The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  “Really?” She shoved a file to the far right side of the desk. “I can assure you that Hunter Green had a motive for killing Holly Halligan. He held her—and me, I might add—responsible for his wife’s death. For God’s sake, he threatened Holly in front of Angela’s mourners. And now he’s after me. No one dislikes law enforcement’s ongoing invasion of individual rights more than me, but for once, the cops are correct.”

  “Exactly what do these letters threaten, Dr. Nujurian?”

  “Mostly they’re filled with accusations.” She tapped her pink nails on the desktop as if she were typing. “All innuendo. No substance. The writer wants me punished for helping humanity. Twisting my life’s work to suit his warped viewpoint. There’s not a tangible shred of evidence in any of them.”

  “So was there another letter in today’s mail?”

  “Yes. But why do you ask that? How could you know how many letters have arrived? Did Hunter tell you that he’d mailed a third one?”

  I ignored her questions. “Do these threats also connect you to Senator Fione’s death?” A wild guess. But my words made the doctor look sick. Nujurian reached for the file she’d pushed to the side, but I moved faster and snatched it first. Three envelopes fell from the folder to the floor. Dr. Nujurian picked up a letter opener, then shot out of her seat and around the desk in a flash, but not before I’d grabbed the envelopes. The block-printed address, written in red crayon, caught my attention. That type of printing—warning me to butt out—had been used on the bucket of red paint. I read one of the post­marks. Murray Hill. The very same neighborhood where Carita Magenta’s purple bathtub served as her kitchen’s focal point. As Dr. Nujurian lurched at me, brandishing the letter opener, the envelopes went flying. I kicked her shin as hard as I could and she fell to her knees. Her screams brought Bartholomew Irving barging into the office. I figured my fifteen minutes were almost up. If I didn’t leave now, Modesty might call Ben. I didn’t want that. While Irving ran to the doctor’s aid, I hurried to the door. But I couldn’t leave without an exit line. Look­ing over my shoulder, I saw that Nujurian and Irving were both on their knees. She was shoving the letters back into the file while he still appeared to be begging for forgiveness.

  “Goodbye, Dr. Nujurian,” I said with great enthusi­asm. “I do hope to see you aboard the senator’s Ashes Away cruise on Wednesday. We’re channeling Charlie Fione from the world beyond; maybe he’ll have a mes­sage for you.”

  Marianne Neal dozed as we started the trip back to Manhattan. But Harry Neal, extremely agitated, berated himself. “How could I have been so callow? And cowardly. I’m ashamed of myself. But I didn’t have any hope.”

  “Mr. Neal, why didn’t you come to us?” I asked, turning to face him in the backseat. God, what a mess. I felt sad. Powerless. Frustrated. “You know, no matter how bad things get, Mom and Gypsy Rose somehow find a way to help.”

  “I was desperate, Jake. Scared. There didn’t seem to be another solution...and that Holly Halligan was one fast talker. If it were only Marianne’s problem, I would have taken care of her ’til the end, but I’ve been feeling weaker and weaker. Then, two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with heart failure. I’m not afraid to die, Jake, but I can’t leave Marianne behind.” A tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek. I could see Modesty wiping her eyes as we drove out of Tarrytown.

  She blew her nose, took a deep breath, and said, “Mr. Neal, you’re not going to die immediately. I had an uncle with heart failure. He outlived the cardiologist who said he’d be dead in a year.” Blunt Modesty could be spouting the right stuff. Certainly, I couldn’t think of a goddamn thing to say. “Furthermore,” she continued, “I’ll bet that whatever you paid for that Ashes Away cruise and Dr. Nujurian’s double-whammy needle would be more than enough for home health care round the clock. Then you and Mrs. Neal could stay together. It won’t be easy. Sometimes life really does suck. But you’re not a quitter, Mr. Neal, and you two could have a lot of good days ahead of you. And we’ll all be there for you. Isn’t that right, Jake?”

  Totally straight-thinking logic there. A much better solution than I—or, maybe, even Mom and Gypsy Rose—could have come up with. Mr. Neal patted Modesty on the shoulder and gave me a weak smile.

  “That’s a grand plan, Modesty,” I said. “Of course we’ll be there, Mr. Neal. You can count on it. Now, you and Mrs. Neal are having dinner with Mom, Modesty, and me tonight.” I reached for my cellphone. “But first I’m calling Gypsy Rose to ask her to cook something special. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Perhaps she’ll bake her buttermilk biscuits too. Oh, and string-bean casserole. Mom can handle that. Then I’m calling Dennis Kim to see what he can do about getting your money back. Since he’s Holly Halligan’s executor, that shouldn’t be a problem. He can just take it out of her estate. I’ll ask him and Mr. Kim over for dinner too. Dennis can bring the white wine.”

  “Are we in Hawaii yet?” Mrs. Neal asked.

  Twenty-One

  Dinner was a great success, but dessert was postponed because of death. And I’d been really looking forward to Gypsy Rose’s peach cobbler. She’d just put it in the oven to warm when the phone rang. My head was in the freezer, searching for the Edy’s French va­nilla. “Ben for you, Jake,” Gypsy Rose said as she lined up the Waterford dessert dishes and I emerged tri­umphant, placing the ice cream on the counter to soften. Mom kept the freezer as crowded as if she actually cooked and colder than Antarctica.

  One of Ben’s more endearing qualities is cutting to the chase. “Carita Magenta’s dead,” he said. “Murdered in her purple bathtub.”

  Macabre visions of Marat and Charlotte Corday flooded my mind. “Murdered, Jesus. How? Did some­one stab her?”

  “No. Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know why. Sorry, my imagination went wild there for a moment,” I said as Gypsy Rose turned off the oven, covered the cobblers in tinfoil, and stuck the ice cream back into the freezer. “What did happen?”

  “The actual cause of death was drowning. The killer held her head underwater. I don’t understand why Ma­genta kept that old tub in the middle of her kitchen—boy, that’s one colorful room, looks like an explosion in a crayon box—she never took a bath in it, that’s for sure. She wouldn’t have fit.”

  “So I heard. A couple of days ago Modesty went to Carita’s to discuss having her aura aligned. She filled me in about the tiny, old-fashioned purple tub and the rest of the bizarre color scheme. When she’d visited the apartment, Venus DeMill had been soaking in a bubble bath. Modesty’s convinced that Carita and Venus have been, er, quite close for years.”

  “Yeah.” Ben sounded tired. And distant. “Well, DeMill discovered the body. Apparently she spends several days a week at Magenta’s. Anyway, her screams brought a neighbor, a Mrs. Samuels, running to Carita’s apartment. Samuels found the door open. Venus had col­lapsed in a heap on that god-awful orange and green li­noleum. The neighbor called 911. DeMill is currently under a doctor’s care at Maurice Welch’s.”

  “Ben, Carita Magenta was a big woman; wouldn’t it have been difficult for the killer to have held her head underwater long enough to drown her? Seems to me that would have required a lot of strength,” I said, wondering if Wanda Sparks, Ashley Butler, or Edwina Carrington Fione would have been powerful enough. Even Venus DeMill, who was tall and appeared to be very muscular, might have had trouble holding Carita down. “Isn’t it more likely that the murderer is a man?”

  “A cast-iron frying pan was found on the floor next to the tub. And there’s a bump on the back of Carita’s head. Looks like the killer bopped her one before drown­ing her. So I guess the field’s wide open. However, there is an arrest warrant being written out for a man as we speak.”

  “Who?” My loud question startled Gypsy Rose, who stood by the stove, unabashedly eavesdropping.

  “Rickie Romero,” Ben said with satisfaction. “An­other neighbor—who’
d recognized him from TV and the tabloids—spotted him leaving Carita’s apartment about fifteen minutes before Mrs. Samuels heard DeMill’s screams. And he never showed up this afternoon for his meeting with his parole officer.”

  “Does that mean Hunter Green’s no longer a sus­pect?” I asked. Gypsy Rose nodded encouragingly.

  “Not for this murder. His alibi’s airtight. Joe Cassidy and I were searching Green’s loft, while he groused long and loud, during the timeframe when Carita died. That doesn’t let him off the hook for the Senator and Holly Halligan.”

  “For God’s sake, Ben, hasn’t it occurred to you that Carita’s drowning has to be connected to the poison­ings?” I shouted. “That the same person has to be re­sponsible.”

  “And hasn’t it occurred to you that Hunter Green and Rickie Romero may be partners in crime? Under the guise of Hunter providing literary advice to Rickie while he was writing his novel in jail, their mutual greed—fueled by the Faith diamond—could have turned them into unlikely co-conspirators. Then they both had major motives for wanting Holly Halligan dead, didn’t they?”

  Jesus, he had me there. That was one plot twist I hadn’t even considered. But…damn, it did seem plausible. “But what about Senator Fione? Why would they both want—”

  “Come on, Jake. You’ve been digging up the dirt over on Tenth Avenue, haven’t you?” Ben’s voice had turned icy. “You must have stumbled onto a Rickie Romero/Charlie Fione connection.”

  While I had what I considered hard evidence about a long-ago link between the Fione family and Holly Hal­ligan, I only harbored a strong hunch regarding any past history between Charlie Fione and Rickie Romero. What had Ben unearthed? Maybe, if I handled this right, I could find out.

  “Now, consider this an official warning.” Ben spoke softly, his voice still ice-cold. “Stop interfering in this investigation, Jake. I don’t want your mother to find you dead in the bathtub. Or poisoned in the kitchen. Even when we take Romero into custody, there could still be another killer on the loose out there. You and the ghostwriters are off this case. Effective immediately. Is that under­stood?” He hung up.

  Jeez. I not only didn’t learn any more about Fione and Romero, I never had a chance to ask for an update on Wanda Sparks’s break-in. Given Ben’s current atti­tude, I might never have that chance.

  The peach cobbler tasted flat and Edy’s usually robust flavor seemed to have faded, but Gypsy Rose and I managed to serve dessert and coffee without letting any of our tablemates knowing that its delay had been caused by the news of Magenta’s murder. Once Mom heard about Carita, she’d insist that I stay home, so I made Gypsy Rose promise to wait until after Modesty and I were out of there before she told my mother and Dennis. Then I’d tell Modesty when we joined the other ghostwriters. Mr. Kim offered to see the Neals downstairs to their apartment and Mom and Gypsy Rose started to clear the table.

  Thanking Gypsy Rose and Mom for hosting dinner two nights in a row, Modesty and I left Dennis to the ladies—risking that they’d probably have arranged my engagement by the time I returned home—and, ignoring Ben’s warnings, grabbed a cab down to Too-Tall Tom’s.

  I could easily justify my actions. After all, the ghostwriters had completed their day’s detecting, so why not listen to their results? And Modesty would sulk big-time if she couldn’t brag about improvising my near-fatal illness during our visit to Dr. Assisted Suicide.

  When we arrived at Too-Tall Tom’s Christopher Street jewel of an apartment, Jane, giddy with excitement and flushed from downing two glasses of wine while waiting for us, insisted that she report first. That would mean postponing the delivery of my own news about Carita’s murder, but anticipating the gratification of one-upping Jane, I graciously acquiesced.

  “Donald Jay is a dreadful human being,” Jane began. “Posing as a writer proved to be the perfect ploy; that man lives to read his and his bloody Crime Writers’ press coverage. He’d perform sex acts in public if he thought it would draw more of a crowd to his conference. I think he’s thrilled that Holly and Senator Fione died on one of his panels, and despite Jay’s protestations to the contrary, he’s convinced even bad publicity is good publicity. With a little flattery, he revealed his top choice for killer.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Rickie Romero. Because A—he inherits Holly’s estate. And B—Jay says Rickie had a longstanding grudge against Senator Fione. Guess what, my fellow ghostwriters?” Jane paused, tapping her wineglass on Too-Tall Tom’s table, eliciting a cross look from our host.

  “What?” Modesty and I asked as one.

  “Though Jay wouldn’t elaborate, I figured out that the Fione/Romero conflict had something to do with Plattsburgh.” Jane sat back, like Perry Mason waiting for the jury’s reaction to her revelation.

  “How did you deduce that and what, if any, evidence do you have?” Modesty asked, sounding underwhelmed.

  “I questioned Jay about his land in Plattsburgh and Senator Fione’s opposition to the federal government’s using it. You know, trying to reinforce Jay’s motive.” Jane had gone on the defensive, giving her summation. “He wouldn’t discuss either his property there or the now-postponed Senate vote that could leave him penniless. But Jay did hint that Romero’s Plattsburgh’s roots were connected to his motive for murdering Charlie Fione.” At best, Jane’s argument was based on hearsay and her own speculation, but Ben had presented his case against Rickie earlier, and I suspected she might be right.

  “I don’t think Rickie Romero killed anyone,” Modesty snapped. “Jane, you’re no Perry Mason. Not even a second-rate Della Street.”

  “Hey, don’t be so sure about that.” I related the story of Ben’s dessert-stopping phone call and finished, dramatically, with Rickie Romero’s being on the loose and the police issuing an arrest warrant for him in connection with Carita Magenta’s murder.

  Modesty’s pale eyes watered, and she fumbled in her big black bag for a tissue and blew her nose. Jane, annoyed at being topped, took no notice. But Too-Tall Tom, looking concerned and puzzled, refilled Modesty’s glass. Jeez, how could I have been so dense? Like a blast of thunder, it dawned on me that, indeed, a man had been on Modesty’s mind this morning. What else? Of all the men, in all of Manhattan, she’d fallen for our prime suspect: Rickie Romero. Where and when had he stolen her heart?

  The moment passed, and Modesty managed to rearrange her features into their usual scowl. Before Jane could question her response, Too-Tall Tom smiled and said, “My turn. I spent most of the morning with Venus DeMill. I’m still recovering. And I guess when that big hunk of woman finished with me, she went on to discover Carita’s body.”

  “Did you learn anything new from her?” I asked, cutting into the Brie and spreading some on a cracker that I handed to Modesty. She accepted it, but glared at me.

  “Oh, my dear, yes. And thanks to Venus, I’m more convinced than ever that Maurice is our man,” Too-Tall Tom answered me while smiling at Modesty.

  “Why?” Jane asked. “Did she confirm that her fiancé is the killer?”

  “If Venus weren’t such a Viking, I’d swear she was the leprechaun who carried the cyanide-spiked beer to the panel. She’s too big for the role, but I’d bet the Brie she helped Maurice plan the murders.” Too-Tall Tom took a huge hunk of his wager and wolfed it down.

  “Surely, she didn’t aid and abet the murder of her dear old friend Carita,” I said. “You can’t believe that, can you?”

  “Brush up your Brutus, Jake.” Too-Tall Tom rolled his R’s. “Venus wouldn’t be the first Roman to betray her best chum.”

  “But why would she?” I asked.

  “Well, maybe Carita accused Venus’s intended. The ammunition was there. You see, in addition to Maurice’s motives for killing Rickie Romero and Holly Halligan, it seems he also had a motive for killing Senator Fione,” Too-Tall Tom said.

  “What?” Modesty rejoi
ned the fray.

  “Maurice Welch had been Charlie Fione’s ghostwriter. The brain behind Death of a Filibuster. He not only didn’t receive his promised co-author credit on the cover, the senator stiffed him on the six-figure fee.”

  Twenty-Two

  “Now let’s see if I’ve gotten this straight,” my mother said. “Wanda was Rickie’s ghostwriter; Maurice Welch was Senator Fione’s ghostwriter; Ashley, or possibly Wanda, was Carita’s ghostwriter; now Ashley wants you to be her ghostwriter. Can that be right? It sounds like a Noel Cow­ard farce.”

  I laughed. “It sure does. But if all we’ve been told—including Venus DeMill’s latest flash to Too-Tall Tom—has been the truth, and I wouldn’t count on that, your summation is on the money.”

  We were having a late breakfast. Big enough to fortify us for the senator’s wake this afternoon. Scrambled eggs, garnished with ketchup and only slightly singed on the edges, English muffins, toasted to perfection—a first—and served with Gypsy Rose’s homemade raspberry pre­serves, copious cups of tea, and, for each of us, a sliver of leftover peach cobbler that Mom had warmed up in the oven.

  There were several items on my long list of suspicions and questions that I wanted to ask Dennis about; I’d left a message at his office. Meanwhile, I had my own res­ident resource—with more than a half century of reading murder mysteries, honing her naturally devious mind, illogical logic, and great eye for details—sitting next to me. I knew Mom loved to play armchair detective with me. She only got testy when I tried to take the game outside our house, violating her self-imposed safety zone.

  I poured another cup of tea and began. “Why would Rickie want Carita dead? I know she’d spewed venom at him for creating two characters based on her and Venus DeMill, but Rickie has denied that charge, in­sisting that Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof is total fiction. And even if those characters were thinly veiled versions of Carita and Venus, what’s the big deal? This is the twenty-first century. Who cares what two women writers and a drop-by cat burglar did or didn’t do to entertain each other?”