The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  Praise for Noreen Wald

  THE JAKE O’HARA MYSTERIES

  “Murders multiply, but Jake proves up to the challenge. She sees through all the subterfuge and chicanery, solving a mind-boggling mystery in a burst of insight. All the characters are charmingly kooky and fun…a good beginning for a new series.”

  – TheMysteryReader.com

  “[Wald] writes with a light touch.”

  – New York Daily News

  “The author keeps the plot airy and the characters outlandish.”

  – South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  THE KATE KENNEDY MYSTERIES

  “Sparkles like the South Florida sunshine...Kate Kennedy is a warm and funny heroine.”

  – Nancy Martin, Author of the Blackbird Sisters Mysteries

  “Miss Marple with a modern twist...[Wald] is a very funny lady!”

  – Donna Andrews, Author of the Meg Langslow Mysteries

  “A stylish and sophisticated Miss Marple, seeking justice in sunny South Florida instead of a rainy English Village, and meeting the most delightfully eccentric suspects in the process.”

  – Victoria Thompson, Author of the Gaslight Mysteries

  “Kate Kennedy’s wry wit, genuine kindness, and openness to adventure make her a sleuth to cherish. Death is a Bargain is another top-notch entry in a great series.”

  – Carolyn Hart, Author of the Death on Demand Mysteries

  Mysteries by Noreen Wald

  The Jake O’Hara Series

  GHOSTWRITER ANONYMOUS (#1)

  THE LUCK OF THE GHOSTWRITER (#2)

  A GHOSTWRITER TO DIE FOR (#3)

  REMEMBRANCE OF GHOSTWRITERS PAST (#4)

  GHOSTWRITER FOR HIRE (#5)

  The Kate Kennedy Series:

  DEATH WITH AN OCEAN VIEW (#1)

  DEATH OF THE SWAMI SCHWARTZ (#2)

  DEATH IS A BARGAIN (#3)

  DEATH STORMS THE SHORE (#4)

  DEATH RIDES THE SURF (#5)

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  Copyright

  THE LUCK OF THE GHOSTWRITER

  A Jake O’Hara Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  Second Edition | March 2016

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2016 by Noreen Wald

  Author photograph by Matthew Holler

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-69-4

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-70-0

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-71-7

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-72-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Steve, with love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, my deep appreciation goes to Joyce Swee­ney, my mentor, for her insight and critique of the man­uscript. For listening to those ever-changing plot twists, my thanks to Doris Holland, Susan Kavanagh, and Gloria Rothstein.

  Thanks to my son, Bill Reckdenwald, whose company works with cruise lines, for researching the waterfront and answering my geography questions.

  Thanks to the Henery Press team for putting new life into Jake and Kate. A special thanks to my lead editor, Rachel Jackson. The new covers designed by Kendel Lynn are great.

  One

  “Doesn’t Death get St. Patrick’s Day off?” Modesty demanded. I looked up at her and grinned, marvel­ing at her Kelly green monk’s robe, its belt bedecked with fresh shamrocks. Where in God’s name had she found it? She didn’t smile back. “Come on, Jake, get off that computer. Now. The parade will pass us by.”

  Since her arrival five minutes ago, Modesty had been complaining and pacing back and forth from the bed­room window to my desk, as I suffered from my usual scene-of-the-crime phobia and tried to ignore her. You’d think a fellow ghostwriter might be a tad more understanding. My current employer’s plot revolved around a former chorus girl turned serial killer, and he’d insisted that every decapitation be choreographed to the sound of mu­sic. Preferably Rodgers and Hammerstein’s. Any murder setting sent me into writer’s block, but struggling with the sixth sing-along site, I felt I might be imprisoned there for life.

  Maybe I should obey Modesty’s marching order. Our panel in the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel wasn’t scheduled until three, but the Greater New York Crime Writers’ Conference started at one. If we wanted to see any of the parade, we should get going. I closed the file on death.

  It was damn chilly in Carnegie Hill this morning. I dug into my parka’s pockets looking for my gloves. March had come in like a lion and the king of beasts still roared. No sign of any lamb lurking to lead us into spring. The air felt clean and crisp. God help all those drum majorettes, freezing their tushes off. I found my gloves and pulled my hood up. Modesty wore an Irish tweed cape, which covered her from chin to shin. But her head remained bare. And her short, tousled, pale red hair—like her belt—was intertwined with shamrocks. Those three-leaf clovers would never hold in place until we arrived at St. Patrick’s. Fortunately, the wind whip­ping across town from the East River was at our backs.

  As we passed Mr. Kim’s grocery store—its outdoor fruit stand blanketed in protective plastic wrap—on the southeast corner of Ninety-second and Madison, my mother, bundled in layers of taupe and beige wool, her sand-colored bangs barely visible beneath a matching cloche, emerged. Not a smidgen of green—except for the emerald in her Irish eyes—could be found anywhere on her slim figure. Despite her heritage, Maura O’Hara wouldn’t be caught dead wearing large patches of kelly green. Not even on St. Patrick’s Day. She considered the color to be unlucky. No tinge of green has ever crossed our co-op’s threshold. “We’re beige people,” Mom had once told me when we were redecorating. And she’d spread out sample paint-shade cards—ranging from eggshell to ecru—for my monochromatic consid­eration.

  Today, she carried a taupe mesh tote filled with bagels and melons, and was chatting away with Mr. Kim. Chatting at him. Mom seldom paused for responses. But that didn’t matter; Mr. Kim appeared to be fascinated by her every word.

  “How are you girls getting downtown?” Mom asked as soon as she spotted us. “You can’t possibly walk. It’s only thirty degrees out, you know. Thank God it’s sup­posed to warm up this afternoon. Of course, Fifth Av­enue’s closed for the parade, so the buses aren’t running, a taxi’s scarcer than a hen’s tooth, and the subway will be packed.” She wrinkled her nose, dismissing the IND line as an option. I waited, positive Mom would provide us with a travel plan. Modesty said nothing. I guess by now she too knew my mother had all the answers.

  But it was Mr. Kim who did the talking. “Dennis can drive Jake and Modesty down Park Avenue,” he said to my mother, then turned to me. “You know that Dennis always finds a parking place.”
Oh yeah, I knew. I don’t think Dennis Kim has parked legally since he became a hotshot entertainment attorney and started tooling around town in his cream-colored Rolls Royce convert­ible. His father continued, “Then you all can walk over to the cathedral together. Hey, no big deal, he planned to stop at the cardinal’s reviewing stand anyway before heading over to that crime conference at the Plaza. He’s bringing the car around now and he only has one other passenger.”

  Mr. Kim reached behind the plastic wrap and pulled out two bananas, handing one each to me and Modesty. “Eat these in the car. I’ll go inside and get you some hot coffee.” He scurried off as my mother nodded ap­provingly. Oh, great, I thought. I’m sure Dennis will love Modesty and me turning his luxurious, pale cream leather rear seats into a diner.

  Now, why would Dennis Kim, my childhood nemesis, sometime business associate, and long-term on-again, off-again crush, be attending the Greater New York Crime Writers’ Conference? Dennis could forecast a blockbuster from the first line of a book proposal. Which high-profile crime writer was he representing? And how had he managed to be included among all the Catholic hierarchy on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral? Mom had won two of those hard-to-get spots while playing roulette during a Las Vegas Night at St. Thomas More’s. How had Dennis come by his? Maybe his new client was the cardinal? Or the mayor? Either one of them might have a murder-mystery plot just waiting to be turned into a bestseller.

  “Listen, Mrs. O’Hara, your lucky number won these passes, are you sure you don’t want to go to the parade?” Modesty asked my mother for about the tenth time.

  “No, to tell you the truth, I overdosed on ‘Danny Boy’ decades ago.” My mother laughed. “All those high-school fife-and-drum corps have taken their toll. I’m go­ing to have a bagel, some fruit, and a nice, hot cup of tea. Maybe I’ll catch the beginning on TV, then I have an appointment for a blow-dry. You two have a good time, but don’t be late for the conference kickoff. Holly Halligan and Senator Fione, two of my all-time favor­ites. I can’t wait. Gypsy Rose and I will meet you at the Plaza. Around noon. We’ll grab a bite to eat. Her parapsychology panel is scheduled right after yours. Then we all can have a St. Patrick’s Day drink in the Palm Court.” Satisfied that we had Dennis to transport us, Mom headed home.

  “Even I know who Charlie Fione is,” the apolitical Modesty said. “That old stuffed turkey of a senator who’s been in office since before I was born, but who the hell is Holly Halligan?’

  “So, would you ladies like to ride with the top down?” Dennis Kim’s chariot had arrived. And, as always, the glint in his gold-flecked eyes sent steam heat straight down to my toes.

  His passenger—and client—turned out to be more im­pressive than either the cardinal or the mayor. And boy, would Mom be sorry that she’d decided to pass on the parade. After Modesty and I had settled into the back­seat, precariously balancing our coffee cups, Dennis drove straight across Ninety-second Street, went less than a half block north on Madison, and double-parked in front of the Hotel Wales. Holly Halligan, former MGM superstar and my mother’s childhood idol, swept out of the lobby and swooped into our lives.

  Ms. Halligan, sensational at seventy-four—or consid­erably older, if you believed the National Enquirer’s source—wore a ski suit. Bold blue with crisp white stripes on the legs and sleeves. Formfitting. Flattering her slim and seemingly firm figure. Her silver hair was tucked under a politically incorrect but totally smashing blue fox hat. Huge royal-blue sunglasses covered her eyes. Mom had told me Holly Halligan’s bright blue eyes were once as much admired and as famous as Eliz­abeth Taylor’s violet ones.

  “Call me Holly!” Her star quality filled the front pas­senger seat. “Say, Jake, you look like Annie Hall. And wasn’t Diane too divine in the role?” Giving Modesty and me a warm smile, Holly placed a Virginia Slim in a royal-blue cigarette holder and flicked a matching lighter, took a deep puff, then said to Dennis, “Does this car have a bar? I crave a bit of bourbon, but anything will suffice.”

  Enlisted as bartender, I poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s for Holly from the tiny built-in cabinet which contained only a handful of those miniatures that you see on air­planes, while Dennis gave Holly’s first murder mystery a rave review.

  Modesty juggled the two coffee cups and, sotto voce, whispered, “Who is this broad?”

  The ex-movie star and current bestselling author had excellent hearing. “I’m the broad who exposed Louie B. Mayer. My only regret is that I waited over a half cen­tury to write Murder at MGM.” Holly took off her sun­glasses and her bright blue eyes stared into Modesty’s paler ones. “Haven’t you read it, or at least read about it? The Times said I killed like an old pro.”

  Modesty, considered by many of our fellow ghost­writers to be a misogynist—I’m about the only woman she tolerates—snarled, “I write; I don’t read.” Churning out anonymous murder-mysteries-for-hire and mired in almost two thousand pages of her own gothic novel-in-progress, this was her standard—if somewhat startling—reply to any and all questions dealing with current lit­erature. And, often, current events.

  Holly remained undaunted. “My mystery stars Mayer as a multiple murderer.”

  I reached across the front seat, handing Holly her straight whiskey. She put her glasses back on and downed it in one gulp.

  “Of course, the book is fiction,” Dennis said, like the lawyer he was.

  “Anyone who’s anyone on the coast knows it’s true,” Holly countered. “Well, not the killings, of course. Ac­tually, most of the studio’s stars wanted to murder Mayer. And it’s the hottest book on Amazon’s list. I’m famous all over again. People are pestering me for my autograph. There’s even a Holly Halligan Skis retro­spective at the Museum of Modern Art’s theater. I’m a household name among New Yorkers.” She jerked her thumb like a hitchhiker at Modesty. “Except for her.”

  “Did you say skis?” Modesty sounded even more mis­erable than usual.

  Dennis caught my eye in the rearview mirror and winked. “Modesty, I’d just bet that Maura O’Hara’s daughter could fill you in on Holly Halligan’s Holly­wood heyday.”

  I knew a cue when I heard it. “Holly’s one of Mom’s five favorite film stars. In the late forties and early fifties, Esther Williams swam her way into silver-screen star­dom, but Holly, who, as Mom has pointed out, could also act, skied her way through a series of MGM mu­sicals. All box-office triumphs. Mom still watches Swedish Sunrise at least once a week.”

  “Thank your mother for her loyalty. So many fans forget. Swedish Sunset is my favorite movie too. Ingrid Bergman helped me with the accent,” Holly said, doing a pretty good Ilsa Lund.

  Modesty stared at Holly.

  “You know, you do look familiar.”

  Holly smiled and handed me her paper cup for a refill. “Well, perhaps you’ve seen some of my long-ago hits on AMC. From the glory days when I was young.” Holly sighed and reached for her fresh drink.

  “I didn’t know you ever were young.” Modesty shook her head from side to side. “I’m talking about now. How you look now. I’ve seen you somewhere...maybe...on tel—”

  Dennis said, “Holly’s the national spokesperson for Ashes Away. She does all their TV commercials.”

  “What the hell is that?” Modesty asked.

  Holly went into her spiel. “It’s a total-concept cre­mation service: book now, and later your ashes will embark on a short final voyage, where your loved ones can scat­ter you to the wind. If you have no family, the company will arrange to have a designated flinger aboard at a small additional cost.”

  “That’s an outrageous way to earn a living,” Modesty said.

  “Yes, isn’t it? Cheers.” Holly drained her cup. “But the pay is wonderful and I do believe in the product. My own arrangements are all made. A cruise through the fjords. In a ship shaped like a ski. I’ve asked Jean-Claude Killy to provide my last fling. Furthermore,
if June Allyson can hawk Depends, Holly Halligan can promote Ashes Away.”

  Modesty moaned as Dennis pulled into a no-parking zone between Park and Madison on Fiftieth Street. “Okay, ladies, we’ve arrived. Just a block and a half away from St. Pat’s. Let’s go to the parade.”

  But as we buttoned up our overcoats, Holly had the last word. “I urge you all to plan ahead. Make your reservations now. Cremation cruises are the wave of the twenty-first century.

  Two

  A light snow fell, caressing the bare branches of the trees scattered along Fiftieth Street. A pretty late-winter scene, but potentially dangerous. The marchers would have to watch their steps on the slick ground.

  The mournful tones of “The Irish Soldier Boy,” no doubt performed by one of Mom’s dreaded high-school bands, wafted over from Fifth Avenue and accompanied our little troop as we trudged west to St. Pat’s.

  Holly sang along to the music. A clear, on-key, but equally sorrowful-sounding soprano. As a child and a teenager, that song had always reduced me to tears. Even as an adult, I’d found it moving. Today, its sad words irritated me. Jesus, could I be turning into my mother?

  “I get seasick, you know.” Modesty’s strident voice disturbed my reverie.

  “What?” I asked as Holly started the third stanza. To my further annoyance, Dennis’s deep baritone had joined in on the chorus.

  “Why would I want my soul to sail off into the sun­set?” Modesty grumbled. “This ghostwriter’s going to a cem­etery. I want to be buried in terra firma. Tomorrow morning, I’m adding a codicil to my will—making sure that I’m planted, not flung.”