The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

God. “What happened?”

  “I never did find out. All I know is that was the sum­mer the oldest Houlihan boy threatened to kill Charlie Fione.”

  Fifteen

  The sky had grown dark by the time I’d finished can­vassing the rest of the block. Not surprisingly, none of the other residents could recall that eventful summer from fifty-five years ago. On the whole, the people of Hell’s Kitchen had impressed me. Though I’d run into a few gang members, dressed in black leather and strut­ting menacingly up and down the avenue, mostly I’d spoken to lots of polite kids, even if their English was limited. While their parents and grandparents had re­mained somewhat wary, no one had ordered me off the premises.

  Since I’d decided to call it a day, Ben had weighed heavily on my mind. I wanted to see him. To talk about this frustrating case’s twists and turns. To give him a hug. Maybe he’d be there when I arrived home. And I felt edgy. For the last few minutes I’d sensed that someone was watching me. Nervous, I looked over my shoul­der. No one. And everyone. The just-lighted street lamps cast deep shadows, and as evening approached, suddenly all of Hell Kitchen’s denizens seemed dangerous.

  Picking up speed, I glanced back again. A big man with broad shoulders had appeared on the scene, almost on my heels. My heart felt tight, bile flooded my throat, and despite the cool air, sweat trickled down from my hair.

  I felt two firm hands grab me. Kicking frantically, I tried to swing around. But I was shoved to the ground and a huge body lay on top of me. No sound came out when I tried to yell. A loud clatter directly in front of me caused my eyes to fly open. A large bucket of blood had landed inches from my nose; as it rolled toward the gutter, its contents splattered everywhere. Red liquid stained my free hand. I could smell it. What the hell? Not blood. Paint. I tried to raise my head, but the man had me pinned to the ground. There were noises above me; a crowd had gathered. The sounds made no sense. Then I heard an ungodly shriek and realized that I’d been the one who’d screamed.

  A soft voice whispered in my ear, “Sorry I scared you, lady, but that bucket was aimed right for your head.” As he spoke, he rolled off my back and helped me to my feet.

  Dazed, I stared up into concerned, dark eyes. My Hell’s Kitchen angel. A middle-aged guy in faded Levi’s and a Yankee jacket. “Thank you.” I didn’t recognize my own voice. “God, thank you.”

  Most of the crowd had moved on, but several people hovered, recapping the bucket’s descent and asking how I felt. Still wobbly, I tried to smile. One attractive young woman said, “I saw the whole thing. Someone reached out from that rooftop”—she pointed to the five-story building directly behind us—“and deliberately dropped that old pail down. Aimed it straight at your head.”

  “A man or a woman?” I croaked. It finally had dawned on me that we were in front of Mrs. Casey’s brownstone. The house where the Houlihans and the Fiones had lived so long ago.

  “Couldn’t tell you,” the young woman was saying, “but the person’s outstretched arms were covered in a dark color. Black, I think, and probably a sweater.”

  The big man picked up the wooden bucket and ex­amined it. “I guess someone really wanted to send you a message, lady.” He pointed to crude printing, the large letters covering half of one side of the bucket and written with the same red paint that now stained the sidewalk and most of my right hand: BUTT OUT. As if my butt would fit in that bucket. My protector sniffed the inside of the pail. ‘Turpentine was used to thin that paint. Could have caused a lot of damage if it had landed in your eyes.”

  A patrol car pulled up. A young cop rolled down the window. ‘Trouble?”

  All eyes were on me. “No, Officer,” I said. “Someone seems to have spilled a bucket of paint. An accident. But everything is all right. Thank you anyway.”

  The cop stared at me. “Yeah. Sure. Well, then that someone should clean up his colorful accident.” He drove off.

  I extended my hand to the man who’d tackled me. “I’m Jake O’Hara.”

  “James Roosevelt.” He grinned. “I like a woman who wouldn’t tell a cop if the sun was shining.” The crowd echoed his approval. “And don’t worry, Jake O’Hara, I live right in this building, I’ll get some paint remover from my place and see what I can do about that bloody mess.”

  “Again, thank you, and I’d like to ask you a question. How could a nonresident get onto the roof of your build­ing? Isn’t the door kept locked?”

  “Yeah, it’s locked, but from the outside. We’re trying to keep the bad guys out, not the tenants in.”

  “If a resident went out on the roof, he’d have to use a key to get back inside. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. It’s the same key that opens the front door.”

  “And if an outsider went out on the roof, he’d have to keep the door propped open in order to get back into the stairwell, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How could a stranger get into the building? I mean, if he had no key.”

  “Well, the guy could have a reason for being in the building. Like a repairman or a meter reader. But never on a Sunday. Or he could ring one of the apartments and a tenant could buzz him in, I guess.”

  “But a tenant wouldn’t let-someone that he didn’t know in, would he?”

  James Roosevelt laughed. “A few of those old folks don’t remember who they know. So that’s a possibility. Hey, you’ve asked a lot more than one question and you’re looking pretty beat. Let’s put you in a taxi.”

  Stepping into the cab, I said, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “My friends call me Jimmy.” He patted my sore right shoulder. “And I’ll look forward to that visit, Jake.”

  Sixteen

  I’d hoped to slink into the house and get cleaned up without anyone seeing me. The grit and grime of Hell’s Kitchen clung to my clothes and I smelled as if I’d been rolling around on a centuries-old filthy sidewalk. Which, in fact, I had.

  But no sneaking through the co-op for me. Mom had a gaggle of guests and they all swooped down on me as soon as I walked in the door.

  “Where have you been all day?” my mother led off, sounding as indignant as if she’d advised me of her whereabouts at all times.

  Too-Tall Tom sniffed. “Interesting aroma. What in the world have you been up to this afternoon, darling? After spending the better part of my afternoon with Maurice Welch, I’m sure he’s our killer.” Too-Tall Tom, once again, had rushed to judgment...convinced that the first suspect he interviewed would turn out to be the guilty one.

  “I really need to talk to you, Jake.” Modesty grabbed my arm. “When you never called me back, we decided to meet here. Wanda’s studio has been ransacked. And some important evidence is missing.”

  Aaron looked worried. “Ben’s on his way. He said to tell you he was sorry he didn’t get back to you, but he finally has some time to listen to your theories. He also hoped that you weren’t out playing detective. No such luck, huh?” He shook his head and went down the four wide wooden steps into the living room and reached for one of the small bamboo-and-cane chairs on either side of the staircase, bringing it up to the foyer. “Sit down, Jake, you look exhausted.”

  Jane’s brown eyes darted from the garish red stain on my hand to my dirty, rumpled parka. “Good God, you weren’t attacked or raped, were you?”

  My mother groaned. Then collapsed onto the bamboo chair.

  Gypsy Rose, wearing a lace apron over a brown silk Chanel suit and holding a strainer in one hand and a box of egg noodles in the other, said, “Jake, dear, why don’t you grab a nice hot shower? The pot roast will be ready in fifteen minutes. We can discuss everything over din­ner.”

  I gave her a grateful smile. “That sounds like a plan.” I fled into my room and locked the door behind me.

  I had two messages; both Hunter Green and Ashley Butler had called. As curious as I felt about what they wa
nted to tell me, I’d have to put them on hold. For now, my plate was full.

  Not wanting to leave my room to scour the kitchen cabinets for turpentine, I tried to remove the red paint with nail-polish remover. Other than adding yet another unpleasant odor to my totally smelly person, it didn’t do a damn thing. I’d just have to live awhile longer with my battle scars.

  Piling my clothes in a corner, I stepped into the shower, soaped up, and scrubbed. Letting the warm wa­ter hammer my aching body, soaking then shampooing my hair, and trying not to think, I began to feel some­what better. Then I lathered Vaseline Intensive Care lotion from face to feet—Jesus, I was turning into my mother—towel-dried my hair, and dressed in a well-worn, faded, soft jogging suit and old white socks. If I didn’t take away everyone’s appetite, I was ready to join our guests for dinner.

  They’d gathered ’round the table. The three ghostwriters grouped together at one end, in front of the bay window, with Modesty in the middle. Aaron sat to Jane’s right, slicing the beef; Mom was on Too-Tall Tom’s left, and Ben stood behind the chair next to Mom’s, gesturing for me to sit down beside him. Gypsy Rose, who was pour­ing red wine from Nana’s Waterford decanter, would be seated between Aaron and me. With eight of us to feed, including the bottomless pit that was Too-Tall Tom, I hoped she’d cooked a lot of food.

  As Ben planted a perfunctory peck on my greasy cheek, I reached for my wine goblet. “So, how are you doing?” he asked, using his finest NYPD homicide de­tective voice. I drained my glass; this could be a difficult dinner.

  “Fine,” I said, placing my red-stained hand on Ben’s forearm, patting it quickly, and then turning my com­plete attention to Modesty. Knowing that she could talk straight through the main course. Counting on it. ‘Tell me about what happened to Wanda Sparks. When did you speak to her?”

  “Right after you called me from Hell’s Kitchen,” Modesty began, eliciting a dirty look from my mother and a snide chuckle from Ben. Naturally, Modesty ig­nored them both. She held center stage and wouldn’t abridge a line to spare anyone. Including me. “Wanda was hysterical. Said she’d come home from work—”

  “On a Sunday?” I asked.

  “Yes. Donald Jay had insisted that she meet him at the Plaza. Claimed there was urgent paperwork that had to be taken care of immediately. But then, get this, when Wanda arrived at the hotel, he wasn’t in his room. She had him paged, but no one could locate him. Anyway, while she’d been trucking up to Fifty-ninth Street and searching for Donald, someone had trashed her apart­ment.”

  “And removed evidence,” my mother said.

  “That poor, unfortunate young woman,” Gypsy Rose said. “None of her lives has been easy. And Donald Jay continues to be part of Wanda’s unfinished destiny.” I wondered if she’d had a psychic experience while peel­ing the carrots that I now passed to Ben.

  “What evidence would that be?” Aaron asked.

  Modesty gave me a sheepish glance, then blurted, “Some papers that reveal, among other things, a strong connection between Holly Halligan and Rickie Romero. They also contained proof positive, according to Wanda, that she—not Rickie—wrote most of Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof.” So much for Modesty’s keeping secrets from the police or, apparently, from anyone in listening range of her big mouth. Since I’d started the questioning, I should have been prepared for any answer. Still I couldn’t believe that Modesty, who’d been acting as Wanda’s temporary sponsor, had broken her anonymity.

  “Is someone on top of this?” Aaron asked Ben.

  “Yes, Dad. Ms. Sparks reported the break-in to 911 as well as to Modesty. Cassidy’s at her apartment now, taking a statement.”

  I felt better. Wanda had given the police all this in­formation herself. Modesty wasn’t breaking one of our Ghostwriters Anonymous traditions. If she had been, Jane would have kicked her from here to eternity. Ob­viously, Too-Tall Tom and Jane had heard the whole story. And understood that Wanda had spilled her own secrets. Now I felt guilty about doubting Modesty. I smiled at her and asked, “Well, why did Holly Halligan leave the bulk of her estate to Rickie?”

  Modesty served herself a huge portion of noodles; I knew she wouldn’t touch the pot roast. Good, Too-Tall Tom was devouring his. “Wanda wasn’t too coherent, but I think she said that Holly had once been in love with Rickie Romero’s father. A very long time ago. Or maybe it was his grandfather.”

  I wondered, could that love affair have taken place in Hell’s Kitchen during a long, hot August, fifty-five years ago?

  “Where?” I asked Modesty.

  “I don’t know where.” Modesty added butter to her noodles. “Why is where important? Let’s see, I believe Wanda told me Rickie Romero originally came from up­state New York. Plattsburgh, I think.” As she spoke, it sank in. For both of us. “God.” Modesty dropped her knife. “That’s the same town where Wanda said the waste-management site—that Senator Fione would be voting against—is located.”

  “And the town where Donald Jay’s motive for murder can be found,” Jane said.

  I suspected that Plattsburgh might harbor yet another motive for murder.

  “Just how do you know about Plattsburgh, Jane?” Modesty asked.

  “Ashley Butler told me. This very afternoon. I ran into her and Dennis Kim.” My toe twitched in my sticky sock. “I’d gone out for a late lunch with my editor. The galleys needed so much rewriting. I really blame the copy editor. No one has a command of grammar any­more.” I could hear Modesty snicker.

  But Jane blissfully rattled on. “They were at Sarabeth’s, having tea.” How dare Dennis take that woman and her totally tacky hair to tea in my favorite place? “And Ashley was complaining about working for a pos­sible killer. Says she’s scared to death of her boss. She insists that Donald Jay had more than a million reasons for wanting Charlie Fione dead. And it had to be fast. Before the Senate’s final vote on that environmental bill this coming week.”

  Modesty, not about to be upstaged by Jane, jumped in and explained, in depth, to the rest of her audience what Wanda had told us the night before regarding the Plattsburgh waste-management site’s being a motive for murder.

  Ben kept a poker face, but I’d bet the Wedgwood that he’d already heard this story from Donald Jay.

  Gypsy Rose asked Aaron to pass the platter back to Too-Tall Tom. I shoved my noodles into my carrots and pushed the pot roast around in circles. On information overload, I’d lost my appetite. My stomach gurgled, my muscles felt tense, my head ached, and Too-Tall Tom hadn’t told his tale yet.

  My mother missed nothing. “You’re not eating, Jake.” I speared a noodle. Ben, who seemed to be off in his own world—probably Plattsburgh—hadn’t eaten much either. But I didn’t hear his father commenting on his less-than-clean plate.

  I turned to Jane, figuring Modesty had savored her shining moment, but all great performances require a finale. “Did Ashley have anything else to say?”

  What I ached to know was why Ashley and Dennis had been together. A business meeting? On a Sunday? Maybe. He had arranged a business dinner with her on Friday night before accepting Gypsy Rose’s invitation to the Tavern on the Green. Dennis couldn’t be romantically involved with Ashley, could he? I flexed my feet, seriously re­senting Dennis Kim for causing so much turmoil in my toes.

  Jane said, “Actually, Ashley did mention that earlier today she’d witnessed—her word choice, not mine—you and Rickie Romero enjoying a cozy brunch and each other’s company at Bistro du Nord.”

  Ben snapped out of his reverie and said, “Jake, you’ve had a busy day and we still haven’t discovered how you acquired those bloodied streaks.”

  I gave Jane a fierce frown, which, as intended, flus­tered her. “Well, er, I told Ashley,” she said, “that you had some questions regarding Rickie’s book...I mean, well, we know you weren’t on a date…” Jane shut up, obviously, having no finish.

  Grea
t. Damned if I did have a rendezvous with Rickie and damned if I didn’t. Should I just come clean, for­getting about a cover story and admitting to my Nancy Drew ploy? A rather unsuccessful one at that. What the hell? I was a citizen of a free country. As a mystery writer who’d witnessed a double murder, I had every right to question a suspect. Regardless of what Ben, Mom, or Zelda Fitzgerald had to say. Playing detective might be dangerous, but it was no crime. I sat up straight and gave a synopsis of my book-review brunch.

  Too-Tall Tom had managed to put away two helpings of everything while the rest of us were listening to Mod­esty and asking questions. When I closed the chapter on Rickie’s and my conversation, I turned to him. “Okay, why do you believe Maurice Welch is our killer?”

  “Motive, motive, motive. The old boy up is to his enlarged liver in them.” Too-Tall Tom sighed. “Why is it I always get stuck with the drunks? He insisted that I have a second Manhattan, and as I was about to leave, he was mixing his fifth. By then he’d run out of sweet vermouth, but had become extremely loose in the lips. Positively a blabbing brook, simply spewing out his ha­tred for Holly Halligan. And he had reasons for wanting Rickie Romero dead as well.”

  “Like what?” Gypsy Rose asked.

  “Let’s start with Holly,” Too-Tall Tom said. “Welch is an old souse, that’s why he looks like death warmed over; however, he says he’s never felt better. And he’s determined to marry the Venus Flytrap. The wedding’s scheduled for next weekend—at the Waldorf. Grand Ballroom. As you all know, Maurice booked a cremation cruise with Holly—says he believes in planning ahead—and because of their long-ago affair, she promised to give him a discount. He even asked her to be his des­ignated flinger. Since they’d once been lovers, Maurice claims he didn’t bother reading the fine print in the con­tract and that now he owes Ashes Away almost five hundred thousand dollars. Welch says he’s nowhere near ready to take that cruise, but the company’s dunning him. Holly’s arrangements for her former boyfriend’s final voyage included a sixty-foot yacht berthed off the coast of New Zealand, the purchase of a solid gold urn, and booking Reverend Sharpton to deliver the eulogy. Of course, as Holly’s heir, most of that half million would wind up in Rickie Romero’s hands.”