by Noreen Wald
Since Modesty never joked, I knew she must be dead serious.
Dennis, obviously capable of eavesdropping while singing, asked her, “Do you need a lawyer?”
Modesty scowled at him as the band segued into an upbeat, trumpet-heavy rendition of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”
The doormen at the Palace Hotel, dressed in regalia better suited for an operetta than the sidewalks of New York, were attempting to cope with the masses. Visitors from the outer boroughs, Long Island, and New Jersey, almost like aliens from another planet compared with the hotel’s usual clientele, literally were storming the Palace’s gates, beer cans in hand, and laughing at the uniform of the day.
By the time we forged across Madison, Fiftieth Street had turned into a sea of green. Hordes of people, all jockeying for positions closer to the line of march, made it difficult to navigate. I could see that the police barricades on Fifth Avenue separating the spectators from the marchers seemed ready to collapse as the cops on horseback barked orders while attempting to keep the crowd at bay. “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” got louder and louder.
At the side door of St. Patrick’s, closest to Madison Avenue, Dennis took Holly Halligan’s hand. “This is where we leave you, ladies. I’ll bet we beat you to the cathedral steps,” he said to Modesty and me, and started toward the door.
Holly sang, “Sure, it’s like a morn in spring.”
“Where are you going?” I asked him.
“In the lilt of Irish laughter…” Holly belted out the line.
“I always approach the reviewing area this way.” Dennis smiled. God, those gold-flecked eyes were beautiful. “Cut through the church, go out the center front door, and—Erin Go Bragh—there I am on the steps, right next to the cardinal!”
“You can hear the angels sing.” Holly hit the high notes.
“You’re a gate-crasher!” I screamed over the blaring band, outshouting Holly’s strong soprano.
Dennis nodded. “Have been for years.” He sounded so bloody proud of himself. “I’m a fixture now. Everyone assumes I’m on the list. All the bishops are my buddies. Hurry up, I want you to witness how warmly His Eminence greets me.”
Modesty said, “Dennis Kim, where are your ethics? You deserve to be disbarred. Shakespeare had it right: ‘First, we kill all the lawyers.’”
“Relax, Modesty,” Dennis said. “This year, I actually received an invitation. The cardinal’s putting together a book proposal on the history of the Catholic Church in New York and he wants me to represent him. But it’s more fun to sneak in this way. Last one to land on the steps buys the first drink at the Plaza.” He entered the cathedral. Holly Halligan, still singing, followed him.
Modesty and I arrived at the front steps—after a brief but very unpleasant encounter with a mounted policeman who’d thought we were trying to push our way to the front lines and decided to make an example out of us—just in time to see Dennis Kim kiss the cardinal’s ring. I prayed there was a hell.
Snowflakes swirled as the Fighting 69th marched by.
The famous Irish regiment’s heroic war story had been made into a movie that had been my late father’s favorite. Mom and I still watched it every couple of years. Then, while the County of Cork approached, Dennis introduced Modesty and me to the cardinal. Thrilled, as only a former Catholic convent-school girl could be, I nervously bent to kiss the archbishop of New York’s ring. Though I sensed that Dennis was smirking behind me, I didn’t care. Even the music sounded better. Then Modesty, greeting the cardinal, smiled. And, suddenly, I didn’t even feel the cold.
Wow, wouldn’t Maura O’Hara have gotten a kick out of all this? Maybe next year, Dennis could sneak Mom in with him. Or, if the cardinal’s book became a bestseller, maybe Dennis could arrange for all of us to attend legitimately.
An hour later, as a young woman served hot coffee, the Ancient Order of Hibernians passed by, bagpipes fore and aft, and I looked around for Dennis and Holly Halligan. She now stood at the north end of the steps, deep in a private and apparently serious conversation with a chic woman in her late fifties, swathed in head-to-toe mink. I hoped that none of our fellow guests were animal-rights activists who’d squirreled away a bottle of ink or a pocketful of paint to throw all over the likes of Holly and her new friend.
Dennis was nowhere in sight “Those are my people.” Modesty pointed to the Hibernians. She’d remained unusually quiet so far, intensely scrutinizing the parade.
“I didn’t know you were of Irish descent,” I said.
“Neither did I, until recently.”
“So what did you discover?” I knew that both of Modesty’s parents were dead and her only living relative was her aunt Charity—her mother’s sister—who lived in upper Michigan.
“I always thought that Meade was an English name. But turns out, one of Dad’s ancestors had been a Druid high priestess. She lived in the south of ancient Hibernia. Near where County Mayo is today.”
“Wow. And on your mother’s side?”
“Well, Aunt Charity has told me that family history. Mom’s people came from Transylvania. In the mountains. The real Count Dracula had the same bloodline.”
Why was I not surprised? No wonder Modesty liked to dress in shroud-like garments. And stay up all night. “I guess that explains your gift for gothic horror novels.”
“Yeah. And it’s the main reason I became a vegetarian. Why take chances, you know?” Modesty sighed. “And I avoid hospital shows; the sight of all that blood excites me. Makes me thirsty.”
All of the members of Ghostwriters Anonymous have agreed that Modesty has no sense of humor. God knows she never tells—and seldom laughs at—a joke, but maybe she has been putting us on all these years. Druid on one side. Transylvanian on the other. Sounded like a punchline to me.
I felt an arm slip around my shoulder. “Why don’t you and Modesty come and meet Senator Fione’s wife,” Dennis said as his touch traveled to my toes. Would my feet ever stop reacting to this man?
“Where have you been?” I asked, then wished I hadn’t.
“Working the steps, Jake.” Dennis grinned. “There are a lot of contacts here.” Then the three of us walked over to where Holly stood next to the attractive, dark-haired woman wearing the fur of many dead minks.
Dennis made the introductions, and Edwina Fione extended a slim hand, encased in a soft, pale beige doeskin glove. Her small, glossy brown, designer shoulder-strap bag, made from alligator skin, brushed against my arm. I glanced down. Sure enough: matching shoes.
“Delighted to meet you, Ms. O’Hara,” Mrs. Fione said in a low, cultured, pricey, prep-school type of voice as Modesty snorted in my left ear.
The senator’s wife then turned her smile in Modesty’s direction. I braced myself.
“You’re a menace to animals,” Modesty began, but another blare of trumpets and a clash of cymbals, introducing Our Lady of Victory’s marching band’s brassy—and loud—interpretation of “McNamara’s Band” had rendered her inaudible to all but me.
Twenty minutes later Modesty and I were deeply entrenched in the Blessed Virgin Sodality as we marched up Fifth Avenue to the Plaza. Rebuffed by the police as we’d attempted to cross the avenue and slowed to a crawl by the crowds of spectators, media, and sundry party-hearty types as we’d tried to walk north on the sidewalk, we’d decided to join the parade. Dennis and Holly had opted to return to the Rolls. If he ever got to make a right turn on Madison, I figured Dennis would be cruising for a spot nearer to the Plaza for hours. They too should have joined the Blessed Virgin Sodality.
“After your vicious kick to shut me up,” Modesty said as she disentangled herself from the Sodality’s blue-and-white banner that the wind had whipped into her hair, “did you hear what that buyer of murdered minks said to the Charon of cremation?”
We’d passed Tiffany’s on the right and wer
e coming up to Bergdorf’s on the left. The Plaza was less than a block away.
“No, what?”
“Well, when Edwina Fione was saying goodbye, she told Holly Halligan that she couldn’t ever remember looking forward to any cruise—and she’d been on hundreds during her lifetime—as much as she was to the one that Holly had arranged.”
“Jeez,” I said. “She’ll be dead by the time that ship sets sail. Why would anyone be looking forward to her own funeral?”
Modesty brushed snow from her hair and the last of her shamrocks fell to the ground.
“Maybe she didn’t book the total-concept cremation cruise for herself. Maybe old Edwina is the designated flinger...and someone else’s ashes will be traveling in the urn.”
The flags in front of the Plaza flapped as if to welcome us.
Three
The annual Greater New York Crime Writers’ Conference was scheduled to run from March 17th through March 19th. Mystery writers from all over the state would be gathering at the Plaza Hotel on the one day of the year when Manhattan’s traffic was—literally—backed up to Jackson Heights.
I love the Plaza. A symbol of old-world elegance. Of order and serenity. As a kid, when Mom had read to me about the adventures of Kay Thompson’s Eloise, I wanted to live there too. Hang out in a suite and order room service for the rest of my life. Play hearts with the doormen. Dine on tea and cake every afternoon in the Palm Court. And despite Ivana’s redecorating binge, it still sounded like a good move.
But today, the lobby had turned into a zoo. Filled with sundry literary animals. Barking, railing, or roaring at the event’s longtime coordinator, Donald Jay, tearing into him for starting the conference on St. Patrick’s Day.
Watching the action, Modesty said, “This time our always-incompetent coordinator has totally lost it. If we weren’t getting two free nights in a Plaza suite, I’d strike. Plotting Someone Else’s Murder, indeed. What a weird wordless panel we’ll be. How can this man expect us to cite examples of our successful plotting when he knows we’re gagged by stronger-than-the-confessional’s-seal confidentiality agreements and can’t discuss any of the books we’ve ever ghostwritten?”
A woman wearing a coat of primary colors almost assaulted the frail Donald with her handbag. I cringed. “You know, I thought this might be fun as well as free, and I knew Mom and Gypsy Rose were itching to meet Senator Fione. They both just loved his Death of a Filibuster. Mom thinks it’s great that a sixty-something senator could revamp himself into an author. But this is a mob scene I could have skipped.” I looked around for Mom and Gypsy Rose. “And how about Donald Jay’s timing? It looks like letting all these murder-mystery writers loose on Fifth Avenue during the St Patrick’s Day Parade could end up a bigger, bloodier mess than the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
“Who is that woman beating up on Donald?” Modesty asked. “She’s double his size.” I detected a smidgen of pleasure in her voice.
“That’s Carita Magenta,” Gypsy Rose said. She and Mom, who were followed by a bellhop pushing a trolley filled with all of our overnight bags, had managed to find us ’midst the madding crowd. Gypsy Rose kissed Modesty and me, and continued. “The self-described Empress of Aura. However, I think of her as the color-me-comatose girl. Talk about scraping the bottom of the pit of parapsychology. Carita’s self-help books should be banned as dangerous to the reader’s mental health. God help us all, she’s going to be on my panel.”
My mother carried a picnic basket filled with sandwiches, cookies, fruit, a large thermos, and cups. “The Plaza charges ten dollars for a cup of coffee and no one could make it through the Emerald Society to a deli. Come on, we’ve picked up the key to Gypsy Rose’s room, let’s go have some lunch.”
“Mom, you’re the greatest.”
My mother smiled. “Haven’t I been telling you that for years?”
We followed the bellhop as he attempted to clear a path to the elevator. Donald Jay was trapped in the center of the three-deep crowd of complainers surrounding the reservation desk.
“Who gave the cat burglar the bridal suite?” Donald’s scream was loud enough to be heard in Chicago. He’d directed it at a young, reed-thin brunette whose teased hair contrasted sharply with her otherwise mousy appearance. She stood at his side, her eyes staring down at her feet.
“That unfortunate woman is his new assistant,” Modesty said. “They change every year. This one’s name is Wanda Sparks. Though she certainly doesn’t.”
Wanda said, “Ask Ashley Butler. She’s the one who coordinated the hotel room assignments.” I figured that Wanda had enough spark in her to immediately pass the blame along to the Crime Conference’s glamorous public relations person.
“I deserve no less,” Donald growled. “It’s my karma for hiring two women with more hair than brains. Dumb and Dumber. That’s my team. Now go peel that old has-been Maurice Welch off his stool in the Oak Room. He’s on his third double vodka.” Dismissing Wanda, Donald Jay then shoved his way through the crowd and walked smack into me, knocking my shoulder bag to the floor.
And just kept on strutting. As I was reaching for the right insult to turn him into toast, Holly Halligan and Dennis Kim joined us. My mother, fluttering around the former movie star like a teenage fan, asked Holly for her autograph. Gypsy Rose then invited Dennis and Holly to share our small repast and Dennis offered to order champagne and caviar to help stretch the menu. He and Holly were parked all the way over on Second Avenue; they’d worked up quite a thirst getting here.
Finally we all boarded the elevator. Holly Halligan focused her full attention on Mom and Gypsy Rose. “Have you lovely ladies made your funeral arrangements yet?”
Just before the door shut, I saw Carita Magenta interrupt Wanda Sparks’s mission to retrieve Maurice Welch from his bar stool, grabbing her by her thin right arm and pulling her off into a corner. Carita’s flushed, full face matched the red blocks in her coat. Wanda’s eyes were still downcast.
When Gypsy Rose Liebowitz had agreed to appear on a panel, she decided to close her New Age bookstore for two days and enjoy a mini Manhattan holiday, courtesy of the Crime Conference. First she’d upgraded to a beautiful, huge two-room suite on the top floor. And then had invited Mom to share it with her.
No heavy-handed Trump touches here. The eighteenth-century French furniture was upholstered in soft tones of aquamarine and an off-white, tinged with a hint of the same aquamarine. The highly polished oak floors had strategically placed Persian carpets, and crystal chandeliers dangled from the twelve-foot ceilings. Chair rails, ornate moldings, flocked wallpaper, and sconces featuring gilded cherubs transported us back to the elegance of the Plaza’s past glory. A Louis XIV writing desk and handsome armchair, covered in matching aquamarine satin brocade, faced one floor-to-ceiling window. An off-white satin brocade loveseat faced the other. Both windows offered a northeast view. I could see the lake in Central Park as well as the parade passing the reviewing stand that ran from Sixty-first to Sixty-fifth Street, along Fifth Avenue.
Gypsy Rose spread out the food, Dennis popped the champagne, and my mother rated the bathroom. Mom was an expert on New York City ladies’ rooms. “Honestly, it’s nicer than the Waldorf. I do believe this is the biggest and best john I’ve ever seen. And have you ever seen so much marble? I give it five stars. You know, there are two rooms. Each with a phone and a television set. I can’t wait to take a bath tonight. Did you see those fluffy white terrycloth robes? I think I’ll get one of Holly’s old ski movies and watch it from the tub.”
Holly said, “I’ll just leave some Ashes Away brochures for you to flip through while you’re relaxing in the warm water. I’m telling you, Maura, it’s the only way to go.”
My mother made a face and sipped her champagne. “Or maybe I’ll watch Casablanca.” I had a feeling that she was beginning to find Holly as irritating as “Danny Boy.”
Modesty frowned and pulled her boots off. “Wanda’s a ghostwriter, but she doesn’t go to meetings.”
“Oh God,” I said. ‘Trying to cope with her anonymity all alone. No wonder she looked so pained.”
“Well,” Dennis said, “she’s not working for any of my clients. Not that I’d tell you if she were.” I choked on his words. Dennis Kim had his clients take every secrecy pledge known to man or God—except for a blood oath—and I wouldn’t put that past him. “Are you okay, Jake?” He handed me a glass of champagne and went back to what he was saying. “But rumor has it that Wanda’s the ghostwriter behind a current blockbuster.”
“Not my Murder at MGM, I wrote every word of that,” Holly said, and stood up. “You all will have to excuse me. I’m going to my room to get ready for my panel.” She took her glass of champagne with her.
I took a gulp of mine. “That’s enough to make a ghostwriter sick! Knowing your book’s on the bestseller list—with someone else’s name on the cover. Modesty, let’s invite her to our next Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting. I think Wanda Sparks needs a support group.”
Gypsy Rose passed me a tuna on rye. “Lord love a duck, I hope she’s not Carita Magenta’s ghost. As dreadful as Carita’s books are, Ashley Butler told me over cocktails the other night that she doesn’t believe Ms. Color-Me-Comatose writes them herself.”
Modesty reached for a vegetarian wrap and said, “Gypsy Rose, why on earth were you out drinking with the world’s biggest Barbie doll?”
“I wasn’t out drinking with her, Modesty,” Gypsy Rose said. “Ashley Butler and I met at the Algonquin to discuss publicity for the parapsychology panel. And I lobbied, to no avail, to have that charlatan Carita Magenta removed.”