A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  The Waltons were coolly cordial when I interrupted their mad applause for the lady harpist. “Jake O’Hara, isn’t it?” the reverend asked, mustering a wan smile. “What can we do for you? I’m afraid our time is very limited; we have the Pledged-For-Lifers closing tonight, you know.”

  Sally Lou seemed excited, but not over seeing me again. “I’m wearing a new chiffon gown covered in velvet angels. All white. Isaac says it’s heavenly.”

  “I’m sure it is.” I tried to sound sincere. “Look, I’ve come to take a few more shots for the Manhattan article.” I pulled the just-purchased disposable camera from my bag with the panache of a professional photographer. “Maybe I could take a few of you in that heavenly outfit, Mrs. Walton. This Pied Piper Room would be the perfect backdrop.”

  “Oh, my, what do you think, Isaac? Could we squeeze that in?”

  Isaac was nothing if not pragmatic. He knew we had him two to one. “If you really want to, Mother, I guess we could, but only if we move this along as fast as possible.”

  “I’ll come up to the room with you guys. That way I can ask you a couple of questions, Reverend Walton, while Mrs. Walton’s getting ready.” Despite my calculated charm, Isaac looked suspicious. But by then, we’d arrived at the tiny el­evator and I just stepped in behind them.

  The suite, though small, was grand. Mahogany French doors separated the living room—still graced with its orig­inal fireplace—from the bedroom, the windows stretched from floor to ceiling, and those ceilings had to be twelve feet high. The wallpaper was William Morris, reminding me of the pattern on the walls of Manhattan, and all the desk, chairs, and settees were either Victorian pieces or damn good copies.

  Sally Lou gave me an opening. As she applied neon green eyeshadow, she started out discussing the great breakfast at the Wales. “Fresh peach preserves from Sarabeth’s Kitchen, Jake, and I couldn’t have made them any better myself. All included in the price of our room. With plenty of food left over to have a free lunch too.” She proudly pulled open a dresser drawer filled with bananas, muffins, pound cake, and soft boiled eggs, all neatly secured in sandwich bags—enough to feed a family of five. Then she segued to Dick Peter’s final journey. “Well, for sure that wicked man was met and welcomed personally by Satan at the gates of Hell. Now all he’s smelling is fire and brimstone. I believe that our punishment fits our sins, so Dick will be shoveling coal throughout eternity.”

  I wondered if—based on Sally Lou’s theory—the oppo­site also applied. Then, when Isaac arrived in Heaven, he’d be assigned an Ivy League dorm room instead of a cloud.

  While Isaac changed into his preacher suit, I offered to help Sally Lou tease the back of her sparse hair. “Oh, that’s looking much better, Jake. Now, if you’d just fluff out the sides. Kinda like an angel’s wings.” She held her plump arms straight out, fluttering her hands in demonstration. “You know I once worked as a beauty consultant.”

  “Really?” Good thing I wasn’t playing What’s My Line?.

  “Yes indeedy. I sold cosmetics at Walgreens. That’s how I met Isaac; he bought a large bottle of Old Spice.” Sally Lou actually tittered. “I knew then that he wasn’t married or keeping company, so I flirted a little.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Jake, married men, or even those steady dating, don’t buy their own cologne. The ladies in their lives shop for them and select much more—hmm—sexy scents than Old Spice. Now I make sure that Isaac only uses Polo.” She tittered again “Even for a man of God, it can’t hurt to smell rich.”

  Isaac Walton emerged from the bathroom swathed in head-to-toe white silk. The collarless jacket was accessori­zed with a heavy chain holding a gold cross that could have topped a small church. His flared trousers draped over white suede loafers. And he smelled like a man about to rake in a pile of money when he passed around the collection basket. With some help from her new lady’s maid, Sally Lou got into her chiffon and velvet creation, and we went back to the second-floor salon—at least the back­ground would be attractive—to shoot the pictures. I prayed we wouldn’t run into anyone.

  I posed them at Mom’s favorite table. We recommend the Wales to all our out-of-town friends and often join them in the salon for the concerts. The far corner table looks out on our building, and even in the fading twilight, the old white five-story stone house, with its bay windows and turrets, made me smile. As the Waltons said “cheese,” I started ask­ing questions.

  “It’s quite a coincidence that my editorial assistant, Jen­nifer Moran’s, husband is so active in the Pledged-For-Lifers movement, isn’t it, Reverend Walton?”

  “Yes. Michael’s been an active cell member for about three or four months, I’d say. He’s done wonderful work for the ministry, recruiting several other bikers and distrib­uting our pamphlets door to door. But I’d never met him and, of course, had no idea that Michael was in any way connected to the magazine where my cousin worked until after Dick had been murdered.”

  Of course.

  “So how did you found out?”

  “Let’s see. Well, it seems to me that Michael may have stopped by to pay a condolence call right after the news broke on Friday morning...and he’d discovered Dick Peter was my cousin. Ah, yes. I believe that’s when he mentioned that his wife worked for Dick.”

  It seemed to be such an unnecessary lie. Or was it Michael who’d lied? Could he really have been visiting his girl­friend? I probed further. “Well, Jennifer thinks Michael had spoken with you earlier—at the preconference social on Thursday, right before your opening service. You’ll recall Christian Holmes and I met with you directly after the prayer meeting.”

  Sally Lou jumped in, “There were dozens of delegates at the social, cell leaders from across the country—the rev­erend can’t possibly remember meeting all of them. Maybe Michael did speak to Isaac at that gathering.”

  I nodded and let it go, having other fish to fry with Isaac Walton.

  The reverend, surprising me, lighted the fire. “Jake, I assume you’ve heard I visited Dick’s office the night he was killed. Do you really think I’m capable of killing both my cousin and that gossip monger, Allison Carr? As you know, I was at Manhattan that morning too.”

  Admiring his directness, I answered honestly. “I don’t know who the killer is, but I’m trying to find out. The police have no doubt grilled you on all this, so please indulge me. When you left Dick’s office Tuesday night, did you see or hear anyone else?”

  “No. I told Detective Rubin all I’d noticed was a light in an office—its door was ajar—as I passed by, heading for the elevator. I later learned it was Allison Carr’s office. She’d worked late that night.”

  “And what timeframe are we looking at here?” I asked.

  “About nine thirty. I can’t be certain, I was too upset.”

  “Things hadn’t gone well with Dick?”

  “Sally Lou urged reconciliation. We were kin. As a man of God, I decided to try. But Dick behaved like the devil himself. Gloated over his Yale education, taunted me about my lack of same, mocking my correspondence-school the­ology degree, and made lewd remarks about Sally Lou’s…er, large bosom. The deviant even suggested group sex. I wanted to kill…not literally, but you can imagine how I felt.”

  “So, you…”

  “There was one more thing. I mentioned it to the police. While he was berating me, Dick kept checking his watch as if he were expecting someone. I finally just gave up and came back to the Wales and Mother.” Isaac smiled at his wife.

  “He arrived before ten,” Sally Lou said. “And I’m sure about that, because I was reapplying my makeup, getting ready to go down to the dessert table, and that starts at ten.”

  I couldn’t give it up. “So, Reverend Walton, you didn’t see, hear, taste, touch, or smell any—”

  “Hey, wait a second. You’re on to something there, Jake.”

 
“Where?” I couldn’t even guess.

  “An aroma. There was this…perfume or heavy cologne, first in the hall, as I passed the ladies’ room, then lingering in the elevator as I rode down. A smell like—forgive my vulgarity, Mother and Jake, but I don’t know how else to describe it—a smell like a bitch in heat.”

  Twenty

  Time was running out. I had to meet the ghostwriters at eight, and it was now almost seven thirty; however, I stopped at home to check my messages, try to contact Mila Macovich, and put on fresh lipstick. Overseeing Sally Lou’s toilette may have inspired me. More than a little late for their revival meeting under the big tent that usually houses the circus at Madison Square Garden, the Waltons had hailed a cab from in front of the Wales about fifteen minutes ago.

  Mila’s voicemail informed me that she was at her country house in New Jersey’s horse country but would be home late Sunday morning. I appreciated, while being puzzled by, people who shared their daily itineraries on their recorded messages. Did they hate to miss a call, or were they showing off what busy, wonderful lives they were out about and enjoying, while the caller had nothing better to do than listen to their voicemail?

  Still no word from Ben. Just how busy—and how angry—could he be? Well, I could be bigger than that. I dialed first his office, then his house, and left two identical messages: “Please call.” Then I sent him an email.

  There was a long report from Too-Tall Tom: “Jake, I’ve managed to set up a cocktail date with Barry DeWitt.” Too-Tall Tom sounded proud of himself, as well he should. “Turns out an old buddy of mine is also an old friend of DeWitt’s. He’s the one who made the arrangements, but when we get to the Kit Kat Club, my pal will remember another engagement, leaving me alone to question DeWitt. So, being down in Chelsea and all, if I’m a tad late for our dinner at Grazie, I wanted you to know that I’m on the case. I also have news regarding Michael Moran, but I’ll save that for des—” The recording cut off, as it almost always did when Too-Tall Tom left a message.

  Jane and Modesty were sitting at a round table in the back room drinking Chardonnay and munching on Italian bread when I arrived at Grazie at 8:10. “Let’s order before we get into the results of our investigations,” Modesty said by way of greeting. “I’m starving and so is Jane.”

  “Oh, Jake, I’ve had quite a day. Being a detective certainly beats researching those boring self-help books.” Jane glowed. The thrill of the hunt or the vigor of the vino?

  “Okay,” I said, picking up a menu. “Too-Tall Tom’s interviewing Barry DeWitt and might be a while.”

  The next few minutes were devoted to a serious discussion of food. Jane and I chose the pollo caprese—grilled chicken breast with artichokes and marinated tomatoes. Modesty, a vacillating vegetarian, ordered gnocchi—potato dumplings with tomato sauce and fresh mozzarella. “I think they may use animal fat in the preparation of those dumplings,” Jane said.

  “No way,” I said, as if I knew what I was talking about, before Modesty could verbally abuse Jane or interrogate the chef. “I eat here all the time with Mom and Gypsy Rose. Gnocchi’s a veggie dish, safe for purists.” And Modesty bought it, either because she chose to believe me or she really wanted those dumplings.

  Over salad, we agreed to let Jane go first. “But try to wind it up before the main course arrives,” Modesty told her.

  “I crashed an AA meeting,” Jane began, and I knew her saga wouldn’t be finished ’til dessert. But it was a great opening line, one that grabbed Modesty’s attention. No wonder Jane was in such demand as a ghostwriter. “When we left Sarabeth’s I realized I’d misplaced my sunglasses. You know, the Ralph Lauren wraparounds—three hundred and forty-six dollars, for heaven’s sake. I backtracked. They weren’t at the restaurant, and I knew I’d been wearing them when I left my apartment this morning for our Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting. I deduced that my glasses could only be at the Jan Hus church.”

  “Wow,” Modesty said. “A regular Perry Mason.”

  Jane ignored her. “However, when I arrived, the three o’clock AA meeting was just starting, so I couldn’t search the room. I figured recovery’s recovery—I didn’t know then that it was a closed meeting—and took a seat. My God, the alcoholics’ qualifications are ever so much more exciting than our fellow ghostwriters’ are.”

  “Just think what vicarious thrills you could have enjoyed if you’d crashed a Sex Addicts group,” Modesty said. “Well, maybe next week.”

  “Modesty, let Jane finish,” I said.

  “The lead speaker was Steve, and the man chairing the meeting, who introduced Steve, was his sponsor, Hans F. By now, I knew this was a closed meeting, and only for recovering alcoholics, but I also knew this was no coincidence. God meant me to hear these two guys share, and no way was I leaving.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “What did they have to say?”

  “Hans introduced Steve, describing his suffering in terms one might associate with Mother Teresa—or maybe sainted martyred virgins. I’m telling you, some of these recovering drunks make Serial Sue seem serene.” Jane took a sip of her wine. “Turns out Hans Foote had twelve-stepped Steve into the program. Your elevator operator’s last drink had been at that Manhattan Christmas party Glory told you about, Jake. And Steve’s sexual encounter with Peter and Flagg during their post-party sadomasochistic ménage à trois shocked him into sobriety. He cried when telling us how Dick had used the tree ornaments. Shaken and hungover, he’d approached Hans, who’d been a member of AA for years. After sharing his experience, strength, and hope with Steve, Hans brought him to his first meeting.”

  The main course arrived. Jane opted to keep her salad, which she’d hardly touched. We all had a taste or two of our meals and Jane continued, “When Steve spoke, I felt his pain.”

  Modesty groaned. “You would.”

  “No, Modesty, you just listen to this. The bottom line of Steve’s current crisis centers on the need to protect both his own as well as other fellow recovering alcoholics’ anonymity. Even a miserable ghostwriter like you can relate to that.” I’d never heard Jane scold Modesty like that, and I rather enjoyed it. “Hans and Steve attended an AA marathon meeting on the night of Dick Peter’s death. It went on to the wee hours of the morning; then they and several other AA members went to an all-night diner.” Jane’s voice had taken on a dramatic tone. “If they tell the police where they were that night, they’d each break not only their own anonymity, but that of the rest of the group, who’d have to confirm their alibis.”

  “Holy God,” I said.

  “Like the seal of the confessional,” Modesty said, as she nervously twirled her rosary beads.

  “And now,” Jane sighed, “we’re faced with a real problem. As good ghostwriters who respect anonymity and deal with it on a daily basis, dare we disregard another’s? I shouldn’t even be sharing this with you, but I didn’t know what else to do. I do know this: Steve and Hans may still be considered suspects by the police, but they’re off our list.”

  Stunned, we took a dinner break.

  With no answers to Jane’s questions regarding our two former suspects’ anonymity, we decided to move on to Modesty’s investigations before ordering dessert. And we were all wondering what had happened to Too-Tall Tom.

  “I simply called Glory Flagg and invited myself over to discuss how to reinforce energy at the fifth chakra. Poor management of a chakra can cause an energy leakage. Glory was surprisingly receptive—grateful for the growth opportunity. She knows that by practicing self-control or empowering others, you can rebuild your fifth chakra’s energy level. But that’s easier said than done, you know.” Jane and I stared at each blankly.

  “Modesty, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” I said, “but, hey, if it got you in the door, congratulations.”

  “You two should study the energetics of healing before it’s too late. Now I have several tapes by Caroline�
��”

  “Please, Modesty, save that for another time. What did Glory tell you?”

  “I’m trying to tell you. This is all tied in with moving Glory out of her existence in an energetically stuck place. In addition to exercising self-control and empowering others, one has to speak honestly to generate energy at the fifth chakra.” Jane rolled her eyes but said nothing. Modesty gulped a large mouthful of her wine and rattled on, “So, if telling the truth can prevent illness, feeling inferior, and having your love life off center…”

  I was losing patience here. “Damn it, Modesty, what did Glory say?”

  “Well, after I advised her that the truth could set her free, she said she’d spent the night of her ex-husband’s murder with Keith Morrison.”

  “What?” Jane and I shouted together, bringing the waiter over to inquire if anything was wrong.

  Modesty smirked. “And that’s not all. As I was leaving Glory’s apartment—incidentally, she lives on First Avenue, right across the street from the United Nations. Great building. Bobby Kennedy kept an apartment there when he was the senator from New York. Lots of windows, facing all those flags and the river. Being Dick Peter’s ex-wife and a part-time stripper must be a lucrative position to be…”

  Jesus H. Christ. Do all writers tell a tale as if they’re plotting their next chapter? Or was Modesty just trying to drive me crazy? “Get back to Morrison. What about him? Did you question him?”

  “Philip Marlowe couldn’t have done it better.” Modesty poured the last of the wine into her glass. I guess Perry Mason wasn’t a cool enough role model for Modesty.

  Jane stopped our waiter and ordered another bottle. It looked like we were in for a long evening. Where was Too-Tall Tom?

  “So, Modesty,” Jane was saying, “did you just march up to Morrison and ask him ‘where were you while Dick was being stabbed?’”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. I told him I’d been hired—I didn’t mention at no pay—to clear a colleague. He asked who. I said Jake O’Hara. And he said he’d do anything he could to help that pretty little lady. Barf. Barf.”