by Noreen Wald
“But...”
“We’ll do it, Jake. Mark your calendar. Nine p.m. All Soul’s day. And invite the ghostwriters; the spirits love a good crowd.”
I changed the subject. “Did you have a chance to talk to Christian Holmes? He seemed to be most intrigued with you.”
Under her perfectly applied makeup, Gypsy Rose appeared to blush. “What do you know about him, Jake? Besides the fact that he’s an atheist. I never miss his religion columns and I’d never have guessed that he’s not a theist. Christian says he’d like to do a piece on my psychic ability. It could be wonderful publicity for the bookstore’s events—and for the entire New Age movement. Do you think I should consent to be interviewed? Or will he turn my gift into an object of ridicule?”
“I think he’s one of the few good guys in this whole sordid case. But, hey, I only met him yesterday. Let’s wait and see how this goes down.”
“This isn’t my first time around the block with him, Jake. Your mother and I knew him during the French Revolution.”
I tasted the napoleon.
While loading the dishwasher, between urging my resignation from the magazine, warning me not to play Nancy Drew again, and fretting that I could be the next murder victim, my mother got into a little girl talk. “I’m not going upstate with Aaron to see the autumn leaves.”
“Not because you’re worrying about me, I hope?”
My mother fussed with the Wedgwood server, trying to stack it behind a full load of plates. “Not really.” She placed the server in the sink. “I’d better wash this by hand.”
“You’re a lousy liar, Mom.”
“Well, it’s true that I don’t want to leave you alone—it’s also true that I’m just not ready for an overnighter.”
If not now, when? But who was I to offer advice on anyone’s love life, least of all my mother’s? Maybe on some level, I was glad she wouldn’t be going away. Ben hadn’t called. I worried that he never would. And I couldn’t face the prospect of going through those bloody files tonight. Not even if Dick’s notes would prove conclusively who done it.
Exhausted, I fell into bed but couldn’t sleep. I counted suspects instead of sheep.
Sixteen
Serial Sue led the Serenity Prayer as I entered the second-floor meeting room of the Jan Hus church on 71st Street. The Ghostwriters group shared the quarters with several other twelve-step programs, including Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, and Sex Addicts Anonymous. But at eleven o’clock every Saturday morning, the room’s occupants were all ghostwriters, and its atmosphere was filled with our unique brand of frustrated anonymity.
Sue’s long-term ghostwriting for numerous “authors” of young adult novels—their series sometimes spanning thirty years and as many books—had left her bitter. Trite tripe takes its toll; however, she’d been making real progress in her recovery. This morning there was a lilt in Serial Sue’s voice as she followed our opening prayer with the introduction of today’s speaker.
“I’m delighted to present a dear friend and fellow member of Ghostwriters Anonymous, a man who has helped me work the steps and accept my own anonymity. When I joined this program almost a year ago, I’d finally reached my bottom and had to confront my lifetime addiction to anonymity. I’d suffered far longer than all of you. After all, I’ve been a ghostwriter for over sixty years.” Some new members gasped. “And next month, I’ll be eighty-two years old.” This admission provided Sue with her usual round of applause. “And, despite writing twenty-six different series, I’ve never had my name on a cover.” Nods of empathy were accompanied by murmurs of sympathy. Serial Sue really knew how to work our crowd. Next to me, Modesty groaned loudly.
Sue peered over her Ben Franklins, gave Modesty a look combining disdain with sorrow, and rattled right on. “The books you’ve all read as children, the Honey Bunch Series, the Beverly Grays, the Cheryl Cranes, I was one of a committee of writers who produced these books as a joint effort, but under one nom de plume. While her fans awaited Clair Blank’s newest Beverly Gray mystery, what they never knew was that there was no Clair, only a horde of anonymous hacks writing as Clair. Most of our committee are dead.” Serial Sue lowered her voice. “Several suicides...prevalent among us ghostwriters, you know.”
I’d swear Sue made some of this stuff up as she went along. Maybe she wasn’t really that far into her recovery after all.
Modesty whispered to me, “That old broad’s on the pity pot. Who’d remain an anonymous hack for sixty years? It’s depressing for the membership to have to listen to...”
“Shush,” I said, although I tended to agree with her.
Serial Sue continued, “So, here’s my friend, Too-Tall Tom, to share his experience, strength, and hope with us.”
I perked up. Too-Tall Tom would be leading our discussion and he was always funny and upbeat. We’d been friends for years, long before there was a Ghostwriters Anonymous group. He ghostwritten how-to handyman books while practicing his talent for interior design working for big bucks as a carpenter, turning Manhattan box-shaped apartments into art deco or Edwardian gems. No conversation was taboo between us. We’d shared everything, from love lives gone awry, to dreams of having our names on the cover and our pictures on the back of the jacket of our future bestsellers, to being miffed—at times—with our mutually overprotective mothers. I loved Too-Tall Tom and totally trusted him.
Once again, this morning’s topic was my nemesis, the third step: Make a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him. Too-Tall Tom said, “I have no problem calling my Higher Power God. Where I have trouble is turning my will over to Him. I still want to be me...and in total control.” I certainly identified with that.
At the coffee break, Jane D., a self-help ghostwriter and another old pal, hugged me hard. “Jake, you’ve gone and gotten yourself mixed up in murder again. Why did you ever agree to edit for a man like that dreadful Dick Peter?”
“For the same reason most of us have remained addicted to our anonymity, Jane. I needed the money.”
“I didn’t mean to sound cross.” Sometimes Jane sounded as old as Serial Sue. “But we’re all so worried about you. Is there anything I can do to help? This is a ‘we’ program, you know. You’re not alone.” Concern crunched her fine features into a full-face frown. Her eyes, almost the exact same shade of toasty brown as her hair, held mine, forcing me to admit that all my simmering fears had come to a full boil.
“Maybe we can talk about that after the meeting. I could use some advice.”
Serial Sue called the ghostwriters back to order.
Formula Fannie, a police procedural ghostwriter who could probably outscore Barry Scheck on a DNA test, took the floor. “I agree with Too-Tall Tom. When my love affair was dying a slow death, my addiction turned me into a control freak. My latest lover, as some of you know, is the Brooklyn M.E. In the beginning, I only dated him for selfish motives. Who could be a better beau? Think of the time and money saved on research. During pillow talk, I had my arms around my own forensics expert. Then I fell in love and discovered he was much more interested in cold, dead bodies than in my hot, live one.” I heard a moan from the fellowship. Formula Fannie was famous for choosing the wrong man. A stickler for detail, she simply spent too much time in the morgue. As Modesty reminded me so often, “Some of us are sicker than others.”
Too-Tall Tom comforted Formula Fannie by reading the third step prayer. The words, tumbling out in his warm baritone, comforted me too. Yet, when he called on me to share my feelings on the step, I passed. I had a lot of trouble working the steps, and I resented putting anyone in charge of my life, even God.
Maybe that’s why I remained addicted to anonymity, found excuses not to write my own book, and my life was murder.
By twelve thirty, Modesty, Jane, Too-Tall Tom, and I were ordering salads and iced tea at Sara
beth’s Kitchen. I’d decided to use the tools of our program and ask the ghostwriters for help. The first step told us: We are powerless over our anonymity. And I knew the road to recovery came via the fellowship, not a solo trip. Maybe that would be the road to the killer as well.
“Listen, you guys, I need your help.”
Jane adjusted her Hermès scarf—self-help ghostwriting pays better than murder—and looked pleased. Too-Tall Tom smiled, reached across the table, and patted my hand. Modesty, dressed today in a new Franciscan habit, twirled her rosary bead belt and asked, “Solving the Manhattan murders?”
“Yes. There are too many suspects for me to sort through alone and I’m afraid...”
“There might be more murders,” Jane finished my sentence. She really ought to watch that character defect, I thought, then scolded myself for taking her inventory.
“That’s possible—”
“What do you want us to do, Jake?” Too-Tall Tom asked.
I guess interrupting each other is just what good friends do, especially if they’re New Yorkers.
“The way I see it, though half of New York City hated Dick, the police should have a baker’s dozen of actual suspects. And most of them would have had the opportunity to kill Allison as well. I figure she was murdered because she knew who’d killed Dick...or had uncovered some evidence that could prove whodunit.”
“Who are these people?” Jane asked.
Modesty said, “I can give you a banner suspect: Glory Flagg.”
“And why is she a frontrunner?” Jane asked.
“Don’t you watch TV or read the headlines?” Modesty asked Jane. “Glory’s telling all of Manhattan why she’s better off with Dick dead. And aside from the ménage à trois...”
“I had the impression Ms. Flagg rather enjoyed the threesomes.” Too-Tall Tom grinned.
“No doubt,” I said. “But she hated Dick and a twenty-million-dollar lawsuit is a strong motive for murder. What’s more, she and Allison Carr had hated each other for decades; they’d been childhood combatants on the battlefields of Brooklyn.”
The food arrived. I spread strawberry jam on my biscuit and took a bite, glancing out the window at the Madison Avenue passersby. Saturday morning in Carnegie Hill was like Saturday morning anywhere in the USA. Its residents, dressed in jeans and sweats, were running errands...except here, picking up your clothes at the dry cleaner could cost a day’s wages and Mr. Kim’s melon prices seemed to rival those in Japan.
Jane said, “Look, I’ve been attending a shrinks’ convention in Chicago for the last few days. Fill me in on the players, will you, Jake?”
“Well, in addition to Glory, there’s the current wife, Mila Macovich.”
“I just love her books,” Jane said.
“You would.” Modesty waved a forkful of romaine in Jane’s direction.
Even though I shared Jane’s feelings about Mila’s books, I didn’t say so, not wanting to distract the ghostwriters with a literary discussion. “Mila says Dick’s haunting her dreams. She scheduled a séance with Gypsy Rose, then canceled. Gypsy Rose still wants to contact Dick’s spirit guide, so she’s going ahead with it. You’re all invited. Nine p.m. Tuesday. All Soul’s Day.”
“Isn’t Dick being buried Monday?” Too-Tall Tom asked. “Then the Halloween Happening?”
“In lieu of a wake,” I said.
“It’s going to be a busy week for you, Jake,” Modesty said. “But you can count me in for the séance. Gypsy Rose runs the best spook show in town.”
“She’s a channel to the spirits in the world beyond, Modesty,” Jane scolded. “I’ll certainly be there.”
Too-Tall Tom looked glum. “Look, I have a date.” We all stared him down. “Okay, okay. I’ll cancel it.”
“Good,” Modesty said. “Jake, quickly give us a rundown on the other suspects and tell us what we can do to help you. I have a chapter to edit this afternoon.”
“How many pages?” Jane asked. With Modesty’s Gothic novel rumored to be over twenty-one hundred pages, we all wondered how she found time to be a gainfully employed ghostwriter.
“We are not here to discuss my book,” Modesty growled. “Go ahead, Jake.”
I moved on, “At Manhattan magazine, there are three armed, uniformed employees—the place is run like a detention center—and they all have potential. Dick Peter stole Hans Foote’s—he’s the guard in the lobby—manuscript and it became a bestseller. Then Steve, the fat, jolly elevator operator, played Santa at a Christmas party, got wasted, and wound up in a holiday masochistic ménage à trois with Dick and Glory. According to Glory, it was really ugly and Steve never got over it. Barbara Ferris—the receptionist—hasn’t a clear motive and would be on the bottom of anyone’s list. Yet, she had opportunities to commit both murders, appears to know something, is quick to accuse, and appears overly protective of Robert Stern, Manhattan’s editor and a prime suspect. She’s another one suffering from nightmares.”
“What’s Stern’s motive?” Jane asked.
“His wife had an affair with Dick and it drove her to suicide. Furthermore, he was at work the morning of Allison’s murder, claims he was home alone on the night of Dick’s death, but he could have been at Manhattan. And, most damning, a Delft dagger’s gone missing from his collection.”
“But wasn’t a second Delft dagger used on Allison?” Too-Tall Tom asked.
“Right,” I said. “But how do we know how many daggers Stern had in his collection? More than one could be missing.”
“Or someone could be using Delft daggers to throw suspicion on Stern,” Modesty suggested.
“What about the theater critic, Barry DeWitt?” Too-Tall Tom asked. “I’ve heard that he and Peter hated each other.”
“He’s so handsome,” Jane said. “I can’t believe he’s a killer.”
“Cretin...” Modesty began, venom in her voice.
“Tell everyone what you overheard, Modesty,” I said.
We were on coffee and dessert by time Modesty finished her recounting of Barbara’s accusation against DeWitt. Too-Tall Tom had pulled out a yellow pad and started taking notes. Not a bad idea.
“Jennifer Moran told me that Pax’s publisher, Keith Morrison, had been ready to kill Peter because he was so late with his manuscript,” Modesty said. “Anything to that?”
“Morrison’s one weird happening,” I said. “He did hang on to Dick’s files when he should have turned them over to the police...not to mention me. And Dennis had to hold his hand the other night...’til dawn. I wouldn’t count Morrison out, but could Dick’s being late for his delivery date really be a motive for his murder?”
“If it were, we’d all be dead,” Modesty said.
“It would have been at my last publishing house.” Too-Tall Tom sighed.
I noticed Modesty looking at her watch and hurriedly explained the rejected-relative Walton angle, certain that he was Homicide’s hottest prospect. And why not? He’d been, by his own admission, in Dick Peter’s office on the night his cousin had been stabbed. All the ghostwriters knew and liked Jennifer, so I went easy over my concerns regarding her possible involvement; however, everyone was shocked to hear that Michael Moran had become a Pledged-For-Lifer, and that he and his new best friend, Reverend Walton, had both turned up at Manhattan on the morning of Allison’s murder. Feeling as if I were betraying my new friend, I added Christian Holmes to the list. He’d been there, keeping company with Isaac Walton, the morning of Allison’s murder, and earlier he’d given Ben that goofy—indeed, useless—public library alibi.
“Okay,” Modesty said, counting on her fingers. “The guard, the elevator operator and the receptionist. That’s three. Add the two wives, that’s five. DeWitt and Stern...that’s seven. Reverend Walton, Michael Moran, and Jennifer—though we all know she couldn’t be guilty—for starters, she’s too dumb—that’s ten. This Keith M
orrison guy, that’s eleven. Christian Holmes is twelve. You said a baker’s dozen. Who’s number thirteen? I have to get our game plan and go home.”
“Jennifer Moran’s a good person, Jake.” Jane sounded distressed.
I reverted to program talk. “Hey, I’m only sharing my feelings here.”
Modesty stood. “Okay, two questions. Why aren’t we leaving this mess to the cops—as incompetent as they may be? Second, if we are going to solve these murders, who’s the thirteenth suspect, for God’s sake? I need to know. I’m leaving. Now!”
I swallowed hard. “Me. Ben’s been avoiding me, and as his partner, Joe Cassidy, pointed out, I was not only on the scene for the murders, I discovered the bodies. And I had a motive. Two, in fact. I wound up with both of Dick’s high-paying assignments.”
Seventeen
The ghostwriters, strongly motivated by our mutual anger—how could any homicide detective, even one as dumb as Cassidy, believe I might be a possible whodunit?—agreed our biggest chore would be to pare down that juror-long list of suspects. If we divided the list four ways, each of us would have three potential killers to spook. For our first assignments, we decided to check out all those flimsy alibis. Then we staked our killer-candidate claims. The only major area of disagreement was who got whom. Everyone wanted Glory Flagg.
But Modesty, who’d changed her afternoon plans from editing to sleuthing, declared that Glory belonged to her, citing chakras as their common ground and refusing to budge. No one else could win when Modesty balked, so we gave her Glory. She also insisted on Jennifer Moran, determined to clear her—though none of us considered her a true suspect. “Listen, she’s suffered enough being chained to that biker. And we all know that Jen couldn’t plot a Reader’s Digest excerpt, never mind two murders.” Then Modesty snorted, almost an embarrassed grunt. “I’d better add a guy to my list—maybe that nutty publisher, Keith Morrison—or else you’ll believe I’ve either lost my mind or compromised my position on detesting dumb broads by rushing to defend these twitty women.” I’d swear I spotted a faint, rosy blush spread across her pale cheek.