by Noreen Wald
Later, in the spirit of compromise, kind of a happy medium, we decided on Ghost. When I told my mother I would be spending the afternoon with Dennis—I’d abridged my plans to meet Mila Macovich and to check out Isaac Walton’s alibi—she started humming some old song. Mom steadfastly refused to listen to any music, except for show tunes, that had been written after the mid-sixties. Foolishly, I broke one of my cardinal rules and asked what its title was.
“‘Isn’t it Romantic?’” she said. “Don’t you remember it from Sabrina? You know, the movie where Audrey Hepburn married the multimillionaire.” Then she suggested we watch that too.
During a series of phone calls earlier this morning, I’d set up my game plan for this afternoon. Jane’s call had awakened me at 8:10. She’d heard on the radio that Barbara Ferris had been murdered and lamented the fact that her three suspects were now either cleared or killed. “It’s not fair, Jake. Modesty has three really hot prospects. I don’t believe Jennifer’s a triple murderer; she’s afraid of dead people, you know. She refuses to attend wakes or funerals and would rather visit Hell than view an open casket. But maybe being married to Michael Moran all these years has finally driven her over the edge. Glory Flagg’s my first choice. Probably aided and abetted by Keith Morrison.”
“Really? Last night I thought you’d agreed with Modesty’s assessment—that their mutual alibis proved their innocence.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ve spent half the night analyzing this.” Jane did sound tired. “Keith Morrison has to have been the other man in the Glory-Dick ménage à trois. I don’t buy that his relationship with Glory is business. And if he lied about that, what else is he hiding?”
“You’re right,” I said. “And his last name begins with an ‘M,’ doesn’t it? I can’t get that file out of my mind. One of the “M’s” has something major to hide. Morrison’s married, isn’t he? He surely wouldn’t want his wife to know he’d played sadomasochistic sex games with Glory and Dick. Now there’s a motive.”
“You don’t think that we could be dealing with a screwy serial killer here...you know, one who hates Manhattan magazine and wants all its staff dead, do you, Jake?”
“Well, yes and no. I think the killer may be crazy and may hate the magazine’s staff, but I’ll bet our murderer knew all the victims intimately, and had a much more personal motive. Maybe that’s what we should be concentrating on.”
“How can I help, Jake?”
“Make a few calls to your agent and publishers. See what you can dig up about Morrison’s personal life.”
Jane laughed. “Oh, they’ll love that on a Sunday morning. But I can call in a few favors. I’ll get back to you. Will Modesty murder me for infringing on her suspect?”
“Only metaphorically, Jane. Don’t worry, I’ll take the verbal onslaught. Modesty’s given Morrison a pass; we have to do something.”
Then I’d called Dennis. I didn’t have any favors to call in, but I’d think of something. We agreed to meet at one o’clock. I’d ride along as Dennis delivered his father’s pumpkins to Gypsy Rose’s bookstore. And having Dennis on my agenda would make it easy to ditch Mom. She really liked Dennis, had no objection to his enormous wealth, and would welcome him as her son-in-law. But at this point I decided she’d welcome almost anyone.
Dennis seemed pleased, if puzzled, by my inviting myself along on his errand. But it was a good thing I had. The pumpkin heads weighed a ton and their felt hats kept slipping off as we gingerly loaded them into the trunk of his Rolls Royce. I couldn’t wait to get a look at Gypsy Rose’s face when we presented her with these Halloween treats.
“Sometimes modern art eludes me. I didn’t want to upset Dad, but are these pumpkins as ghastly as I think they are?” Dennis asked.
“Ghastly would be a good review of this guy’s talent. But not to fret. ’Tis the season to be scared. Hey, Dennis, before we leave, do you mind if I run into the Wales for a minute?”
“Renting a room for later, Jake? Love in the afternoon? What kind of a guy do you think I am? Well, hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
The day manager told me the waiter who’d worked the Pied Piper Room’s ten-to-eleven o’clock dessert table last Wednesday night would be in at four. I said I’d be back.
Gypsy Rose, dressed in what I thought was a costume—with her fashion flair, ranging from Chanel suits to Granny’s Attic, sometimes, it’s hard to tell—and looking like a reincarnation of Zelda Fitzgerald’s flapper era, was hosting a pre-Halloween book signing. The New Age author, a heart transplant recipient who’d fallen in love with the donor’s widow, reminded me of a wannabe Tom Wolfe, or maybe the white suit he sported was his costume. The place was packed. But Christian Holmes rushed over and offered to help Dennis and me carry the pumpkins. Jeez. Had he moved in? When we reached the Rolls, double-parked outside the 93rd Street entrance to the bookstore, a burly cop was writing a ticket. All of Dennis Kim’s considerable talent for lawyerly persuasion only resulted in a long lecture and a fat fine for blocking traffic. I buried my face in a pumpkin head so Dennis couldn’t see me laughing.
While Dennis, Christian, and I debated about where to place the pumpkins for least visibility, and the New Age author rattled on about our eternal hearts, Gypsy Rose joined us. “Oh, too divine. I love them. These jack-o’-lanterns just ooze the essence of Halloween; don’t you think so, Jake? Let’s add one or two of them to the window display.”
As we dutifully followed her lead, I decided there’s absolutely no accounting for taste. Once the pumpkin heads were ensconced in their new home, Gypsy Rose insisted we all take a coffee break. Over cappuccinos, totally ignoring my fierce frown, she proceeded to fill Christian and Dennis in on my dumbwaiter flight through Robert Stern’s townhouse.
Dennis said, “I thought you’d given up.”
“Listen, the last thing I need is another scolding.” I aimed my frown toward him.
“But he’s right, Jake,” Christian said. “There’s a serial killer on the loose here. And what’s really frightening is that it has to be someone we all know.” He patted my hand. “We don’t want you to be hurt.”
Emboldened and warmed by his concern—and convinced, in my gut, that this good man couldn’t be the killer—I trampled on Too-Tall Tom’s territory and asked about Christian’s alibi.
“All night at the New York Public Library.” Christian chuckled. “Sounds as fishy as Isaac Walton, doesn’t it? However, Girlie, that’s where I spent the night of Dick Peter’s demise. The Society to Debunk the Dead Sea Scrolls held an all-night marathon hunt for evidence to prove that the paper they’d been written on was manufactured centuries after the scrolls were supposedly crafted.”
I asked, “But how...?”
“One of my ex-wives still has a yen for me,” Christian said, grinning at me and Gypsy Rose. “And she’s a devout atheist. Like me, she’s much happier now that she’s given up hope. Anyway, my ex arranged for our society to use the main reading room, even provided coffee and sandwiches for our heathen research, and there were twenty of us to feed. So I couldn’t have stabbed Dick, but I think you knew that already, didn’t you, Jake?”
As I watched Gypsy Rose’s face flush with relief and Dennis nod approvingly, it was my turn to pat Christian’s hand.
Dennis had moved his car at the officer’s request. It was now parked on 87th Street, off Lexington; he said he’d walk me home on his way there. Then, to both his and my surprise, I accepted his invitation to dinner. A date with Dennis. Mom would be watching Sabrina alone, but happy.
Twenty-Five
I didn’t dare go upstairs. Mom would be filling little orange and black Halloween bags with candy corn and miniature Milky Ways, getting ready for tomorrow’s onslaught of neighborhood ghosts and goblins. She’d always taken trick or treating seriously. Edith Head couldn’t have provided me with better costume design than Maura O’Hara. But, giv
en Mom’s heightened state of perpetual worry, if I’d ventured into the kitchen, I’d either be pressed into stuffing the sacks or suffer an inquisition about why—and where—I was going out again. As Dennis made a right on Park Avenue, I doubled back, crossed Madison, headed west to Fifth, and boarded a downtown bus. Mila Macovich lived in a townhouse on 68th Street, right around the corner from Manhattan magazine. I would have walked, but I was just too weary.
At 68th Street, I plopped on a park bench, and with one eye on the lookout for low-flying pigeons in my vicinity, I pulled the cellphone from my tote and dialed Modesty’s number.
“How did it go at the Morans?”
“Jake, it was weird. Wild. I’ve left two messages for you. And Too-Tall Tom and I were worried after we heard about Barbara Ferris. I wish you’d stop acting so stupid and putting yourself in dangerous situations. You don’t want to get yourself killed, Jake.” For sure, this had to be the absolutely kindest remark I’d ever heard Modesty make. Touched, I wanted to respond, but she moved on, “Then I spoke to your mother. She told me you were okay and out for the day with Dennis. Any romantic news you’d care to share with a fellow ghostwriter?”
“That was only a cover story. But Dennis and I did deliver Halloween pumpkins to Gypsy Rose’s. All carved out to be the ugliest version of the seven dwarfs you ever laid eyes on, and the big item is I’m engaged to Dopey.”
“It’s not nice to call your future husband names.”
“Modesty, now I know why you never joke. Just tell me what happened at Jen’s.”
“Well, I have to say Too-Tall Tom proved helpful. The Moran marriage would make even your mother glad you’re single. Michael sucks up to Jennifer, sweet as a Hershey Kiss, but anyone can see it’s all an act. If Jen had a brain cell left, she’d spit him out. Did you know she’s become a morning drinker? Polished off three Bloody Marys for breakfast but ate nothing. When I told them you were a suspect, Jake, and we need information, Michael only smirked; but Jen offered to help. That’s when Too-Tall Tom threw down the gauntlet.”
“Maybe the drinking explains why Jennifer’s stomach’s always so bad. It certainly explains why she’s been behaving so peculiarly. And she admitted the marriage had crossed some rocky roads but said things were getting smoother. Sex was still a problem, though.” I thought about that for a second, then asked, “What did Too-Tall Tom say to them?”
“That you were innocent and the rest of the suspects—and he reminded Jennifer and Michael they were included in that motley crew—had better start answering his questions. He’s so big, Jake, I think he scared the truth out of Michael.”
“Where did they say they were on the night of Dick Peter’s murder? Together?”
“No. Jennifer claims she had a tad too much wine with dinner and fell asleep. Alone. And she’d eaten alone too. Michael had gone out for the evening. Biker Boy woke her up when he came home—at one a.m.”
“Where had he been?”
“At a Pledged-For-Lifers’ cell meeting. He refused to give the names of his fellow cell mates. This anonymity stuff is really getting boring. Of course, I don’t believe him for a minute. And I wonder if Ben Rubin’s talked to him yet. He couldn’t pull that confidentiality garbage with the cops.”
“I think Jennifer told the police they were home together that night.”
“Well, well,” Modesty said. “The best is yet to come, Jake.”
“What?”
“Yesterday, Michael spent most of the afternoon turning that circus tent at MSG into a chapel. When Reverend Walton arrived, very late, he insisted on going to his dressing room before mounting the flower-bedecked pulpit. And the Pledged-For-Lifers were getting really restless.”
“That’s true. Isaac and Sally Lou were running way behind. Remember, they’d been with me at the Wales.”
“Yeah. Well, Sally Lou took her place on the dais, but when another five or ten minutes passed by, Michael went to get Isaac. Guess who the good reverend was engaged in a screaming match with down in the dressing room?”
“I’m totally clueless. Who?”
“Keith Morrison,” Modesty snarled in my ear. “Seems my presumption of his innocence may have been premature.”
“Good God. What were they fighting about? Did Michael say?”
“Oh, yes. Michael said Morrison accused Walton of reneging on a promise, saying that, after all, that was the reverend’s stock in trade. There was something else about Pax Publishing House’s honor being challenged. But mostly, they were fighting over Glory Flagg. Walton anti. Morrison pro. To Michael, it sounded like a major battle over sex and money. But Michael says he missed the details. He was more concerned about getting Walton to the pulpit.”
“Wow. Good work, Modesty. Do me a favor, call Too-Tall Tom and say thanks. I’m on my way to Mila’s. Isn’t it amazing how all these suspects keep intertwining? I’ll catch up with you guys later.” I didn’t mention my dinner date with Dennis.
When I hung up the phone, I sat and thought. This case had more crosscurrents than Murder on the Orient Express, where it turned out all the suspects were guilty—each having stabbed the victim in turn. If I could gather the remaining suspects together in one room, then, maybe, like Hercule Poirot, I could trick one of them into confessing. If, at that time, I’d have any idea who that might be. With the ghostwriters on the case, I’d bank on that happening. And wouldn’t Halloween be the perfect night to host that party? At the witching hour the murderer would be unmasked.
I picked up the phone again and called Gypsy Rose. Where better to hold the denouement than her New Age bookstore? My favorite psychic didn’t disappoint me. Said it was in the tarot cards. I compiled the guest list, then called Jane.
“I’ll issue the invitations in person, Jake. No one has gotten back to me yet with any dirt on Morrison and this will give me an excuse to see him in person. Too-Tall Tom can come with me on my rounds.”
I filled her in on what Modesty had reported. “Why don’t you ask her to help too? You can divide the list, if necessary. But don’t bother asking Mila or the Waltons; I’ll be seeing them this afternoon. Thanks and good luck, Jane.” Then I stood, shooing away an aggressive pigeon who seemed to be aiming for my spot, and walked to the curb. Motives, means, and opportunities boiled in my brain, and the plot thickened as I crossed Fifth Avenue.
The house was a four-story Georgian limestone, complete with turrets and stained-glass windows. Graceful and gorgeous. It reminded me of a Gothic cathedral, and it must have cost Mila millions. All those quivering loins and heaving bosoms had paid off. Big time. The suspects in this case were offering me a peek into the lifestyles of the very rich. And Fitzgerald was right on. They are different from you and me.
Mila answered the chimes, which played a medieval chant, wearing jodhpurs, high boots, and carrying a crop.
“Going riding?” I sputtered, somewhat overwhelmed by the smell of incense, the foyer’s wall-to-wall gargoyles, and the chandelier of lighted candles.
“No, my dear, this is my writing attire.” Mila pouted, then perched on a recycled pew, zipping up a boot. “Sorry to sound brusque, Jake; I am glad to see you, but I have an appointment to go horseback riding in a half hour.” She looked up, giving me a smile so dazzling it rivaled the candlelight. “Can we cover whatever it is that you want to talk about in a gallop?”
I cut to the chase. “I have a question and an invitation for you, Mila. I’m sure you’ve spoken to the police, but it’s really important that I know where you were on the night that Dick was murdered.”
She stood and stared down at me. This was one tall lady. “Why? Do you think I might have been at Manhattan stabbing my husband?” Then she gave a raspy chuckle. “The truth is I was here, writing in my study ’til two in the morning, and I have the chapter to prove it. I date all the pages in my manuscripts. To keep a record of how many hours of blo
od, sweat, and typing go into all my books. Romance is such a difficult genre, Jake. Even the vanilla characters have to be covered in hot fudge.” Mila sighed. “Of course you’re correct, the police—that charming Detective Rubin and his gauche associate, Joe what’s-his-name indeed have asked that same question. And received the same answer. Actually, Dick couldn’t have been killed at a more inconvenient time. I’m on deadline.”
The brass of this broad. As if I didn’t know computers can be programmed—I’d bet even Joe Cassidy knew that.
I stared right back up at her. “Well, it’s great when a writer’s creativity can also provide an alibi, isn’t it?”
Mila never stopped smiling. “Yes, Jake. Isn’t it?” Then she looked at her watch. A Rolex. “Now, I do have to trot. What sort of an invitation do you have for me?”
“I know you’re coming to the Halloween Happening at Gypsy Rose’s tomorrow night. Plan on staying late. The name of the killer in the three Delft dagger murders will be revealed at midnight.”
“Really? I wouldn’t miss that for the world. But do we still get to come in costume? I have this magnificent mask…”
“By all means, wear it, Mila.”
From somewhere in the deep recesses of the house, church bells tolled. Three o’clock. I looked for the holy water fountain on the way out.
I decided to take a stroll through Central Park to clear my head, plan my party, and then cab it back to the Wales. Near the entrance, I passed a food truck with its vendor standing in front of his truck, hawking the hot dogs. I resisted temptation. They smelled divine and looked so delicious, smothered in sauerkraut, relish, and mustard, but I was my mother’s daughter and not about to allow “dirty water dogs” to run amok through my digestive track.