by Noreen Wald
Most new members are shy about sharing. I don’t think I said a word about my feelings until I’d celebrated three months. After the first ninety days, recovering ghostwriters are given Casper balloons to remind us that anonymity can be fun. On that day I’d opened up.
Wanda S. had no such reservations about dumping all her garbage at her first meeting. When Too-Tall Tom invited her to share, she tossed her trash right into the center of the circle.
“The thing is, I’m a lowly administrative assistant,” Wanda began, her eyes downcast. Several ghostwriters nodded encouragingly. We’d all had our problems with self-worth. “But I’ve always had this flair for writing. I’ve edited the Greater New York Crime Writers’ newsletter for the last six months, but Donald Jay takes the credit. Of course, my dream was to publish a book. Like a murder, you know? Anyhow, one day I mentioned this to Hunter Green. He’s an okay guy, and he’d seen me struggling while Jay grabbed the byline. Hunter hooked me up with this real famous crook who’d been spending his time in prison, trying to write a mystery.”
I started, spilling some of my coffee on Jane’s shoe. She shrugged, as if it was of no consequence, but then carefully wiped off her leather slingback pump with a moist towelette that she readily located in her purse. God, if possible, Jane was even more anal-retentive than my mother. I turned my attention back to Wanda.
“The story sizzled; the thief did, too,” Wanda said. “So I became a ghostwriter. Signed a confidentiality agreement. Wrote the goddamn book and now it’s a goddamn bestseller. My employer got out of jail; he’s a goddamn celebrity too busy to bother with his former ghostwriter. And nobody knows my name.” She burst into tears. The ghostwriters gathered round, showering her with affirmations of love and support.
Wanda couldn’t join us for brunch; she was running late. Donald Jay had insisted that she be at his side while he haggled with the Plaza’s management over refunds. But before she’d taken off, Modesty had agreed to act as Wanda’s sponsor. Sort of a Ghostwriter Anonymous big sister, who served as a mentor, leading a newcomer through the steps. I chose not to question Modesty’s motives. If Wanda’s relationship with Romero was connected to these poisonings, I knew Modesty would ferret out that information before they got to step two.
Too-Tall Tom, Jane, Modesty, and I sat at a window table in Sarabeth’s Kitchen on the corner of Ninety-second and Madison, diagonally across the street from my house. We would have gone to Gypsy Rose’s bookstore/tearoom, but Modesty had insisted on having a Sarabeth muffin. They were the best—and possibly the most expensive—muffins in Manhattan.
“That was cool, getting Wanda to come to a meeting, Modesty,” I said.
“You two didn’t use our recovery program to further your own ends, did you?” Jane sounded aghast.
“How could you suggest such a thing?” Too-Tall Tom said, winking at me. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Jane.”
Flustered, Jane retreated for a moment into the menu, then said, “I’ll have the French toast and a double hot chocolate. But I know that by dessert, Jake will have us all playing detective again. Not that I mind. Delving into murder excites my spirit; I just don’t want to compromise my ethics. Or those of another ghostwriter.”
“Okay,” I said. “No breaking and entering for Jane.” Too-Tall Tom, who had a lot of space to fill, ordered two meals: Belgian waffles and corned beef hash. Modesty opted for a vegetable salad and a banana-nut muffin and I, as I had decided earlier, went with the eggs Benedict.
“So, have you heard from Ben?” Too-Tall Tom asked. “I’m fascinated by this case. What does Detective Hunk say?”
I filled the three of them in on the results of the senator’s autopsy; then Modesty updated Jane and Too-Tall Tom on the conference killings, and who’d said or done anything that might be deemed as suspicious. By time she’d finished, our food arrived.
Digging into his hash, Too-Tall Tom said, “I read in this morning’s Daily News that Rickie Romero was released after questioning. Does Ben think he’s the killer?”
“Yes, I think he does.” I added pepper to my eggs. “But I don’t.”
“Might that be because Rickie’s such a heartthrob?” Too-Tall Tom asked. “That man is simply too divine, and being a cat burglar just makes him so like a young Cary Grant, doesn’t it?”
Modesty stabbed a cucumber. “Forget about Romero’s looks. We’ve got some serious contenders in this killing field. Take Ashley Butler. Did she see the leprechaun in the bathroom or was she the leprechaun? Same goes for Wanda Sparks. She too claims to have seen a little green man in the john, but interestingly enough, neither Wanda nor Ashley can alibi the other.”
“Maybe,” I said, “Ashley had been locked in the stall the entire time that Wanda was in there.”
“Incidentally, Jake,” Modesty said, “last night, Dennis Kim dropped that human harvest-of-hair Ashley Butler off before driving me home.”
I felt the color flood my face.
“What makes you think I’d be the least bit interested in that piece of information?”
Jane and Too-Tall Tom’s laughter lingered long enough to give me my answer.
Over cafe au laits and sticky buns, we planned our strategy. Too-Tall Tom took Maurice Welch. “I understand he’s still in the cupboard, darling.”
“No way,” I said. “He’s engaged to Venus DeMill.”
Too-Tall Tom laid one of his killer smiles on me. “A lavender couple.”
“A what?” Jane asked.
“Like Janet Gaynor and Adrian,” Too-Tall Tom said. When Jane still looked blank, he continued, “A famous Hollywood couple in the thirties. She won the first ever Best Actress Oscar. For Seventh Heaven—1927, I think. He was a famous MGM fashion designer. Their marriage was a cover story.”
It was my turn to look blank. “Are you inferring that Maurice Welch and Venus DeMill are both gay?”
“I imply, darling, you infer.” Too-Tall Tom laughed. “Or is that the other way around? Anyway, if you really want to know about Venus DeMill’s sexual preference, ask Carita Magenta.”
Jane said she’d track down Donald Jay and nose around Greater New York Crime Writers’ headquarters on Sixth Avenue and Fifty-third Street. “I’m sorry I can’t do more, Jake. I’m on deadline.”
Modesty, though not happy about it, agreed to visit Carita Magenta on the pretext of having her aura aligned. She’d also try and get Wanda Sparks to arrange an interview with Rickie Romero.
“Since, apparently, Maurice and Venus are about to become an odd couple,” Too-Tall Tom said, “I’ll talk to her too.”
That left me with my hero, Hunter Green, Dennis’s new client, Ashley Butler, and, of course, the grieving widow, Edwina Carrington Bone. Plus three nagging puzzles. When and where had Charlie Fione and Holly Halligan known each other? What was Hunter Green’s relationship with Rickie Romero? Dennis had spotted the two of them having a confrontation in the men’s room directly before Rickie and his fellow panelists had been served the cyanide. Even stranger, Hunter Green had acted as the literary liaison between Rickie and Wanda. Finally, Maurice Welch had purchased an Ashes Away package deal. Planning to sail into the sunset, then be flung into his final destination. How well had he known the cremation-cruise spokeswoman, Holly Halligan? Well enough to want her dead?
Crossing the street heading home, I realized that I’d never even mentioned swing dancing to the ghostwriters.
Eight
There was no sign of Mom. And no note. My mother usually left chapter and verse detailing her comings and goings. This afternoon, she’d just left, without as much as an ETA for her homecoming. I’d turned off my cellphone, not wanting its ringing to disturb the Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting. Now I had three messages. Four, if I counted the one from the world beyond. Gypsy Rose’s lengthy monologue had been recorded first: “We should hold the séance as soon as possible. While I was meditating
this morning, Zelda came through. She has a message for Dennis. From a sea captain who went down with his ship. And it’s about Holly Halligan. Zelda flitted off—you know how she is—before I could get a clear signal, but something’s up up there. I thought perhaps we could combine a channeling with cocktails. How’s this afternoon at five thirty? At my place. Call me as soon as you receive this message. Dennis can make it and I’m asking Modesty too. And Jake, I’ve been trying to reach your mother. Where is she?”
How could anyone resist an invitation like that? And if Mom didn’t return home in time to chat up Zelda Fitzgerald, it would serve her right for not letting anyone know where she’d gone. But I’d bet that wherever she was, Maura O’Hara’s sixth sense would smell a séance. I listened to my second message.
“Jake, it’s Dennis. I’ve just finished reading one of the Ashes Away organization’s files that Holly had left with me yesterday. It’s labeled ‘Assisted Crossings.’ And it’s going to make waves. I’m dropping the original off at Ben Rubin’s office as soon as I hang up, but I’ve made a copy for you. I’ll bring it along to Gypsy Rose’s cocktails-with-the-dearly-departed party. Is she serving zombies? Maybe after we’re done with the dead, you and I can grab a few minutes alone.”
As my heart thumped and my toes twitched, I couldn’t decide which intrigued me more, the prospect of reading the Assisted Crossings file or the chance to spend some time alone with Dennis Kim.
The third message was from Hunter Green.
“Jake, I may have misled that homicide detective Ben Rubin. I know that he’s a…er…a close friend of yours. And I know you’re good at untangling the truth. Would you be kind enough to help me straighten out this mess before I’m in big trouble? Could we arrange to meet sometime this afternoon?’’
How about that. My hero needed me, just when I needed to ask him a few questions. If there truly are no coincidences, this had to be a gift from the gods.
I promptly returned all three calls, confirming with Gypsy Rose, leaving a message for Dennis, and making a date with Hunter. Within fifteen minutes I’d brushed my teeth, combed my hair, reapplied my “Bare Bronze” lipstick, written a note for my mother—hey, one of us could act responsibly here—and was walking over to the Eighty-sixth Street subway station to catch a train downtown to Hunter Green’s Tribeca loft.
On the corner of Park Avenue and Eighty-eighth Street, I ran into the Neals, my neighbors of twenty-five years. Slightly bent, he carried a cane, and she clutched his arm. Marianne and Harry Neal had been married for over sixty years and the love light in their eyes had never dimmed. He’d retired as chair of philosophy at Columbia. Once she’d been a world-renowned William Butler Yeats scholar and had written several mysteries centered on her favorite poet. Nowadays she might forget her apartment number, but she could still quote Yeats with ease. Harry’s mental agility seemed as acute as ever; Marianne’s physical strength hadn’t diminished very much. So today, they took care of each other with joy and patience. Setting a high standard. And making me wonder how one went from twitching toes to a lifetime of unconditional love.
When Mom had started working in the Corner Bookstore, then later at Gypsy Rose’s, the Neals, who lived in a co-op on the first floor, were often my babysitters. Much of my love of literature had come from Marianne’s reading aloud to me. And ever since my own Nana and Poppa had died years ago, I’d considered the Neals to be my surrogate grandparents. My mother and Gypsy Rose had them over for dinner at least once a week. Mr. Kim delivered their groceries and Dennis frequently drove them on their rounds to various doctors and medical labs.
This afternoon, based on their headgear, I guessed that they were still celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. I’d never seen a hat quite like Mrs. Neal’s. Kelly green, with ribbons that tied under her chin, it somehow reminded me of the bonnet that Rhett Butler had brought Scarlett O’Hara back from Paris after the Civil War. Mr. Neal’s green plaid peaked cap was worn at a jaunty angle. Both were quite dashing.
I kissed them, then blurted out Mom’s engagement announcement. Mrs. Neal smiled. “That’s grand, dear.” Then she looked at her husband. “Will we still be here for the wedding?” Mr. Neal patted her hand and changed the subject.
“Jake, please tell your mother we’ll be dropping by soon to wish her well,” Harry Neal said. “That Aaron Rubin is one lucky man.”
I walked away, mulling over yet another puzzle. What, if anything, had Marianne Neal’s question about her and her husband’s future—or lack of same—meant?
If Andrew Carnegie’s mansion had been responsible for my uptown neighborhood’s turn-of-the-last-century cachet, then two factors that in the last decade of the century had turned Tribeca trendy were celebrity-owned restaurants and the stock market’s raging bulls.
Hunter Green lived in a converted warehouse with an unimposing facade, a modest entrance hall, and a freight elevator to his loft on the top floor. The elevator opened into his amazing four thousand square feet of run-on space, located under the highest cathedral ceiling and the biggest skylight I’ve ever seen. Too-Tall Tom’s main source of income came not from his ghostwritten handyman how-to-books, but from his day job: turning New York City’s box-shape apartments into elegant Edwardian flats. Some equally talented designer had transformed this formerly barren warehouse’s top floor into an incredible loft.
I stood, savoring the oak beams and floor, Mission furniture, Pollock prints, and a color scheme Mom would have loved—a palette of neutrals ranging from cream to caramel. Totally drop-dead gorgeous. True crime must pay.
However, handsome Hunter, standing amidst all these clean lines and his beautiful possessions, looked uncomfortable.
“Coffee, Jake? Or would you like a drink?”
“No thanks, I’ve just come from brunch at Sarabeth’s.”
Hunter gave me a weak smile. “Best strawberry butter in the city.” He ushered me to an Art Deco, crushed-velvet club chair, then sat on a matching loveseat, facing me.
“Yes,” I said, “but don’t ever repeat that in front of Gypsy Rose. She’s been trying to duplicate the recipe in her tearoom for years.”
I didn’t know Hunter Green very well, though I’d run into him at several Crime Writers events and had had this schoolgirl crush on him since—well, actually, since I’d been a schoolgirl. Once he’d recommended me, after a strong caveat, as a ghostwriter for a Playboy Bunny who’d wanted to write a police procedural. To no one’s surprise, except for the Bunny’s, her book proposal never made it past the first pitch.
With no hard feelings, she’d returned to her hutch, and I’d moved on to another murder. But Hunter had tried to help me. And perhaps that’s all he’d done for Rickie Romero and Wanda Sparks: made another more successful match between an “author” and a ghostwriter.
Maybe now I could help him.
As if prompted by thought transference, he spoke. “You’ve developed a reputation as a pretty good amateur detective, and while I assume that your protagonists are too—since you’re a ghostwriter, I can only guess what books you might have written—I’m referring to your real-life cases.”
“What’s wrong, Hunter?”
“I lied to Detective Rubin.” Interesting. He’d moved from “misled” to “lied” in less than two hours.
“About what?”
“He asked how well I’d known Holly Halligan. I indicated that I’d met her through the Crime Writers’ Conference. Because she’d been scheduled as a guest panelist.” Hunter sighed. “But that wasn’t entirely truthful.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. As you know, my wife, Angela, died last year. I loved her deeply. She’d been ill for a long time. A slow and painful deterioration of her muscles. Anyway, someone had introduced Angela to Holly Halligan, and against my wishes, my wife purchased an Ashes Away burial at sea from her.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to tell
Ben about that? He’s bound to find out. And a cremation cruise isn’t a crime. Well, not legally.” I wondered if Hunter had been Angela’s designated flinger.
“The voyage was a disaster.” Hunter stared at his tented fingers. “I’d been so devastated during those last few weeks of Angela’s illness that I’d left the planning up to Holly. Everything went wrong. My wife’s remains arrived in a cardboard box, tied with string! The water had been rough, the stabilizer didn’t seem to be working, and the boat rocked and rolled all the way out to deep water. Three of the four mourners were seasick. Holly had imported some L.A. charlatan to perform the ceremony. And Angela’s ashes were scattered in the wrong direction. She’d always hated East Hampton.” Tears filled Hunter’s eyes. “By the time we’d docked, I could have killed Holly. Indeed, I mentioned that possibility, rather loudly, in front of the captain, the chaplain, and the few friends who’d sailed with us. But still, I don’t know why I lied. Scared, I guess. You’re right. For certain, Detective Rubin will discover the truth.”
“Hunter, call Ben. Right now. Tell him everything, just the way you told me. He’s a good guy. It’s better he hears this story from you.”
“There’s something else.” Hunter rubbed his eyes.