A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  “Seems like you and Christian are getting pretty cozy,” I said as Gypsy Rose rolled on the mascara.

  “Charcoal gray, Jake. That’s the right shade for you. And it curls as it lengthens, isn’t that wonderful? You can buy it in any drugstore. Never pay department store prices. All that money’s for the packaging. Remember, you can’t beat Maybelline.” She stood back, like a true artist, to admire her work. “I’m thinking of bringing Christian with me to the cemetery next Sunday to visit Louie. Unless, of course, he turns out to be the killer.”

  I laughed. “You know he has an airtight alibi—his ex-wife. Can’t get one any better than that.”

  “Well, it’s time Louie Liebowitz and Christian Holmes met, Jake. Did I tell you Louie knew Christian—as Armand—in Paris in 1918?”

  “No...”

  “Why, Louie was Colette’s publisher. He really couldn’t stand Christian that time around. I’m hoping they can work things out in this incarnation.”

  “But Louie’s been dead for years. How can they…er…be on the same plane?” I knew I’d regret asking this question.

  “Don’t you see, Jake? I’m the go-between. It’s my destiny to smooth out their relationship before Christian dies or Louie makes a comeback. He’s on a holding pattern—between planes—for now. Sit still while I line your lower lip. A pout is always sexy.”

  The color was coral. I actually liked the way my face was shaping up. “So what’s the game plan for tomorrow night, Gypsy Rose?”

  “We’ll have booths, like a fairway. Two fortune-tellers. You witches, not being the real thing, can act as hostesses. I thought Too-Tall Tom could man the cauldron. It will be filled with cider and emitting mysterious vapors. Dry ice, not witchcraft, you understand. We’ll have a hypnotist doing regressions. And a fire walker from the downtown Unity Church will give a demonstration. Our guests can enjoy a hands-on experience. I guess I should say a putting-their-feet-in-the-fire experience. Have you ever watched anyone walk on burning coals, Jake?”

  I shuddered, then shook my head from side to side, admiring my heightened cheekbones.

  Gypsy Rose continued. “And lots of great food. Then the grand finale will be your unmasking the murderer.”

  “We hope.”

  “I didn’t mention anything about that to Maura. Your mother’s frantic enough without having to worry about the killer now knowing that you plan to expose him. Or her. This really is a dangerous game you’re playing, Jake. I only agreed to help because I knew you’d go ahead without me. There may be safety in numbers in an environment I can control.”

  “I’m not sure the ghostwriters can pull this off. We’ll need your help. Do you think we can move the séance to tomorrow night? The spirits could help with the solution. Since we won’t be getting started ’til after midnight, technically it will be All Soul’s Day anyway.”

  “If you hold the séance at the Halloween Happening, Mila Macovich won’t come.” My mother had returned, holding a carefully pressed pantsuit over her arm.

  “Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about that, Mom. I can assure you Mila wouldn’t miss it for the world. And that’s straight from the horse’s less-than-original mouth.”

  When Dennis Kim arrived an hour later, I realized that despite the curls, color, camisole, and my complete cooperation with Mom and Gypsy Rose, he looked far better than I did.

  Twenty-Eight

  Somehow the French country decor at the restaurant reminded me of the carousel in Central Park. Or, maybe, as it had before, sitting this close to Dennis and sipping champagne cocktails made me feel dizzy. The soft lighting should have soothed; instead, the tilt-a-whirl inside my head spun round and round.

  Popping an exotic canape into my mouth, I watched in wonder as Dennis placed our order in French, chatting up the maître d’ as if he were an old friend. As soon as we were alone—the staff had hovered over us since we walked in the door—I told Dennis about the Halloween Happen­ing’s anticipated surprise ending and how all the suspects would be there, stressing that if the ghostwriters couldn’t come up with the killer, surely Gypsy Rose would. “You know how effective her channeling can be. Why, Dick Peter could return from hell and tell us whodunit.”

  “Comme ci comme ça, Jake.” Dennis was on a French roll tonight. “Haven’t you yourself said her séances have a fifty percent no-show rate?”

  “I never said fifty percent.” I hated it when my words came back to haunt me. “Maybe thirty-five.”

  “Whatever. I’m more concerned that you won’t be around to see which—if any—spooks do show up. Have you and the ghostwriters gone totally crazy, girl? You’ve issued an invi­tation to a serial killer. His or her response certainly will include an attempt to stab you. And need I remind you, this murderer’s had a damn high success rate so far. Does Ben Rubin know what insanity you’ve been planning?”

  “Well, no, but I’ll invite him too.” This was a spur-of-the-moment decision, made more to quell Dennis’s objec­tions than to keep Ben informed.

  “All we can do is damage control.” Dennis’s gold-flecked eyes held mine. “You can’t be alone between now and that Halloween Happening tomorrow night. Not even to go to the john. Give me your itinerary. I want someone with you at all times.” His tone scared me into complying.

  Dennis would pick me up and drive me to Dick’s funeral at St. Thomas’s in the morning. We’d get one of the ghostwriters, either Modesty or Jane, to meet me in front of the church after the service and accompany me to Manhattan to deliver my column. I’d wanted to turn it in early in the morning, before the funeral, but Dennis vetoed that idea.

  “And, Jake, we have to cover the late afternoon too. Since your mother has no idea of your Agatha Christie copy­cat final chapter, we can’t count on her staying home all day.”

  “No. She’ll be at the bookstore, setting up for the party. Christian Holmes and Aaron Rubin will be helping too.”

  “Okay, when will you finish at Manhattan?”

  This babysitting tactic would cut into my agenda to con­tinue the investigation tomorrow. Maybe I could take Mod­esty or Jane with me; however, I didn’t consider it prudent to mention that idea to Dennis. He didn’t seem to understand that desperate people used desperate measures. “I should be home about five.”

  “All right. I have a meeting with Robert Stern, but I can be there by six. Keep Modesty or Jane with you ’til I get there. Do you read me?” Dennis pulled out his phone, so tiny it hadn’t even made a wrinkle in his Brooks Brothers jacket pocket. “I’m calling Modesty now. She’s really a weirdo, but far sharper than that How-to-Doody Jane. What’s her number?”

  I gave him Modesty’s number, then said, “Oh, I read you, Dennis. Loud and clear.”

  The waiter arrived with our first course. Escargot. Didn’t Dennis know he was dining with an Irish peasant? I dipped French bread in the sauce, trying to avoid contact with a snail, while Dennis laughed. “Would you prefer something else?”

  “Actually, if there’s melon or a small fruit cup, I’d like that.” Dennis just kept laughing, but he waved the waiter over. We chatted about his father, my mother, and how the old neighborhood had changed, not mentioning murder or anything personal until the main course arrived.

  Our rack of lamb was served with as much flair as a Broadway production number. The roast more than lived up to the expectations of its presentation. Absolutely delicious, if a tad too rare. And the potatoes were the best I’d ever eaten.

  “Dennis, this is really a wonderful meal.” I sipped my white wine. All his House of Rothschild snobbery had failed to convert me to red.

  “Don’t you know there’s nothing too good for you, Jake? Your wish...”

  Boy, would Dennis live to regret those words. “Well, I do have a wish you might be able to fulfill.”

  “Yes?” I could hear the slightest hint of terror. “And what would that
be?”

  “Who’s Robert Stern’s lawyer? I mean, I know you represent him, but has he hired a criminal attorney yet?”

  “Why?” His voice was becoming shriller by the second.

  “I want Stern at the séance. Some of the suspects think his being found holding a bloody dagger has let them off the hook. I want to cause a stir. You know, shake things up. Besides, I don’t think he did it. Someone else chased me around that house. I’d bet my poached pear that someone is our serial killer.”

  “The police seem to share your theory. Or at least they’re considering it. Evidence indicates there was another person on the premises. Stern’s still suffering from shock. He can’t tell them anything. However, I’ve convinced them to send him home in the morning. I’m meeting with him tomorrow afternoon. And yes, I’m bringing a defense attorney with me. How come you didn’t know about Stern’s status? What’s the matter, Jake? Aren’t you talking to your boy­friend, Detective Rubin?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Dennis. So can you bring Stern to the unmasking tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t think he’s well enough. He’s completely disori­ented. I understand he thought you were Catherine.”

  “Look, he doesn’t have to come to the party, but I need him at the séance. Come on, Dennis.” I’d show him what shrill really sounded like. “You said my wish...”

  “Okay, okay. I know you’ve been through hell these last few days, kid. Let me see what I can do.”

  I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. But my lips landed on his. He tasted like red wine. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  “Well, well, if it ain’t the mouthpiece and the ghost­writer.” The unmistakable Brooklyn vowels of Glory Flagg jarred me. I bit Dennis’s lip. As he wiped the blood away with his napkin, Glory said, “Why don’t you guys join me and Keith for a nightcap?”

  As it turned out, they joined us. Glory had a double Remy Martin. Keith Morrison had a Canadian Club and ginger ale. Dennis had an espresso and I savored the poached pear, a cappuccino, and a cornucopia of information from Glory.

  “How about that Ferris broad getting herself stabbed at Robert Stern’s?” Glory Flagg asked, fussing with the red feather boa that appeared to be tickling her chin. “If she’d killed Dick and Allison, Stern woulda had mixed emotions. Been thrilled that Barbara had bumped off Peter, but been really upset if she’d stabbed my former schoolmate, Allison Carr. The old boy dug Allison. She’d stuck by him after Catherine’s suicide. Ya know, when Manhattan’s board voted to keep Dick and Stern really needed a friend. The hitch here is this fact: while Stern woulda wanted Barbara dead, he wouldn’t’ve had the guts to kill her. Besides, not for anything, I don’t think Barbara killed anybody.”

  “Was Stern having an affair with Allison?” I asked. Den­nis’s and Christian’s comments, as well as my own powers of deduction, made me sure Glory’s answer would be affir­mative.

  “The only affair Robert Stern ever had was with that prissy butler of his. It’s lasted for decades.” Glory grinned. “That’s why Catherine was so receptive to Dick’s devilish charms.”

  “What?” I shouted. The only surprise Dennis evidenced was an inhale of breath, bordering on a gasp. He swallowed an oversized swig of espresso to mask it.

  “Yeah, ain’t that amazing?” Glory asked, clapping her hands. “Them keeping it a secret, I mean. But I promise you Stern and his valet were in the closet together. Ya can read all about it in my book.”

  Keith Morrison remained silent, smiling at Glory with what appeared to be fatherly affection. But, then again, what did I know? I wondered why Morrison wanted Pax to pub­lish Dick’s posthumous manuscript when it was obvious that Glory’s book would have all the gore.

  While digesting the information about Stern’s sex life, I managed to eat a mouthful of the poached pear, as Dennis asked Glory, “Why don’t you think Barbara’s the killer?”

  “I’ve known Barbara for years.” Glory said. “She’s…er, she was a very religious woman. A Bible belt in karate, ya might say. Didja know she fought and won a sexual harass­ment lawsuit against Dick? Him and Manhattan had to cough up a pile of dough. But the board still wouldn’t fire him. Dick’s sass sold millions of copies. Ya probably haven’t heard anything about that lawsuit. The magazine’s settlement included a confidentiality clause, but I do know Barbara told that hunk Detective Rubin all about it.” Dennis shot me a smirk.

  “But, Glory,” I said, “it seemed to me that Barbara was very interested in Robert Stern. Romantically, I mean.”

  “You got that right, Jake. I told ya, Stern was so deep in the closet, poor Barbara didn’t realize he was gay. Most people didn’t. Barbara had mistaken his kindness for desire. That might be tragic, but it ain’t a motive for murder. Not in my book.” Glory adjusted her tiara. “Enough already. Now let’s get on to the important stuff. What are ya wearing to Dick’s funeral? And to the Halloween Happening? Me and Keith are really looking forward to learning who killed Dick. Ain’t that so, Keith?”

  “Indeed,” Morrison said. “I was delighted when Miss Modesty called to invite me to join you for the denouement. You’re one fine detective, Jake, tracking me to the Wales this afternoon.” He sounded as sincere as when he’d dis­cussed his high regard for Our Gal Sunday.

  Dennis put his arm around me in the Rolls. It felt great. Then, though I had several of Dick Peter’s files to read tonight and his funeral to attend in the morning, I consented to go dancing with Dennis at a South America nightclub down in Tribeca. “If you haven’t danced the tango, you’ve never really danced. This orchestra takes traditional Argentine music to poetic dimensions—not to mention dips. Come, tango with me.”

  “But I don’t know how.”

  “Just let me lead, Jake. I can tell you’ll be a natural.” And after two practice spins and another white wine, I believed I danced better than Al Pacino.

  Twenty-Nine

  When the alarm went off at seven thirty on Monday morning, I had a hangover. I crawled out of bed, brushed my teeth with baking soda, swallowed two Tylenol, put the water on for tea, dialed Ben at the Nineteenth Precinct’s Homicide Department, and left a message inviting him to tonight’s séance. Then, as guilt galloped through my soul, I added, “I’d really like to talk to you.”

  With such an aching head and queasy tummy, I wouldn’t think my heart could still jump every time I thought of Den­nis Kim’s good-night kisses, but it did. Why? Would I never get over my childhood crush? Did I really want that over­confident, mega-rich, far too sexy, womanizing, know-it-all pain in the ass in my life? I knew the answer was yes when I started worrying if—and at what time—he’d call before he came to pick me up this morning. But I wanted Ben too. And what about that handsome Albanian I’d flirted with at the Wales? If I lived through the week, I had a date with him on Saturday night. I took another Tylenol.

  The phone rang and I jumped, sloshing tea all over my bagel. Not that it mattered, I couldn’t eat it anyway, even devoid of cream cheese or strawberry jam.

  Modesty yelled in my ear, “Jake, Jennifer’s leaving Michael! Your line was busy, so she called me. She’s meeting with an attorney this morning—remember, Jen doesn’t do funerals—then going into the office this afternoon, but she wants to talk to you.”

  “Good God. I’d say a divorce would be in her best in­terest; but I’m still surprised. I’ll catch up with Jen­nifer at Manhattan later.” I then told Modesty about Glory’s revelations last night, observing, “She’s like a sink in an airport. You know, the no-hands-on kind, where the faucet spurts out automatically, splatters you for a few seconds, then stops—just shuts off—whether you’re ready or not. Glory, seeming spontaneous, will shower you with startling, apparently accurate information, then just as suddenly, her stream turns into a sprinkle and she dries up. Changes the subject. She drives me crazy. And I can’t figure out what’s going on with her and Morrison. Any idea
s?”

  “Call me gullible, Jake. But for what it’s worth, I still believe Morrison is crackers, but not a con. And that their relationship could be all business. Maybe Morrison’s going to appoint Glory as Pax’s editor-in-chief. Just consider all the recent publishing takeovers. The book business gets stranger by the merger. What did Dennis Kim have to say? He represents Morrison, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. But we didn’t get into the odd couple’s relation­ship.” I felt no need to tell her that my tango lessons had taken precedence over any discussion of murder suspects. “Dennis is paranoid about client confidentiality.”

  “And I’m sick to death of hearing about that, not to men­tion Dennis Kim’s convenient code of legal ethics. Now there’s an oxymoron. Anyway, as I promised the counselor to the stars, I’ll be waiting right outside St. Thomas’s when you leave the funeral. And I’ll tag along with you all after­noon. So you won’t be alone.”

  I reached for the Kleenex. Either my sore head or her show of heart made me teary. “Thanks, Modesty.”

  “What the hell? I’ll work it into a future plotline,” she said, and hung up.

  Dennis hadn’t called; he just showed up, handing me a single, perfect white rose. No kiss this morning. Not even a hug. My mother took the rose, looking at it with such rapture you’d think she was holding the Holy Grail, and went off to put it in water. She returned with a tray of coffee and Sarabeth muffins. No question about it. Mom had turned Carnegie Hill into Camelot and Dennis Kim into Sir Galahad. I felt a little better—my appetite had made a major comeback—and since I seemed to have been suddenly struck speechless in Dennis’s presence, I was happy to eat and let Mom do the talking.