A Ghostwriter to Die For

by Noreen Wald

  “Out. But I’ll be right back. You stay here and wait for Dennis. And Too-Tall Tom said he’d drop by with the cos­tumes.”

  “Yeah, right. As Ruth said to Naomi, ‘Whither thy goest, I go,’” Modesty snarled.

  “I think Ruth said that to her husband, not her mother-in-law.”

  “The mother-in-law came along as part of the package.” Despite how frustrated I felt, I smiled.

  “The package? Modesty, I swear sometimes your ESP is as good as Gypsy Rose’s. Okay, let’s go. I’ll fill you in on our way.”

  Thirty-Five

  Christopher Street appeared far more festive—and far more crowded—than Bourbon Street in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. We’d taken the standing-room-only subway to Astor Place, headed down to Broadway and West Fourth, then walked west. My mood may not have improved, but the weather had. The skies were clear and the air felt warmer. Greenwich Village seemed to be overrun with thousands of New Yorkers plus tons of tourists; the annual Halloween Parade always drew enormous crowds and tonight’s was no exception. Organizers were attempting to bring a little order out of the cheery chaos, but the plumes, tiaras, baubles, beads, and boas, as well as the men wearing them, proved to be irrepressible.

  Some of the marchers had spilled over on the sidewalk and were chatting with the onlookers. The colorful costumes ranged from a spectacular Marlene Dietrich, wearing a gown of transparent netting and several strategically placed se­quins, to a Madonna, painted to look much prettier than the real thing. Everyone, except Modesty and me, who were struggling to wend our way through the packed streets to the bakery, seemed to thrive on the infectious gaiety. But even as distraught as I was, I could understand why Too-Tall Tom had wanted to be part of this huge, glorious parade and the gala parties that would follow.

  We found the entrance to Giatto’s blocked by a fantastic Auntie Mame float, featuring a replica of Mame’s 1920s Manhattan townhouse living room, complete with a scaled-down staircase. In the jostling for parade positions, the float had been shoved out of the street and onto the sidewalk. Five extraordinarily realistic and fabulously garbed Patrick Dennis characters had jumped down from their assigned places and were struggling gallantly—though somewhat hampered by their high heels—in an attempt to tug the float away from the bakery’s front door. Modesty and I aided and abetted their efforts.

  “Your costume is like so Catholic,” the eight-months-pregnant Agnes Gooch character said to Modesty, as the pillow under his maternity top slipped during his labor.

  “Are you on a float or just a marching monk?” a second character asked Modesty. He was dressed in the outré but magnificent flapper outfit that Auntie Mame had worn at her wild party on the night that her young nephew, Patrick, arrived to live with her.

  I’ll never know with what degree of testiness Modesty might have responded to those comments because of a speedy confluence of events. The perennially hungover Vera character, a Bea Arthur lookalike, complete with an ice pack atop his Clara Bow bob-style wig, shoved, as another man, dressed in Mame’s formal riding-to-the-foxhunt attire, pulled, and the float sailed back into the street. The bakery door whipped open, and as Modesty and I dashed through it, the third Auntie Mame, dripping in paste diamonds and dressed in a sex, black peignoir and matching sleep mask—announcing he wanted a biscotti and espresso to go—and a tall, masked, horned red devil, who appeared from out of nowhere, followed us inside.

  The plump Signora Giatto, wearing a Holly Golightly cat mask and chef’s whites, manned the counter. My visits to Too-Tall Tom’s exquisite gem of an apartment on Christo­pher Street were often preceded by a purchase of Giatto’s famous cannoli, so I knew her well.

  “Ciao, Signora, do you have a package for me? My friend, Jennifer, told me to pick it up here.”

  “Bella Jake, whatsa matter? You wearing that brute face for Halloween?”

  I guess I really looked like hell. “It’s been a tough day, Signora Giatto.”

  “Say, could I order a biscotti and espresso to go?” the Auntie Mame in the peignoir costume asked. “And pronto. I have a float to catch.”

  “Wait your turn, Mame,” Modesty snarled.

  The Signora rummaged under the counter and handed me a small package—about the size of a trade book—wrapped in plain brown paper. As I reached for it, the devil swooped down from behind me and swiped the package, sticking it under his left arm. While I whirled in an attempt to grab it back, I saw the Delft dagger under his cloak.

  As the Signora and I screamed in sync, the door opened, and the Agnes Gooch character stood—half of him still on Christopher Street, but with his belly in the bakery—block­ing the red devil’s exit.

  “The float is leaving,” he addressed the peignoir Auntie Mame. “Right this very minute, whether you’re aboard or not.” Then Agnes Gooch spotted the dag­ger, once again dropped his pillow, and slumped after it to the floor.

  The devil darted for the door, stepping down hard with one cloven foot on the heap that was Agnes, as Modesty grabbed his tail. Jesus, would he stop to swing around and stab her?

  I dialed 911 on my cellphone and yelled, “Drop that tail, Modesty!”

  Signora Giatto prayed noisily. I thought, based on my limited knowledge of Italian, that she was making an Act of Contrition. Auntie Mame shoved his sleep mask atop his chic chestnut curls, reached for Modesty’s rosary bead belt and yanked her back into the bakery but failed to get her to release her hold on the devil’s tail. Then, as I feared, the devil did turn and thrust his dagger at Modesty. I threw my phone at him, grazing his right arm and forcing him to take aim again. Agnes Gooch stirred, looked up, and shouted, “Begone, Satan!”

  Distracted, the devil didn’t notice the foxhunt Auntie Mame character charge the entrance and whip out his riding crop. A slap was heard through the bakery as the crop landed on the devil’s left shoulder. Ignoring what had to be a painful blow, the devil now held the dagger dangerously close to the nape of Modesty’s neck. She flung herself to­ward the counter, losing contact with his tail, but avoiding contact with his dagger. Its blade landed in a loaf of Italian bread. With a burst of fury, no doubt fueled by both the sting from the slap and having missed Modesty, the devil wrenched the riding crop out of the incoming Auntie Mame’s grip and ran like hell down Christopher Street—still clutching my package—with Agnes Gooch, Vera, and two Auntie Mames in hot pursuit. The remaining Auntie Mame adjusted his boa, gracefully descended the staircase, swung off the float, forged through the panicked crowd and brought back a policeman.

  The devil’s long legs had outrun the drag queens’ high heels. They’d lost him as the “A” train doors slammed shut in Agnes Gooch’s face.

  In an attempt to comfort us, Senora Giatto served Cafe Diablo and anisette cookies as we tried to explain this trick-or-treat tale to the police. Though totally depressed at the loss of what must have been important evidence, Modesty and I thanked our Halloween heroes, inviting all of them—including the cop—to lunch next week at Gypsy Rose’s tearoom.

  When the Auntie Mame float had rejoined the parade and the officer had gone to the station house to file his report, Signora Giatto insisted that Modesty and I follow her into the kitchen. “Jennifer said that if anything went wrong during the delivery of her package,” Signora Giatto said, as she opened a warming oven, “or if I heard that something bad happened to her, I should give this copy to the police.”

  Speechless, I stared into the oven. There, nestled among the fresh baked breads, lay a videotape in an unmarked cardboard jacket. Signora Giatto continued, “You know Patsy doesn’t deal with the police.” I remembered that Too-Tall Tom had told me the Signora’s husband ran numbers. “So you take this, Jake, and you decide if the police should see it.” Wow. The devil didn’t know I had this warm-as-toast video in my hands. I grabbed my cellphone and left messages at all three of Ben’s numbers.

  Thirty-Six

  �
��Dead!” my mother screamed. She and Too-Tall Tom had been vacillating between rage and relief since Modesty and I walked through the front door. “That’s what I thought. That you’d both been murdered on the mean streets of Man­hattan. I started planning a double funeral while the two of you were out, God only knows where, embracing all sorts of evil.”

  Modesty gulped and took a tentative step forward from the foyer into the living room. “Actually, Maura, only I grabbed hold of the devil’s tail. Jake never touched him.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” My mother shouted her prayer, then turned to Too-Tall Tom. “Please, dear, mix us a pitcher of martinis. I do believe we’re about to hear a chilling tale, and we’ll be needing some fortification.”

  Modesty’s abridged account of our brief encounter with the killer held Mom and Too-Tall Tom spellbound. I, how­ever, squirmed in my seat, itching to watch the tape, but not wanting Mom to know I had it. As Mod­esty’s story reached a climax and my mother drained her cocktail glass, I jumped up. “Listen guys, I’m sorry to cut this short, but we have to change into our costumes. Where did you put them, Mom?”

  My mother looked aggrieved. ‘They’re hanging in your closet, Jake.”

  Too-Tall Tom chuckled. “Don’t worry, Jake. Your mother instructed me to have all of the outfits dry-cleaned. Who knows what witches wore them last?”

  “Are you two up to going to the Happening?” my mother asked.

  “Absolutely,” I answered with far more assurance than I felt. Then I turned to Too-Tall Tom. “Don’t you have a date with Barry?”

  “DeWitt’s stood up our Too-Tall Tom.” Mom started to clear the glasses. “Now hurry, Jake. Dennis will be here at eight thirty. You only have about a half hour to get ready.”

  “Come on, Modesty,” I said, “let’s turn ourselves into witches.”

  We carried our drinks into my bedroom. I shoved the tape into my old VCR and pushed the play button. Steamy sex crowded my small screen.

  “Lord love a duck,” Modesty squealed. “Did you know you could do it in that position?”

  “Well, not in handcuffs!”

  Modesty and I sat rapt and silent through the rest of the show. Dick Peter may have been rotting in his grave, but in this production, he appeared eerily agile. His office was the set. Costume design by Victoria’s Secret. The critic had costarred with two very animated performers...currently rated as red-hot suspects. One of the players must have placed a camera on a tabletop in order to immortalize what would turn out to be Dick’s last stand. The date and time on the video confirmed it had been shot the night of his murder. At the end of our six minutes of voyeurism, we’d been shocked by the video’s twists and turns, but had been left with no doubts about who’d killed Dick. Or why.

  “Bingo!” Modesty yelled.

  I felt as if I’d finally grabbed that elusive brass ring off the Manhattan merry-go-round. Only a few hours ago, I’d been in total despair, convinced my Hercule Poirot dog and pony show would be a bust. Now, with Ben’s help, Dennis’s cooperation, and an opportunity to discuss direction and casting with Gypsy Rose and Jane, I should be a smashing success in the role of detective at tonight’s séance.

  However, I’d need a quick conference call dress rehearsal for my all-important supporting cast. I reached for the phone. Then, when the dialogue, props, and staging were in place, I made a dramatic return to the living room to go over Mom’s and Too-Tall Tom’s lines.

  After some fast talking, I’d convinced Dennis, dressed as a sexy Zorro—an odd choice of costume since Ben looked so much like Antonio Banderas—to go on ahead and play the part of a gracious host while Gypsy Rose hastily rearranged sections of the bookstore to accommodate our spur-of-the-moment production, having assigned Christian and Aaron to oversee the Happening. Then our Carnegie Hill apartment turned into a miniature rehearsal hall and Ben, without whom a cast of thousands couldn’t pull off this caper, gave Mom, me, and the ghostwriters sound direction while choreographing the denouement.

  I’d reached him at headquarters on my first try. He’d been about to call me, having retrieved all three of my frantic messages. Several of his staff and the missing persons department were searching for Jennifer. Ben said he’d put a tail on each of our murder suspects and would be right over.

  When, truly surprised that he’d agreed to participate, I asked Ben why he’d be going along with my theatrics, he’d said, “Confession is good for the soul, and in this case, might spare the City of New York and its taxpayers the expense of a long, tawdry trial.”

  At eleven o’clock, when Modesty and I—requiring no acting ability to look like two truly bedraggled witches—arrived, Gypsy Rose’s bookstore seemed to have entered a postmodern New Age. Some of the otherworldly outfits—I never knew they were so many ways to look like an angel—were so far out there that they made Christopher Street’s drag queen costumes seem like Halloween ho-hum.

  Working with such a sketchy script, we’d have to ad lib our way through the rest of the Halloween Happening scene as well as the séance. Thanks to our years as ghostwriters, Modesty, Jane, Too-Tall Tom, and I were well versed in the art of creating dialogue as we went along. And the party was winding down.

  The fire walk instructor had attracted a large crowd, resulting in some slightly singed soles. So naturally, the magnet therapy booth, directly to the left of Mrs. O’Leary’s fire area, was doing a brisk, barefoot business.

  The East Indian healer had been a bigger draw than the Native American shaman, but at this late hour, even his attendance had dwindled. Most of the other exhibitors had folded up their tents. However, many of our séance guests had not yet appeared. And that made me nervous.

  “Jake, Modesty. Happy Halloween.” Glory Flagg’s curvy Catwoman costume—the comic book, not the movie version—and feline mask did nothing to disguise either her Brooklyn accent or her sensational figure. “Why ain’t you goils wearing your witch hats and masks? You’ll never fool anyone this way.”

  “Isn’t that the naked truth?” I said, putting on my face mask and plopping the peaked cone on my head. Modesty grimaced but did the same.

  Keith Morrison, now suited up as a paunchy Batman, clung to Glory’s arm with one hand while he adjusted his ears with the other. “Where are all the suspects?” he asked, scanning the rapidly emptying room.

  As one of the fire-walking wounded limped out of the bookstore, he held the door open, and Mila Macovich, dressed in an elegant royal blue Empire gown and tiara, waltzed in, accompanied by Barry DeWitt, wearing a huge white Russian fur hat and hospital scrubs.

  “Josephine?” I said to Mila, venturing an educated guess.

  Mila extended her hand as if expecting it to be kissed. “Nyet, darling. Natasha from War and Peace.”

  As I shook her hand, I couldn’t help but notice what appeared to be an engagement ring. The diamond covered her knuckle. “Beautiful stone,” I said.

  “What are you supposed to be?” Glory asked DeWitt. “An ER reject?”

  “In keeping with Mila’s Russian literary theme, I have come as Dr. Zhivago,” Barry said.

  “And no doubt in several other costumes,” Modesty mumbled.

  Mila smiled down at her diamond, winked at Barry, but spoke to me. “There’ll be an announcement soon.”

  “We may have an announcement ourselves tonight.” Morrison tightened his grip on Glory’s arm.

  “I told you so.” This time, Modesty didn’t bother to lower her voice.

  “Show time in fifteen minutes,” Gypsy Rose called out, right on cue, crossing the length of the bookstore as Christian Holmes ushered out the last of the Happening’s stragglers. “Michael Moran and the Waltons are in the tearoom with Robert Stern. Dennis Kim’s serving decaf cappuccinos and apple tarts. Come on, everyone, let’s join them.”

  Gypsy Rose had selected a pink Chanel as her channeling costume. Or, maybe, despite h
er serene, appealing appearance and calm, gracious attitude, it had been the far more simple choice. I knew she’d been working behind the scenes on my production for the last couple of hours. And the Marie Antoinette getup that she’d planned to wear included three crinolines, a weighty wig, and a hefty dusting of powder.

  Robert Stern, smiling like a man with a new lease on life, sported a gray jogging suit and windbreaker; he had distanced himself from the Waltons and Michael Moran. Aaron Rubin—also sans costume—whose serious face and kind eyes reminded me so much of Ben, sat next to Stern. The reluctant-to-attend Waltons had gone all the way. Isaac’s satanic attire caught my attention and elicited a gasp from Modesty. This was no red devil, though. Lucifer, cast out of Heaven, would be more like it. Ghastly and garish. Sally Lou had reprised her wing-like hairdo and the white angel-style outfit. She’d added a halo. Michael lurked in a corner, looking sullen, dressed like the biker that he was. When I said, “Hello,” he grunted.

  Jane and Too-Tall Tom, who’d been setting up the seats for the séance, came in. “Have you heard anything from Jennifer?” Too-Tall Tom asked Michael.

  “No,” Michael growled and stared at the floor.

  Then Glory, Morrison, DeWitt, and Mila joined us, and the little group of suspects shared coffee, Halloween tarts, and painfully strained conversation. All as scripted. I wanted these unwitting players to be totally fed up with each other’s company.

  Just before midnight, Gypsy Rose led them back into the bookstore, which my mother had lighted only with candles. We arranged our séance participants in a semicircle, facing both Gypsy Rose and the television screen hidden above her in the alcove. From skeptic to believer, this audience was alive with anticipation.

  Glory sat to Keith’s left, with Barry DeWitt next to her, and Mila next to Barry. Too-Tall Tom and Jane rounded out the left side of the semicircle. Dennis, in an impromptu move, grabbed a seat between Keith Morrison and Isaac Walton. Why did I smell a book deal? Seated on Isaac’s right was Sally Lou, then Michael Moran, Robert Stern, Christian Holmes, my mother, clutching Aaron’s arm, Modesty, and me. Gypsy Rose slipped into her burgundy leather armchair, facing us, her posture perfect, a slight smile lighting up her face, so beautifully framed in the candlelight. And, awaiting his cue, Ben sat behind the alcove’s curtain...which covered the large-screen television.