The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  “From a sea captain?” I asked, hoping I could catch up on my previous life with Zelda at another time.

  “Indeed. A Captain Smith. He went down with his ship. The Titanic. Its sinking in 1912 caused quite a stir when I was a girl. God, over a century ago.” Zelda sighed. “Anyway, he’s spending eternity in a most agi­tated state. A real wet blanket. His message seems muddled, but perhaps you all can make sense out of it: ‘Some crossings aren’t aboveboard.’ The captain told me that it came from a recent arrival in the world beyond, Holly Halligan.”

  “That’s it?” Modesty said.

  Dennis asked Zelda, “What does that mean?” I knew he hated talking to a spirit.

  “I deliver; I don’t decipher. I told you the captain’s not on an even keel. Always complaining about the cold. And ice, can’t even mention it. Ice is a dirty word to Captain Smith. Sorry, I have to toddle off. Eugene O’Neill is on another plane, doing another one of his dreary readings, and the Murphys will kill me—well, it’s too late for that, but you know what I mean—if I don’t show up.”

  “Wait,” I yelled. “Is Captain Smith Holly Halligan’s spirit guide?”

  “No, Sonny Bono is her guide. Skiing gave them com­mon ground. As did living in California. And, of course, they were both performers, weren’t they?” Zelda, using Gypsy Rose’s features, smirked. “I must go. Sonny’s at the House of Representatives tax hearing. Some spirits just can’t let go of their past lives. But wait...you all are in luck, here’s Holly herself.”

  “Dennis, are you there?” Though she was using Gypsy Rose’s voice, there was no mistaking Holly Halligan’s tone.

  “Present!” Dennis jumped up.

  “Who killed us?” Holly almost wailed. “I can’t locate Charlie Fione; he must be on a different plane. And there’s no record of Rickie Romero ever arriving here. Who wanted us all dead? You must avenge these mur­ders, Dennis. As my attorney and my executor. What is my estate paying you for, if not to find my killer?”

  “Can’t you give us a clue?” he asked, squirming in his seat and sounding totally uncomfortable.

  “Just don’t smear my memory, Dennis. The answers may be in the Assisted Crossings folder. Some Ashes Away passengers had more help than others, if you get my drift. And certainly check out Edwina Carrington. If ever a woman had a motive for murder, she did. Mau­rice Welch too. I once had a brief encounter…well, never mind. One more thing. My ashes. Don’t leave them alone on a shelf. Not even for a minute. I’ve al­ways loved running loose around New York. Carry my urn with you, Dennis. At all times. Everywhere you go. Until you board the ski-shaped ship for my final voyage. Or I’ll haunt you for the rest of your lives. Now, this séance is history. Get to work.”

  Then, just as suddenly as she’d arrived, Holly Halli­gan departed and Gypsy Rose returned, asking, “What happened?” But the rest of us were speechless.

  Eleven

  Modesty had a mysterious early Saturday-evening date of her own, but it wasn’t easy getting away from Mom and Gypsy Rose. I finally resorted to Dennis’s favorite confidentiality excuse, claiming that he and I had ghostwriting business to discuss. In private.

  Though my hair had dried, my head now looked like a bowl of fuzzy noodles. Fortunately, the soft lighting in the Stanhope’s bar covered a multitude of sins. Our corner table was so tiny that Dennis’s leg was locked against mine. The forced intimacy felt good. He’d been unusually quiet, almost reflective, since we’d left Gypsy Rose’s and he’d scoured the streets until we’d found a legal parking space. The spirits seemed to have spooked him.

  We ordered martinis and I toyed with the mixed nuts. You’d think the Stanhope Hotel’s management could di­vest itself of a few peanuts considering the cost of their cocktails, and worse, why had they turned the lounge into a cigar bar? Dennis remained silent. I pictured that logical, lawyerly mind of his reeling in turmoil. Dealing with Zelda had left me feeling discombobulated too. And Holly Halligan had proved to be more difficult dead than she had been alive.

  I’d wait ’til the drinks arrived, and if he hadn’t come back down to earth by then, I’d ask to see the Assisted Crossings file. It wasn’t as if we had all night here. Thanks to my mother, I had a double date for dinner and I wanted to wash my hair. Yet even with Dennis’s deepening silence, I felt comfortable—almost cozy—sit­ting so close to him. His leg next to my thigh. His mind God only knows where. Maybe words were our enemy.

  The waiter placed a crystal glass in front of me. I raised it. ‘To us...working together to find Holly’s killer.”

  Dennis said, “I can’t drink to that.”

  “Why not? Your client’s spirit just made that request quite clear.”

  “Holly or Gypsy Rose—or whatever weirdo con­trolled that channeling—didn’t know I’d already gone through that file.” The folder in question lay teasingly between us on the table. “I don’t know why I ever told you about it. In this case, knowledge could be dangerous. And with all the motives in that file, I don’t want to be responsible for the killer coming after you.”

  I clutched the folder to my breast and stood up. “I absolve you of all blame in the unlikely event of my murder. Now, can we talk or do I have to steal this and make a quick getaway? I’ll bet that after all these years I can still run faster than you.”

  “Sit down, Nancy Drew.” Dennis smiled up at me. “I know I’m going to regret this. Maybe not now, but soon, and for the rest of my life.”

  “You never could get that Casablanca quote quite right.” I sat and picked up my glass again. “Here’s look­ing at you, kid.” Then I opened the file.

  Ten minutes later suspects and their motives were spread across the table. Holly Halligan had not only rep­resented Ashes Away, she’d been the company’s largest stockholder and chairman of the board. In addition to arranging complete cremation burial-at-sea cruises, in­cluding the urn, a customized memorial ceremony, and a final fling aboard a ship priced to accommodate the deceased’s—or the bereaved’s—budget, Ashes Away could, upon request, provide an additional service. Holly’s profitable sideline had been helping the grim reaper to arrive early. She’d introduce those future pas­sengers who had purchased her packages but were suf­fering from the pain of “a long bon voyage” to Dr. Anna Nujurian. The good doctor, currently out on bail while awaiting trial for assisted suicide in Westchester County, had oozed empathy and kindly provided prescriptions to send those poor souls on a speedy last trip. “Sailing to their last port of call...Heaven!” Holly reported in her extensive logs of previous Ashes Away assisted cross­ings.

  The waiter appeared. I declined a second drink; Den­nis ordered another martini.

  Angela Green had been among the passengers whom Holly had helped to heaven. She’d met with Dr. Nuju­rian without her husband’s knowledge. Hunter had found out about the assisted suicide aboard the boat, on the day of his wife’s funeral, when Holly presented him with an itemized bill. God. So that, not the tacky funeral service, had been the real reason Hunter had threatened Holly in front of all the mourners. A major motive. Then he also had that multimillion-dollar motive for murdering Rickie Romero—the Faith diamond.

  And Senator Fione had been scheduled to see Dr. Nujurian next Tuesday. “Jesus. Your father was right, Den­nis. Charlie Fione actually did have an appointment with Death, but his murder canceled it.”

  “Read on, Jake. It looks as if Edwina made all the arrangements. I wonder if Charlie ever knew he’d been booked on an Ashes Away cruise, or that he had a date to discuss his quality of death with Dr. Assisted Sui­cide.”

  “He must have known. But maybe when Edwina told Charlie about the plans, he balked. And maybe she mixed up a batch of cyanide to move up his estimated time of departure.”

  “Sounds like a plot to me.” Dennis frowned. “But then who is the leprechaun? She or he must have been work­ing with Edwina. Or whoever poisoned the panel.”
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  “So it would seem.” Dennis damn well had to be aware that his newest client, Ashley Butler, along with Wanda Sparks, was a prime candidate for the little-green-man role.

  I closed the file. None of the other six assisted cross­ings had lived in or near Manhattan or had been writers. While one of their surviving relatives might have had a motive for killing Holly Halligan, he/she probably wouldn’t have had means or opportunity to kill at the conference. Unless said survivor was also a member of the Greater New York Crime Writers’ Association. Ben Rubin, no doubt, was investigating all this information right now. That task would be enormous. I’d bet he’d be a no-show again at dinner. And if I didn’t get mov­ing, I wouldn’t make it either. Which was okay with me.

  Dennis smiled and reached for my hand. “Even with your macaroni-salad hairdo and the unpleasant topic un­der discussion, it’s a delight to be with you, Jake.”

  Jesus. Could he be drunk? “Yeah. Well, I do appre­ciate your sharing this file with me. This mystery is mak­ing me crazy. So many crosscurrents...”

  “Listen, could we talk about our own crosscurrents for a change? For twenty-five years we’ve been like ships passing in the night.” He squeezed my fingers, and his touch, as always, traveled like lightning down to my toes. As a woman who considered herself to be a sassy, smart, sophisticated New York ghostwriter, I now agonized over my loss of words. Finally, I settled for a nod. Then to my own and, I’m sure, Dennis’s amazement, I leaned across the table and kissed him on the lips. A chaste kiss, to be sure, but my free hand stroked his leg that was still locked against mine.

  Then, embarrassed by my boldness, I fumbled for the folder. “This only contains a list of those passengers who’d purchased the services of Dr. Nujurian. But Mau­rice Welch bought an Ashes Away cruise too. I wonder what went on between him and Holly. And I’d like to know if any of the other suspects had planned on having a burial at sea.”

  Dennis laughed. “Okay, back to murder. But when this case is closed, you and I are going to have an open discussion. Not from different ships, but with our feet firmly planted on the sidewalks of New York. I want you to promise me we’ll have that talk.”

  I felt the color rush to my cheeks. “I…I promise, Dennis.” He kissed me on top of my tangled head.

  As he signaled for the check, I said, “There’s one more thing I’d like to know. Who inherits Holly’s es­tate?”

  “I’ve been waiting all afternoon for that question.” Dennis grinned. “You know that’s one discussion I shouldn’t be having with you. Maybe you can charm homicide’s finest, Ben Rubin, into telling you.”

  “When the will goes into probate, won’t it become public knowledge anyway? Come on, Dennis.”

  “Yes, it will.” Dennis signed the receipt. I waited. “Oh hell, it’s bound to leak even sooner than that. And I’d so enjoy seeing the expression on your face when you find out—”

  ‘Tell me,” I shouted, eliciting a disapproving look from the dowager seated at the table to our right.

  “Holly Halligan’s entire estate, including Ashes Away, and totaling over twenty million dollars, goes to her sole heir...” Dennis drummed his knuckles on the table. “Da-da-dee-dum...”

  “Who?”

  As she addressed her elderly male companion, the dowager’s upper-crust voice carried to our table. “I can remember when the cocktail hour at the Stanhope was sacrosanct. Noise was minimal. Good manners pre­vailed.”

  Ignoring her, I said, “Who, Dennis? Who is it?”

  “Rickie Romero, that’s who.”

  Seriously regretting that I hadn’t ordered a second martini, I reached over and drained Dennis’s.

  Twelve

  I arrived home in a frenzy, wondering how I could shower, blow-dry my hair, and get dressed in ten minutes. Not to mention makeup. Even for a low-maintenance-toilette type who’d be willing to challenge her personal best time, that would be an impossible task. But I need not have worried. Both my mother and I had been stood up.

  “First Ben called and canceled.” My mother, her eyes fully lined, shadowed, and coated with mascara, but without lipstick, and wearing her old terrycloth beach robe and blue fuzzy mules that should have been thrown out a decade ago, obviously had been interrupted in the middle of putting on her face. “You know how close­mouthed Ben can be; he’s such a just-the-facts-ma’am guy, isn’t he? But something was up. Anyway, I’d no sooner hung up when Aaron called. He proved to be a tad more forthcoming.”

  I was sorry that I’d missed Mom’s telephone inqui­sition. Of course, poor Aaron had talked. He’d been up against Carnegie Hill’s only KGB agent. “So what did he have to say?”

  “It looks as if they’re ready to arrest Hunter Green. He had two strong motives. Threatening Holly Halligan in front of witnesses, for God’s sake. And another for killing Rickie Romero. Aaron didn’t say what that mo­tive was, but I’ll bet it had something to do with the Faith diamond. I remember that flap over the Faith from the trial.” Mom was a courtroom show junkie. And one smart cookie. “But I’ll never believe that Hunter is capable of murder. No matter how many motives he might have had. Gypsy Rose is heartsick. She’s trying to contact Angela as we speak.”

  “Where is Aaron now?”

  “He’s gone over to the precinct to help Ben go through some files. Aaron said in an investigation like this, with three high-profile intended victims—Romero’s surviving only complicates the case—narrowing down which one had been the real target is an overwhelming job. And if the killer wanted two—or all three—of them dead, the case becomes even crazier. The homicide department’s short on manpower. All the available detec­tives are out detecting. So Aaron will work the phones, calling in a few favors from his district-attorney days.”

  “Did he mention if the police have discovered who dressed up as the leprechaun?” The police knew Rickie was Holly’s heir. And Wanda had been Rickie’s ghostwriter. More than a ghostwriter.

  “No. They haven’t.” My mother sighed. “Strange that you should ask that, dear. Aaron did say that they’d found the costume. Green tunic and tights, black boots, a green hat, and gloves. They’d been stuffed inside the tampon dispenser. The police had overlooked it during their initial search. And it wasn’t until today when a woman complained to the Plaza management that the dispenser was jammed that the clothes were found.”

  “Hmmph. There you go. I’d just bet that those cops who searched the ladies’ room were all men. That’s why they ignored the machine. And I’d also bet it was a woman who stashed the costume there.”

  My mother smiled. “I’d back that bet. But remember your promise: don’t start snooping. I have enough to worry about. Though I do think we should talk to Ben. We probably can’t reach him tonight, but first thing to­morrow. Hunter’s no killer.”

  “I’ll call Ben in the morning,” I said, thinking that Detective Rubin would be thrilled to hear how much Mom and I disapproved of his conclusions in this case.

  “Well, now that we’ve been dumped in favor of de­tective work, what about dinner? Can I interest you in a pizza and a movie? Maybe a murder mystery? I’ll even go get the food.”

  “Not in that outfit, I hope. Okay, I’ll hop in the shower and be ready for show time when you return. We’ll watch the movie while we eat, but then I’m going to bed with a book that I have to read tonight.”

  “Hitchcock?” my mother asked as she started toward her bedroom.

  “Yeah. That’s perfect. Let’s watch To Catch a Thief.”

  But the best-laid plans of mothers and daughters, as well as of mice and men, do ofttimes go astray.

  The phone started ringing as soon as I’d stepped into the shower and soaped up my hair. It continued ringing on and off through the crème rinse. Finally, wrapped in a towel, but still dripping, I answered it.

  “Jake, I have to see you right now!” Modesty shouted.


  “I’m all wet. What’s up?”

  “Wanda Sparks. She called me about an hour ago, wanting to talk to me about the program. As you know, I agreed to be her sponsor. She’s in a real anonymity crisis. Can’t cope with her lack of identity. And Jake”— Modesty lowered her voice to a whisper—“you won’t believe the stuff she’s spilling. I think we have at least two more motives for murder here. And possibly a third. Wanda herself could be our killer. Furthermore, we’re stuck on step one. Wanda’s in big-time denial.” Modesty had returned to shouting. “I need your support as a sister member of Ghostwriters Anonymous. Now get over here.”

  Modesty’s “over here” turned out to a less-than-desirable area. Located on a side street two avenues away from the Hudson River in the northwest end of Chelsea, Wanda Sparks’s small apartment building was beyond bleak. An aging limestone tenement with dingy windows, its facade had never faced a steam blast.

  The damp cold air pierced through my parka and I shivered as I tried to find Wanda’s bell in the dim light trickling from a sixty-watt bulb located in an old rusty fixture high above the front door.

  I’d done some fast talking and faster eating when my mother had returned with the pizza. She’d accused me of reprising my Nancy Drew routine and I hadn’t even tried to deny it. When I assured her that I was only going to meet Modesty and Wanda Sparks—avoiding any mention of an address—and Wanda might have some information that could clear Hunter, Mom simmered down. “It won’t be the first time I’ve watched To Catch a Thief alone.”

  That had to be the understatement of the new century. Over the years, to my certain knowledge, Mom has watched that flick—all alone—at least fifty times. And dozens of other times in the company of her darling daughter. Just last week she’d roped Aaron into viewing it with her.

  “Good. You and Grace can seduce Cary one more time.”

  “Don’t be late. I’m waiting up.” Then she insisted that I leave Wanda’s phone number. She read it and frowned. “Where is this prefix? I hope you’re not traveling to a bad neighborhood. You and Modesty be sure and take a cab home.”