A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  Even though I’d told Stern that I was a suspect, I wrestled with annoyance at Modesty’s blabbermouth and admiration for her boldness. “And?”

  “Count Morrison out. He confirmed that he and Glory Flagg spent the night of Dick’s murder together...’til five in the morning. Get this: ‘discussing a business project.’ Morrison says he suffers from insomnia and often pulls an all-nighter. Jake, did you know that Keith Morrison had spent the night before you’d discovered Allison Carr’s body with Dennis Kim? So it seems Morrison has an alibi for most of that murder’s window of opportunity as well. And he wasn’t among the crowd of possible killers who were on the scene that morning, was he?”

  “No. But…” Feeling petulant and asking myself why, I said, “That doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. Morrison and Glory Flagg could be in this together. Alibiing each other. And just because I didn’t see either of them at Manhattan on the morning of Allison’s murder doesn’t mean one of them couldn’t have been there.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Jake? I thought we were trying to eliminate suspects here.” Modesty drained her glass and poured herself a fresh drink from the second bottle. I reached across the table and did the same.

  Jane said, “Of course, Modesty, you’ve done a fine job. Jake may be a tad too close to all this.”

  I glared at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Good evening, ladies.” Too-Tall Tom—as agile as Ray Bolger’s Scarecrow—folded his frame into the empty chair next to Modesty. “I do believe I’ve found the killer.”

  Twenty-One

  “Here’s my theory on how these murders happened,” Too-Tall Tom was explaining, as he waved away Modesty’s offer of wine. “I’ve been nursing the mother of all marti­nis—two, in fact—for the past hour and a half while DeWitt was downing double Dewars. Fortunately, my legs are as long as Tommy Tune’s and hollow to boot. But there’s no doubt, Barry’s our boy.” He paused, stopped our waiter, then ordered a Pellegrino and the poached salmon, asking for a plate of penne pomodoro on the side. We ghostwriters were used to Too-Tall Tom’s habit of eating two dinners at once. It wreaked havoc when it came time to divide the bill.

  “Go on,” Jane said, as soon as the waiter left.

  “First, all the information in the ‘D’ file turns out to be true. He often was the second man in a Glory Flagg-Dick Peter trio, and DeWitt—the famed ladies’ man—is bisexual. Jake was right to suspect him; Barry had motives galore. And the scene in the bookstore, where Modesty overheard that Barbara Ferris woman accusing DeWitt of killing Al­lison Carr, makes perfect sense. I’m sure he did stab her.”

  “What?” Modesty asked. “Did Barry just empty out his soul, upchuck his guilt, then vomit his motive, means, and opportunity into your face? I know you’re charisma incarnate, dear boy, but…”

  “Well,” Too-Tall Tom said, brushing his long, sandy-colored bangs out of his eyes, “actually, Barry did seem to take an interest in me and chat away quite freely; however, most of my deduction comes from cerebral detective work. Very much in the order of Sherlock Holmes, don’t you know?”

  “Would that be why you suddenly sound like a castrated Ringo Starr?” Modesty demanded.

  Before things really got ugly, I said, “Let’s just order our desserts. That will give us all something to do while Too-Tall Tom eats his dinners, then we can kick back with a decaf cappuccino or espresso and listen to what he has to say.” And—to my surprise—that’s exactly what we did. Even Modesty.

  Sipping his Pellegrino, having wolfed down his food in decathlon time, Too-Tall Tom had caught up to us, ordering hot apple pie with gelato and continuing his theory. “You ladies all know that people tend to tell me secrets. I don’t ask; they just tell.” This was true. There was an aura about Too-Tall Tom that encouraged confidences. “I think Barry DeWitt needed a friend. Or, in my case—a friend of a friend. After his second scotch, DeWitt told me that he found me attractive and asked what I was doing later to­night. After the third, he groused he was sick of being a society stud and whispered into my ear that I was really his type. Said he had to keep his gay affairs quiet, so he trusted I’d be discreet.”

  We all giggled. Despite that aura, Too-Tall Tom some­times gossiped as much as Mom.

  “After the fourth double, Barry literally cried. Toxic tears of hate. He said he was glad Dick Peter was dead. Unlike Glory Flagg’s autobiographical book, where she doesn’t name DeWitt, Peter’s novel would out the fictional—yet to­tally recognizable—DeWitt character’s bisexuality and his frequent participation in those tawdry trios. After the fifth double, he was slurring that Allison Carr—Barry referred to her as Robert Stern’s lapdog—believed that he’d killed Dick, but now she was dead too. Then he laughed like a demon. Remember I once dated a warlock; I know these things.”

  I became distracted for a moment, thinking about my rash promise to deliver the ghostwriters as witches for Gypsy Rose’s Halloween Happening. Then Too-Tall Tom was winding down. “And, of course, he has no alibi for either murder. As you’re all well aware, Barry was at Manhattan on the morning of Allison’s death and he just shrugged, then chor­tled when, after he ordered his sixth drink, I’d asked where he was during the timeframe for Dick’s. Elementary, my dear ladies.”

  The ghostwriters concluded that Barry DeWitt acted and sounded like a killer—albeit a crazy one—but that we couldn’t take our case to court, or even to Homicide...yet. Too-Tall Tom agreed to stay on DeWitt’s trail. “I’m worried about you, Jake. You’re ghostwriting Dick Peter’s book and DeWitt doesn’t want that mystery published. You could be in danger.”

  As we split the bill—Modesty always did the math—we made plans for Sunday. And I still hadn’t shared the results of my day’s investigations. Jane wanted to check out Barbara Ferris. She’d stopped by her apartment building on 84th Street, off Lex—“Pretty snazzy for a receptionist”—but the doorman told Jane that Barbara had left Friday evening carrying an overnight bag. Telling the ghostwriters about running into Barbara at Robert Stern’s, I wondered aloud if her bag had held a black satin dress.

  “Maybe this woman had taken over Allison Carr’s job as Stern’s chief comforter. Didn’t you say Barbara Ferris seemed overprotective of him, Jake?” Too-Tall Tom asked.

  “Yes,” I said, scribbling down Stern’s address for Jane. “Stern’s lying about something, that’s for sure. I guess he could be covering for Ferris. But…Jane, I have a suggestion. When you find Barbara, ask about her knowledge of the Allison Carr-Barry DeWitt connection. Why had DeWitt been warning Allison to lay off? What sordid secret did the gossip columnist know that would have threatened our nasty theater critic? And when did she know it?”

  “Don’t worry, Jake, I want to clear my third suspect too,” Jane said. “I’ll find Barbara first thing in the morning.” Good God, were the ghostwriters assuming all the other suspects were innocent just because Too-Tall Tom had decided that Barry DeWitt was our killer?

  Modesty must have read my mind. “I’m sure we’ve cleared Santa Steve, Hans Foote and, Jake’s reservations notwithstanding, probably Keith Morrison and Glory Flagg. Jake may have a point though. They could be covering for each other. But remember, it ain’t over ’til it’s bound and in print. We don’t even have the galley proofs yet. As for me, I’m going to have breakfast with Jennifer and Michael in the morning.”

  “How did you manage that coup?” I asked.

  “Rang them up, Michael answered. He was dashing off to the Garden for that Pledged-For-Lifers bull session. I told him I was doing a freelance story on the movement. First time that biker’s ever been civil to me; he usually just grunts and hands the phone to Jennifer. But tomorrow, I’m invited over for eggs Benedict. They’re his specialty.”

  “Lying is yours, Modesty,” Jane said.

  “Thank you.” Modesty almost smiled. “I am rather good at it, aren’t I?”

 
“Michael Moran is mine,” Too-Tall Tom complained. “That’s not playing fair, Modesty. I couldn’t see him today, what with that prayer thing at the Garden—he’d been down there setting up this afternoon—and my spending all that time lining up a date with DeWitt. I never even got to check out Christian Holmes. Now you’ll talk to Michael before I do. Jennifer’s your suspect, not Michael.”

  “They live together, for God’s sake,” Modesty said. “It just worked out.”

  “Then I’m going with you. I found out something very intriguing about Michael today. While you’re ‘interviewing’ him, I’ll have a word with Jennifer.”

  “Like hell.” Modesty shook Too-Tall Tom’s arm. “Tell him, Jake. I’m assigned to track Jennifer.”

  Jesus. I felt like King Solomon, about to suggest splitting that biblical baby in half. “Well, what did you hear regarding Michael?” I asked Too-Tall Tom, hoping his answer would inspire me.

  “That he’s having a hot affair—positively torrid—with some rich, older broad.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “My darling girl, I heard it straight from a scorned biker babe’s mouth. She rode with Michael, and she used to, er, pump the pedal with him. You can take this to the sperm bank. I’d bet my lifetime allotment of Viagra on it.”

  Before I could respond, Modesty said, “Okay, Too-Tall Tom, you’re on as my breakfast date; we’ll roleplay good cop/bad cop with both of them.” I didn’t have to ask which one would be cast as the bad cop.

  When I finally gave my report, it sounded anticlimactic, even to me. I now felt fairly certain that Reverend Walton, weird as he was, hadn’t murdered either his cousin Dick or Allison, but I tried to present all the facts as Sally Lou and Isaac had related them to me—including the new information, a lingering scent of a mystery woman—without bias or editorial comment. Not easy for a ghostwriter.

  “So, are you telling us that the good reverend didn’t kill his cousin or Allison Carr?” Modesty asked.

  “Could be,” I said. “If he really left Manhattan at nine thirty and arrived back at the Wales Hotel by ten on the night Dick died, he didn’t do it. Remember, the medical examiner says Dick was stabbed between ten p.m. and two a.m. I’m going to stop at the Wales before I go home tonight. Maybe someone, in addition to Sally Lou, can confirm Isaac’s alibi.”

  “Jake,” Too-Tall Tom said, “I’m sure the police have already investigated that.”

  “Yeah. And if Ben ever calls me again, I plan to ask him, but for now, we’re on our own here.”

  Modesty collected our cash and stood. “I’m history.” Her slang always seemed a decade off the mark. “Who’s walking uptown?”

  “Me,” I said. “Just one more thing, actually two. First, Christian Holmes was over at Gypsy Rose’s this afternoon, helping with the arrangements for the Halloween Happening. If you want his number, Too-Tall Tom, I have it. He’s smitten with our Gypsy Rose, so if you don’t reach him at home in the morning, try the bookstore.”

  “What else, Jake?” Jane yawned. “Excuse me, I’m bushed.”

  “Well…er…that is—” I began, as Modesty frowned. “Look, guys, Mom and Gypsy Rose have a big labor problem.” I turned to Too-Tall Tom. “Those witches you helped hire quit cold, and Halloween’s the day after tomorrow...and…”

  “And what trick have you planned for us?” Modesty shouted, shoving the money in the startled waiter’s palm.

  “Since we’ll all be there anyway, I told them we’d serve as their witches and warlock. You know, the double, double, toil, and trouble bit. Think about how good Mom and Gypsy Rose have been to us ghostwriters. And it’s Halloween, for heaven’s sake. Our holiday. If you’ll do it, I’ll treat for the costumes.”

  “Look, enough already,” Too-Tall Tom said. “I’m coming to the séance on All Soul’s Day; I want to go to the Halloween parade in the Village. It’s tradition.” He wiped his forehead, though it wasn’t hot. “I have my outfit all ready. I’ve had six fittings and paid over two hundred dollars for it. Not to mention the wig. And the horse. Now you’re asking me to toss my costume and my plans aside and dress up as some boring warlock at a Carnegie Hill party. Not only would that bring back unpleasant memories of the warlock I once loved, but you uptown people don’t have any idea of how to celebrate Halloween.”

  “Who are you going as?” Jane asked.

  “Lady Godiva. And I look great.” Too-Tall Tom colored becomingly.

  “There you go,” I said, wondering how it could cost more than two hundred dollars to ride naked. The wig should cover everything. But Lord only knows how expensive that hair must been; there was a lot of Too-Tall Tom. I tried another tack. “Godiva’s timeless. Pack the wig and whatever away for next year. Please, Too-Tall Tom. This year, Gypsy Rose, Mom, and I need you in our coven.”

  Twenty-Two

  In the end, Too-Tall Tom agreed, citing his longstanding friendship with Gypsy Rose, Mom, and her devious daughter, then quoted Walt Whitman; “You call me incon­sistent. You are correct. I am very large, I can contain all those contradictions.” His acquiescence, however reluctant, shamed Jane and Modesty into helping too. Down deep, they were all great ghostwriters.

  On our way home, with Modesty chattering on and on about her Gothic saga’s neglected edits, we passed by a woman whose scent sent me reeling. I’d smelled it before, recently—sweaty, smutty, sexual but not sexy. And then, in a movie-image-of-the-mind moment, I saw a swirl of black satin and recalled its accompanying aroma. Oh my God—Barbara Ferris, wearing the perfume Isaac had de­scribed, doused with the odor of overripe passion, not her usual clean Ivory Soap, dressed-in-uniform smell.

  I didn’t answer Modesty’s goodbye, as she hung a right on 86th Street. Desperate, I tried to hail a cab—but this was Saturday night—then stepped up my pace, almost jogging. The Wales would have to wait. I had to get to Robert Stern’s. At the corner of 90th and Madison, while waiting for the light to change, I pulled out my cellphone and called Ben. No luck. Had I really expected him to be there? I left a message at the precinct and then another at his home, telling him to meet me at Stern’s. I would have called 911, but what would I report? A suspicious smell?

  We’d closed Grazie, and it was now almost eleven o’clock. Even from across Madison Avenue, I could see Mr. Kim’s painted pumpkins were covered in heavy plastic, protecting them from the elements. A steady, chilling rain had begun to fall, but I didn’t want to waste any time stopping at the apartment for an umbrella. I turned my blazer’s collar up, grateful that I’d worn wool, tied my silk scarf babushka style, then jammed cold hands into my pockets, and ran faster. Ninety-third Street could have been Death Valley. Madison Avenue, as usual, had been full of life, and dead ahead, I could see the traffic drifting down Fifth, but Stern’s block was so quiet, I could hear the rustle of the falling leaves. Did the very rich go to bed much earlier than most of us ordinary folks did on a Saturday night?

  The house seemed to be in total darkness, so as I climbed the stoop’s steps, I didn’t notice that the front door was ajar. Odd. Should I just go in? Wouldn’t Nancy Drew, no matter how foolish that might be? The answer to both questions was yes. I walked into that enormous foyer, calling, “Mr. Stern?” It came out in a raspy whisper. Then echoed vibrantly. Okay, now what? There were several doors exiting the foyer on either side of the center staircase. Would I remember which one led to the morning room? And, if I did, would Stern still be sitting in the dark in his morning room at this hour of the night? Well, he might be, if he were dead. I did know that the butler had led me to a door on the left. Where was Jeeves anyway? Working by Braille and the dim light of a street lamp shining weakly through the half-opened front door, I entered the first door on the left at the foot of the stairwell.

  God, now that I was actually in a room, did I dare to put a light on? And if I dared to, would I be able to find the bloody switch? Fortunately, the room ran parallel to Fift
h Avenue. The two floor-to-ceiling French windows had no blinds, and from the outside, light from the passing cars’ headlights, as well as from a street lamp, filtered through the sheer curtains. However, there wasn’t enough illumination to prevent me from stumbling over a body.

  Trying to break my fall, I bent both knees and stuck my arms straight out in front of me, and my open palms landed on soft flesh. Someone’s bare, flabby thigh? I figured if my mother had returned home, she could hear my screams on 92nd Street. But after three yelps, I stopped, becoming aware of another noise—footsteps clicking hard against the marble flooring in the foyer and sounding as if they were heading my way. I silently crawled forward.

  Suddenly all the lights in the room were shining brightly. Had someone—the killer—pulled the circuit breaker back on? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Where could I hide? I was in the dining room, and while there were two magnificent mahogany breakfronts, there didn’t seem to be any closets. Midway up the wall behind the long rectangular table there was what appeared to be a built-in cabinet. I opened it.

  Inside, I found a large shelf with a pulley attached to it. An old-fashioned dumbwaiter. Big enough to hold dinner for twelve. Big enough to hold me. I stood on a Chippendale chair, hoisted myself up and onto the shelf, using the cabinet door as leverage. As I was folding my legs yoga style on the shelf, someone came into the room. I pulled the cabinet door shut with one hand, while working the pulley with the other, glimpsing only a flash of black material as my pursuer headed for the dumbwaiter.

  It seemed a long way down. As I scrambled off my shelf, sliding onto the terracotta floor of a huge downstairs kitchen, all the lights went off again. The killer seemed hell-bent on playing hide-and-seek with me in the dark, and if it were Barbara Ferris searching for me, she probably would have a real game advantage, no doubt being very familiar with the house’s nooks and crannies.