A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  “Jake tells me you’re coming to our Halloween party, Dennis. What kind of costume will you be wearing?”

  “Now, if everyone answered that question, Maura, there’d be no element of surprise, would there?” Dennis’s sugarcoated charm was curdling my delicate stomach juices. “I’ll give you a hint though. Expect the unexpected.” Whatever the hell that meant.

  “I think that’s a terrific theme for our Halloween Happening—that spirit of our sharing unexpected and scary adventures should hold true for the entire evening,” my mother said. Sometimes, she spooked me. Mom, never in your life have you been more right on.

  Dennis spent the twenty-minute drive downtown lecturing me on today’s safety precautions. Fifth Avenue was jammed from Fifty-ninth to Fiftieth. Limousines lined the curbs and basic black filled the avenue as mourners gathered on the steps of St. Thomas, grumbling that their taxi drivers had been forced to drop them off blocks away from the church. Dennis managed to secure a spot directly behind the hearse.

  As we entered the church, he wrapped his arm around mine like a boa constrictor. And he wouldn’t let go, not even when we collided into Ben Rubin in the vestibule. I’d been watching the less-than-teary-eyed crowd and not where I was going.

  “Jake. Hi. I returned your call, but your mother said you’d already left for the funeral.” Ben stared at Dennis’s hammerlock hold on my triceps. “What’s up?”

  “There’s some stuff I really need to tell you, Ben,” I said. The organist opened the service with a resounding rendition of “Nearer My God To Thee,” almost drowning me out.

  “Sounds like we’re going down with the Titanic.” Ben smiled at my upper arm.

  “The most important thing of all is that you show up at Gypsy Rose’s Halloween Happening tonight,” I said. “We may unmask the murderer.” Ben stopped smiling.

  But before he could reply, one of the assistant funeral directors came up to us. “Would you three mourners kindly take your seats? We’re about to bring in Mr. Peter’s remains.”

  As Dennis and I, stuck together like Siamese twins, obeyed the pallbearer and headed for our reserved seats in the fifth pew on the left side, I twisted my neck around and stage-whispered back at Ben, “I’ll be at Manhattan most of the afternoon.”

  We were among the last to be seated. The organ music ceased. Then what sounded like a small jazz band in the rear of the church began to play as a cabaret-style singer’s throaty voice wailed, “I’ll take Manhattan, the Bronx, and Staten Island too...”

  Dick Peter’s remains were carried down the aisle by his grieving widow. In a cut-glass Tiffany vase. One of the few items that store sells for under one hundred dollars. I know. I’ve often sent that very same vase as a wedding present...but only when I’m not a close friend of the bride. I’d always thought its round shape had been designed to show off short­-stemmed flowers. Holding Peter’s ashes proved the vase’s versatility. Mila wore all black—a fitted jacket, long skirt, leather riding boots, and an enormous Edwardian hat almost spanning the center aisle.

  Glory Flagg, escorted by Barry DeWitt, trailed in Mila’s wake. As always, Glory showed her colors. Today’s catsuit was solid blue, but her gloves, scarf, and shoes were tricolor. And a crown of thirteen stars topped her thick hair. DeWitt looked handsome in an expensive, custom-tailored morning jacket and striped pants. He’d placed a white rose, not unlike the one Dennis had given me, in his lapel.

  Isaac and Sally Lou Walton, wearing matching black polyester, marched in step behind them. He fingered the huge gold cross hanging around his neck while weeping copiously; she sang along with the sexy soloist. Sally Lou caught my eye and waved. I’ll bet this macabre parade was a funeral first for St. Thomas’s. I glanced up at the altar. The priest’s, if not sad, at least resigned, expression had been replaced with one of total disapproval.

  The players in this drama were all acting out some bizarre script that I couldn’t follow. I thought both Dick Peter’s widow and his ex-wife had as little use for Barry DeWitt as they’d had for dead Dick. Yet there Barry strode, center stage, holding on to Glory’s waist with one hand, while patting Mila on the shoulder with his other. And how about those Waltons? They had miraculously turned into the dearly departed’s long-lost kissing kin.

  Keith Morrison sat in the pew in front of us. All dressed up in his Sunday best, he’d traded his signature t-shirt and vest for an Armani suit, worn with a black shirt and silver tie. With his full head of steel-gray hair, Romanesque nose, and jaded, jowly face, he reminded me of an aging don. In lieu of a missal, he was thumbing through an old issue of Manhattan. Dennis, who’d finally released my arm, whispered in my ear, “Morrison’s giving one of the eulogies.” I figured the magazine had to be part of his research. Kind of like a kid cramming ten minutes before the exam. But it couldn’t be easy to find nice things to say about this dead man. Maybe Morrison would have to resort to quoting Dick Peter’s own words.

  “Hey, can I squeeze in next to you, Girlie?” Christian Holmes poked my shoulder.

  Hating to relinquish my aisle seat, with its excellent view, I said to Dennis, “Slide over.”

  “If I do, I’ll be sitting in Harry Brett’s lap.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, just move it, Dennis.” I craned my neck around Dennis’s back to get a look at the famous author whose book I’d just reviewed. Wow. I’d been a Brett buff since college. I couldn’t wait to chat with him. I wondered if he’d like my critique. Mostly raves, but a few rants regarding the plot. There was none. Just a bunch of midlife-crisis guys on a hunting trip in West Virginia, sitting around a fire, spewing venom. Well-written venom, of course. Brett lived up to my long-standing ideal image of him. All British tweed and wide-wale corduroy. Wearing a black turtleneck sweater as his only sign of mourning. When he noticed me staring at him, from behind Dennis’s back, he flashed a megawatt smile that electrified my toes.

  The funeral began. Boy, this High Episcopalian service at St. Thomas’s had turned out to be more Roman Catholic than Sunday Mass at our parish church, St. Thomas More. The Latin liturgy, old favorite hymns, and pomp and pageantry would have delighted my mother. Maura O’Hara still missed the traditions her beloved Catholic church had shed after Vatican II. However, the jazz band alternating with the organ and Cole Porter’s “Anything Goes” following “Ave Maria” proved disconcerting. I wondered if Steve, Manhattan’s elevator operator, had selected the music.

  The priest didn’t even attempt to eulogize Dick Peter. I’d bet that he’d never met the critic and probably rued being assigned as chief celebrant at the funeral of the man most Americans loved to hate. So, right after the gospel, Isaac Walton, accompanied by the band playing “I Get A Kick Out of You,” stepped up to the pulpit. Who had chore­ographed this show?

  The mourners had old-time country religion preached right in their sophisticated, big-city faces. Walton made Elmer Gantry sound a shy schoolboy. We heard every dirty little detail of growing up in a poor mining town in West Virginia. What would Keith Morrison have left to say? The reverend was stealing his Our Gal Sunday material. Walton’s tabloid-style true-confession-as-a-eulogy held the congregation’s complete attention. He closed, saying, “Though Dick and I never resolved our differences in this world, I’m confident that we will be seated next to each other, as kinfolk should be, at the Lord’s big table in the sky. And, with God as my witness, I’ll never leave Manhattan until my cousin’s killer is caught.” Many of the mourners gave him a standing ovation.

  I turned to Christian Holmes. “Who produced this extravaganza?”

  “Rumor has it that Mila Macovich had total control of the script and staging. I heard the widow gave Glory Flagg permission to handle all the arrangements. Musical, that is. And the flowers.” So that explained the elaborate red, white, and blue floral pieces cluttering the magnificent altar and draping the entrance to every pew like a horseshoe.

  “But, Christian,
this entire funeral is a monument to bad taste.”

  “Consider the corpse, Girlie.”

  I laughed.

  “Shush,” Dennis demanded. But the giggles got the better of me, and I had to bury my head in my hands, covering my mouth, while hoping the row behind me might think I’d been overcome with weeping.

  By the time I came up for air, Morrison had replaced Walton in the pulpit.

  True to my prediction, he stood there and read Dick Peter’s book reviews. Bitter, mean-spirited, cruel—even evil—and often, wildly sardonic and funny as hell. Gasps of shock and nervous titters filled the church. These savvy New Yorkers knew how wicked it was to respond to Dick Peter’s lurid literary legacy with laughter. But, like me, they couldn’t seem to control it.

  The priest rushed through the rest of the service and when, mercifully, it finally ended, Mila took the microphone and invited everyone to a luncheon at Tavern on the Green. We all filed out of the church behind the official mourners, just in time to watch his widow dump Dick’s ashes out of the Tiffany vase and into the middle of the Fifth Avenue traffic, causing a downtown bus to knock a mounted policeman off his horse. The officer picked himself up, adjusted his jodhpurs, and issued Mila a ticket.

  Thirty

  Very few of the mourners elected to join Mila at Tavern on the Green. Some offered work as an excuse. Some said they were sorry but they had plans that couldn’t be changed. Some, like me, just walked away in silence.

  As promised, Modesty waited for me on the steps of St. Thomas. And she was all riled up. “That cop ought to arrest Mila for polluting Fifth Avenue with Dick Peter’s ashes. Don’t we have enough dirt on the streets of New York?”

  “Beyond bizarre,” I said.

  “Stay with Jake, Modesty,” Dennis said, releasing his hold on my arm. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Modesty sounded snide but appar­ently took Dennis at his word. Her fingers latched onto my forearm. “Go play with your beads, Queeg. Jake’s under my command now.”

  “Okay. But, ladies, don’t venture out of Manhattan this afternoon. And when you finish work, go straight home. Don’t let anyone into the apartment. Not Jennifer. Not any­one except Ben Rubin or me. Modesty, you stick with her. And get Jane over to stay with Jake if you have to go some­where. Even for a few minutes. I’ll pick you both up around eight thirty and drive you to Gypsy Rose’s.”

  “Dennis,” I said, “for God’s sake, the bookstore’s only a block away.”

  “Right. Maybe we’ll walk. It’s just that I hate to parade up Madison Avenue in costume. Even for one block.”

  “Who are you coming as?” Modesty asked Dennis.

  “Be ready to roll at eight thirty and you’ll be surprised, ladies. Ciao.”

  As Modesty and I descended the church steps, Glory Flagg navigated among the stopped cars on Fifth Avenue, attempting to scoop up Dick’s ashes into her cosmetic case with a blush brush.

  Manhattan seemed dead. Hans Foote stood sentinel in an almost-empty building. He issued Modesty’s visitor’s pass with an attitude of formality more somber than the funeral we’d just left. However, as we walked by him, headed for the elevator, Hans smiled. An absolute first. Then spoke, “Manhattan will never be the same now that Dick Peter’s gone.” His new expression could only be described as a happy face.

  Steve’s music selection for our elevator ride was a catchy number from the land of Oz that Mom used to sing while sweeping the kitchen floor: “Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead.” Today Modesty sang along all the way to the fourth floor. Her performance dazzled Santa Steve. “Welcome to Manhattan, miss. And may I say how much I like your outfit. It’s every bit as smart and stylish as your voice. I’ll bet you were the best-dressed woman at the funeral.”

  Modesty, wearing one of her basic black shrouds, seemed delighted. It’s so hard to tell with her. She dropped the refrain, fingered her rosary beads—she really shouldn’t talk about Captain Queeg—and favored Steve with a shy smile.

  “I wasn’t in the church. I didn’t have a ticket; I caught up with Jake outside on the steps. But you’re right. Based on the weirdo mourning attire I observed waltzing out of that service, I probably would have been one of the most tastefully dressed women there.”

  “What did that tramp Glory Flagg wear?” Steve asked, no doubt recalling the ménage à trois that had led him to AA.

  Modesty launched into a vivid fashion critique and I rudely interrupted. “Come on, this is our floor, let’s go. I have work to do.”

  As we started down the hall, I said, “We have no time to waste on Steve. Remember, he has an alibi.”

  Fortunately, you can’t insult Modesty. She admired the William Morris wallpaper, the dentil moldings, and the Persian carpets, then asked if she could have a quick look at the murder scenes. I did value her insight; we began a mini tour of Manhattan.

  Allison’s office, its entrance still covered by yellow tape, had no policeman on duty. Maybe he’d gone to the john. For all I knew, Ben could have solved the murders and pulled out the troops. We stepped over the tape and went in.

  “Nice.” Modesty’s fingers traced the tops of Allison’s highback chairs. “The lady had interesting taste.”

  Images of my first meeting with Allison raced through my mind. She’d been so alive. So vibrant. Then flashes of that morning when I’d found her with the dagger in her back flooded through me.

  “Modesty, let’s go. I don’t feel well.” We stopped for a drink of water. The halls remained eerily quiet. Were we the only ones on this floor? I forced myself to show Modesty Dick’s office. Again, no guardian stood at the door. Maybe the investigation was over.

  “What a mess,” Modesty said. “Did the cops trash this place, or was Dick Peter as big a pig with his housekeeping as he was with his sex life?”

  “A total pig.”

  She started to poke around the piles on his desk. “Hey, I don’t think you should be touching anything, Modesty. The police may not be finished here.” I knew I was. Suddenly I felt sick again. God, had I become as fragile a flower as Jennifer? And where was she? “Come on, Modesty, put that damn appointment book down. Let’s see if Jen’s arrived yet. She may be working away in my office.”

  We were en route there, when Barry DeWitt, who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in the men’s room, once again rushed out of its door and this time slammed into Modesty.

  “Oh good lord, ladies, you scared me. I didn’t know there was anyone else here,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Didn’t you go to the luncheon at Tavern on the Green, Jake?”

  “Well, obviously not,” I snapped, then helped Modesty regain her footing.

  “You’re Modesty, aren’t you?” Barry appeared flustered. “I think we have a friend in common. That is, besides Jake.” Barry’s voice brightened and he blushed. “Please don’t tell Tom that I almost knocked you on your fanny.”

  “Just what are you doing here?” Modesty asked him. Torquemada’s inquisition would have been gentler.

  “Well, I do work here.” Barry caught himself. I had to laugh. As furious as he must have been with Modesty, he couldn’t compromise his chances with Too-Tall Tom. He forced a smile. “I’m on deadline. Late with the old column. Gotta run. You know how that goes, don’t you, Jake?”

  “I’d suggest you look where you’re going in the future, Mr. DeWitt.” Modesty’s icy tone stopped Barry cold. ‘Too-Tall Tom hates a klutz.”

  Modesty approved of the view from my window. “Sixty-ninth Street has damn fine architecture, Jake.”

  “Where’s Jennifer? How long could that appointment with her attorney have taken?” I walked over to my desk. Then I screamed. A Delft dagger, covered in blood, had been stuck in my calendar, the tip of its blade firmly centered on today’s date. Happy Halloween.

  Thirty-One

  The blood tu
rned out to be tomato sauce. Ben had ar­rived within fifteen minutes in response to my frantic phone call. He’d actually stuck his index finger in the red gook clinging to the dagger and covering most of my calendar and then tasted it. Yuck.

  After I’d discovered the dagger, Modesty locked my of­fice door and we stood side by side at the window, watching and waiting for the police to arrive. And discussing who­dunit. When I’d stopped shaking and started thinking, I di­aled Hans Foote and asked, “Which staff members came into the office this morning? Before the funeral?”

  “Barry DeWitt showed up here about nine. Just for about a half hour. He came back again right after the funeral.”

  “Right. Did he have any visitors? I mean when he was here earlier.”

  “Yes. Glory Flagg and Keith Morrison arrived about five minutes after DeWitt. I passed them through. Then Mila Macovich showed up. They all left for the funeral together.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “That Preacher Walton and his wife are here now. They came about twenty minutes ago, right after you and your friend got here.”

  “To see DeWitt?”

  “No. Jennifer Moran stopped by early this morning. I don’t think she went to the funeral, but she left around the same time as DeWitt, Flagg, and Morrison. Anyway, she left instructions to pass the Waltons through if they arrived here before she returned.”

  Curious and curiouser. Why were all these people running around Manhattan today? What were they up to? Had one of them thrust that dagger into my desk calendar as a Hal­loween trick that could only be taken as a threat?

  “Has Jennifer come back?”

  “I haven’t seen her. She seemed very nervous, you know, and she looked sick, pale and wobbly, like she was fright­ened or something.”

  I was surprised, not only by the information Hans was sharing, but the change in his attitude. Maybe he’d been to an early AA meeting. Some of them started at six in the morning. I asked the next question gingerly. “Now don’t take this as any sort of a criticism, but I really do need to know, did you leave your post at any time this morning?”