A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  “Well, yes. I went to the men’s room around eight thirty or so, and I just brought a cup of coffee down to the lobby a few minutes ago.”

  “From the coffee room on the fourth floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you take the elevator?”

  “No. I always use the stairs. I need the exercise.”

  “So there’s the chance that while you were away from your post—of course, for good reasons—someone else could have entered the building. An employee with a pass card or a visitor who could have been escorted up by an employee.”

  “I’d have to say that’s correct. There’s a third possibility. That someone else could have used an employee’s card with or without the staff member’s permission. However, I’m sure you’ve thought of that. Why are you asking so many questions, Miss O’Hara? Has there been another murder?”

  “No. But…”

  “Never mind. You can tell it to the police. Detective Rubin has just arrived. I’ll send him up.”

  Before Ben reached my office, I made two decisions. I would tell Ben all I knew and all I didn’t know but suspected. To do that I needed to be alone with him. So I suggested that Modesty go out, find a deli, and bring back three corned beef sandwiches and cream sodas for lunch. She had to be starving too.

  “But, as you may recall, I promised Dennis I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

  “For God’s sake, Modesty, I’ll be with a New York City Homicide detective. How much safer can anyone be?”

  “Well, I don’t like this; however, I would like to eat sometime today and you’d like to be alone with your other boyfriend. Right? You’d better plan on doing some fast talking. I’ll be back in less than thirty minutes.”

  “Thanks. Now one more thing, Modesty. On your way, will you get on the phone and try to track down Jennifer? See if you can find out the name of her attorney. Did she ever get to see him? Maybe Michael knows where she is. I wonder what she wanted to tell me. Why did she come here this morning? And why did she arrange to meet the Waltons? They’re somewhere in the building as we speak. This merry-go-round of suspects gets murkier by the minute.” I rummaged in my tote bag and handed her my cellphone. “I’ll ask Ben to check out all the offices on this floor, plus the ladies’ room, the copy room, and the coffee room. Maybe Jennifer is here. But where? Why would she be avoiding us? God, maybe the killer’s still here. Actually, the cops will need to search the entire building. Who knows who’s lurking where?”

  “I guess Mila Macovich had mighty few guests attend that post-funeral luncheon in the Tavern on the Green.” Modesty wrapped her shawl around her shroud as Ben walked in the door.

  A half hour later, the cops had scoured the building. No sign of Jennifer. Joe Cassidy was interviewing Isaac and Sally Lou Walton, separately, and Ben was keeping Barry DeWitt waiting in the wings for his interrogation. Then the partners would switch suspects. After several false starts—hampered by Ben’s blank expression—I’d made my confession regarding the withholding of evidence and said mea culpa. I ended up in tears, had to borrow Ben’s handkerchief for only about the twentieth time in our relationship. Then as a grand finale, certain that my playing detective would make him totally ticked, I shared the results of the ghostwriters’ and my own investigations. To my amazement, something I said along the way prompted a confession from Ben.

  “So Dennis Kim spent the night before Allison’s murder holding Keith Morrison’s hand. Then he picked you up at dawn in front of his father’s fruit stand and drove you to work? Is that right?” A lock of Ben’s thick black hair tumbled appealingly over his left brow.

  “Yes. Why? Is that important?”

  “Well, yeah. It gives Morrison an alibi for most of the window of opportunity. Cassidy interviewed him at length. Morrison never mentioned that all-nighter. Strange. But...the truth is...” Ben brushed the unruly curl out of his eye.

  “What?” I asked.

  He stared at the floor. Then he shrugged, turned, and walked over to the window.

  “For God’s sake, Ben, tell me.”

  Still looking out the window, he said, “When you drove up so early that morning, I watched you step out of the Rolls. I thought you’d spent the night with Dennis.”

  The door opened. Modesty strode in, out of breath, carrying a bag that filled the room with the divine Jewish deli aroma of corned beef on rye and sour pickles.

  We plotted strategy while wolfing down our food. Each of us juggled a yellow pad, a sharp pencil, and a thick sandwich. Though Ben’s dramatic last line prior to Modesty’s entrance had shaken as well as stirred me, it also had explained much of Ben’s strange behavior. I realized that any real discussion of our relationship would have to wait ’til after the Halloween Happening and Gypsy Rose’s séance; however, I felt better knowing we were working together again.

  Ben was duly distressed that I’d invited all the suspects to the séance with a promise of unmasking of the killer, but he certainly wanted to be in on the action. Modesty’s marvelous memory provided him an accurate reportage of the ghostwriters’ conversations with their assigned suspects and the conclusions they’d reached.

  “I’m impressed,” Ben said. “You ghostwriters have uncovered some great stuff. But, Jake, you keep dancing with death. And, despite some fine—if unorthodox—detective work, we still can’t be sure whodunit.”

  The dancing brought back memories of Dennis. I’d left the tango out of the tangled tale I’d told Ben. But now all the information Glory Flagg and Dennis had revealed regarding Robert Stern—and that I had shared, in brief, with Ben—jumped back into my mind. I’d bared my soul as well as the ghostwriters’ heartfelt theories to Ben. It was time for him to reciprocate. “What about Robert Stern? Is he off your suspect list? Have you released him from the hospital?”

  “He’s home free, Jake,” Ben said.

  “Why? For what reason?” Modesty demanded.

  “Actually, there are two reasons. Stern rallied this morning. Regained his memory and became totally lucid. Absolutely amazing. And, facing a possible indictment in Barbara Ferris’s death, he asked to make a statement.”

  “Wow,” I said. “He was totally crackers yesterday.”

  “First, Stern admitted he’d lied about a dagger missing from his collection. However, he’d given a set of six Delft daggers to Dick Peter. Years ago, before Dick’s affair with Stern’s wife. He didn’t want to tell us before, because he’d been protecting Allison Carr. Stern had seen her at Manhattan after ten the night of Dick’s death. They both lied about what time they’d gone home. Furthermore, she was one of the few people who knew where Dick had stashed the daggers, and Stern believed she’d killed Dick. His butler confirms the dagger gift-giving, citing records and receipts to prove it.” Ben took a swig of his cream soda. “When Allison Carr was murdered, Stern realized someone else had not only used one of Dick’s daggers to stab him, but had stolen the other five and subsequently used one of them to stab Allison. Stern then was convinced Allison must have witnessed something incriminating. The night of the murder, Stern had smelled a heavy perfume, which he later connected to Barbara Ferris. He liked Barbara and couldn’t accept that she’d killed Dick and Allison. He’d invited Barbara over so he could ask her some questions.”

  “Did she sleep there Friday night?” I asked, expecting a no.

  “I see one of you ghostwriters spoke to her doorman too,” Ben said. “No. Barbara and a girlfriend went to a singles dance in Yorkville. Then she stayed overnight at her friend’s.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “The butler had Saturday evening off, leaving Stern and Ferris alone,” Ben said, “but before Stern could query Barbara, he had to use the john. She waited in the dining room. When he came back, she was dead. Stern lost it.”

  “But, Ben, how do you know Stern didn’t kill Barbara?” Modesty asked. “How can you be so
sure?”

  “Because of the second reason that he’s no longer a suspect,” Ben said. “All three victims were stabbed by a right-handed killer. The doctors at Mount Sinai say Stern couldn’t have closed his right hand over the dagger. Couldn’t get a grip. He suffers from advanced carpal tunnel syndrome. Stern’s hidden evidence, but he’s no killer.”

  Jeez. I’d just bet... “Ben, did Stern swipe the ‘M’ file?”

  “There you go. Good work, Nancy Drew.” But Ben was teasing, not scolding.

  “Why would he do that?” Modesty asked.

  “Because his butler’s last name starts with an ‘M,’” I said. ‘To cover up their affair. Stern suspected Dick Peter’s notes would drag them out of the closet and through the mud.”

  My cellphone rang. Modesty retrieved it from somewhere within the cavernous folds of her black bundling. “This could be Jennifer. I’ve left messages for her all over town.” However, Michael was on the line. After a few terse yeas and nays, Modesty hung up. “Well, he claims he knows nothing and, get this, is worried about his wife. Right. Anyway, Michael checked the Morans’ answering machine and just wanted to tell me that he hasn’t any idea where Jen might be. When she left the house this morning, Jen told him she’d be working most of the day with Jake O’Hara here at Manhattan.”

  Michael wasn’t the only one worrying. My lunch lurched in my upper digestive track. “You didn’t find out her attorney’s name?”

  “No,” Modesty said. “But I talked to Too-Tall Tom; he’s calling all her friends and going over to her building. Someone must know something.”

  “Let me ask the Waltons.” Ben stood up and started for the door. “Since Jennifer had an appointment with them immediately following her visit to her attorney, there may be a connection. I need to talk to them and Barry DeWitt anyway. In the meantime, keep writing. Fill those yellow pads. The solution to this case lies somewhere in all these cross currents.”

  I stared at my pad. I’d doodled a merry-go-round. Every one of its riders had a dagger in his back.

  Thirty-Two

  Ben assured me that I’d never been considered a suspect. Well, not really. He did admit that my unwelcome detective work had convinced Cassidy that I was not only a danger to myself, but to their investigation. How I wish I could have been a butterfly on the wall during that exchange. I knew Ben and I had reached a temporary truce. If the mur­derer wasn’t unmasked tonight, even if I remained alive, my detective days were numbered. That’s why we had to arrive at the solution during the séance. When Ben left my office to interview the Waltons and Barry DeWitt, carrying on the business of the NYPD Homicide Department, I went back on the job too.

  Modesty grumbled, but I could see she’d been bitten by the detective bug. And she had promised Dennis Kim she’d stand by me. No matter where I roamed. We took the stairs, and while Hans Foote was answering one of the detective’s questions, ducked out the back door of Manhattan and into a cab.

  Morrison, who—I believed—held the string that could unravel this mystery, lived way up north on Fifth Avenue near the Museum of the City of New York, another of my favorite Saturday morning haunts. Modesty and I were about to torment him with a Halloween trick-or-treat visit.

  I’d called Pax Publishing to make sure Morrison hadn’t gone into his office after the funeral, and after learning he was at home, I’d decided to surprise him. The Brisbane, a nineteenth-century landmark located at 1215 Fifth Avenue, had the distinct possibility of being the only building in Manhattan with its own monument. A bust, prominently dis­played across the avenue in front of Central Park, salutes Mr. Brisbane and his publishing achievements. Now if we New Yorkers could only find out: Who the hell was Major Deegan? And why had we named an expressway after him?

  The sun had vanished behind a pile of gray clouds, and though it was not yet three o’clock, the day was dark. A cold rain and high wind whipped across our faces as Mod­esty and I left the cab and ran for the lobby. The Brisbane’s doorman was ushering in a small group of children all decked out in expensive, trendy costumes, toting designer trick-or-treat bags and accompanied by their nannies. Mod­esty and I attached ourselves to their merry little band. I adjusted an angel’s damp halo as we trooped through the ornate entrance, hoping the doorman would think I was one of the nannies. I figured Modesty could pass for a big kid all dressed up as death.

  When the doorman smiled down at my little angel, I said, “We promised her grandfather, Mr. Morrison, that we’d be sure to stop by and say happy Halloween to him. What’s his apartment number again?”

  Fortunately, he’d given me the number—Morrison’s apartment took up an entire floor—and had turned away to admire a purple dinosaur when my annoyed angel an­nounced, “My Pop-Pops lives in Palm Beach. And, lady, will you get your hand off my halo?”

  Modesty and I rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor and walked directly into a twenty-foot foyer, featuring mar­ble floors, crushed velvet wall coverings, and gaslight sconces. A red door, not unlike Elizabeth Arden’s, was straight ahead.

  “How come there’s never a thirteenth floor in any of these fancy old buildings?” Modesty asked. “I can understand the Marriott Marquis not having one, but wouldn’t you think an architect of this caliber would have had better sense? I think thirteen has been given a bad rap. My numerologist says it’s my best number and it works well in any combination...”

  “Modesty, please.”

  The red door opened and Marilyn Monroe stood in front of us. “Happy Halloween, kiddos,” Marilyn said in a whispery voice. “Well, don’t be shy, Sugars, you two just come on in here. Have I got a treat for you.”

  It wasn’t until after we were seated in the dimly lighted drawing room—about the size of the Waldorf-Astoria lobby and filled with candlelight and flowers—that I realized this Marilyn Monroe was Keith Morrison in drag.

  “Gotcha, Jake O’Hara. You too, Miss Modesty. I do love a good trick on Halloween. Glory did my makeup. What a hoot. You ladies awarding prizes tonight for best costume? I figure unless that fruitcake DeWitt comes as a naked Ma­donna, I’m your winner.”

  “Everyone will be a winner,” I said. “The prize will be learning the name of the killer.”

  “Hell, Jake, I know that already.” Morrison stood, re­moved his wig and carefully draped it over a lampshade. “Now how about some caviar and champagne? Come on, ladies, it’s my favorite holiday. Let’s start celebrating.”

  Modesty dropped her shawl on top of Keith’s wig, settled into the downy couch, then turned to our host. “So, start spreading the news along with the caviar, Mr. Morrison. Who’s your choice for killer? And, more importantly, why? While you’re telling us, you might just go ahead and pour some of that champagne.”

  “Barry DeWitt. Manhattan’s fabulous switch hitter,” Morrison, wearing a white chiffon halter dress, three-inch spikes, and double-thick false eyelashes, said with a straight face. “Who else could it be? Motive. Means. Opportunity. Barry had them all. It’s a classic crime case. And the solu­tion’s self-evident. I’d be truly disappointed, Jake, if you of all people haven’t come to the same conclusion.”

  “It’s certainly a good possibility,” I said. “But, Mr. Mor­rison, how can you be so sure Barry’s our killer?”

  “Glory’s shared her galleys with me.” Morrison slipped out of his white satin sandals and kicked them under the bar cart. Where had he ever found a pair big enough? I stared at his scarlet painted toenails. His feet had to be at least a size twelve. “I’ve been in the book business a long time, Jake. I can read a serial killer with one eye closed. Every paragraph devoted to DeWitt proves he’s a psychopath. The evidence leaps off the pages.”

  “Well, I have three questions for you,” I said. “And your honest answers would help convince me of Barry’s guilt.” The champagne cork popped.

  “I only know how to give honest answers, little lady.” Morrison
poured three drinks. “As a child, listening to Our Gal Sunday, my ethics were set in stone. Shoot.”

  I stood and held my fluted glass high. “Happy Halloween! Here’s to the unmasking of a murderer.”

  Modesty, who’d been downing the beluga at record speed, now jumped up. “I’ll drink to that, but then, with Dom Pérignon, I’d drink to anything. Cheers.” Had Modesty actually made a little joke? The three of us smiled and clicked our glasses. The moment of toasty warmth passed.

  We all sat down again and I began my cross-examination. “Okay. Mr. Morrison, there are several things about your involvement in this case that bother me. First, a reasonable person might assume, based on your recent behavior and despite your denials, that you’re having an affair with Glory Flagg. Where’s your wife? Just what is going on between you and Glory? Then there’s your relationship with Isaac Walton. Why have you been hanging around the reverend and his Pledged-For-Lifers? But what I’m really dying to know is why you and Glory were visiting Barry DeWitt—your very own candidate for serial killer—at Manhattan this morning?”

  Morrison crossed one leg over the other, resting his left ankle on his right knee—somewhat incongruous amid all that flowing chiffon—and finished his champagne. “Well, Jake, that’s four questions, not three; however, I’ll be happy to answer all of them. My wife of almost forty years is in Salem. Sabrina spends every Halloween there. Most years I join her, but sometimes, as happened this season, I’m just too busy. Her family came over on the Mayflower, you see, and settled in Massachusetts. Sabrina never misses her an­nual pilgrimage to her hometown.”

  “Pilgrimage?” Modesty asked.

  “Yes.” Morrison sounded sad. “Sabrina’s great, great, great-grandmother, Elspeth Bloodsworthy, practiced witch­craft and the good people of Salem burned her at the stake. My wife returns every Halloween to lay a wreath at El­speth’s grave. She’ll be home tomorrow. We always cele­brate All Soul’s Day together with a special dinner. I can’t tell you how much I miss my Sabrina.”