A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  I’d barely opened the “F” folder when Barbara Ferris, her lipstick matching her red-apple logo and her uniform parade-ready, called from the doorway, “Jennifer asked me to drop off these files. Where do you want me to put them?”

  Oh, wonderful. How could I have been so stupid, trusting Jennifer with Dick’s files? Maybe she made copies for the entire staff. “Thanks, Barbara.” I tried to keep my tone pleasant as I cleared a space on the top of my desk. “Where’s Jennifer?”

  “Getting you some tea and scones. Christian stopped at that wonderful bakery on Lexington and they’re still warm. He’s brought in some homemade strawberry jam too.” Homemade by whom? Christian didn’t strike me as the do­mestic type. Was there a Mrs. Holmes?

  Barbara placed the files in front of me. “Every time I walk past Mr. Peter’s office and see that yellow tape, I get chills all over.” She crossed her arms and hugged her shoulders. “Do you think the murderer could be one of us? A Manhattanite?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, everyone hated him, you know. But I can’t picture any of my coworkers sneaking around stabbing each other. It’s all too horrible. I can’t sleep. That’s why I came to work so early.”

  Yeah. And the rest of the staff seemed to have shared her insomnia. Manhattan was as crowded as Grand Central Sta­tion this morning, and at this ungodly hour. I checked my watch—not yet eight a.m. “That’s too bad, Barbara, but I’m sure…”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I’ve been having night­mares ever since Mr. Peter died. Always the same one. I’m trapped in that messy office of his, and all the books turn into daggers. They take on a life of their own, then all of them stab me at once. I wake up sweating.” Barbara rubbed her wrist across her lips, staring at the bright red streak the gesture left on the back of her hand. “Goddamn it. Excuse my language, Jake.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk and rubbed at the stain.

  Jennifer bounced in, carrying a tray filled with goodies. “Hi, Jake. I thought we’d work better on a full stomach.” Her timing sucked. After a little dream interpre­tation discussion, I’d planned on asking Barbara about Santa Steve’s grudge against Dick Peter.

  “You must be feeling better, Jennifer,” Barbara said, blowing her nose with another of my tissues. “Well, I’m out of here. Now it really is time to start work.”

  I admired the white ceramic pot tied with a red and white check ribbon as I spread the strawberry jam on my scone and lectured Jennifer on the importance of a ghostwriter’s confidentiality. “No one, I repeat, no one must discover that I’m the author of Dick Peter’s book. Only Dennis Kim, Keith Morrison, you, and I can share this secret. Never let another living soul see Dick’s files. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, I do. What was I thinking? It won’t happen again, I promise. And I’m sure Barbara didn’t look at the files...she’d have no idea what they contained. But more than four people know you’re ghostwriting this manuscript, Jake. Your mother’s one of them, but family’s different, right?”

  “Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’ve told Michael.”

  “Only that you’re completing Dick’s project…not that you’re writing the whole thing.” Jennifer’s color drained, and I was afraid I’d made her sick again. Why was I being so hard on her? In publishing, as in politics, leaks happen. And after all, she didn’t have to follow the twelve steps of Ghostwriters Anonymous. The program’s principles had saved my butt more than once. Thank God tomorrow was Saturday; I could dump all this trash at our regular weekly meeting. Too-Tall Tom and Jane D. always offered sound suggestions for restoring my serenity. This had been the week from hell, but my fellow recovering anonymity addicts would help me cope.

  “Okay, Jennifer. We can’t change the past, but we can put it behind us. Let’s take it a day a time. And, thank you for the scone. It’s wonderful.” I could see that Jennifer was puzzled—but pleased—by my attitude adjustment.

  I was finishing my second cup of tea when Jennifer, who’d gone over to the window to raise the blinds, shouted, “Look at this! I can’t believe it. And poor Michael was so afraid he’d be late.”

  “What’s going on down there?” I crossed the room to join Jennifer in her intense scrutiny of 69th Street. “Why, that’s Christian Holmes, isn’t it?” I watched as my older colleague hustled another man into a cab, then climbed in beside him. “Who’s that guy he shoved into the taxi?”

  “Isaac Walton, you know, the Pledged-For-Lifers’ spiri­tual leader.” Jennifer sounded starstruck. “Michael’s gone to the Save Your Marriage & Save Your Soul session as we speak. So what in the name of heaven is the reverend doing here?”

  Good question. But whatever Christian Holmes and Isaac Walton had been talking about at Manhattan this morning had proved intriguing enough to keep thousands of husbands waiting at Madison Square Garden.

  Over a third cup of tea, Jennifer poured her heart out. For months, she’d suspected another woman—a strange scent on Michael’s briefs, too many wrong numbers on calls that he’d answered after he dashed to grab the phone first, boys-only biker overnights, and no sex, claiming he’d pulled his back. “All the tawdry, typical telltale signs, Jake. Michael never was an original thinker. Then he joined a local cell of Pledged-For-Lifers. Never misses a meeting. He knows I’ve always been a God-fearing Christian. Now he’s one too.” She beamed. “He’s become a much better husband. Helps with the housework, even asks me to balance the checkbook. Only thing is...”

  I leaned forward. “Yes?” This fascinated me. A dark character, filled with eternal lust but promising a lifetime of fidelity, was in full development mode, to be tucked away in a corner of my mind for future use.

  “Michael’s so caught up in spirituality, you know, he can’t be—well—carnal. At least, not yet. We both hope his attending this conference will change that.”

  “Has Michael met Isaac Walton?”

  “Oh, yes. He had the next-door neighbor babysit me last night, though I’d assured him that I felt better, and he went to the opening prayer service. Michael is his cell’s delegate. All the delegates enjoyed a private preconference social with Reverend Walton. Michael says he’s awe-inspiring.”

  This case’s connections bordered on incest. I switched the topic, hoping to catch Jennifer while she remained off-guard and chatty.

  “You said something odd on Tuesday...”

  “No doubt. Dick’s death just about killed me. I’ve never seen a body before. I don’t do funerals.”

  “Michael mentioned that. But this was something you said...just before you collapsed...that you couldn’t talk to the police. Why? What did you mean?”

  Jennifer flushed. “Did I really? I don’t remember saying anything like that. Must have been because I felt too sick to speak.”

  I shrugged, sure she was lying. “It wasn’t said in that context, it seemed to me...”

  “Jake, if I don’t remember saying it, how could I know what I meant? Please excuse me, I have to go to the little girls’ room.”

  As she left, I checked on the time, wondering when I’d stopped liking Jennifer. Almost eight thirty-five. Allison should be here. Everyone else seemed to be. I’d go tell her she was on for both lunch and the séance. That ought to make her morning.

  Spotting Ben in the hall as I passed Dick’s yellow-taped office, I said, “Hey, I’ve copied Peter’s files for you. Notes for the book. They might shed some light on his death.”

  “When and where did you find them, Jake?”

  “You can pick them up when I get back from Allison’s office. I’ll even stop by for you...won’t be but a minute or two.” I kept on going.

  The door to Allison’s office was closed. I knocked, then went in. She lay on the Persian carpet, legs and arms akimbo, her stylish blue skirt and matching blouse soaked in blood and the Delft-handled dagger stuck in her chest, seemingly color coordinat
ed.

  Thirteen

  “You’ve got to stop going to work so early!” my mother screamed into the phone. After discovering two bod­ies before nine a.m.—my first week on the job—I tended to agree with her. Then she sobbed, “Please quit, darling, and come home now. You know it’s dangerous and I’m so frightened.” This advice came too late. During my frantic dash down the hall to find Ben, in a flash of clarity, I’d promised myself I’d find this killer before he—or she—stabbed someone else...maybe me. And to do that I had to remain part of the Manhattan scene.

  I could only promise Mom I’d be careful, reminding her that our favorite homicide detective would be here to watch over me. Then I hung up.

  As soon as I’d told Ben about the second murder, the death knell swept through the office like a hurricane. Bar­bara Ferris had witnessed my hysteria as I led Ben to Al­lison’s body and followed us. When Ben opened the door, Barbara let out one massive, manic moan, then took off like the town crier. For sure, some Manhattan staffer had Ra­mirez on the line right now. The coroner, fingerprint, and DNA experts, along with Ben’s partner, were on their way. Two cops, who’d been patrolling Madison in a police car, arrived a few minutes ago, and I’d ducked out, tap dancing around the barrage of questions from my coworkers, fleeing to my phone. I hadn’t wanted my mother, an avid cable fan, to hear about Allison Carr’s murder on television. There’d been no sign of Jennifer. Could she still be in the ladies’ room? Maybe I should have joined her. I felt a lot like throwing up myself.

  Instead, to calm my jangling nerves, I decided to peruse the files. Who knew what clues might lurk inside? The res­idue of our scones and tea stood front and center on my desk. I cleaned up, stacking the plates and cups back on the tray, then placed it on the chair that Jennifer had vacated. Next, I arranged my copies in alphabetical order. “M” seemed to be missing. While making the copies had I some­how skipped a file? I quickly flipped through all the folders. Then, starting from “A,” I went through them again, searching more thoroughly. The original “M” file had vanished too. Who? When? Where? Why was easy. “M” might be the answer. Assuming Dick Peter hadn’t already changed real names to reflect his fictional characters’ names, several of the suspects in this case were “M’s.” Keith Morrison, Jennifer Moran, Michael Moran, and Mila Macovich. The last two were double “M’s,” for God’s sake. If only I’d had a chance to glance through that file before...and why hadn’t I turned all of them over to Ben? They could contain real evidence. I was probably an accessory after the fact. He’d want my head. And I couldn’t say I’d blame him.

  I jumped when the phone rang, then knocked two of the files on the floor as I reached to answer it.

  “Jake, are you okay?”

  “No, Dennis, I really don’t think I am.” My voice cracked.

  “I’ll come and pick you up. Since your luncheon engage­ment with Allison Carr has been permanently canceled, per­haps you’d like to join me at the restaurant?”

  “It’s nine thirty in the morning.”

  “So we’ll drive through Central Park first. You need a change of scenery.”

  “How did you find out about Allison?”

  “Call me the Asian-American Gypsy Rose Liebowitz.”

  “I smell a plot. Did my mother put you up to this?”

  Dennis sighed but didn’t even try to evade the question. “Yes. Maura’s worried sick. Why don’t you just come home?”

  “Jesus, Dennis, I’ve discovered my second murder victim in less than a week. The police will want to go over a few things with me. And I do have two tough assignments to finish, as you well know.”

  “Nothing else keeping you there?”

  “God, isn’t that enough?” Unbidden tears rolled rapidly down my cheeks. I hoped Dennis couldn’t figure out that I was weepy. I swallowed hard. “Look, I appreciate your con­cern. Please tell Mom I’m fine.” I placed the phone back on its cradle, put my head down on the desk, and wailed.

  Jennifer returned a few minutes after my tears had run their course.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I’m sorry, Jake. I needed some fresh air, so I walked over to Central Park.”

  “Before or after Allison’s murder?”

  “As I stepped into the elevator, Steve told me that you were the one who’d found Allison stabbed to death.” Did I, once again, imagine an ever-so-slightly accusatory tone in Jennifer’s voice? “God. What happened?”

  “It sounds as if you know as much as I do. Just be glad you didn’t walk in on Allison too.”

  “I wouldn’t be standing here if I had. I couldn’t survive another death scene. Jake, you look awful. Can I get you anything?”

  As much as I craved another hot cup of tea, I didn’t want to risk her disappearing again. I opened my briefcase “No thanks. Let’s get to work while we can. I’m sure Ben will have some questions for both of us later. But first, do you have any idea what happened to the ‘M’ file?”

  “I only copied the ‘XYZ’ files.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.” My attitude adjustment seemed to have vanished along with the folder.

  “What’s wrong, Jake? Why are you treating me like a suspect? I only want to help here.”

  “Sorry, Jen. Maybe I’m the one having trouble surviving these dead bodies. Look, I’m going to run these files down to Ben.” I opened my briefcase and pulled out my home­work. “Why don’t you edit my review of Harry Brett’s new book?”

  Though I’d indicated that I had no notion of what they contained—or I’d have delivered them to him at once—when Ben found out I’d held onto Dick’s folders for almost twenty-four hours, and that the both the “M” file and its copy had gone missing, his rage ran rampant. “You’re a mystery writer, for Christ’s sake. Haven’t you ever heard of obstruction of justice?” Then, before I could protest that Keith Morrison had held onto them even longer than me, he’d stormed out of Allison’s office, leaving his partner behind to take my statement. Since the coroner still hovered over Allison’s body, Joe Cassidy had conducted my interview in the hall. With two of its offices now designated as crime scenes, and the police investigators sleuthing out of the coffee room, privacy had become a premium at Manhattan magazine.

  I spent the rest of the day polishing my column, reading the “F” file, looking for a lead on Glory Flagg, and thinking about Allison’s murder. The latter took up most of my time. That blood had appeared fresh—I’d bet she hadn’t been dead for more than an hour, probably less—when I found her. Round up the usual hordes of suspects. Robert Stern, both the Morans, Barry DeWitt, Christian Holmes, Barbara Ferris, and Hans Foote were all early arrivals this morning. Not to mention our mystery guest, the Reverend Walton. Did one of them have more than Manhattan on their mind?

  Jennifer fended the phone calls. I gave her strict orders—I’d only talk to my mother, Ben, or Christian Holmes. Mom called eleven times. Ben neither called nor stopped by to see me. And, when I—dying from curiosity about Christian’s early morning meeting with Walton—buzzed his office, his voicemail informed me that he’d be out of the office all day.

  In between phoning her daughter, Mom, together with Gypsy Rose, had met with the coven’s callbacks and selected the witches and warlocks for their upcoming Halloween Happening. This diversion, together with her indecision as to whether or not to go ahead with her regular last-Friday-of-the-month-lesser-literary-lights cocktail party, seemed to reduce her anxiety about my safety. I urged Mom not to cancel the party; we could all use a few hours of fun. During our last conversation, she’d finally agreed, and I reminded her that I’d be home late.

  Then on my way out, Joe Cassidy stopped me in the lobby, full of disturbing questions and obviously not happy with my answers. Finally, I escaped from Manhattan to keep my date with Glory Flagg.

  The setting sun still shimmered through Central Park’s autumn leav
es, softening the city’s rough edges. The horses and the hansom cabs they were harnessed to—so often sad and scruffy in the cruel daylight—had turned into an Impressionist painter’s tribute to the elegance of the Edwardian era, making me wish the automobile had never been invented. And the fountain in front of the Plaza glistened with glamour. This was Hollywood’s New York, where Doris Day rebuffed then romanced Rock Hudson, and where Barbara Streisand ran into Robert Redford after all those years in The Way We Were. The New York I loved. It sure beat the melancholia, murder, and madness prevailing at work.

  Glad to be out of Manhattan, I savored Fifth Avenue’s passing parade. As dusk approached Sixtieth Street, the city’s chic crowd favored Klein and Karan, with an occasional Versace exuding an international flair, contrasting sharply with the tourists’ jeans, sweatshirts, and Nikes. My own outfit, chocolate brown twill pants and a caramel-colored wool blazer, bridged the fashion gap; however, as I stepped into the Pierre’s tiny bar, I noticed most of the people sipping cocktails there were dressed in banker gray or basic black. And for the life of me, I couldn’t spot a hooker among them. Could Modesty actually have been teasing me?

  Fourteen

  Glory’s grand entrance—fifteen minutes late—cer­tainly brightened up the cocktail lounge. Her red catsuit, slinking like second skin around the thinnest thighs I’ve ever seen, was tucked into boots covered in stars and stripes. What she wore as a scarf looked like the real thing. Wasn’t it against the law to drape the American flag around your neck? Weirdest of all, her hair was red, white, and blue spiked stripes. Food coloring, I hoped, for her sake. All eyes followed her from the door to my table.