicitous.

  “I’m fine, Michael.” Jennifer, wearing a brown suit the exact color of her chestnut curls, kissed her husband on his unshaven cheek. I remembered Dennis Kim’s hand caress­ing mine. “You’ve got to stop pampering me. Isn’t
that right, Jake?”

  How did I get to be the arbitrator of the Moran family’s health concerns? If Jennifer had recovered, I certainly could use her help. I knew that she would be a damn good editorial assistant if she wasn’t throwing up or passing out. I an­swered with a question, one of my mother’s favorite ploys. “Are you ready to come back to work?”

  “Able-bodied and reporting for duty. Let me finish copy­ing that stuff for you.”

  Figuring Jen would find out most of what was in the files as the manuscript progressed—maybe she already knew from working with Peter—and there were only three files left to copy, I picked up a pile of folders and said, “Bring the rest when you finish.”

  Michael and I started down the elegant little hall papered in one of Mom’s favorite William Morris prints. “Keep an eye on her, Jake.”

  “Listen, Michael, did Jennifer discuss anything…well, odd about Dick’s murder with you? She reacted so...”

  “No. But this was her first up-close-and-personal corpse. She wouldn’t even go to my Uncle Henry’s wake. Jen’s always had a morbid fear of violence. So any murder would have set her off. I think seeing Dick’s body has affected her soul as well as her stomach. Now she’ll never go to another slice-and-dice flick with me, and my cousin Gaston just been cast in a totally gruesome one.” He adjusted his helmet. “Hey, I’ve got to make a pit stop in the men’s room. Take care of my little girl.”

  How could Jennifer have married this moron?

  DeWitt came out of the john, jamming something in his pocket, as Michael opened the door.

  He spotted me and smiled. I had to admit he was stunning. “Welcome to Manhattan, Miss O’Hara.” Barry oozed cor­diality. Was this the same crude man I’d watched in action on Tuesday afternoon? “I’m sure you’ll find it challenging. I must dash. On deadline, you know. But do stop by my office later.” His voice and body language were poised, but his marine blue eyes, darting left to right, were filled with terror or anger. Maybe both. “I’ll be glad to advise you on Dick Peter’s approach to book reviewing; then you can do the exact opposite.” He laughed, then was gone before I could reply. There was a lot of that going on around Man­hattan. I watched him walk toward the elevator and contin­ued on to my office in the front of the building, wondering why all these employees were on dawn patrol.