A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  At three thirty, I treated myself to a bag of roasted chestnuts and a diet soda, then sat on a bench, watching the riders go round and round on the carousel. Rodgers and Hammerstein’s music filled the air. Parents stood next to their kids on horseback, holding them tightly, and the children squealed with delight as the merry-go-round picked up speed. I spilled the Coke all over my good Burberry raincoat when I spotted Mila Macovich astride a painted pony, hand in hand with Michael Moran. Carousel’s Billy Bigelow and Julie could not have looked more in love than Dick’s widow and Jennifer’s husband.

  Twenty-Six

  I trekked through Central Park and the echo of the organ music’s haunting refrain traveled with me. Good God Almighty. Mila Macovich and Michael Moran. Way beyond belief. Their romance not only confirmed Too-Tall Tom’s information that Michael was having an affair with a rich, older woman and Jennifer’s hunch that her husband was sexually otherwise engaged, it provided two more motives for Dick Peter’s murder.

  Horses of many hues raced around in my mind, their hammering hooves taking me on a wild ride more like a tilt-a-whirl than a merry-go-round. And I didn’t ride alone. A befuddled Robert Stern straddled a Delft blue colt. Next to him, Glory Flagg sat sidesaddle on a tricolor striped stallion. Barry DeWitt’s mount was a white gelding and he wore a cowboy hat to match. In front of them, Isaac Walton rode bareback on a palomino. Sally Lou had squeezed on behind him, her chubby arms wrapped around his waist. Jennifer Moran, looking forlorn and eating a cotton-candy cone, rode a pink pony. Keith Morrison, singing along to the music, sat on an ass. Michael Moran and Mila Macovich, eyes locked and fingers intertwined, ignored their fellow riders. The car­ousel’s benches, painted with colorful carved enameled flowers and usually reserved for grandparents and timid tod­dlers, were filled with bloody daggers. And, on this murder-go-round, Dick Peter, Allison Carr, and Barbara Ferris were the pale riders seated on pale horses. I rode with them.

  A scream brought the carousel to an abrupt stop. From the curious stares of passersby, I realized I’d been the one who screamed. Of course, this being New York, none of them were curious enough to inquire what might be wrong with me. All that hammering had left me with an Excedrin headache; I left the park and hailed a taxi.

  In the cab, I swallowed two tablets neat, then closed my eyes, relieved that the whirling images had vanished. But no way could I relax. Questions nagged; answers were in short supply. The Mila Macovich-Michael Moran equation changed everything. Mila got around. Dick Peter’s “D” file indicated that she’d also slept with Barry DeWitt. Had Dick been killed so that Mila would inherit his money and Michael could marry the merry widow once he’d dumped Jennifer? Did Jen know Mila was the other woman? Had she really been protecting her philandering husband? Good Lord. Could Jennifer have killed Dick, knowing the police would find out about Mila and Michael? A double-barrel frame?

  Robert Stern’s need to revenge Catherine’s suicide may have driven him to murder Dick and then Allison. Because she knew too much? Why would Stern have waited so long to exact his revenge? Maybe he’d feared the whole sordid story reappearing in Dick’s book. On the morning I’d copied the manuscript files, he’d been in the mailroom, holding on to a folder as if his life depended on reading it. If he wasn’t the murderer, what had driven him over the edge yesterday? If Stern hadn’t stabbed Barbara himself, had he witnessed her murder?

  He wound up holding the bloody dagger, seemingly convinced that I was his dead wife, Catherine. If the daggers used as the murder weapons were from his collection, who, other than Stern, had access to them? What had transpired in that mansion right before my trip in the dumbwaiter? Could his confusion be an act? Had Ben been able to get a statement from him? Was there any way I could visit Stern at Mount Sinai? Murderer or not, he certainly played a pivotal role in all three of these deaths, and I wanted to invite him to be part of our Halloween Happening.

  If Barbara Ferris and Allison Carr were killed because they knew too much—and I believed they were—what had the women discovered? Had they shared the same information? Or did they each have different evidence pointing to the killer? Allison Carr had worked late on the night of Dick’s death. Probably later than she’d admitted. I’d no doubt she’d seen something. Barbara Ferris had been there too. Isaac Walton and probably Stern—or whoever had murdered Dick—had smelled her heady perfume. Who or what had these women witnessed that night? I was convinced if I had an answer to that question, it would lead me to the killer.

  Isaac and Sally Lou weren’t out of the woods either. Family feuds, especially those involving jealousy and money, frequently ended in murder. The reverend’s motive remained one of the strongest and God knows he was such a snake. Wouldn’t I have loved to find out why Keith Morrison had been calling on Walton last night at MSG? My earlier hunch about Our Gal Sunday and Dick and Isaac’s West Virginia roots resurfaced. Were their lives crossed somehow? What might the preacher and the publisher have been plotting? Yet, as much as I disliked Isaac, a confirmation of his alibi would help prune this list.

  Even more intriguing was the relationship between Glory Flagg and Morrison. A business arrangement, he’d told Modesty. I didn’t buy that. Morrison owned Pax. Glory’s publisher was Harvest House. Since Keith Morrison had had Dick Peter under contract, how could he have been dealing with Glory? An affair? Were they only another odd couple—or two-thirds of an odder ménage? Or were they partners in murder? While Glory had a twenty-million-dollar motive, Morrison’s motive could have been to cover up an extramarital fling. Morrison, not DeWitt, might be the other man.

  But then what would be the real reason that Barry DeWitt had threatened Allison Carr at the Algonquin? And could it be mere coincidence that Barbara Ferris had overheard his threat? I didn’t think so. Our Ghostwriters Anonymous twelve-step program teaches us there are no coincidences. Barbara must have been tracking Barry or, more likely, Allison. Maybe Barbara knew Allison was in danger. Too-Tall Tom’s conviction that Barry was our murderer seemed too simplistic for such a complex case. Yet when it walks like a duck...

  “Miss, we’re at the Wales. Do you ever plan on exiting my vehicle?” The cabbie sounded really irritated.

  The Waltons were in the lobby admiring the Puss and Boots display. Damn. I didn’t need them hanging around while I checked out Isaac’s alibi.

  “Jake, how nice to see you.” Sally Lou beamed. “We’re going up to the Pied Piper Room for a spot of tea. Won’t you join us?” A week at the Wales had turned Sally Lou into English landed gentry. Now if she could just lose that West Virginny twang.

  “Thanks, I’ve had a busy afternoon. Tea would be terrific.” Hell, the waiter would be on duty ’til midnight. I’d catch up with him later. This would be a great opportunity to gather a few more facts and to invite the Waltons to the Halloween Happening and the confession that I hoped would follow.

  Sally Lou sipped her tea with her pinkie practically extending out to Madison Avenue. “It’s all so sad. Will you be attending Dick’s funeral tomorrow morning, Jake?” Hypocrisy hugged her words like a shroud.

  “Yes. Though I have to stop at Manhattan first.”

  “Won’t they be closing up shop for my cousin’s service?” Isaac asked. “I’d have thought Dick mattered more to the magazine’s management. Wouldn’t you say that Dick deserved the respect of a full day of mourning, Jake?”

  Having no idea how to answer that, I ate a cookie. Not to worry, Sally Lou jumped in.

  “Manhattan’s a dangerous place to work. With that hotshot Robert Stern in custody, is there anyone in charge over there? Who could have thought that puny ole Mr. Stern stabbed Dick? And those two innocent women. They must have had something on him. What a pity. I have read Allison Carr’s ‘Bites From the Big Apple,’ of course.”

  “As I understand it,” I said, “Robert Stern is being held as a material witness. He hasn’t been arrested for the murders.”

  Sal
ly Lou put three cookies into her mouth at once, but managed to continue talking. “Don’t be silly, Jake; he’s guilty as sin.”

  “With what judgment we judge, we shall be judged,” the reverend said. “However, in this case, I agree with you, Mother. Robert Stern had more than sufficient reason to want Dick dead.” Isaac slammed sugar into his cup, stirred it with vigor, and turned to me. “Isn’t that right, Jake?”

  “Reverend Walton, I assure you, Stern wouldn’t be my top candidate among this large slate of suspects. That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Who is?” Sally Lou asked, grabbing another fistful of Social Teas. “Your top choice, I mean.”

  “Actually, I’ll be revealing that tomorrow night at Gypsy Rose Liebowitz’s Halloween Happening. Her New Age bookstore’s right around the corner on 93rd Street, just off Madison. Please join us. All the suspects will be there. I know you both want this mystery solved as much as I do.”

  “Jake, I don’t think we can do that,” Sally Lou said. “Don’t you understand that New Agers consort with Satan?”

  Isaac Walton coughed and his big nose turned even redder than the rest of his face. “God forbid that I would ever enter into such a den of evil.”

  “Well,” I said, “you’ll risk looking guilty if all the other candidates show up and you don’t. And, Sally Lou, this would be the perfect opportunity for you to wear that heavenly white dress again. You can come as an angel.”

  “Jake could be right, Mother.” Isaac seemed to be reconsidering. “Maybe God will forgive us, if our presence would end all these ugly accusations and help find the real killer. A march into Hell for a heavenly cause.”

  I stood.

  “Oh, by the way, I heard that Keith Morrison caused a bit of a scene at the Garden last night. What happened?”

  Isaac stood too.

  “Mr. Morrison’s brief visit concerned a private business arrangement, and as far as I can recall, was most cordial.” He turned to Sally Lou. “Come along, Mother, we have an appointment.”

  Sally Lou sighed. “We’ll attend your Happening. But I think you’re drawing to an inside straight, Jake. If I were a betting kind of woman, I’d give you ten to one odds on Stern.”

  “Think of it as bingo, not poker, Sally Lou. See you in church.” I left them in the Pied Piper Room to go and search out Isaac’s alibi, praying I wouldn’t find one.

  Twenty-Seven

  “That little fat lady?” the handsome young Alba­nian—whose name plate read Fredric—asked. “Yes, Madame. She has not missed a dessert hour since arriving at the Wales. However, her husband, the one who is leading the men’s prayer group at Madison Square Garden, did not make it every night. Sometimes, the lady ate her cake alone. I do not recall if he joined her last Wednesday night. It is possible—I am sorry, but I cannot be certain.”

  “It’s okay. Is there any way I can get a list of the guests who were staying here last Wednesday night? Maybe some­one who went to the late dessert will remember seeing Rev­erend Walton.”

  “We will inquire at the front desk. But I believe an in­vestigator—a Detective Rubin—already has made such a request. Is Madame associated with the New York City Po­lice Department as well?” This man sounded like a cultured Middle European who’d studied English at Oxford.

  Though tempted, I didn’t want to add impersonating a police officer to Ben’s litany of my transgressions. “No, just checking out alibis, trying to clear a friend from a possible murder charge.” No need to mention I too was a suspect.

  “I regret having to inform you of this, Madame, but I am certain the manager will not share the hotel’s register with a…how you say…random citizen. Not even in America is there such liberty.”

  By the time I’d left the hotel and arrived home to be greeted by Mom and Gypsy Rose—both in a twitter about my dinner date with Dennis—two strange things happened. Fredric had willingly replied to my puzzled questioning. He’d been a doctor in Albania. Now, while awaiting certification in the United States, he was working three nights a week at the Wales. Then, as Fredric held the lobby door open for me, I glimpsed Keith Morrison stepping out of a limo across the av­enue. Why would the multimillionaire publisher be dropping by the Hotel Wales, if not to visit Isaac Walton? What was going on between them? I ducked out, hanging a left before Morrison could spot me, but not before I’d accepted a date for next Saturday night with Fredric.

  My mother said my phone had been ringing all afternoon. I checked the answering machine. Two hang-ups. A message from Dennis. He’d be here at seven. Jane and Modesty had called. Not a word from Ben.

  Jane’s message was surprisingly short, though hers usually rivaled Too-Tall Tom’s tomes. “I met with the Morans. Michael and Jennifer will—though not happily—attend the Halloween Happening. Jennifer said, ‘If we don’t come, people will assume one of us is the killer.’ Michael looked as if he could kill her about then. Anyway, they’ll be late. He has to stop somewhere first.” After all the squabbling Too-Tall Tom and Modesty had done about just whose suspects Jennifer and Michael were, I found it amusing that it now appeared Jane had taken them over.

  Modesty’s message was long. “Glory Flagg’s canceling her own polyamorous Halloween plans to attend both the Happening and our Name the Killer follow-up. Says we should have a pool. Her winning pick would be Barry DeWitt. With Isaac Walton to place. When I asked her if Keith Morrison had been going to that polyamorous affair with her, and now might also be available to join us, she jumped all over me. Keith Morrison, says Glory, is an overstarched Puritan. And did I realize that he was almost seventy? And she’s never seen such a case of total second chakra shutdown. Even if he had the passion to pursue polyamorous pleasure, he wouldn’t have the passion to perform. Anyway, the Puritan’s not answering his phone. I’ll keep dialing.”

  I called Modesty back and told her to page Keith Morrison at the Wales. That should shake up his chakra.

  Gypsy Rose had brought her entire makeup case. “Trunk” would be a more correct term. Rows and rows of pull-out drawers, filled with creams, lotions, lipsticks, shadows, and multiple baggies that contained blush, highlighter, and contouring brushes. Some of the boxes were so arcane that I didn’t even question their mysterious, albeit colorful, contents. Knowing I couldn’t fight the two of them, I sat at Mom’s vanity table, allowing her to fasten a plastic cape around my neck. Gypsy Rose went to work redoing my cheekbones and brows, while Mom plugged in her hot rollers. It had been a long time since I’d seen the two old friends looking so happy.

  Women who came of age in the late fifties and early sixties still spend a lot of their time planning what to wear and getting ready. Mom and Gypsy Rose were no exceptions. “You haven’t even decided which dress,” my mother said. “I could be pressing it for you.” She jabbed a stick into the big roller under my bangs with more force than I felt was necessary.

  “Why does it have to be a dress? I only own three: one for funerals, one for weddings, and that green velvet, Scarlett O’Hara’s drapes number that you bought me last Christmas. How about my camel silk pantsuit?”

  “And I’d hope you wouldn’t be wearing that with a white cotton shirt from the Gap,” my mother said.

  She had me there. I did own four silk blouses, and one even matched the pantsuit in question; however, all of them were at the cleaners. In the mirror as Gypsy Rose arched my eyebrows, I watched a frown furrow my forehead.

  “Jake, don’t worry,” Gypsy Rose said. “I’ve brought along three of my prettiest camisoles. One black, one taupe, and one ivory. I know they’re a little fancy for your plain…sense of style, but, darling, a bit of lace never killed anyone. And they all come with built-in bras. So uplifting. And no one would ever guess it wasn’t all yours.”

  Agreeing to consider the camisoles, as Mom scurried off to get the pantsuit so that I could try it with all three of my options, I switc
hed subjects with Gypsy Rose, going from this evening’s fashions to tomorrow night’s suspects.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Gypsy Rose. You always come through.” I jumped as she tweezed a wild curly black hair from my eyebrow. Jeez, where had that come from? Maybe I’d better invest in a magnifying mirror.

  “My pleasure, darling. Am I hurting you? Sometimes we have to suffer to be beautiful, you know.” Gypsy Rose applied a bit of witch hazel—what else?—to the blood her last pluck had drawn. “Too-Tall Tom stopped by late this afternoon, just as I was closing up shop. He brought one warlock’s and three witches’ outfits over. Said he knew you wouldn’t have the time to rent them—even if you could find anything left in the stores at this late date. And they’re the right stuff. His former boyfriend, the warlock, conjured them up for him.”

  “I’m a lucky woman to have friends like you guys.”

  Gypsy Rose beamed. ‘Tell that to Too-Tall Tom. He also had a report he asked me to pass along to you. Don’t dare call him tonight; he has a date. But he finished his assignment. Barry DeWitt will be at the Halloween Happening and will stay for our private party. Too-Tall Tom wants you to know he went way beyond the call of duty. You and the other ghostwriters must be aware he believes that pompous theater critic is the killer. Well, DeWitt would only attend our Happening if Too-Tall Tom came with him. As his date.”

  “Oh, God. Does Too-Tall Tom think he’ll be stabbed in the back on his way to the bookstore? He could be right. Maybe we can have Modesty ride shotgun for him.”

  “I’ve already arranged for a limo to pick up Too-Tall Tom and his date, the potentially deadly DeWitt.”

  Gypsy Rose smiled as she brushed my brows, filling in their bald spots with a soft pencil. Why do women pluck out the hairs from our brows, then crayon them back in? Why had I been crazy enough to let Gypsy Rose do it to me? This is one of the few areas where—though I hate to admit it—men might be smarter than we are.