The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  Unfortunately, Wendy Wu, TV anchor and Dennis Kim’s ex-wife, had left her desk to mourn with the masses and, sexy in a short skirt and trendy heels, was standing at his side. Dennis’s gold-flecked eyes cast a concerned look at me. “Where have you been, Jake? Your mother’s worried. We all were.”

  Wendy Wu’s gaze showed no charity. “Why, hello, Jake. It’s been years. Isn’t it amazing that you still re­mind me so much of Annie Hall? How nice to see that some people never bother to change with the current times...or fashions.”

  Dennis brushed off his ex as if she were a virus-carrying mosquito and led me through the line of mourn­ers, who were slowly passing by the bier then returning to the foyer. Senator Fione’s body had been laid out in an ornate mahogany casket. Tall lighted candles stood like sentinels, guarding his head and feet. Wreaths and baskets of flowers, mostly gladiolas, which I hate, were crowded into the chapel and their sweet sickly scent filled the room. A lady circling the corpse said, “Doesn’t he look grand?”

  A heavyset man agreed. “Never better.”

  I wondered, would that box be burned with the body? Campbell’s couldn’t recycle a casket, could they? A hell of a lot of money might go up in smoke when Charlie Fione was cremated.

  Mom sat in the last row of the chapel, wiping away a tear. Since my mother cried at Hallmark commercials, I would have been a bit disap­pointed if my brief vanishing act had left her dry-eyed. She greeted me with, “I tried to call; why do you have a cellphone if you’re not going to answer it?”

  Gypsy Rose, dressed in gray cashmere and a matching fedora, sat next to Mom and joined in the guilt chorus. “There’s a killer on the loose, Jake. And we had no way of knowing what happened to you.”

  Feeling as bad as they’d intended that I should, I said, “I had an unexpected meeting and I shut the phone off. Look, I’m really sorry.” My mother seemed somewhat mollified, crumpling her tissue and patting my hand, so I quickly changed the subject. “Gypsy Rose, Edwina Fi­one says that she has to speak to you immediately.”

  “What kind of meeting?” my mother asked as Gypsy Rose headed for the foyer.

  “Mom, let’s talk about that at home.” I scanned the room. “Where’s Modesty?”

  Dennis laughed. “Modesty did receive a phone call. About ten or fifteen minutes ago. From a man.” He twirled an invisible mustache, leering at me like Groucho Marx. “We haven’t seen her since, but we presume that she left for a rendezvous with her mystery man.”

  “She’s stranger than ever, Jake,” my mother said. “And where did she get that gold cross? Modesty wouldn’t tell me, but it’s as big as one of the treasures from the Vatican’s vault. What is going on? Could it be love?”

  Now guilt galloped like the Four Horsemen, with Death racing through my veins. “Stay put, Mom, I’ll be back.” I turned to Dennis. “Please, help me find Hunter. Now.” My voice cracked. “I, er...have you seen him? I need—”

  Dennis took my arm, but addressed my mother. “Maura, please don’t worry; I promise I won’t leave Jake’s side.” Then he said to me, “I saw Hunter in the lounge a while back. Come on, let’s go get him.”

  We’d made it halfway across the chapel, taking ad­vantage of small gaps in the never-ending line, to inch our way toward the foyer, when Wanda blocked our path. “Jake!” she shrieked. “What kind of a charter member of Ghostwriters Anonymous are you? How can you refuse to come to the aid of a sister ghostwriter?” Gotcha. She had me.

  “Okay, Wanda, just give me a second here.” I pulled Dennis away from her earshot and said, “Listen, I think Modesty is with Rickie Romero—she’s been hiding him at her house—and I have reason to believe that Hunter may be working with Rickie. Or was. Anyway, track Hunter down, and don’t let him out of your sight. Too-Tall Tom should be inside any minute now, he can up­date you on Hunter and Rickie. Jesus, I’ve made some major mistakes. Call Ben; he may be trying to reach me. Let him know that Modesty’s in danger, but don’t say that Rickie stayed overnight with her.” I sighed. “And I guess you’d better tell him about Hunter too. I’m going to the ladies’ room with Wanda.”

  Dennis stared at me, then shook his head. “Damn it, Jake. I promised your mother that I’d stay with you. Do not, I repeat, do not leave this funeral parlor. Is that understood?”

  In the powder room, Wanda walked straight to the mirror and began to brush the teased tower out of her dark hair. It looked like torture. While starting the re­construction process, she said, “Rickie’s going to kill me next.” Watching those frenzied fingers still tugging at her hair, I heard the terror in her voice.

  The door opened and Gypsy Rose came in. “Hi, Wanda, aiming for new heights? Jake, the mayor’s with Edwina, and her brother-in-law, you know, the pastor of Sacred Heart, just arrived to say the rosary, so she can’t talk now. I’m going over to her house tonight, and I’d like you to come with me.”

  I sensed that Gypsy Rose didn’t want to give any more details in front of Wanda. “Okay. Just let me know when. And please tell Mom that I’ll be back in the chapel before the final decade.”

  But would I return in time for the last sorrowful mys­tery? Wanda’s fear fed my own. She believed that Rickie had killed three people and would kill again. And I be­lieved that wherever Rickie had gone, he’d taken Mod­esty with him.

  “Does this have something to do with your robbery?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure Rickie robbed me.” Wanda pulled a long thin comb through strands that looked tired. “After all, that is his profession, isn’t it? And the notes that were stolen pointed clearly to his guilt. Jake, I can’t find Modesty and I want to do a mini fourth step right now.” I knew that damn robbery had been important. Why in God’s name hadn’t I followed up on it sooner?

  “Wanda, what did those papers reveal?”

  “His dirty laundry. All the steamy stuff about Hell’s Kitchen that he’d left out of Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof.”

  ‘Tell me.”

  “One hot summer, more than fifty years ago, a fourteen-year-old boy raped a beautiful young woman.” Frightened or not, Wanda obviously relished this oppor­tunity to show off her storytelling ability to a rapt au­dience of one. “Helen Mary Houlihan had been spending the summer with her cousins in Hell’s Kitchen while working as a maid over on Park Avenue. After the rape, she never went home again. Back in Plattsburgh, Rickie Romero’s grandmother’s kid brother, an immigrant who’d fallen in love with Helen Mary, committed sui­cide after receiving a ‘Dear Caesar’ letter following her disappearance. For three generations, the Romero family has vowed revenge on the unknown rapist who ruined two lives. When Grannie, calling from her deathbed, reached Rickie in prison, he hired a private detective to find Helen Mary Houlihan. Of course, her life hadn’t been ruined—she’d emerged as Holly Halligan. Finally, old—and bold—enough to confront her ugly past, which MGM’s publicity department had expunged, Holly met with Rickie and revealed the rapist’s name.”

  “Charlie Fione!”

  “How did you know that? You spoiled the O. Henry ending.”

  “Wanda, listen to me. As a member of Ghostwriters Anonymous, you have to tell me the truth. Were you the leprechaun? Did you, however innocently, help Rickie Romero to poison the panel?”

  “I swear, Jake, I didn’t. I’ve given that a lot of thought. Rickie has a huge, if weird, fawning fan club; he’d have had no problem finding someone to play that part.”

  “Have you told Ben Rubin all this?”

  “No, but I can’t keep any more secrets. I’m telling him this afternoon.” She checked her watch. “According to the information that Homicide gave me, he should be here any minute.”

  Jesus, I thought, Rickie not only had inherited Holly Halligan’s fortune, but, with the senator’s murder, Great-Uncle Caesar’s honor had been avenged. And now Romero himself had vanished, along with Modesty.

  Twenty-Six
>
  I sat in a stall, curled into a fetal position on top of the closed toilet seat. Arms wrapped around legs, which I’d pulled up to my chest, with my head abutting my knees. I was hiding out, trying to fight off tears of frus­tration. God, what a mess. And I had no one to blame but myself. If I’d only waited for Ben to call, Rickie would be in jail and Modesty would be safe. Yet even as I decided that Romero had to be the killer, some­where, in the tiny recording studio located in the far recesses of my mind, a tape of Rickie’s last words before he’d leapt from the balcony kept replaying; “I’ve mur­dered no one and I love Modesty. Deeply, madly, truly.”

  With the evidence that Wanda had hand-delivered, Rickie’s black lines, leading to double motives, would spread across Jane’s chart, affirming his guilt, so why couldn’t I erase the memory of that look of love on Rickie’s face, or turn off the tape?

  “Deeply, madly, truly. Tell her to hold that thought close to her heart,” he’d said. If Rickie had been plan­ning on phoning Modesty at Campbell’s, he damn knew he could tell her that himself. Then, maybe, he hadn’t thought that far ahead, calling her on the spur of the moment. Or maybe Rickie hadn’t been the one who called.

  “You’re a bitch, a bleached-blond bitch!” My musings had been rudely interrupted. Startled, I almost fell off the john. “A low-down, lying, gold-digging, sick slut, that’s what you are, Ashley Butler!” Venus DeMill slurred her insults. But what was lost in clarity was more than made up for in volume. “I’m going to pull your Southern Fried hair out by its black roots.”

  “Shut up, Venus, you’re drunk and you’re crazy.” Ashley’s accent had lost any semblance of its sweet-as-syrup sound. Much more like Tallulah’s Regina than Vi­vien’s Scarlett.

  “Don’t you call me crazy. How dare you parade around town, with that mile-high mall hair and obscene miniskirt, telling other writers that you were the great Carita Magenta’s ghostwriter? Why are you doing this? And here Carita is dead.” Venus broke into sobs. “Not able to defend herself. Well, I won’t let you get away with this crap. You couldn’t hold a crayon to Carita’s colorful style. Her distinctive voice. Her New York edge. You trailer-trash tramp. Do you think anyone will believe your dirty rotten lies?”

  “Well now, maybe you didn’t know Carita as well as you thought you did, Venus,” Ashley hissed.

  “I’ll kill you, you piece of Mississippi mud. I’ll tear that lying tongue out of your filthy mouth.”

  A sudden lilt of laughter—Ashley’s—unnerved me almost as much as the verbal abuse that the two women had been heaping on each other.

  “It’s Georgia, darling. Peach Street in Atlanta. Not far from where Miss Pittypat lived. And I think you should know that Maurice Welch believes me.” Some of the sap again dripped from Ashley Butler’s voice. “I think the poor, dear old lush is worried that you killed your lover. I might have blamed his ramblings on a wet brain, but since you’ve been threatening my life, I’ve reconsidered. Maybe one drunk can identify with a fellow drunk’s motive. So tell me, Venus, did you do it? Or do you think Maurice murdered Carita Magenta in order to protect his vested interest in you?”

  Venus roared like a wounded animal. Then I heard a loud slap, followed by a scream and a crash. The door to my stall flew open and Ashley came charging in, like a projectile, knocking me off the toilet seat.

  She made a quick recovery, regaining her balance and rubbing her raw cheek. “Thank God you’re so soft, Jake. I could have landed on the porcelain and really hurt my­self.”

  “Ashley, you should have ended up in the toilet bowl, where a turd like you belongs,” Venus said, then reached into the stall and helped me to stand.

  “Jake, a lady always makes her presence known,” Ashley said. “We had no notion that you were squirreled away in a stall, eavesdropping on our private conversa­tion.”

  “Shut up, trailer trash.” Venus pulled a flask from her bag and took a large swig. “The damage is done. Jake, in my judgment, you’re smart enough not to repeat the rantings of a crazed bitch. Is that a correct conclusion?” The last word was slurred almost beyond comprehen­sion. She wiped off the flask and passed it to me.

  I gulped down some brown liquid and gagged. Scotch. I’ve always hated the taste of scotch. “Correct,” I choked out. Venus DeMill was one big broad; I didn’t want to be flung into a stall.

  “Yes, sugar.” Ashley Butler’s antebellum belle was back in full bloom. “And I’m confident you also will conclude that poor Venus is a lifetime lush and her accusations, which, incidentally, border on libel, have no merit. As a good ghostwriter, I can say no more.”

  I handed the flask back to Venus, brushed torn sheets of discarded toilet paper and other bits of disgusting de­bris from my pantsuit, feeling grateful that I hadn’t worn the DKNY number that my mother had been pushing, and, well-trained by Mom, scrubbed my hands and face, then applied lipstick and blush.

  “You could use some more color, Jake,” Ashley gushed. “You’re pale as a…well...you know what.” Before either Venus or I could kill her, the door opened and the one remaining senator from New York joined us. I left her with two of her craziest constituents.

  I don’t remember Times Square at midnight on New Year’s Eve being any more crowded than Campbell’s lounge was this afternoon. Ben and I had celebrated New Year’s Eve together. A corny, old-fashioned romantic date. We attended the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall, had dinner at the Algonquin, and walked over to Forty-second Street hand in hand to watch the ball drop. Now, with the way I’d screwed up his investigation, he’d probably never speak to me again.

  Hunter Green. I had to talk to him. Among other things, he might know where Rickie had gone. Had Den­nis found Hunter? And how would I find Dennis?

  Suddenly shoved too close to the public wall phone, I spied Donald Jay’s narrow lips moving a mile a mil­lisecond as he shouted into the speaker, trying to be heard above the chatter of the crowd. Engrossed in his own monologue, he didn’t see me. Blocked for the mo­ment by two large bodies, I wasn’t going anywhere. So, as Ashley had accused me of doing earlier, I shamelessly eavesdropped.

  “Who knew the bastard would be dead in a couple of months?” Donald laughed. “Yeah. Well, I think she’s in our pocket now. Since the vote has been delayed...” The larger of the two bodies inched forward. I shad­owed him, away from the wall. I’d almost made it with­out being spotted, going behind Donald’s back, heading into the slow-moving mass of humanity, when my cellphone rang. Jay jerked around and glared at me. “This is a funeral home, Ms. O’Hara; your blaring phone is disturbing the mourners.”

  “And you’re killing the environment,” I said, then im­mediately rued my big mouth, even before he slammed down his phone, pulled mine out of my hand, and threw it to the floor.

  One of the big guys squatted and retrieved my still-ringing phone while the other pushed Donald Jay down on his knees, ordering him to “tell the lady you’re sorry.”

  This had to be the liveliest wake in Campbell’s his­tory.

  “Hello? Hello...” I said, retracing my steps to the ladies’ room, where I might or might not have some privacy. Lots of static. Probably a result of Donald Jay tossing my phone around like a football. “Hello?” I pushed open the door of the ladies’ room.

  “Jake, this is Hunter.”

  “Where are you? I need to talk to you.”

  “Interesting. I need to talk to you too. Meet me at my house in a half hour. With all the traffic at this hour, you’d better take the train. And Jake, what I have to say is completely confidential; come alone.” He hung up.

  The senator and Mrs. McMahon were engaged in a debate about eyeshadow: the former pro earth tones, the latter in favor of matching your shadow to your outfit. I backed out the door.

  There was no way I could duck out of here without giving an itinerary to Mom, Gypsy Rose, and Dennis. Too-Tall Tom and Jane too. If they’d a
rrived inside and if I could find them. There wasn’t much time: Tribeca would be a long haul, even on the subway.

  Dealing with Mom wouldn’t be easy. She’d carry on about detecting being dangerous, then pull out all the stops, including using Gypsy Rose’s and Dennis’s con­siderable powers of persuasion. As I debated what to do—with my baser instincts winning—I spotted Too-Tall Tom, standing head and shoulders above the crowd. “Yo,” I yelled, totally ignoring the sensibilities of my fellow mourners.

  Taking giant steps, Too-Tall Tom arrived at my side in seconds.

  “Where’s Jane?” I asked.

  “Looking for the ladies’ room.”

  I laughed. “Campbell’s hot spot.”

  “You do realize that we were waiting a long time,” Too-Tall Tom said, “and it was damn cold out there. Did you find Hunter?”

  “He must have slipped out. But I’ve just spoken to him on the phone; I’m on my way to his loft now.”

  “Well, you’re not going alone, Jake. I’ll come with you.”

  Damn. How could I get rid of him? Maybe...a plot began to percolate. “Listen, I want you to explain things to Mom first. Tell her that I had to leave; fudge about why. Then follow me to Hunter’s. Oh, ask Dennis if he reached Ben. Wanda said he was on his way here. Mod­esty’s among the missing. I didn’t want Ben to know that she’d hidden Rickie, but I’m afraid she’s taken off with him again.”

  If Too-Tall Tom talked to my mother and Dennis, while they were interrogating him I’d have at least a twenty-minute head start. Plenty of time for me to get some answers from Hunter and to honor the spirit, if not the actual letter, of his request that I come alone. Though feeling disloyal to Hunter, I decided that it might be a smart move to have Too-Tall Tom as backup. God knows I hadn’t made too many smart moves today.

  I made one now, dashing for the door before he had a chance to say no.