The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  She’d be delighted to learn that I’d decided to follow her advice. If cabs cruised this block that late at night.

  Straining my eyes—God, I hoped I didn’t need glasses—I finally found Wanda’s apartment number and pressed the bell. A shrill buzzer signaled that the door could now be opened. I walked into a dark foyer filled with the scent of stale Brussels sprouts.

  Wanda lived on the fifth floor. No elevator. Climbing the stairs, I thought this had better be good. If Modesty had dragged me “over here” for anything less than in­formation leading to the discovery of the real suspect, who then could replace Hunter in that role, I’d never share another Sarabeth muffin with her again.

  Modesty opened the door. The studio, less than five hundred square feet, turned out to be quite charming. Like a college dorm decorated by Ralph Lauren. A sleigh bed against the wall to my left, covered in a dark green and navy plaid, with matching puffy pillows and duvet, doubled as a couch. Two tall bookcases, crammed with murder mysteries, stood on either side of the bed.

  The other walls were covered with theater posters, mostly from forties musicals. An oval oak table and four ladder-back chairs with cushions covered in the same fabric as the sleigh bed were placed in front of three windows that the morning sun would stream through.

  Wanda sat in one of those chairs, holding her cheeks with both hands. I noticed a coffee pot and a pound cake on the table. Good. At least I could eat. Three closed, attractive white enamel louver doors led, I presumed, to a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a closet. And in one cor­ner of the room, Wanda had set up a tidy and efficient mini-office. Straight from a catalog.

  Modesty and I joined a now-weeping Wanda at the table. I reached for the cake. “Okay, how can I help?”

  “Wanda’s feeling rage for Rickie Romero,” Modesty said as she poured the coffee. “She’d like to kill him for not giving her any credit—not even ‘as told to’—for writing most of Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof.”

  Thinking that maybe she had tried to poison him, but only succeeded in killing two other innocent people— boy, that might lead to real rage—I said, “Having been a ghostwriter for ten years, I certainly can empathize with those feelings.” I was not only identifying with the new­est member of Ghostwriters Anonymous, I might be un­masking a murderer. Jane would be appalled. I felt a wave of guilt. My words sounded so sincere, but my motives were not exactly in the spirit of the program’s principles. Yet I plunged right on. “How much of the book did you write?”

  Wanda took a sip of coffee. “At least half. And I edited. Then I rewrote the whole damn thing. Rickie had a concept and characters. I developed the thread that held the segments together and provided the needle that sewed the plot together. He’d still be stuck in Chapter Two.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  I handed her a napkin. “Give me an example. Say, the chapter about Carita Magenta. I know the names have been changed, but did you or Rickie write that one?” My mother’s brief book review of Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof had given me no hint of what might have infuriated Carita. Yet Magenta had told Modesty that Rickie had maligned her. Maybe I would hear the story from the ghostwriter’s mouth.

  “Rickie wrote the first draft of that one.” Wanda sobbed and blew her nose in the napkin. I handed her another one. “I rewrote. And it turned out to be one of the more intriguing chapters in the book.”

  Modesty caught my eye. Strange, Wanda just used the exact same words that Carita Magenta had used when describing the chapter to Modesty. I asked Wanda, “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s the hottest chapter in the book. That’s why,” Wanda said. “Well, except for one where the cat burglar crawls naked into that palace in Venice and steals an emerald necklace and the princess’s heart.” If it meant staying up all night, I had to read this book. “Anyway, in the chapter based on the Carita Magenta robbery, the thief spies on two wild women cavorting in bed. Then the three of them sit around and, over drinks, discuss how aura can color sex, before he takes off with the jewels. Both the female characters are famous writers, thinly disguised versions of Carita Magenta and Venus DeMill.”

  How had my mother missed that? Since Venus, the literary world’s sex symbol, had just announced her en­gagement to that same world’s macho drunk, Maurice Welch, and since Rickie Romero had been scheduled for a cross-country book tour, giving dozens of television interviews, I could smell two or three more motives for murder. I cut another slice of pound cake.

  “Anonymity isn’t Wanda’s only problem,” Modesty prompted. “She’s stressed out big-time working for Don­ald Jay.”

  I refilled Wanda’s cup. “Before we talk about Donald Jay, how about some cake? It’s great. Where did you buy it?”

  She almost smiled. “I made it. Rickie’s favorite rec­ipe. I must have brought a dozen or more of these pound cakes to him in prison. Maybe I will have a smidgen.”

  “What’s wrong at Crime Writers?” I asked. Then added, “I do think Donald Jay is the prizewinning jerk of the Western world.”

  “And the meanest bastard in Manhattan.” Wanda shoved her fork into the pound cake, sending crumbs flying across the table. She jumped from her chair, grabbed a napkin, and began to wipe them up. “Nothing I do is ever right. Though he’s just as rotten to Ashley Butler and the rest of the staff. And for the most part, they’re volunteers. Wannabe writers. Treats them like dirt. But as the paid help, Ashley and I take the brunt of his abuse.”

  I felt sorry for her. And ashamed about picking her befuddled brain. “You have enough to deal with during these early stages of recovery. Learning how to cope with your anonymity is your most important assignment right now. Isn’t that right, Modesty? Maybe it will help you if we share our experiences about working with wicked bosses.”

  “It might,” Wanda said. “But Donald Jay is more than a wicked man. I think he might have killed Senator Fi­one. And Holly Halligan as well, just because she hap­pened to be there. Rickie Romero would be dead too if he’d still been drinking.”

  “Was that common knowledge?” I asked. “I mean, like, were you, for example, aware that Rickie never drank?”

  Wanda hesitated before answering. “Well, er, not really. That topic never came up during our conversa­tions in his prison cell. When he got out, I noticed that he never ordered wine with dinner, but I didn’t ask why.”

  Right. I nodded. “Just curious. Now, why would Don­ald Jay want to kill Charlie Fione?”

  “Something to do with the Senate’s upcoming bill concerning the federal government’s Waste Management Project. Because Donald Jay owns the land in Platts­burgh—that’s up near Canada, you know—where they were planning on building a huge new facility. Donald would have made big bucks and he’s broke. An assistant overhears a lot of garbage. Anyway, the senator wanted to scratch the whole deal. It would have been close, but Fione probably could have gotten enough votes to squash the project. Donald screamed at him on the phone Friday afternoon. Said the senator would put him in the poorhouse. And the vote was to have been held this coming Monday. Of course, now the Senate has shut down its chambers until after Charlie Fione’s funeral.”

  I would have settled for only one more motive. Mod­esty had thought we’d have three. Now there were four. Carita Magenta, Venus DeMill, Maurice Welch, and Donald Jay. Make that five. Wanda Sparks had motive, means, and opportunity. She certainly could have been the leprechaun carrying that pitcher of poisoned beer to Rickie Romero, and she could have been working alone.

  Thirteen

  I woke up grumpy. Six hours doesn’t do it for me. Reading Rickie Romero’s roman à clef until three a.m. had been intriguing, though somewhat less than inform­ative, and certainly not worth the sleep-deprived crank­iness that I was suffering from as I reached for the bedside phone. The grandmother clock in the foyer chimed nine times. Damn. Ben Rubin would be tough to reach at this hour, and I really wanted to discuss those f
ive other motives with him. After trying him at homi­cide, home, and on his cellphone, and reciting the same message three times—“It’s urgent that we speak ASAP”—I could only hope that he’d reach me before I had to leave for my book-review brunch with Rickie.

  Modesty and I had shared a midnight ride in a gypsy cab and rehashed the case on our way uptown. I told her that Hunter Green had become the police’s number one choice for double murderer. Since the evening had un­earthed several other killer candidates, we decided that I should share that information with Ben, pronto. And try to get Hunter off the hot seat. The trick would be convincing Ben that Modesty and I had somehow stum­bled upon these suspects and that I hadn’t been playing Nancy Drew. Or giving Modesty her well-deserved credit in this case. Holmes and Watson.

  Mom scurried around the apartment, overscrambling eggs and setting bagels afire in the toaster oven while attempting to get ready for mass at St. Thomas More’s. True to her threat, she’d been wide awake when I’d ar­rived home last night, torn between approval of my at­tempts to clear Hunter and dismay that my detective work might put me in danger. This morning, as she smeared cream cheese on a cinnamon-raisin bagel, she said, “You can’t trust that Wanda woman; she could be the killer herself and just be trying to incriminate the others.”

  “I know, Mom, but if we can convince Ben that some­one else, possibly even Wanda, may be our murderer, Hunter might be off the hook. Last night you were urg­ing me to call Ben.”

  “Look, I like and respect Hunter Green and I’m cer­tain he’s innocent; however, my main concern is for you. Tell Ben all you know, then drop the digging. Whoever poisoned Holly Halligan and Charlie Fione is a cold­blooded, bold, premeditated killer. I don’t want you to become his or her next victim.” Then, as she poured my tea, she added, “And don’t accept anything to drink from anyone.”

  When I laughed, she drank it herself. I poured another cup and brought it, my bagel, and The New York Times back to bed. The deaths by poisoning of Holly Halligan and Charlie Fione had made the headlines for the second day in a row. How those two old hams would have en­joyed seeing themselves on the front page. Great photos of both of them. Holly’s on skis, reproduced from a fifties movie, still glossy, and Charlie’s snapped on the floor of the Senate. I won­dered if the souls in the world beyond had access to newspapers. Maybe Gypsy Rose could ask Zelda Fitz­gerald. My father used to read me the comics in the Daily News every day. And he’d loved politics and sports. Did Dad know today’s scores? Maybe I could bring these clippings to the next channeling and ask their spirit guides to read them to Holly and Charlie. Then again, maybe I’d become as flaky as dandruff.

  I took a bite from my too-toasted bagel and turned to the story’s follow-up pages. Some sob sister had written a lengthy human-interest background piece on Charlie Fione’s impoverished Hell’s Kitchen childhood. He’d lived in a tenement on Tenth Avenue between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth. Poor on a poor block in a poor neigh­borhood. And a tough one. Lots of gangsters had come out of Hell’s Kitchen, but senators stepping up from its streets were scarcer than debutantes.

  Charlie’s mother had been widowed when her hus­band, a twenty-five-year-old longshoreman, had been crushed on the Hudson River docks when a crate, low­ered from the Queen Mary, had slipped loose from its ropes. Maria Fione had been left with three children, the oldest six years old, no family in America, and zero income or pension. Working two jobs, the young woman had managed to educate her two young sons and daughter. Mrs. Fione had lived with her daughter and son-in-law in Scarsdale until she’d died fifteen years ago. Charlie’s older brother had become a priest, and currently was serving as pastor of Sacred Heart, the church and grade school that all three of the Fione children had attended. Their baby sister, now known as Fatima Fione-Epstein, taught English Lit at Columbia.

  While the funeral plans were not yet firm, Father Jo­seph Fione had indicated to the Times reporter that to­gether with the cardinal of the City of New York, he would be celebrating the Mass of Requiem for his dead brother at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. And that joining the speaker of the House, the senior senator from Massachusetts, and the mayor of New York, Professor Fatima Fione-Epstein would be delivering a eulogy. Further­more, the Three Tenors would be flying in from Europe to sing “Ave Maria.”

  I wondered if that ceremony, so full of pomp and circumstance, would be taking place before or after Ed­wina Carrington Fione had Charlie cremated. And I wondered if Father Fione had any notion that his brother’s remains were scheduled for a final fling from the stem of an Ashes Away cruise, during which the grieving widow would be attempting to channel her late husband’s spirit.

  Mom dashed into my bedroom and, looking lovely in a taupe-and-sand wool cape, deposited yet another over­done bagel on the night table, saying as she whirled through the door, “Goodbye, darling, I’m off to church. Aaron will try to be here around seven. Gypsy Rose is bringing lasagna. Will you be back? Maybe we can play Scrabble. Give our minds a night off from murder. Now be good and confess all to Ben.”

  She was gone before I could respond. That happened a lot. My mother really didn’t want any answers. Mono­logues worked better for her. Just as well. I’d decided that after my brunch with Rickie Romero, I’d pay a visit to Sacred Heart Church to have my own interview with Charlie Fione’s brother. And that answer would have led my mother to a real inquisition.

  It stopped raining as soon as I stepped under the small, crisp, red canopy. Bistro du Nord, a tiny two-tiered restaurant, was located on the southwest corner of Ninety-third Street and Madison Avenue, directly across from the Corner Bookstore. Mom and I were steady patrons. The French fare was wonderful, the atmosphere was charming, and the prices were right, featuring a three-course pre-theater dinner, including the best café au lait this side of Paris, for under twenty dollars.

  Rickie Romero, dressed in a gray cashmere turtleneck, tweed jacket, and jeans, sat at a window table, engrossed in the same New York Times article that had grabbed my attention. As I approached, he folded the paper, stood up to greet me, took my hand in his, and gently pressed it against his lips. “Bella Jake. You bring the sunshine with you.”

  While Rickie ordered a Cosmopolitan for me and a Perrier for him, issuing instructions for pre-chilling the glasses and asking the waiter to drape my damp jacket over the back of my chair, I watched the people passing by.

  I loved Sundays on the Hill, the one day of the week when its residents took back their neighborhood. Mondays to Fridays, too many business types and intrepid shoppers filled the streets. Even the nannies pushing prams seemed to have a sense of purpose. And the private-school students often walked to and from their classes like Marines on dress parade. On Saturdays, visitors from the outer boroughs joined the tourists from Sioux City or Butte, who’d discovered that Carnegie Hill was only a short subway ride from Times Square, and ran amok from Central Park to Lexington. The museums and restaurants became cluttered with pastel-colored jogging suits, baseball caps featuring midwestern logos, and sneakers with soles as high as wedgies. But on Sundays, the home team reclaimed their turf.

  Finished with his fussing, Rickie focused on me. “Are you comfortable? These tables are so small that they make my former prison cell look like the Gritti Palace.”

  “Ah, yes, Venice. One of my favorite chapters in your book. So romantic. Did you really steal the emeralds and sweep the princess off her feet?”

  “Jake, cara, it’s a novel.” Rickie’s long-enough-for-a-bird-to-nest-in left eyelashes closed in a wink. “By definition, that would be fiction, wouldn’t it?”

  I laughed. This man was so damn handsome that he made me nervous. Then, of course, he could be a killer. As Holly’s heir, he had the best motive of all. “But we writers know that first novels are always somewhat autobiographical, don’t we?” It occurred to me that most of our conversation so far had consisted of questions. Not unlike being with my mother.


  “Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.” Feeling foolish, I lowered my own rather stubby lashes, hoping I wouldn’t wind up with mascara in my eye sockets. I’d never been any good at flirting.

  “No secrets.” Rickie shrugged. “Thanks to the trial, my life’s an open book. And I’d rather talk about you, Jake.”

  The waiter arrived with our drinks and I tried another tack. “You must feel like you have a new lease on life, missing death by a sip, so to speak.”

  “Actually, AA gave me a new lease on life. I committed most of my cat burglaries under the influence of alcohol. So the program saved my life twice, you see. I’m really grateful.” Rickie raised his glass of Perrier as if it were the finest champagne. “Think of all that I would have missed, like being here with you. Salut. I drink to your beauty, my freedom, and the sunshine.”

  I took a long swallow from my Cosmopolitan. “Well, as one mystery writer to another, how many of the people on the panel do you think the killer wanted dead? One of you? Two of you? Or all three of you?”

  “Thinking of doing a true-crime book, cara?” Rickie frowned. “I believe you heard me tell that old sot Maurice Welch this is my story to write. I’ve already signed a contract with my publisher. And the first chapter’s finished and in the hands of the editor.”

  I was getting nowhere...fast. Romero sounded so smug. So proud of himself. So in control. So cold. Maybe he did do it. As Mom had pointed out, we were dealing with a cold-blooded killer. In addition to inheriting Holly’s estate, Rickie might have orchestrated the St. Patrick’s Day poisonings to get another book deal.

  “Now,” Rickie smiled at me, “let’s order. I suggest the salmon and shirred eggs over spinach.”