The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  A townhouse built in the early twentieth century, the building had been converted into apartments just before WWII. But its original white stone facade, featuring rounded architectural lines and bay windows, remained intact. On this damp, chilly late afternoon, even a Plaza suite would have been a poor second choice to the com­fort of our house on Ninety-second.

  Emotionally and physically exhausted, I smiled as we rode the tiny mahogany and brass elevator up to the sec­ond floor. “You know, Mom, Toto had it right. There really is no place like home.”

  Carnegie Hill had become a neighborhood in the early 1900s, when Andrew Carnegie built his mansion on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Ninety-first, turning what high society had scorned as “too far uptown” and “no-man’s-land” into a chic residential area. His mansion now housed the Cooper-Hewitt Museum—a branch of the Smithsonian—and its garden was one of my favorite hangouts.

  All of the Hill enchanted me. From Central Park on the west to the bustle of Lexington Avenue on the east. From the movie houses and ethnic restaurants on Eighty-sixth Street, the southern border, to the great mix of Art Deco, Romanesque, and Beaux Arts buildings gracing the blocks leading up to Ninety-sixth, its northern bor­der.

  The neighborhood, an architectural jewel, included some of the priciest real estate in Manhattan. Actors, directors, brokers, politicians, talk-show hosts, and a for­mer president’s daughter resided in its multimillion-dollar townhouses and apartments. Many of Carnegie Hill’s residents were so wealthy they’d stopped count­ing; a few, like Mom and me, owned their co-ops out­right but were struggling to keep up with the maintenance and taxes.

  Money, or the lack thereof, had kept me a ghostwriter. And money management was a skill I’d never mastered. Plotting other authors’ mysteries left me with little time and less energy to create my own. My last two assign­ments—though well-paid—had been murder. Maybe be­ing a ghostwriter means living dangerously. As Modesty had observed this morning: Death doesn’t take a holiday. I sank into an armchair and closed my eyes. The faces of today’s dead came back to haunt me.

  “I’d really like to talk to you, Jake.” My mother was circling the couch. I hoped to God that she wasn’t about to launch into another analysis of my single state and/or the status of my relationship with Ben Rubin. The truth was I didn’t know where our romance, if that was what it was, might be going. I suspected that Dennis Kim’s gold-flecked eyes and annoyingly magic touch, as well as my fear of commitment, had contributed to the confusion. Still Ben and I did have a special some­thing—nameless but intense—that we’d shared for the last nine months. We’d met during one murder case and quarreled over another. Currently, we were cautiously “courting”—to use my mother’s archaic term. Mean­while Mom, somewhat to my chagrin, seemed to be much further along in her relationship with the retired district attorney for the City of New York, Aaron Rubin, a widower and Ben’s father.

  But Ben and I weren’t the ones on my mother’s mind. “Even though they weren’t young, I’ll bet that Holly Halligan and Senator Fione thought they had a lot of time ahead of them. I’ve been thinking that I did too. But look what happened: two people poisoned in the prime of their life.”

  Only my mother, seemingly foxy forever, could say, in all sincerity, that a seventy-four-or-maybe-more-year-old woman and a senator in his late sixties were in their prime. I settled in for one of Mom’s philosophical mono­logues, requiring, on my part, only an alert expression and an occasional sage nod.

  “Death gives one pause,” my mother said, then looked pained when I laughed, providing more than her required response. “Not the deceased, of course, he or she goes on stop—not pause—for eternity. But a survivor tends to halt, reflect, and ask—”

  “What’s it all about, Alfie?”

  “Jake, you’re making this very difficult for me.”

  “Sorry, go ahead, Mom.”

  “Well, Aaron has…that is…Well, life’s short, isn’t it, darling?”

  I nodded, looking, I hoped, alert.

  My mother sighed. “Yes, it is. Too damn short. That’s why I’ve decided to accept Aaron’s proposal.”

  Holy God. My mother was about to marry my boy­friend’s father. What would this wedding do to my happy home life? Shoving that selfish thought to some dark recess of my soul, I smiled, kissed my mother, and asked, “Do I get to give the bride away?”

  Less than three hours later Gypsy Rose had arranged an impromptu engagement dinner. Her ten guests were asked to assemble on Fifth Avenue and Ninety-first Street, then we’d split into two groups to traverse Cen­tral Park in horse-drawn carriages and arrive at the Tavern on the Green in time for dinner at eight. Our hostess had style. Straight from her soul. According to my mother, Gypsy Rose had acquired all that panache over several interesting incarnations. Including her most re­cent past life, during which she had been engaged in a love affair with Edgar Cayce.

  The bride and bridegroom elect, together with Mr. Kim, Gypsy Rose, and her ardent admirer, Christian Holmes, the gruff, aging atheist who’d long served as religion editor for Manhattan Magazine, rode in the first hansom cab. Ben had called to say he was running late and would meet us at the restaurant, so I shared the second cab with Modesty, Dennis, and Dennis’s date for the evening—none other than the literary world’s big­gest Barbie doll, Ashley Butler. I’d had enough surprises today to last me a lifetime.

  “Isn’t it romantic?” Ashley was saying in a most ir­ritating drawl. “I thought Dennis and I were going to have a dreary little old business dinner, and suddenly here I am, celebrating a betrothal and riding in a carriage to one of my favorite restaurants.”

  “What business do you have with Dennis?” Modesty asked. I wanted to kiss her bold face.

  Ashley patted her Sears-Tower-high hair. “Why, I’m an author. That is, I will be when my book comes out next summer. Dennis is my attorney.” She giggled. “Well, among other things.”

  Dennis looked like he cheerfully could have strangled her. “Ashley, I never discuss a client’s business and my clients never discuss mine.” He spoke softly, but tension tightened his jaw. “A confidentiality agreement is an im­portant part of the contract you were scheduled to sign this evening.”

  “That’s my PR persona bursting forth, unbridled.” Ashley giggled again. “I’ll just switch to my author’s hat and shut my mouth.”

  “Where was your PR persona hiding this afternoon?” Modesty asked. “Donald Jay seemed lost without it.” Maybe I’d marry Modesty.

  Ashley must have missed Dennis’s frown.

  “Why, I was in the ladies’ room. My, it’s pretty. I’d like to have a dress made in the same pattern as the wallpaper. I got to stare at it for a long time.” She giggled for a third time. “The tuna fish or the mayonnaise at lunch must have been tainted. It’s a bit embarrassing to talk about this in front of a gentleman, but, dear Lord, I was locked in a stall for what seemed like hours.”

  “Did you happen to see a leprechaun?” I asked.

  “That nice Detective Rubin asked me the very same question.” Ashley reached across the carriage and gripped my arm. “I did. That is—I saw his black leather boots and his green tights from his knees down. My view, from under the stall’s door, was somewhat limited. Frankly, I’d been feeling so poorly that, at the time, I thought I was hallucinating.”

  “And what time would that be?” I asked as we pulled up in front of the restaurant’s glittering courtyard.

  “Oh, Jake, I don’t recall. My best guess would be about the same time that the conference was getting started. I do know it was right after Carita Magenta and Venus DeMill had their screaming match over Maurice Welch.”

  Modesty said, “Well, let’s hope you’re feeling well enough to enjoy your dinner tonight. You seem to have made an amazing recovery. A stomach upset from food poisoning can last for days. Hey, you didn’t drink any of that green bee
r, did you?”

  Ashley totally ignored Modesty’s comments, then turning away, extended her hand to Dennis as he reached up to help her out of the carriage.

  Even on such a bleak March evening, the main dining room in Tavern on the Green sparkled like sunshine. Though many of my more jaded New York friends have dismissed the place as a tourist trap, I’ve always gotten a kick out of its glitz and glow. Tonight, however, Ash­ley’s ongoing rave review dramatically diminished the restaurant’s charm.

  Gypsy Rose, a truly amazing woman, had Dom Pérignon on ice and lobster-salad appetizers on order by the time we arrived. My mother’s glow matched the candle­light’s. Aaron Rubin, who reminded me of the older gray-haired guy in the Polo ads, couldn’t take his eyes off her. Mr. Kim and Christian Holmes were engaged in their ongoing God-versus-Darwin debate. The topic to­night seemed to be predestination.

  “Do you believe that Holly Halligan and Charlie Fi­one actually had a March seventeenth date with Death?” Christian asked. “An appointment at the Plaza to check out of this world?”

  Both Mr. Kim and Gypsy Rose said, “Yes.” Christian raised a bushy eyebrow, but said nothing.

  I decided to switch the conversation from predesti­nation to premeditation. “Did you know the Fiones?” I asked Christian.

  “Edwina had been the subject of one of my first Man­hattan profiles. You know, those in-depth pieces focus­ing on spirituality in sin city.” Christian paused for a sip of champagne. “I met the senator twice. Briefly. Once at a fundraiser for the main library. Once at their apart­ment on Park Avenue while I was interviewing his wife.”

  “Do you think they had a good marriage?” Modesty asked.

  “A strange coupling,” Christian said. “Edwina, like so many converts, was hyped on heaven. Once she’d em­braced Catholicism, she became holier than the Church’s hierarchy. Her husband was a cafeteria Catholic. Took what he liked, left the rest on the sideboard.”

  My mother, probably better informed about Fione family history than Christian Holmes, jumped in. “And they came from two different worlds.”

  “That’s right, Maura.” Christian wasn’t ready to turn the reins over to Mom. “The senator was a product of Hell’s Kitchen. A tough street kid, raised by his mother, he scratched his way through school and won a schol­arship to NYU. Edwina was a Carrington of Connecti­cut, raised in genteel Episcopalian decadence in Westport and educated at Smith. But I believe the mar­riage was as good as could be expected, considering that Edwina had to swim in Charlie Fione’s fishbowl. That man loved living in Macy’s window.”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors there, Christian,” Modesty said.

  “Well,” Gypsy Rose said, “it seems their marriage was good enough for Edwina to call me—at Hunter Green’s suggestion—so completely consumed with grief that she felt an overwhelming need to talk to her ‘charm­ing Charlie’ one last time. She’d expected to be at his bedside to say her goodbyes; now she wants me to channel Charlie. On the East River, yet. Edwina’s ar­ranged an Ashes Away burial service aboard a chartered boat that will circle Manhattan Island. And honoring her late husband’s wishes, she plans on inviting some of his fellow crime writers to the send-off. Of course, she has to wait for his body to be released after the autopsy.”

  Modesty said, “How about that? Old Edwina will be on deck—aboard that cruise she told Holly Halligan she was so looking forward to—while her ‘charming Char­lie’ will be sailing to his final destination, packed in an urn.”

  Seven

  I’d spent a miserable night alternating between long hours of clock-watching wakefulness and a recurring dream starring a leprechaun who raised the skull and crossbones on the good ship Lollipop and then forced me to walk the plank. Into an ocean of pink bubblegum. Making swimming impossible. I was drowning in the third replay when the phone’s loud ring saved me from yet another sticky demise. As I picked up the receiver, I remembered that dealing with death always gave me nightmares.

  “Sorry I stood you up last night,” Ben said.

  “Yeah. Well, the maître d’ gave us your message. We missed you. And you missed a great dinner.”

  “Hell, I dined on cold pizza at the morgue.”

  “I trust not in a room with a view. Are the autopsies finished?”

  “Only Senator Fione’s. Holly Halligan’s on the table as we speak.”

  I shuddered, thinking of pretty Holly, who only yes­terday had been so full of septuagenarian sass, song, and salesmanship.

  “Cyanide?”

  “The cause of death? Yes…”

  “What, Ben? There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “Cancer. Charlie Fione had pancreatic cancer. The ME says the senator had less than a month to live.”

  “Jesus. No wonder Edwina had thought she’d be at his bedside to say goodbye. The widow says she needs to talk to Charlie one last time. She asked Gypsy Rose to conduct a channeling aboard Fione’s Ashes Away cruise.”

  “Is that right? Tell Gypsy Rose I’ll be onboard.”

  “When will I be seeing you?”

  “Dying to talk about the case, aren’t you?” Ben laughed. The man knew me too well. “Okay, let’s shoot for dinner tonight. We’ll talk this afternoon. And Jake, just think, when my father marries your mother, I’ll be your stepbrother. See ya later, sis.” He hung up.

  My mother was burning English muffins when I walked into the kitchen. “Start with cereal, Jake. Cut up one of those peaches. Mr. Kim said they came from Bolivia.” Mom reached for a fork and attacked another muffin.

  “So where did you guys go dancing?” I asked, resenting our role reversal that seemed to have started with Mom’s engagement announcement.

  “Gypsy Rose recommended some new swing dance club down in NoHo. Would you believe that Christian Holmes does a great Lindy Hop? Of course, he came of age long before rock and roll. His generation grew up dancing together, instead of twisting in opposite directions. Unfortunately, he hurt his back throwing Gypsy Rose up in the air during the ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.’ The evening ended early.”

  By nine o’clock, the bright sunshine had brought the temperature up to sixty degrees. During my power walk in Central Park, I came to three decisions. If Ben balked at taking dancing lessons, I’d drag one of the ghostwriters along with me. While most of Manhattan had been moving to the retro music of Tommy Dorsey, I’d remained a wallflower. This afternoon, I’d register for classes, then go shopping for saddle shoes. My karate lessons had gotten me into pretty good shape, but I wanted more. I wanted to swing.

  My second decision sprang from my gut and was based on my reaction to the poisoning of the panelists. While I love a mystery—and thrive on solving one—I felt I had no option here. Holly Halligan continued to haunt me. Who had wanted her, Charlie Fione, and Rickie Romero dead? Or who wanted one of the three dead and was willing to sacrifice the other two? Ben believed Romero himself had masterminded the plot. Modesty seemed to be leaning toward Edwina, with Ashley Butler running a close second. But neither Ben nor Modesty had any motive in mind. And while I didn’t have a clue, I knew I had to find out who the killer was.

  The third decision mixed murder with eggs Benedict. I’d have brunch with my three favorite ghostwriters after this morning’s Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting, and then enlist their help in investigating this mystery. I smiled, realizing that Modesty was already hooked.

  The Upper East Side chapter of Ghostwriters Anonymous had been meeting at the Jan Hus Church on Seventy-first Street, just west of First Avenue, on Saturday mornings for almost three years. A bunch of us had banded together to work a twelve-step program and to learn how to cope with our anonymity. Most of our members were well on their way toward recovering their self-esteem, though some ghostwriters were sicker than others. But we all shared our suggestions for living a day at a time as unknown and unrecognized writers i
n New York City’s highly visible literary community. And through the years, we’d developed a bond as close as family.

  I climbed the stairs to the large second-floor meeting room, listening to Jane D., a successful how-to ghostwriter specializing in spirituality and Juno/Jupiter relationships, complain about her current employer. All of us ghostwriters spent too much time doing that, trying to seize back control of our computer input and forgetting to work the third step, turning our will over to God...as we understand Him.

  “Honest to heaven, Jake,” Jane said. “This time, I’m dealing with a woman spawned in the bowels of hell.” Jane was slender, about an inch taller than my five-foot-four, and had big doe eyes. She’d recently had her dark brown hair cut into a pixie, and with her huge black sunglasses perched atop her small, heart-shaped face, she reminded me a bit of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.

  I’ve always preferred the fellowship of the Ghostwriters Anonymous program to working its twelve steps, so I could identify with Jane’s feelings. Since I had no suggestions, and no desire to share what I considered to be my woefully inadequate experience, strength, and hope with her, I told Jane that today she looked like Audrey Hepburn. That certainly seemed to cheer her up. And change the conversation too.

  We took our seats in the circle of about twenty fellow ghostwriters just as they all joined hands for the Serenity Prayer. Too-Tall Tom, a handyman ghostwriter and my best friend, was leading the meeting. When he asked if we had any newcomers, anyone who might be attending Ghostwriters Anonymous for the first time, a small voice, belonging to a face that was hidden behind a Big Book, said with great hesitation, “I’ve never been to a meeting before.”

  “Would you like to introduce yourself to the group?” Too-Tall Tom asked.

  Putting the Big Book in her lap, our prospective member said, “I’m Wanda Sparks...that is, Wanda S. And...I’m a ghostwriter who’s addicted to anonymity.” Modesty, sitting next to Wanda, flashed me a thumbs-up. It couldn’t be coincidence that this morning the group’s focus was on step twelve: having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other ghostwriters, and to practice these principles in all of our affairs. Following tradition, Modesty M. had made a twelfth-step call, in order to bring our program’s message to a fellow ghostwriter who was still suffering from anonymity all alone. And then dragged her to a meeting. It also was no coincidence that Modesty knew just how much I wanted to question Wanda Sparks about the cyanide poisonings.