The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  Twenty-Seven

  Hunter looked like hell. Much the way I felt. Hanging on to a pole in a packed-like-sardines subway car all the way from the Upper East Side to lower Man­hattan would have turned Mother Teresa into a card-carrying capitalist. Fantasy Island—the New York built on dreams, Woody Allen movies, and my mother’s memories—crumbled like sandcastles and smelled like Secaucus when one was traveling downtown during rush hour. I’d clutched my bag to my bosom, closed my eyes, and pictured myself being transported in Dennis Kim’s cream-colored Rolls Royce.

  During my journey, it had grown dark. With no sun streaming through the loft’s cathedral ceiling’s skylight, the glow had gone. The huge room, like Hunter, seemed to have lost its luster.

  “A drink, Jake?” He motioned with the glass he held in his right hand; I suspected it wasn’t his first. “This is scotch, but I can offer you most anything.”

  “No, thank you.” I sank into the same crushed velvet Art Deco chair that I’d sat in during my first visit. “Look, Hunter, a lot of really strange stuff has been hap­pening. We have to talk...you know, to straighten some things out.”

  Hunter too again opted for the matching loveseat, facing me. “Strange stuff. Well put, Jake. Would you like to elaborate?”

  I shoved my bangs out of my eyes. Something was very wrong. While I’d been feeling uncomfortable up to then, I now felt fear. This is mad. I’m sitting across from a Pulitzer Prize-winning author, my personal hero, and a well-respected member of the community, almost con­vinced that he might be a multiple murderer. Ben had said that Hunter couldn’t have killed Carita. Indeed, Ben and his partner, Cassidy, were his alibi. However, if Rickie had drowned Carita, and Hunter and he were in this together...

  “You thinking that I may have murdered Holly and the senator, aren’t you, Jake?”

  My fingers dug into the crushed-velvet arms of the club chair. I could find no words.

  “I didn’t.” Hunter leaned forward and met my eyes. “Though I can understand how you—and the police—could have concluded that I’m guilty. And the reasons for those conclusions are, for the most part, my fault. You spotted me leaving Modesty’s this afternoon, didn’t you?”

  “How did you know?” I stammered.

  ‘Too-Tall Tom’s too big to be a successful tail, Jake.” Hunter smiled. “I led him to Campbell’s, knowing I’d be allowed in but he’d have to wait in line. I hung around long enough for a few people to see me, then I ducked out the basement door. The one the dead bodies are carried through. That’s quite a setup they have down there. As a murder-mystery ghostwriter, you should visit it sometime.”

  “Why were you at Modesty’s?” I finally found my voice. Curiosity conquering fright. And I wanted so much to believe him.

  “Let’s backtrack for a moment.” Hunter sipped his scotch. “I was convinced that Rickie Romero had mur­dered Carita Magenta. He certainly had motive, means, and opportunity. In fact, he was seen leaving the scene of the crime. And Jake, that’s where he’d stashed the Faith diamond. When I heard about the drowning, I assumed Rickie had returned to retrieve the jewel. And killed Carita to keep her quiet. That’s about the only way any man could shut that woman up.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “How did you know that Carita had the diamond?”

  “When Wanda was, um, editing for Rickie, she dis­covered that the night Romero robbed Magenta, a strong bond had formed between the cat and Carita. The chap­ter covering the robbery that segued into a wild party became a nightmare for Wanda. Rickie seemed torn be­tween truth and consequence...under no circumstances did he want to upset Carita. Wanda claimed that Rickie tried to be as vague as possible regarding the identities of the ladies in question, but Carita was furious. And though Rickie insisted to all and sundry that the chapter, like the book, was all fiction, Carita wanted revenge.”

  “Are you saying that the bond between Rickie and Carita was the Faith diamond?”

  “Smart lady. Exactly. After downing too many cock­tails and swapping too many confidences, Rickie conned Carita into keeping the stone for him. For a price, of course. A sort of room-and-board arrangement.”

  “What about Venus?” I asked, thinking about her heavy drinking and her total lack of discretion. “Didn’t she know that Carita had the stone?”

  Hunter smiled again. “No, my dear, Venus had passed out long before Rickie and Carita negotiated the future hiding place of the Faith diamond.”

  “Why in God’s name would Wanda have told you all this? It makes no sense. She thinks Rickie’s the killer too. She’s frightened to death of him; at least that’s what she told me this afternoon at the senator’s wake.”

  “You must remember there had been no murders when she first discussed these matters with me. And that I arranged for Wanda’s assignment with Rickie. She considered me her mentor. A father figure. Anything that she told me she knew I would keep in complete confi­dence. Actually, while chatting with Romero in his cell and listening to his recounting of the robberies he’d got­ten away with, I already suspected that Carita Magenta had provided the Faith diamond with a safe house.” Hunter rose, walked to the bar, refilled his scotch, and turned to me. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

  I sighed. “A small white wine, please.” I stood at the bar while he rummaged on the shelves for the Chablis, the ice bucket, and a proper glass. “And Rickie Romero has been aware for some time that you figured out where the Faith diamond was stashed, hasn’t he, Hunter? As you yourself once told me, knowing the diamond’s location gave you a major motive for killing Rickie. Is that why you went to Modesty’s apartment today?”

  Hunter handed me the glass of wine. “Do you really believe that I went there to kill him?” He chuckled. “If truth be told, I was so angry, so full of vengeance, I could have killed Rickie. But I’d gone there, totally ir­rational, I might add, to accuse him of murder and to see if there wasn’t some way I could get my hands on the diamond before the police arrested him.” He sat down again, picked up his drink, then said, “Greed is an ugly thing. I’d lost Angela. And I’d lost a small fortune to Ashes Away. Dr. Nujurian was ready to turn me in to Ben Rubin for sending her those threatening letters. The police had searched my home, accused me of mur­der, humiliated me. Then Rickie took back the Faith. Before I’d had the chance. I confess I wanted that dia­mond.”

  “How did you know that Rickie was staying at Mod­esty’s apartment?” I sat, sipping my wine, trying to buy time to think. I wasn’t sure how much, if any, of Hun­ter’s tale I found credible. I would have expected a true-crime writer of his caliber to develop a far better plotline than this.

  “The bastard called me to brag. And to taunt me. While Rickie was in that cell, I guess he forgot about caller ID.”

  “So you called back and Modesty Meade’s name showed up.”

  “Yes. Then, in a rage, I went up there.”

  “Had Rickie boasted that he drown Carita as well?” This story sucked.

  “No, just that he’d reclaimed the diamond. Rickie told me that Magenta had taped it under one of the legs on her purple tub. He laughed, saying how he kept picturing Venus taking all those bubble baths, never realizing that there she was sitting naked on top of a fortune. Of course, at the time I thought he killed Carita.”

  “At the time?” I asked. “You mean you don’t think so now?” Was this another of Hunter’s plot twists or what?

  “When Rickie arrived at Carita’s, she was already dead. Her head in the bathtub and a plate of lasagna on the kitchen table. Romero knew he’d be the numero uno suspect, so he removed the diamond and himself from the premises; however, a neighbor witnessed his hasty departure.

  “That’s what Rickie told you?” I wondered if Hunter had totally lost it—or thought I had. “And you believed him?”

  “Jake, I’ve researched and written about the criminal mind for longer than you’ve been alive.” Hunt
er sounded patronizing. I questioned why I’d ever regarded him as my hero. “Naturally, I wouldn’t take a man like Romero at his word. I look for logic before making a final judgment; the rest of his story provided me with one certainty: Rickie Romero had no rational reason for murdering either Holly Halligan or Senator Fione. Since the person who’d poisoned them also killed Carita, it follows that it couldn’t be Rickie.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I jumped out of my chair. “With Holly’s death, Rickie inherited her empire and Charlie Fione’s murder avenged the Romero family’s honor. How can you say Rickie had no mo­tives?”

  “Logic, Jake. Logic, the great clarifier, indicates that the cat is in the clear. Look, with the Faith diamond waiting under Carita’s tub, Rickie didn’t need Holly’s money—and he knew that eventually he’d have it all. Furthermore, he really liked her. Under other circumstances, she would have been his great-aunt. Why would he kill her?” Hunter finished his drink. “And Holly Hal­ligan had told Rickie about Edwina arranging Charlie Fione’s Ashes Away cruise and his appointment with Dr. Nujurian. So Rickie knew that the senator had a very short time to live. Why kill a dead man? Rickie had served his time. He hated prison. Now, as a rich man, he wanted to live his life to the hilt. Aware of the sen­ator’s doomed destiny, why would Rickie put all his dreams in jeopardy?”

  I’d had my own doubts about Rickie’s guilt, but had been afraid my judgment was colored by feelings, not fact. Now Hunter’s twisted tale reinforced those doubts. “But...if Rickie isn’t the killer, where is he? And who­dunit?”

  “Those are the questions we have to answer, Jake,” Modesty said, walking out of the shadows.

  Twenty-Eight

  Trying not to sound like my mother, I explained to Modesty that we’d all been worried about her and that Too-Tall Tom would be arriving any minute. Her affect wandered between quiet desperation and barely re­pressed anger. The latter directed at me. Had she spoken to Rickie? Or had she tried to reach him and failed, assuming that he’d flown from her nest? Did she know that I’d paid an uninvited visit to her apartment, nosed around in her private life, and incited her one and only boyfriend to jump off the balcony? Hunter had seen me lurking under her canopy with Too-Tall Tom. And since he, not Rickie, had phoned Modesty at Campbell’s, no doubt he’d shared that tidbit with her.

  I finished my wine, then, too late, remembered my mother’s warning to watch what I drank, lest it be laced with cyanide. Oh well. If Hunter had poisoned me, Mod­esty would be an eyewitness and could testify at his trial. A few moments passed in silence while Modesty twisted the thick chain holding that vulgar gold cross, and I started to feel slightly mellower. No stomach pain. No contortions. Only a couple of itches, nudging me like sand under a wet bikini. Hunches. I welcomed them. I decided that the Chablis had turned out to be fine wine and that I would live. I also decided to make amends to Modesty. And to keep her too busy playing detective to fret over Rickie.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “First, we’ll speak to Mom and Gypsy Rose, to let them know that you’re alive and well and to find out what time I have to be at Edwina’s; second, we’ll arrange to catch up with Dennis later, as I have a few questions for him; then, as soon as Too-Tall Tom arrives, we’re off to Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Why are we going there?” Modesty asked.

  “I still believe that Holly Halligan and Charlie Fione’s deaths are connected to Hell’s Kitchen, and if Rickie isn’t their killer, I have a hunch about one of the neigh­bors that might lead us to whodunit.”

  During our taxi ride uptown, Too-Tall Tom talked from Tribeca to Times Square. “My dears, I wish you could have seen it. Wanda broke down at the bier, crying like she’d lost her best friend and claiming that she had to do a sixth step.” When Wanda left me in the ladies’ room, she’d been on the fourth step. I guess she’d de­cided not to take the fifth.

  “Jane made a few phone calls and pulled a mini Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting together. Serenity Sue—” Modesty and I groaned. Too-Tall Tom rolled right on: “Listen, ladies, any ghostwriter in a gale. Anyway, Jane finally managed to pull Wanda away from the cas­ket and off they went to work on Wanda’s defects. But before they got out the door, Ben arrived. Wanda stopped weeping long enough to deliver a tirade to Ben, shouting out all the reasons why Rickie Romero had to be the killer.”

  Modesty brought her hands up to her face, hiding her expression. Too-Tall Tom patted her arm and changed his direction. “However, our man in Homicide had an­other mourner on his mind. He was looking for you, Jake. I told him you’d just left, but I didn’t say where you’d gone. It wasn’t easy, trying to escape from your mother and Gypsy Rose and get down to Hunter’s. And Dennis Kim kept asking leading questions. I gather you left him in the lurch too. Both Ben and Dennis were moping around Campbell’s like teenagers who’d been stood up for the prom. You must stop recycling your men like garbage, Jake. Take it straight from my broken heart, you’ll wind up dancing in the dump pile...alone.”

  Citing Too-Tall Tom’s sensitivity, the taxi driver, a handsome Pakistani, asked him for a date.

  Mrs. Casey not only remembered me, but invited us all up, then turned off Wheel of Fortune to answer my questions. “As long as you’re out of here before Jeopardy!.” The old lady’s sharp wit, good humor, and warm hospitality seemed to thaw Modesty’s icy attitude, spark­ing her interest and almost eliciting a smile. The apartment, a railroad flat like Carita’s, also fea­tured a bathtub in the kitchen, though Mrs. Casey had filled it with ferns. “The late Mr. Casey built a shower in the bathroom, but I fancied the old tub, so I reinvented it as a flowerpot.”

  Turning down her offer of tea—though none of us had eaten anything since Mom’s breakfast, we were run­ning short on time; I had that appointment with Gypsy Rose to talk to Edwina Fione at eight-thirty and we’d agreed to pick up a pizza on our way home—I moved the conversation from memories to murder. “Mrs. Casey, you mentioned that one of the three Houlihan brothers was still alive but serving time in jail. I’d like to talk to him. Could you tell me where he is?”

  If the Romeros hadn’t exacted revenge—via Rickie—on Charlie Fione, I thought, just maybe the Houlihan family’s only surviving brother had used his fellow cons’ connections to hire a hitman to execute the sen­ator. And, in a Greek tragedy twist, the woman whose rape was being avenged had died along with her rapist. The writer in me loved this theory. And Modesty bought into it too, because it exonerated Rickie. Too-Tall Tom had reserved judgment—insisting, again, that Maurice Welch was our man—but I’m sure he considered my theory to be science fiction.

  With Mrs. Casey’s response—“Ah, but Jake, the poor man’s been in the prison hospital in a coma for over a decade now”—my bright idea entered the twilight zone.

  When we were leaving, Too-Tall Tom, admiring the moldings, wall panels, and doorknobs, as well as Mrs. Casey’s 1930s furniture, asked our hostess if he could redecorate but not update—“it’s totally charming as is”— her apartment, then use the before-and-after shots in his own work-in-progress, Old Is New.

  “Let me think about that overnight, young man,” Mrs. Casey told him. “At my age, I never take longer than twelve hours to make a decision. Will you be at Senator Fione’s funeral at St. Patrick’s?”

  “No,” Too-Tall Tom said, sounding somewhat put out, “but Jake will.”

  “Are you going to the funeral?” I asked Mrs. Casey.

  “Mrs. Fione is sending a limousine for me in the morning.” The old lady smiled. “I’ll give you my deci­sion after Mass; then you can relay it to your friend. Look for me outside the cathedral. Or will you be aboard the Ashes Away cruise?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I’ll see you there. Thanks for talking to us.”

  We marched single file down the three flights of stairs. Too-Tall Tom, bringing up the rear, asked, “How does Mrs. Casey do this every day? She has to
be ninety.”

  Modesty said, “Strength of character. That’s one feisty lady. How about that Edwina inviting Charlie’s old neighbor to attend both his funeral and his final fling? Of course, she might only have done it for the good press that the gesture is bound to generate, or the widow Fione’s cold exterior could be covering a generous spirit.”

  The wind-chill factor smacked me in the face as I came out the front door. Burying my chin into my scarf, I wished I’d thrown a coat over my pantsuit. “It’s going to be mighty cold cruising around Manhattan tomor­row.”

  “Is that you, Jake O’Hara?” a deep voice asked.

  Jimmy Roosevelt had one foot on the brownstone’s stoop and his right hand extended out in greeting.

  I introduced him to Modesty and Too-Tall Tom. “This is the man who tackled me in order to save my face from that bucket of red paint. How you doing, Jimmy?”

  “Great.” He laughed. “I’m on my way up to Mrs. Casey’s. We have a dinner date for Jeopardy! every Tuesday night. With a fin riding on the Final Jeopardy question. Unfortunately, she usually wins.” He waved the bag in his left hand. “My homemade baked ziti. We served it for lunch at work, but Mrs. Casey loves it, so it’s encoring for dinner. You’ll have to come by and sample it one night, Jake. Bring Modesty and Too-Tall Tom. Funny we should run into each other; I planned on calling you after the show.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, this may mean nothing,” Jimmy said, “but one of the kids in the building just mentioned to me that on the night that the bucket was tossed off the roof, he remembered seeing something strange. This boy lives on the top floor, and as he was about to start down the five flights of stairs, he noticed a leprechaun heading up the stairs to the roof. Since this sighting had occurred right after St. Patty’s Day, the kid figured that someone was still partying. But then he got to thinking—”

  “A male or female leprechaun?” Modesty asked.