The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  “No recognition,” I agreed, opening the door.

  “Why do you suppose Senator Fione’s wake isn’t be­ing held at the Capitol Rotunda? I guess he just wasn’t important enough.”

  I let myself be suckered in. “Mrs. Fione wanted the viewing to be local. So the people of New York could say goodbye. If he’d been laid out in Washington, you would have missed all the fun, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Mc­Mahon?” I was out the door before she could answer.

  The taxi driver, vexed at being kept waiting, first cursed at me in an exotic accent then drove like a mad­man, aiming for a smashup. His current target was the Fifth Avenue bus that blocked our left turn. When we missed its rear end by inches, I screamed. “Slow down, you’ll get us all killed!”

  He sped up and, dodging a Range Rover, placed a sidewalk vendor, selling his books from a kiosk too close to the curb, in peril.

  A mounted policeman blew his whistle, but our driver, ignoring him and my entreaties, ran a red light and con­tinued on down the avenue at a speed faster than my rapidly rising heart rate. The brutal pace made conver­sation impossible. Too-Tall Tom appeared ashen. When unexpected gridlock forced the driver to stop at the intersection between Eighty-sixth Street and Fifth, Too-Tall Tom unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, jumped out into the stalled traffic, and reached for my hand. Without paying the fare, we quickly zigzagged between the cars, heading for the east side of Fifth, as the driver leapt from the cab, arms flailing, shouting absolutely clear Anglo-Saxon obscenities in our wake. Suddenly the traffic started moving again, and only another bus bearing down on his rear bumper persuaded the taxi driver to resume his place behind the wheel.

  The sun had gone behind the clouds; I turned my coat collar up. Too-Tall Tom held on to my elbow, adjusting his long strides to my short ones.

  I began. “Okay, what the hell is going on with Mod­esty?”

  “Well, er, in regard to…” he stammered.

  “In regard to Rickie Romero, that’s what,” I yelled. Too-Tall Tom tightened his grip on my arm. “For start­ers, did the cat burglar present Modesty with the chunk of Fort Knox that’s dangling from the chain around her neck? I hope she realizes that carrying all that weight will give her a dowager’s hump.”

  “Jake, please...I’m not supposed to say any—”

  “If Rickie’s her houseguest, our fellow ghostwriter is guilty of aiding and abetting. Talk to me. Where did she meet him? And how did their ‘relationship’ bloom so damn fast?”

  “Okay.” Too-Tall Tom sighed. “I hate to violate a confidence, but I’m just as frantic as you are about Mod­esty’s behavior. So out of character. We have to do something, don’t we?”

  I brought my left hand across my chest and squeezed his fingers, which were wrapped around my right elbow. “We do.”

  “Actually, they only ran into each other yesterday morning while the mechanics finished working on—what turned out to be—their identical Volkswagens. Same year. Same color. Quelle bonne chance, n’est-ce pas? Anyway, there they were, waiting together, at that garage Modesty uses. Over on Eleventh Avenue. Rickie invited her for a cup of coffee to pass the time. Then, darling, the thunderbolt.” Too-Tall Tom twirled me around him. “Like Al Pacino as Michael in The God­father. Not with Diane Keaton. With that girl he married in Sicily. She died; later he married Diane. Or like me, with that warlock last year. One look and it’s love.” We did a little hip-hopping two-step, then he spun me under his arm. I realized we were swing dancing down the block. “Haven’t you ever been struck by the thun­derbolt, Jake?”

  Though I hated to admit it—even to myself—I hadn’t. Unless I could count that quarter-of-a-century-old bite that I’d taken out of Dennis. That encounter had shaken me up.

  And its aftershock still lingered.

  I didn’t answer his question, asking one instead. “When this is all over, will you teach me the Lindy hop?”

  Too-Tall Tom promised, seemingly grateful that I had changed the subject. However, I hadn’t. Expressing my desire to swing had been an aside. I said, “So what hap­pened after she was hit by this thunderbolt? And by the way, was it mutual? I mean, were they struck simulta­neously?”

  “That is always the question, isn’t it, darling? Mod­esty certainly thinks so. Romero came calling late last night, just showed up on her doorstep—”

  “And she let him in?”

  “Modesty wanted to believe him. She’s mad about the boy, Jake. Thunderstruck. It’s clear you’ve never been.” Too-Tall Tom sounded sorry for me. “Rickie arrived, proclaiming his innocence, swearing he’d been set up and bearing his gift: a cross of gold. And, um…well, I gather they didn’t play chess all night.”

  “Jesus. Is he still there?”

  “Rickie was sound asleep when she left to meet me this morning. But he could be gone by now.”

  “Do you realize that we’re on Modesty’s street? Is this fate or what?” I felt we were about to get some answers. “Her apartment house is just off Lexington. Would you believe I’ve never been there? Have you?”

  “Once, when we were both attending that dysfunctional chakra class. My second chakra had shut down completely, and I was worried sick that it would never open up again. I remember stopping there for a nice cup of tea.” Hmmphf. Turning to Modesty for tea and sympathy. Whose best friend was he, anyway?

  Watching me, Too-Tall Tom ceased his reminiscences and said, “Don’t get any bright ideas, Jake. We are not going to Modesty’s apartment. Rickie promised her that he would be moving on today, though I think that will break her heart.”

  I had a hard time casting Modesty as a romantic her­oine. Risking everything to save the man she loved. “Yeah, well, Modesty may take Rickie at his word, but I don’t. Why don’t you go to the wake and I’ll catch up with you?”

  We were crossing Park Avenue—or trying to; many of these drivers also ignored red lights. Too-Tall Tom forged a path through the traffic to the safety of the divide. After we navigated from there to the other side of the avenue, Modesty’s building would be three-quarters of a block dead ahead. I waited impatiently for the light to change to green and Too-Tall Tom to change his mind.

  We were almost under Modesty’s building’s canopy, however, before he spoke. “Damn it, Jake. I can’t allow you to do this alone. I want to protect Modesty too. But should we call Ben and tell him about Rickie? Oh God. Do we dare allow the police to deal with this? What do you say?”

  “I say let’s see if he’s there first. Then we can make our decision.”

  Too-Tall Tom was still wrestling with his conscience when the doorman opened the door and Hunter Green dashed out of Modesty’s lobby and made a quick left toward Lexington. I don’t think he noticed Too-Tall Tom and me staring at him in horror.

  Twenty-Four

  “Ben Rubin could be right,” I choked, feeling shaky and disloyal, then continued, “It looks like Hunter Green and Rickie Romero are in this together.”

  “I’m going to follow Hunter.” Too-Tall Tom’s long legs were moving east. “You call Ben. When he arrives, you can check out Rickie.” As he sped around the corner on Lexington, his last words, shouted over his shoulder and almost lost in the wind, were, “Wait for the police; don’t you dare go up there alone!”

  I tried all three of Ben’s numbers, leaving the same message: “Urgent. Call me.” But not saying why. I guess, if still possible, I wanted to protect Modesty. Then I paced from canopy to corner and back again, eliciting puzzled glances from the doorman. This was not an eth­ical question. I hadn’t promised Too-Tall Tom anything. And God knows when I’d hear from Ben. Of course, I could call 911. Or I could buzz up to the apartment. Though Rickie Romero probably wouldn’t answer the buzzer. Too dangerous. He could be gone by now, though not via the front door. He could be dead. Killed by Hunter. Jesus, how could I even think such trash? Now, if there were only some way I could sneak into the bu
ilding. I’d just knock on Modesty’s door and see if Rickie answered. How could I get by that sourpuss doorman? He acted as if he were St. Peter, guarding the portals to heaven, and I Lucifer, trying to worm my way back in.

  An elegant old lady’s runaway dog gave me an op­portunity to gate-crash. While I loitered near the door, St. Peter held it open as a contemporary version of the Duchess of Windsor, carrying not a pug but a poodle, strolled out. The dog suddenly leapt from her arm and took off into the traffic. Horns blared and tires screeched as drivers swerved, trying to avoid hitting the animal. The lady screamed, “Save my Lancelot!” With the poo­dle’s weeping mistress close behind, the doorman has­tened to retrieve the yelping pooch, abandoning his post...and allowing the door slowly to swing shut. But be­fore that could happen, I grabbed it and ducked inside the lobby. The concierge looked up from his racing form, completely unaware of all the commotion, and smiled at me. “Yes, madam. How may I help you?”

  I entered the elevator, glad to be on my way up to 1313, before the doorman discovered I’d disappeared. Since most New York City buildings don’t have a thir­teenth floor, I decided that Modesty must have searched long and hard for this particular apartment. Standing in the hallway, afraid to knock, I felt like the wife in The Shining, about to be scared to death by what lurked behind the door. Timidly, I raised my hand, made a fist, and tapped. Gently. Unless Rickie had been standing there listening, he’d never hear me. Moments passed. No response. My throat felt dry. And my hand, as I rapped again—louder this time—shook. God, what if Rickie really was dead? Then I thought I heard some­thing and leaned in closer. A voice whispered, “Mod­esty?”

  “Yes,” I said. Then waited. The peephole cover slid to one side and a dark brown eye peered out. “You’d better let me in, the police are on their way.” I marveled at my smooth delivery of such a bold-faced lie.

  The door opened and Rickie Romero, dressed in his usual black, stood there smiling, exposing all those great teeth, as if he were glad to see me. “Come in, cara,” said the spider to the fly. “What a pleasant surprise. I thought you were attending Senator Fione’s wake with Modesty.”

  As Rickie locked the door behind us, I asked myself: Why wasn’t I? The charm of the apartment took my mind off murder. Wow. Who’d have thought that Modesty’s home would remind me of a cottage in Victorian England? With touches of Martha Stewart. Or maybe they were Too-Tall Tom’s touches. Or maybe Modesty had a happy heart, however well-hidden. The living room was wonderful. Velvet and silk. Crystal vases holding fresh flowers, and quaint, elegant furnishings: overstuffed, claret-colored, cut-velvet armchairs, a whimsical an­tique chandelier painted in white enamel, and a camelback couch in a claret and white silk print. At the far end of the long, narrow room, a floor-to-ceiling uncovered glass door led to a tiny balcony filled with plants.

  “Why are you here, Jake?” Rickie’s soft voice startled me.

  “The question is: Why are you here, Rickie? How dare you compromise my friend?” I ignored his snicker. “You’ll cause Modesty tons of trouble. The police will be here any minute. Ben Rubin knows I’m with you and he thinks you killed Carita.” As the words tumbled out, I regretted turning off my phone, putting myself in yet another dumb and dangerous position.

  “And what do you think, Jake?” He still spoke in that low, soothing, sexual tone, but his lithe body had tensed. “Do you believe that I poisoned Holly Halligan and the senator? Then killed Carita? That I’m taking advantage of Modesty?”

  Was he guilty of the murders? With all those other suspects, how could I be certain? I was certain about one thing. “Whether you killed them or not, you’ve put Modesty in jeopardy. And what the hell was Hunter Green doing here?”

  “Unlike your unexpected visit, I’d invited Hunter. There was something I needed to tell him. In person.”

  “About the Faith diamond,” I said. “You’ve changed its hiding place, haven’t you?”

  Rickie looked startled for a second, then grinned. “You’re one super sleuth, Jake. With that creative a mind, you should give up ghostwriting and start pedaling your own fiction.”

  “I know I’m right. Hunter thought he had access to the Faith, but you’ve changed the venue, haven’t you? Ben Rubin thinks you and Hunter are partners—”

  “Let me assure you, I work alone, Jake.” Rickie moved closer to me. “You didn’t really call the police, did you?” I backed away, stumbling. A loud rap on the door brought us both to a halt.

  “This is the doorman!” an angry voice from the hall shouted. “Open up, young lady, I know you’re in there.” Rickie extended his right arm and reached for mine. I screamed.

  “Sorry to rush off like this, Jake. But I must be on my way.” Bowing, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he spun his tight body full circle, strode across the room, and opened the sliding glass that led to the balcony. “Ciao, cara. There are two things you must believe: I’ve murdered no one, and I love Modesty. Deeply, madly, truly. Please tell her to hold that thought close to her heart until I return.” He waved, stepped out onto the balcony, vaulted over the railing, and was gone. I ran to see where, but by the time I reached the railing, the cat burglar had vanished.

  Twenty-Five

  Police barricades helped contain the several blocks-long line waiting to view the senator’s body. Two hours late and totally unnerved, I went to the front of the queue, praying that Mom’s information had been ac­curate and I would find my name among those on the “invited mourners” list. A Campbell’s employee, dressed in a morning jacket with tails, an ascot, and gray striped trousers, together with a Secret Service type macho guy wearing a black suit, white shirt, and sunglasses, stood at the door, checking off names. Before I could give them mine, I heard Too-Tall Tom shout, “Hey, Jake!”

  I walked back to where he and Jane were standing, none too close to the entrance. “It seems only the poli­ticians, the Crime Writers, the Teamsters Union, the sen­ator’s family, his closest friends—and your mother—are on that damn list,” Jane said. “Maura and Modesty waltzed right on in, then so did Gypsy Rose, almost an hour ago, but I’ve been in this bloody line since two. And Too-Tall Tom would have been relegated to waiting over on the FDR Drive if I hadn’t spotted him and made him hop over the barricade.”

  “Pushy, that’s what I call it,” Mrs. McMahon, her handbag shoved into Jane’s back, said. “Your fancy friend here has some nerve, letting that giant in ahead of those who stand and wait. Don’t think you’re going to squeeze in front of me, too, Jake O’Hara.”

  Damn. How could I ask Too-Tall Tom about Hunter with this old biddy hanging on my every word?

  “Go on ahead, Jake,” Too-Tall Tom told me. “Hunter Green’s inside. Jane and I will talk to you later.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to my nosy neighbor, noticing that her daughter was nowhere in sight. Patricia Ann, the Mary Kay company’s rising star, must have taken off in her pink Cadillac. “Sorry if my friends inconvenienced you, Mrs. McMahon; they were following my orders.” Wasn’t I too bitchy? But loving the role. “And don’t worry, I won’t be needing a place in line, I have an invitation.”

  It took several angst-filled moments for the door pa­trol to find my name. I figured that God had punished me; my brassy retort had backfired, reinforcing the fact that a ghostwriter has no identity. Wouldn’t I look lame if my name didn’t show up on that list? Finally, I walked through the specially-installed-for-the-senator’s-viewing metal detector and into Campbell’s carefully calculated serenity.

  Edwina Carrington Fione, her cool composure seem­ingly every bit as calculated, stood next to the junior senator from New York. The widow, as always, ele­gantly tailored and coiffed, shook hands and offered a greeting to everyone who entered. I found myself surrounded by interesting companions: Mercury Rising, the rock star, pranced in front of me and Wanda Sparks slunk close behind me.

  “Jake, I have to talk to yo
u, now,” Wanda whispered as I watched Mercury Rising kiss Mrs. Fione on both cheeks, then extend his gloved hand to the junior sena­tor. I wondered how the heavy-metal star and the Wash­ington socialite had crossed paths. Old Edwina appeared to have eclectic friendships.

  A jab in my lower back was followed by another breathless request: “Where can we be alone? I know. Meet me in the ladies’ room.” Wanda Sparks’s choice of meeting place was, to say the least, intriguing. While she ranked high on my list of suspects, I really needed to speak to Hunter Green, who topped her.

  She’d have to wait her turn. “In ten minutes,” I said over my shoulder as I approached Edwina. Wanda groaned in my left ear, but I ignored her and smiled at the widow Fione. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Yes, my dear, I’m sure you are. All of New York is sorry. But I’d like you to find Gypsy Rose Liebowitz and ask her to join me here. Immediately. Thanks so much. Oh, forgive me, Miss O’Hara, please allow me to introduce you to our state’s one remaining senator...”

  Wanda poked me again. This time her whisper could be heard in the world beyond. “Now, Jake. It’s a matter of life and—”

  The senator smiled graciously, then dismissed me, preparing to face Wanda, whom Edwina Fione was greeting with great warmth.

  “Jake!” The funeral home’s reception area, filled with so many bodies, no doubt violating every city fire or­dinance on the book, made it difficult for me to locate Dennis. “Over here, to your right,” he called. “Near the chapel.”

  I forged through the crowd, anxious to reach him. As always, his voice had sent a shiver through my system, down to my toes. A lifelong thunderbolt?