The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  “Wait a minute,” my mother said. “When and where did this affair between Holly and Maurice take place? And did it end amicably?”

  Too-Tall Tom grinned. “In Hollywood, Maura, during the mid-fifties. Welch was out on the coast, writing one of Holly’s ski epics, but it was the affair that went down­hill. She left him for Errol Flynn.”

  “I can certainly understand that.” Gypsy Rose cleared away Ben’s plate, adding it to a stack she’d amassed. “Zelda has told me Holly’s ensconced on the same plane with Errol. This bit of gossip explains that, doesn’t it?” She left the dining room without waiting for an answer.

  “Maurice hasn’t booked an appointment with Dr. As­sisted Suicide, has he?” I asked.

  Ben threw his napkin on the table.

  “Jake, I gather that Dennis the Menace, in addition to divulging the contents of Holly Halligan’s will, told you about Dr. Nujurian and you then informed the other ghostwriters.”

  Paying no attention to Ben’s nasty tone, Too-Tall Tom moved on. “No. Maurice insists that though he’s an old man, he loves life and Venus, and has no desire for an early departure.”

  “As such a lover of life, could he kill?” my mother asked.

  “I’m certain he poisoned Holly. In addition to the in­flated cost of the cruise, I don’t believe he ever got over being dumped by her. And while admitting nothing, Welch confessed that after reading Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof, he only hoped he’d live long enough to piss Manhattans on Rickie Romero’s grave.”

  Gypsy Rose returned to the dining room and served us devil’s food cake and vanilla ice cream for dessert.

  Seventeen

  Ben hadn’t kissed me goodbye. He’d passed on dessert as well, explaining that he had to get back on the job; however, at Gypsy Rose’s cajoling, he accepted a quick cup of coffee. Then I told the group about my own adventurous afternoon, deleting only my suspicions about the bucket, making its descent sound more like mischief than malice. My mother reacted as if I’d been in imminent danger of death. Modesty had a second slice of cake.

  With Ben’s departure, we split into two factions. Mom, Gypsy Rose, and Aaron were sent to the living room to play Scrabble while the ghostwriters volunteered to do the dishes. I knew Mom hated turning her kitchen’s cleanup over to anyone less anal retentive than she, but Too-Tall Tom and Jane actually might be even cleaner. I whispered that seven-letter word in Mom’s ear, ushered her out through the white French doors, pulled the board game down from the shelf in the hall closet, and returned to find the kitchen had become an autoclave.

  Once Jane had stacked all the dirty dishes in the nea­test piles I’d ever seen and Too-Tall Tom had searched for and found new sponges, S.O.S pads, and a rubber scraper to properly scrub the pots and pans, we settled down to discuss in depth the complexities of this case and its amazing cast of suspects.

  No matter which way our sleuthing skewed, Too-Tall Tom continued to spout theories about how Maurice Welch had done the deed. When I asked the ghostwriters if any of them could hazard a guess as to why Carita Ma­genta had stopped Wanda in the Plaza lobby just before she went to rescue Maurice from the Oak Room, Too-Tall Tom said, “Well, it’s so clear, isn’t it? Wanda’s the associate culprit. The poor thing may not have known that she was an accomplice. Carita, acting as Maurice’s agent, probably only told her that Maurice wanted to play a prank that required Wanda to dress up as a lep­rechaun and deliver a pitcher to the panel. Wanda wouldn’t have had any idea that the green beer had been laced with cyanide. And Maurice hadn’t known Rickie was in AA. Such a scary thought would never cross that old drunk’s mind. Then, afterward, Wanda must have been terrified. And wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell the police. Sad.”

  God, that theory actually made some sense. With Carita knowing that Wanda had served the poison, Wanda could never reveal that she’d been Carita’s ghostwriter. If, in fact, she had. When we were finished in the kitchen, I’d ask Gypsy Rose about that. Then, too, Welch had suddenly sobered up after the poisonings. Flying straight enough to try to interview Rickie...wanting to turn the tragedy into a book. “But why would Maurice have murdered the senator?” I asked. “He didn’t have anything against him, did he?”

  “No motive that we’re aware of at this point.” Jane attacked Nana’s old cast-iron pot as if it carried the Ebola virus. “That doesn’t mean Maurice didn’t have one. What if his and the senator’s path, like his and Holly’s, had crossed before? And we now know Maurice had wanted Rickie dead. Too-Tall Tom could be on the right track.”

  Modesty cut herself another slice of devil’s food cake. “Have you all forgotten about Edwina Carrington? She booked an appointment for the senator to meet with Dr. Nujurian. Maybe he’d vetoed that and Edwina decided to speed up her husband’s date with death. Charlie Fione had an ancient-history secret connection of some sort with Holly Halligan, AKA Helen Mary Houlihan, and Edwina had good reason to want her out of the picture too.”

  “Don’t keep dirtying dishes, Modesty,” Too-Tall Tom said. “We’re washing the Wedgwood by hand. You’re supposed to be drying.” He grabbed her plate. “If you’re correct, why would the widow Carrington have wanted to kill Rickie Romero?”

  “She didn’t want him dead, silly,” Modesty snarled. “She considered Rickie to be expendable, like one of those minks that was slaughtered to make her coat. His death simply served her purpose. Nothing personal, you understand.”

  Another murder motive I could live with. God, had I become jaded or what? I climbed up on the stepladder to put the china away in the corner cabinet.

  “Well, after my brunch with the reticent Rickie, I think Ben’s primary suspect could be our killer. Remem­ber, he chatted with Wanda right before the panel started. She could have aided and abetted him. Inheriting all that money and the lucrative Ashes Away company gave Romero a major motive for killing Holly. Though I haven’t a clue as to why Holly made him her heir, I do believe that Rickie, Holly, Hell’s Kitchen, and Fione’s past are somehow connected. And Wanda knows more than she’s saying.” I took another pile of plates from Jane.

  “That’s a stretch,” Modesty said. I knew she wasn’t talking about my struggle to reach the top shelf. “Wanda Sparks might have been acting as a lone leprechaun. A frustrated ghostwriter, full of resentment and without a pro­gram, could be capable of killing.”

  “I can reach up there without a ladder.” Too-Tall Tom had turned away from arranging the glassware on a sil­ver tray. The Waterford sparkled. Mom would be thrilled. “Come down this minute, Jake.” I obeyed at once. My shoulder still hurt. As he took my hand, he said, “Yes, Wanda had both the motive and the opportunity to rid herself of Rickie, but would she have poi­soned the senator and Holly along with him?”

  Jane switched on the dishwasher. Since she and Too-Tall Tom seemed to have done everything by hand, I wondered what was in there. Then, wiping off the counter, she said, “I guess Magenta and DeMill would be wild cards. Though I must say a bucket of bright red paint being dropped on Jake’s head smacks of color-me-comatose Carita. But how about Ashley Butler? She cer­tainly could be the leprechaun. Someone’s accomplice? Or did she have a motive of her own? She really tried to lay the blame on Donald Jay this afternoon. He only agreed to meet with me tomorrow morning after I told him I was a freelance writer for a crime magazine and we wanted to profile him. Fat chance. Both Wanda and Ashley think the Plattsburgh property could be his mo­tive. With a man as sleazy as he’s reputed to be, if I do a little digging, there may be more dirty deals.”

  I nodded. “Good. Try to find out if Donald Jay knew the Romero family in Plattsburgh. And Ashley is on my list. Ironically, I had messages from both her and Hunter when I arrived home this evening, but I haven’t had a chance to call either of them back.”

  Jane dried her hands and smoothed out the dish towel. Then she hung it up; totally amazing—the linen towel looked as if it had just been ironed. “We all
have to accept the obvious. Like it or not, Hunter Green has the best motive. Two, in fact. Revenge and greed. He hated Holly for what she’d done to Angela and he knew where Rickie stashed the Faith diamond.”

  “I’ll never accept that Hunter’s a killer,” I said.

  “And neither will I.” Modesty, seconding my endorse­ment, surprised and pleased me.

  When the ghostwriters had gone and Mom, Gypsy Rose, and Aaron started their Scrabble rematch—Gypsy Rose made two seven-letter words, winning the first game—I headed for my bedroom. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed, pull the comforter up to my chin, and sleep ’til Thursday, but I decided that I’d better return my calls first.

  Hunter Green picked up on the first ring. “Jake, thank God. I’ve been pacing the loft, waiting to hear from you.” God, I felt guilty about not talking to him sooner; I should have called this morning. Hunter must be terrified, thinking he’d be ar­rested any moment. And there was no excuse for not responding to his message before dinner.

  “Sorry, Hunter. I’ve had a busy day, but you’ve been on my mind. And I’ve been trying to find out whodunit. Not that I’ve had much luck. Anyway, I’m here now. How can I help?”

  “I really don’t want to bother you, Jake, but I have no one else to turn to.” He sounded desperate.

  “Please, Hunter, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Dr. Nujurian called late this afternoon. She received two threatening letters in the mail...and she accused me of sending them.”

  “When did the letters arrive?”

  “One in Friday’s mail and one yesterday. Dr. Nujurian is convinced that I poisoned Holly Halligan and is afraid I plan on murdering her too. I denied sending them, but the only reason that she hasn’t gone running to the police is because she ‘doesn’t want to deal with those fascists.’ But, if another letter arrives tomorrow, she’ll give them all to Ben Rubin. She must have gotten his name from the newspaper. If Dr. Nujurian does that, I’ll be indicted for sure.”

  “And we have no way of knowing if there will be another letter tomorrow.”

  “Exactly. What am I going to do, Jake?”

  “Listen to me, Hunter.” My mouth ran faster than my mind, but I’d think of something. “Do nothing. Keep a low profile; stay at home. I’ll handle this. Now promise me.

  I dialed Modesty. “Is the ghostmobile fixed?” Her old Beetle had transported many of us ghostwriters when we left Manhattan for the outer boroughs, Long Island, or New Jersey.

  “I’m picking it up at the garage in the morning. Why?” Modesty sounded suspicious.

  “Hunter needs us. Will you drive me up to Westch­ester? We need to pay a visit to Dr. Nujurian.”

  “What!”

  Ten minutes later she agreed to my half-baked plan. While I was still mulling over a possible solution to Hunter’s problem, the phone rang. “Jake, this is Ashley.” As if I wouldn’t recognize those honeyed tones. “Dennis suggested that I talk to you. I need some advice. Can we meet sometime tomorrow?”

  “Well, er, couldn’t we discuss it on the phone?” Den­nis Kim had to know that the last woman in the world I’d want to advise would be this Barbie doll.

  Ashley actually gasped. “This is a matter of utmost secrecy, of course we can’t discuss it on the phone.” I wanted to kill Dennis. Instead, I made a date with her for cocktails at six, tomorrow evening, in the Al­gonquin lobby. I hoped for Ashley’s secret’s sake that the CIA didn’t hang out there. That reminded me of something else. I hopped out of bed, scurried to the liv­ing room, and interrupted the Scrabble game. “Gypsy Rose, when Ashley Butler suggested that someone else had written Carita’s books, did she also suggest Wanda Sparks could be that ghostwriter?”

  “No.” Gypsy Rose looked up, holding a tile in her hand. “Not that night at the Algonquin right before the Crime Writers’ Conference, but on Friday night at Tav­ern on the Green, something Ashley said gave me the impression that she herself might be Carita’s ghostwriter. I forgot to tell you; so much has happened since then.”

  “Thanks. Good night, gang.” As I was leaving, Gypsy Rose made another seven-letter word: ensnare.

  Eighteen

  My mother sat in the breakfast nook reading the Times and sipping tea. A place had been set for me and there were bagels, a tub of cream cheese, and a pitcher of orange juice on the table. The sun streamed in through the windows, highlighting Mom in a hazy halo. She wore a beige jogging suit, my Yankee hat, and sneakers. I wore a chenille robe I’ve had since college and socks that served as slippers.

  “Good morning, Jake. I picked up fresh bagels, hot from the baker’s oven, so they won’t need to be toasted.” Thank God. “Have one; the cinnamon-raisin ones are luscious, and I’ll pour you a nice cup of tea. You had a rough time yesterday, didn’t you, dear?”

  “You could say that, I guess.” I applied the cream cheese liberally. “But I’m fine, Mom, so please don’t worry. And today both Modesty and I are playing hooky. We’re putting our works-in-progress on hold and going for a drive in the country. She’ll be here about nine. Nice day for it, right?”

  She filled my cup and frowned, causing vertical lines to form between her eyebrows. “Right. Jake, you have trouble lying to strangers; why would you try to deceive your own mother? If you’d tell me the truth, I’d worry easier.”

  Whatever the hell that meant. “There’s no need to worry at all. We’re taking a ride up to Westchester. Er...we might stop at Manhattanville. I’ll show Mod­esty my alma mater...then we’ll, um, we’ll stop in Tarrytown to visit Dr. Nujurian. If she’s home, I’d like to ask her a few questions. Now you know our itinerary. Nothing for you to be concerned about, okay?”

  “Unless the doctor serves you a suicide sandwich, spread with a mix of hemlock and toadstools, washed down with a cyanide chaser.” My mother took a vicious bite out of her bagel. Then she put her lipstick-red, Ben Franklin reading glasses back on and stuck her nose into the style section.

  Modesty called as I was drying my hair. “The car isn’t ready. The mechanic says he needs another ten or fifteen minutes. That’s repairman speak for the parts haven’t arrived and the job will take at least an hour.”

  “Maybe not; keep the faith. We’re still going, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but I’ll be there when I’m there.”

  I finished dressing, and with an unexpected gift of time, went to work. I like to outline each upcoming chapter on a legal pad. Then, when I hit the keys, the plot tends to move along. Most of the time. This Heads Roll manuscript had proved to be as difficult to draft in longhand as on the computer. When a ghostwriter de­tests her employer’s protagonist and finds the storyline repugnant, only the advance compels her to create. My current employer, an off-Broadway musical-comedy producer whose failures littered his résumé, came from a wealthy family who had supported his habit of backing turkeys. His main character, the chorus girl killer, re­mained a one-dimensional horror show.

  Fortunately, I’d reached the final pages and the last musical murder. Sketching out the scene, I set the seventh sing-along site on the Circle Line, where an unsuspecting tourist loses his head to the raucous sounds of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “There Is Nothing Like a Dame.”

  Just as I was figuring out how the hapless homicide detective—not at all like Ben—would arrive on board to capture the killer chorus girl—maybe on a coast­guard cutter?—my mother barged into my bedroom. She’d changed from her jogging suit to a smart three-piece, taupe tweed ensemble: a cropped jacket topping a matching vest and long, narrow skirt, worn with dark chocolate leather ankle boots. Her smart new hairstyle reminded me of Diane Sawyer’s. “Jake, Ashley Butler’s down in the lobby. She can’t wait ’til tonight; she must speak to you immediately.”

  I hadn’t heard the intercom. “Well, I guess you’d bet­ter ask her up.” My feeling of euphoria, resulting from almost closing the book on Heads Roll, fa
ded fast. What the hell did Ashley Butler want from me?

  “Oh, there’s something else,” my mother said. There always was. “NBC just announced that Senator Fione will be waked at Campbell’s tomorrow afternoon and evening. The viewing will be open to the public. First come, first in. The funeral will be held at St. Pat’s on Wednesday at eleven a.m. The Mass is by invitation only, as is the senator’s farewell cruise around Manhat­tan, followed by his burial at sea.”

  Marveling at how my current fictional denouement tied into Charlie Fione’s grand finale, I asked, “Has Gypsy Rose arranged for us to be aboard that Ashes Away cruise? For the channeling, I mean? I know Ben plans on attending.”

  “Don’t worry, darling, we both have boarding passes.” My mother winked. I knew she thrived on this op­portunity to reverse roles and show me up for fretting unnecessarily. “Ben Rubin will have to provide his own. All the crime writers will receive invitations for both the viewing—no waiting in line—and for the service in the cathedral. Now I’ll buzz your visitor in.”

  Mom served Ashley and me tea in the living room and went off to work. Joan Mazza would be signing her latest dreaming-your-own-reality workbook at Gypsy Rose’s bookstore this morning and they were expecting a big crowd.

  Ashley and I were seated in the Casablanca chairs, facing the windows that overlooked Ninety-second Street. While my unexpected guest fidgeted with her tea­cup, adding two teaspoons of sugar, stirring up a storm, then squeezing the slice of lemon as if she were wringing someone’s neck, I checked out her incredible outfit.

  The navy blue blazer, white cotton shirt, opened to show a lacy bit of bra, thigh-high plaid miniskirt, knee socks, and penny loafers reminded me of Barbie dressed in a grade-school uniform. Combined with this Lolita-like getup, Ashley’s raccoon-ringed eyes, bloodied lips, and teased-to-the-rafters hair struck me as somewhat revolt­ing. Of course, since I didn’t like the lady, my judgment might be considered as harsh as her makeup.