A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  “Jake O’Hara? Ya know, Modesty told me you looked like Annie Hall if she’d been played by Meg Ryan.” That had to the nicest thing Modesty had ever said about me. Probably about anyone.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Ms. Flagg.” I gave her a big smile.

  “Sure, sweetie. And the name is Glory. We might be mu­tually helpful to each other, if ya catch my drift. And ain’t it a shame about Allison Carr? I hated that broad, but like, I’m real sorry she was offed. We tawked on Ramirez Now on Tuesday morning, right after Dick’s moider, ya know.”

  The waiter appeared at Glory’s side. “What would Madame like to drink?”

  “A Scarlett O’Hara. That’s in honor of you, Jake.” She turned back to the waiter. “And make it light on the gren­adine.”

  I ordered another martini, and when the waiter left, said, “I watched the show.”

  “Good. Then ya do know what a total piece of woik Al­lison was. May she rest in peace, of course.”

  I decided to go for the gold. “Allison told me that you and she were childhood classmates. Since you two go back so far together, there must be...”

  “Sweetie. Fuchs and Carriano died twenty-five years ago. Their pasts were buried with them. Glory Flagg and Allison Carr wouldn’t even have recognized them two broads. But I’m more interested in Dick’s book. I hear you’re his edi­tor—right—I betcha you’re writing the whole damn en­chilada. That no-talent bastard sometimes even used ghostwriters to write his columns. Didja know that, Jake?”

  “No. I didn’t.” God, could that be true?

  “Trust me. Dick earned his reputation. And in all areas of his life. Now, what I want to know is this: Where are his notes? They could hurt a lotta people, ya know. Might even get someone else moidered.”

  Was that a veiled threat? “Why do you believe there are notes?”

  Glory laughed. “Sweetie, I lived with the son of a bitch for years. The notes were always with us. Dick’s secret formula for someone else to do his writing. Get it?”

  “Well, the files for the book are now in police custody.”

  “But not before ya read them, right?”

  Bartering information might give me a lead. I shrugged, then said, “I glanced through the folders.”

  “I’ll bet that a bright young lady like you made copies. Ain’t that what ya did, Jake?”

  “What do you expect to find in Dick’s notes?” I clutched my briefcase, wondering if Glory guessed I had those copies with me and that I planned to finish reading them tonight.

  “The identity of the killer. That’s what’s in them files. But the cops might not figure it out. So, if you do have copies, let me take a look at them. Ya know, woiking to­gether, we could crack this case, Jake.”

  I was tempted to say I work alone. But instead, I only smiled.

  “Think it over. We’d be like Nick and Nora Charles.” Glory giggled. “In the meanwhile, to show my heart is in the right place and all, what can I do for ya? I gotta say, ya look like your fourth chakra’s giving ya some big-time trou­ble. Modesty and I could help out there.”

  Afraid to even inquire as to the location of my fourth chakra, I said, “Well, there are a few things that have been puzzling me...”

  Glory Flagg waved at the waiter. “Another round.”

  “Not for me.” I indicated my almost-full martini.

  After the waiter served Glory her second Scarlett O’Hara, I got down to business. Glory had been married to Dick for over two decades; she must know all the skeletons he’d slept with—in or out of the closet. “So Glory, I understand that even the elevator operator had a grudge against Dick.”

  “Goes back years. Dick loved to play dress-up. Our trios were like damn costume parties. Every freaking night was Halloween.” At the next table a women in a chic cock­tail hat dropped her drink in her lap. Her escort ignored her predicament; he seemed mesmerized by Glory. I held my finger in front of my lips, silently signaling Glory that she had an audience. She spun around to confront her eavesdroppers. “Whatsa matter with you two? Didn’t your mothers ever tell ya not to listen in on other people’s con­versations?” When she picked up her story, her voice had lowered dramatically. “One Christmas Eve, Steve played Santa at Manhattan’s annual party. We all got wasted. In­cluding Santa. Dick invited poor old Steve to join us for a nightcap in his office. Let’s jest say, that year, Santa’s Christmas memories really sucked. It’s all in my book. Of course, I changed Steve’s name. So don’t tell anyone.”

  I gulped down the rest of my martini. “And your publisher is Harvest House?”

  “Yeah. This ain’t their usual stuff. But the editorial board smells a bestseller.”

  Talk about tawdry. But Glory was a detective’s dream. I wondered if Ben had unearthed all this dirt. Well, if he ever spoke to me again, I’d share it. Meanwhile, I’d keep dig­ging. “And Hans Foote, what’s his story? I wouldn’t want him for an enemy.”

  “Hans hated Dick. Maybe even more than the rest of the world did.”

  “Why?”

  “Easy. Dick told him to keep his day job. Ya know, Hans wrote this book, then gave it to Dick to read. That Nazi wannabe thought Dick would recommend an agent. Fat chance. Dick ripped Hans a new rear end. That’s figura­tively, not literally. I learned all them literary terms from Dick. I used to think a metaphor was something from outer space.”

  “Hans resented Dick because he massacred his manu­script? That was Peter’s M.O. Doesn’t sound like much of a motive to me.”

  “The story ain’t over. Dick took Hans’s plot to one of his in-favor-at-the-moment, pseudo-intellectual hacks. When the book came out, it was a huge success. Ya know, ya prob­ably read it: Right in Step.”

  “How did Dick get away with that? I’m surprised Hans didn’t kill him.”

  Glory winked. “Maybe he did. Better late than never. Anyhoo, Hans wrote in longhand on legal pads. Dick never returned the manuscript. The only copy. It would have been that Nazi nut’s word against Dick’s reputation and bucks. Hans knew he’d never win in a legal battle. But who knows? He may have wielded his revenge with a Delft dagger.”

  The Delft reminded me of Stern. “Glory, how well do you know Robert Stern?”

  “Well enough to know he has a lot of them blue and white plates hanging in his house.”

  “Do you...”

  “Jake, I’m outta here. This was jest the overture. Act One begins when we read Dick’s notes together. Thanks for the drinks.” Glory stood and stretched. Her catsuit moved with her, showing off that great body. Then she raised the flag around her neck. A man at the bar saluted.

  Fifteen

  The party was in full bloom when I arrived home at six thirty. Strategically placed russet and yellow mums filled Mom’s best vases, and on the faux Regency console in the dining room, a well-stocked bar was doing a brisk business. Dennis had been enlisted as bartender. The buffet held a wide variety of elegant finger food, a gourmet oxymoron that only Gypsy Rose could have prepared. Too-Tall Tom passed a tray of fruit, cheese, and biscuits, held high over most guests’ heads, but he graciously stooped to serve. Lights were dimmed, candles glowed, and Mom had achieved a roaring blaze in our temperamental Edwardian-era fireplace that often as not backed up, triggering the smoke alarm.

  I loved our co-op’s high ceilings, arched moldings, and chair rails. And this evening, Mom and Gypsy Rose had succeeded in creating an atmosphere so warm—and filled with so many good friends—that it did far more to soothe my jangled nerves than the two martinis had.

  Mom, deep in conversation with a tall, beautiful woman whom I’d never met but immediately recognized, spotted me and dashed across the room. “Jake, darling, thank God you’re home. Come, I want to introduce you to Mila Macovich.”

  “How did a megawatt like Mila wind up here among the lesser-literary-lights?” Sometimes my mother amazed me. />
  “Oh, she showed up at Gypsy Rose’s this afternoon, just after we’d finished the final casting for the Halloween Hap­pening. Naturally I invited her to join our little group.” I guess Mila, like most people, had a hard time responding negatively to Maura O’Hara’s positive attitude. Glancing around the room, I observed how mother’s “little group” now included about twenty budding poets, screenwriters, and novelists. Their ages ranged from eighteen to eighty.

  Modesty glowered at me from her perch on the ladder-back chair in front of the fireplace. I gave her an I’ll-be-over-as-soon-as-I-can wave, then trotted after my mother to meet Mila, the woman who’d replaced Glory as Dick’s wife.

  Mila in person turned out to be every bit as magnificent as the photograph on her most recent book jacket. That doesn’t happen often. Her eyes shone with vitality and joie de vivre, while her posture exuded robust health, honed by long hours of discipline. I wondered if she’d worked out with Allison.

  “Your mother’s been raving about you, Jake. I’m delighted to meet you. Dick’s death has left me devastated. And now poor Allison’s been murdered. It’s all too grim.” Mila ex­tended a slim, pale hand. “Your mother’s party couldn’t have come at a better time. I deserved a break from making funeral arrangements, shopping for widow’s weeds, and meeting with my late husband’s financial advisors. They’re even worse—if possible—than the morticians.”

  “I’ve always agreed with Jessica Mitford,” my mother said. “Just have me cremated, Jake, and scatter the ashes over Central Park. You know, near the reservoir, where Jackie Kennedy used to walk.”

  Mila grimaced. “My Russian ancestors would turn over in their graves if I were cremated. I have chosen a coffin and a crypt for my departed Dick that will last forever. We all will need our bodies when we rise again for the final judgment, no? I certainly wouldn’t want Dick to miss that day.”

  A picture of Peter as Count Dracula, sleeping his days away through an eternity of nightlife, flashed across my mind. I blinked, trying to erase the image.

  “Please accept my condolences, Mila. I’ll be at the funeral and at the séance too, if that’s all right with you.”

  My mother said, “That’s why Mila dropped by the book­store this afternoon. The séance is off. Mila’s going to work on her nightmares with dream therapy instead.”

  I stared into Mila’s olive green eyes.

  “Nightmares? I thought you wanted to contact your dead husband.”

  “Actually, I want his scurrilous spirit to stop bothering me. He haunts my dreams every night, driving me crazy just like he used to do all day long before he died.” Mila pushed her long hair away from her face. “Enough is enough. My therapist has sent me to an expert in dream interpretation. We decided that channeling that slime from the bowels of Hell wouldn’t get him the hell out of my bedroom. Gypsy Rose understands.” I was glad someone did. “But I will be at the Halloween Happening at the book­store. Will you be there?” Mila seemed to have gotten over her rage rather quickly.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  As I pondered the meaning of Mila’s marvelous mean­dering, I spotted Christian Holmes at the buffet. “Mom, when did Christian get here?”

  “He came to see you just as the first guests were arriving, and I asked him to join us.”

  Modesty’s frantic waving caught my mother’s eye. Mine too. Then Christian beckoned me. I excused myself, but Mila—as I kept praying she wouldn’t go there—was in the middle of explaining how Dick had invaded last night’s dream and never even noticed that I was moving on.

  My mother widened her eyes at me. I wasn’t sure if she thought me rude for walking away or if she wanted to join me.

  Christian looked weary. “Jake, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. I didn’t want to let Walton out of my sight.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Isaac called me at home late last night. Said Homicide put the fear of God in him. He thought he was about to be arrested for Dick’s murder.”

  I could hear my heart thump. “Why? What did he tell the police?”

  “That he’d been in Dick’s office the night he was killed.”

  “No way.”

  “Yep. Isaac says he went over to end their quarter-of-a-century-old feud. Sally Lou had pushed him, believing that as a man of God, Isaac should forgive his only living rela­tive. However, the reverend swears he was out of there by nine thirty and when he left, Dick was alive and kicking.”

  “Why would Walton tell you?”

  “He’d thought we’d been fair with him during our inter­view and he wanted to have his side of the story in Man­hattan magazine. Isaac knows this looks bad; he left his fingerprints all over Dick’s office. The only reason Walton hasn’t been arrested is that the office is filled with yet-to-be-identified prints.”

  “What happened today at the Garden?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d never have guessed the preacher had a problem. Slick as Satan. And he had those guys crawling on the floor and loving it.”

  “Come on. Crawling?”

  “You’re too young to remember EST. Those participants groveled, wallowing in their woes while rolling around on the floor, trying to face up to their faults—or some such garbage. Anyway, the Pledged-For-Lifers made EST look like a day at Disney World.”

  “God Almighty.”

  “If I believed in God, I’d say he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Jake, I need to talk to you!” Modesty’s bellow sounded belligerent.

  Christian chuckled. “Go ahead, Jake. I want to have a word with your mother’s friend.”

  “Which one?” I asked, distracted by Modesty’s pacing in front of the fireplace.

  “Gypsy Rose Liebowitz.” Christian beamed. “Now there’s a woman.”

  On information overload, I went to see what the hell Mod­esty wanted.

  Dennis trailed behind me. “Want a drink? I’ve just made a fresh batch of martinis.”

  “No thanks—but I’d love a glass of ice water and some Tylenol. Could you...?”

  “Your wish is my whatever.” Dennis left. My head was now pounding harder than my heart. I hoped he’d hurry up.

  “Okay, Modesty, what’s so damn important? You’ve been dogging me since I walked in the door.”

  “And how are you this evening, Jake O’Hara?”

  ‘Totally whipped, if you really want to know.”

  “Yeah? Well, wait ’til you hear this—you’ll wake up.” Curiosity has its own adrenaline.

  “I’ve heard more than I wanted to today, but maybe my mind hasn’t maxed out yet.” I sighed. “What, Modesty, what?”

  My mother, now chatting with Aaron Rubin and Mr. Kim in the dining room, smiled at me as Dennis returned with the water and Tylenol. “Is this a private conversation, ladies, or may I join you?”

  “No,” Modesty snapped.

  Dennis winked at me and walked over to join my mother’s circle. I swallowed, gulped the water, and said, “Shoot.”

  “Barry DeWitt threatened to kill Allison Carr in the Al­gonquin lobby late last night.”

  “How do you know? Were you there?” God, if I’d only given the “D” file to Ben sooner.

  “No, I was in the bookstore.” I waited; there had to be a segue here somewhere. “I just came from there, researching in the poison section,” Modesty said. “Barry DeWitt was next to me with his nose in Cause of Death. I was almost in his lap; you know how crowded it can get. Any­way, this woman came and stood next to him and said, ‘So you stabbed the bitch.’ DeWitt said, ‘Are you crazy?’ And this woman said, ‘I sat a potted palm away from you in the Algonquin last night. I heard you tell Allison if she didn’t lay off, you’d kill her. And I’ve just passed that tidbit along to Detective Ben Rubin. Maybe Manhattan can have a field day when they fry you.’”

  �
��Jesus. What did DeWitt say?”

  “Nothing. He glanced over at me. My chin must have fallen to my fourth chakra. Then he grabbed the woman by the elbow and led her toward the cozy section.”

  “Modesty, this is important. What did she look like?”

  “Forty or so. Too much makeup. Incipient hippo hips. Oh—and she wore a uniform with some sort of red logo.”

  “Barbara Ferris.”

  If I didn’t feel so lousy, I’d drink Den­nis Kim’s entire pitcher of martinis.

  “Who?”

  “The receptionist at Manhattan.”

  “Is that uniform standard issue for all their employees, or are editors allowed to wear civvies? You really should quit that job before someone stabs you in the back.”

  Mr. Kim put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Why don’t you sit down, Jake? I’ve fixed you a plate of food. The pastry is great. And you’re pale as a ghost.”

  I grinned, grateful for both his humor and his concern. “Good idea, Mr. Kim.” I followed him to the couch and collapsed into its chintz cushions, balancing the water glass in one hand and a full plate in the other while Mr. Kim went to fetch my mother.

  Gypsy Rose sank down next to me. “Please listen to me, Jake. You’re a magnet for murder. Maura and I are worried sick.” She plopped my plate on the coffee table and held my hand. “Can’t you work at home for a while, honey?”

  “We’ll see, but I’ll be careful.” I mouthed the same empty promise I’d made Mom, while averting her scrutiny as tears welled up. Mr. Kim, Gypsy Rose, Mom, Dennis, and even in her own strange way, Modesty were all worried about me. I gave Gypsy Rose a big—if forced—smile. “Thanks.”

  She patted my hand. “Eat something.” I reached for a tiny turkey sandwich, checking out Mr. Kim’s selection of sweets. “You’re not the only one I’m worried about, Jake. Mila’s canceled her channeling session. Strange. I’m sure Dick’s been trying to contact her and I know she’s fright­ened. Dream therapy, indeed. Takes too long. It will be a waste of her time and her money.” So much for Mila’s believing that Gypsy Rose had understood. “Dick’s evil spirit could cause Mila serious psychic damage if we don’t arrange for Zelda to have a chat with his guide. Not to mention all the information that only her dead husband can provide for us. Maybe we’ll just hold the séance without her and find out what Dick Peter’s up to in the world beyond.”