The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  “The kid only got a quick look.” Jimmy shrugged. “Slim, he said, wearing a mask and one of those green high hats, you know, with a buckle.”

  “Oh, we know,” I said. “Thanks, Jimmy, and we’ll take you up on that invitation for baked ziti.”

  With his free hand he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Call me at work. I’m there more than I am at home.” Then he went through the door that Too-Tall Tom had continued to hold open.

  Glancing at the card, I read:

  James Roosevelt

  Exec­utive Director

  The Romero Foundation for the Home­less

  Sacred Heart Parish Hall

  “Jesus H. Christ!” I yelled, startling a passerby.

  “I thought you said his name was Jimmy.” Too-Tall Tom closed the door.

  Twenty-Nine

  The pizza tasted rubbery. And I decided that I really couldn’t stomach diet Coke. I thought about Jimmy Roosevelt. If stranded for life on a desert island, forced to choose the same meal every day for the duration, my choice would be baked ziti, Italian bread, real butter, and Classic Coke—no one would be there to watch me grow fat—and for dessert, chocolate cream pie and hot tea. About now, isolation and all, that seemed like a good scenario.

  Gypsy Rose and Mom hovered over Modesty and me, demanding details, fussing over facts, not one bit happy to be receiving our Reader’s Digest abridged version. Too-Tall Tom had passed on the pizza. I suspected our fickle friend would be dining in the “delightful little Pak­istani place in NoHo” that our taxi driver had recom­mended while emphasizing he’d be having dinner there tonight himself.

  Starved, I shoveled in a slice; Gypsy Rose and I had less than thirty minutes ’til our appointment with Edwina. Swallowing an amazingly long string of cheese, I said, “Can we bring Modesty with us?” I was afraid to let her out of my sight. She might hear from Rickie and vanish, permanently, with him.

  “Of course, darling,” my mother said. “I plan to tag along too.” I had to chuckle. Clearly, Mom didn’t want me out of her sight either. “And Jake, Dennis phoned. He’s tied up in some sort of late meeting with Pax Pub­lishing. Sounded stressed, but said that if he’s finished before midnight, he’ll call you.”

  Edwina Carrington Fione kept an apartment in the Waldorf Towers. With her late husband, she also owned a condo in the Watergate, a floor above Bob Dole’s, and a country house in upstate Putnam County. When we hopped out of the cab on Fiftieth and Park, Mom de­cided that she absolutely had to use the ladies’ room, so we all trooped across the Waldorf-Astoria’s square-block lobby to, except for Gypsy Rose’s Plaza suite, the number-one john in Manhattan. The detour confirmed Mom’s rating; the lighting alone made the trip worth­while. Haggard at home, I now almost glowed in my private stall’s makeup mirror. Giving my mother great satisfaction, I told her to go ahead and install her pre­ferred pink lightbulbs in my bathroom.

  As the four of us walked toward the Tower Suites, Modesty spotted Donald Jay stepping out of an elevator. We stopped abruptly and stood, clustered behind a pot­ted palm, trying not to be observed spying. But Jay, far too engrossed in his companion, tête-à-tête with none other than the junior senator from New York, never no­ticed us.

  The same elevator whisked us up into a small, elegant foyer with velvet walls and high ceilings that led to Edwina’s open door. The widow looked wonderful. Lots of soft pink lighting in this apartment. “Welcome, la­dies,” Mrs. Fione’s cultured voice greeted us. “Everyone else has gone home, but I hope you will all join me in a nightcap. Let’s toast Charlie.”

  Asking Mom to pour the champagne and Modesty and me to round up the crystal flutes, Edwina explained that she needed a moment or two alone with Gypsy Rose. They went off to the library and I checked out the living room. Except for the contemporary photographs crowd­ing the mantel, the tabletops, and the baby grand, we could have been standing in a nineteenth-century Lon­don salon.

  Prominently displayed on the piano was a recent shot of Senator Fione and Donald Jay, flanked by Ashley Butler and Wanda Sparks. Under their trademark high hairdos, both women wore too much makeup and looks of awed adoration directed at Charlie. In a silver frame, an eleven-by-fourteen glossy, taken in the Oval Office, was inscribed with words of praise from a former pres­ident, who’d posed with his arm draped around the sen­ator. I picked up a photograph of Senator Fione standing next to his New York colleague, thinking how her sen­sible short haircut contrasted with Ashley and Wanda’s styles. And in this woman’s eyes, I saw neither awe nor adoration.

  “You’re staring into the face of the now-senior senator from the state of New York. Charlie’s real hell must be the torture of accepting that ugly bit of destiny.” The widow had returned. “Shall we drink our champagne, ladies?” Mrs. Fione strode across the room, trailed by Gypsy Rose, who was moving her hands in quick, little circles, sending a TV producer’s standard signal for “let’s speed it up.” I wondered what had transpired in the library. Did Edwina know that her husband had been a teenage rapist?

  We raised our glasses. ‘To Charlie Fione,” my mother said tentatively, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something foul. I knew that Mom considered her for­merly favorite senator to be a fallen idol.

  Gypsy Rose bit her lip, but remained silent.

  “On whatever plane,” Edwina’s dulcet tones rolled out, “where the low-life bastard is destined to spend eter­nity.” She chugged down her drink. “I’m praying that the Marquis de Sade has been assigned as Charlie’s per­manent roommate.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Modesty said.

  The doorman hailed a cab. We all squeezed into the backseat, sensing that secrets were about to be swapped and promises broken. Gypsy Rose went first.

  “This morning, right before the viewing, Edwina dis­covered that her late husband had been having an affair with—surprise—another mystery writer.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Emails,” Gypsy Rose said. “Edwina searched through Charlie’s computer files—she had his pass­word—and the old fool had saved copies of his elec­tronic love letters. Among her other virtues, like delectable thighs, they salute his mistress’s writing style.”

  “So,” my mother said, “is it Wanda, Ashley, or is what we have here one touch of Venus?”

  “My thoughts exactly, Maura,” Gypsy Rose said. “You must be psychic too. The emails arrived from cupcake@lovenotes.com; however, when Edwina investigated, Cupcake’s online service wouldn’t disclose the name of the person behind her electronic nickname. I sense that Charlie needed to boast about being in love with another woman, knowing that his wife wouldn’t be able to identify the object of his affection. Anyway, Ed­wina printed out several of his emails, and they’re hot stuff. No question the senator was smitten. When I channel him tomorrow on the Ashes Away cruise his widow expects Charlie to reveal his lover’s name.”

  “Drama on the high seas,” I said. “Will that scene be played before or after she flings his ashes?”

  “Before,” Gypsy Rose said, “and that’s not all she’ll be tormenting Charlie about. Edwina is seriously con­sidering Donald Jay’s suggestion that she complete Fi­one’s term in the Senate.”

  “Sure,” Modesty said. “So Edwina can vote—with her sister witch of a senator—against the environment and for that snake Donald Jay’s site.”

  After all this, could Edwina be the murderer? I had several questions. “How long has Edwina had Charlie’s password?”

  “Smart girl, Jake,” Gypsy Rose said. “From what she said, I gathered that he’d given it to her on St. Patrick’s Day. Before the Crime Conference.”

  “The day he died,” Modesty said. “I don’t believe that could be just a coincidence, do any of you? I bet she killed him.” Her qualified approval of Edwina had dis­sipated.

  “But even if Edwina had found the email
s that same morning,” I said, “how could she have hired the lepre­chaun so quickly?”

  Modesty looked at me with scorn. “With the Carring­ton money behind her, one short phone call to Murder, Inc. would have resolved that problem for Edwina. God­damn it, Jake, sometimes, you’re so smart, you’re lame. And thick. Your relentless inquisition drove Rickie to jump off my balcony.”

  “What?” my mother screamed as the taxi came to a screeching halt in front of Mr. Kim’s fruit stand.

  Once we were back in our kitchen, with Mom pouring tea and Gypsy Rose slicing lemon pound cake, I decided to lay everything out on the table. Omitting only my feelings of fear, I related the unsettling and puzzling events of my long day. The tale ended with my summation, citing reasonable doubt about Rickie’s guilt, and its telling managed to lift up the dam that had been hold­ing back Modesty’s emotions. She actually hugged me.

  “He’s the only man I’ve ever cared about,” Modesty said, with more passion than I would have believed her to be capable of. “Jake, you have to help me clear Rickie.”

  “Where is he now?” I asked. My mother, frowning, perched on the edge of her chair, teacup poised in mid­air. Gypsy Rose, leaning in closer to Modesty, wiped away a tear. They were loving this, no doubt, reveling in being part of the action and sharing in Modesty’s and my confidences while chomping at the bit to contribute to the resolution of this star-crossed love story.

  Modesty hesitated, then sighed and looked around the table, meeting each of our eyes. “I’m going to trust you.” For a misogynist, this had to be a major breakthrough. Blinking, I fought off my own tears. “Rickie has re­turned to my apartment. He dropped onto the balcony below mine; then, when you and the doorman left—Rickie watched you walk to the corner, Jake—he hoisted himself back up. You hadn’t locked the glass door. After Hunter called me at Campbell’s, I rang home, using the signal that Rickie and I had devised, and he told me about your visit. However, I couldn’t go home. First, I had to find out what Hunter wanted, then I didn’t want you to get suspicious, so I ran around town playing Dr. Watson. Now I hope that you ladies have gathered enough information to come up with whodunit, but I’m going home to spend the night with Rickie. It may be our last.”

  As Modesty left, secure in the knowledge that ro­mance had won over reason and accepting our promises to keep her secret ’til tomorrow morning, while assuring us that Rickie wouldn’t bolt before then, Mom buzzed Dennis up and the phone rang. A hell of a lot of activity for almost eleven o’clock at the end of what, by any­one’s standard, had been a damn busy day.

  The call was for Mom. Aaron. And where might his son be? I heard my mother say, “The governor?” Though very curious, I stopped eavesdropping to let Dennis in, remembering that I’d been the one who wanted to talk to him. Gypsy Rose said hello, then excused herself to do the dishes, and I led Dennis into the living room. Mom must have taken the phone into her bed­room.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. I wondered if he had any idea that the glint in his great eyes ignited my heart. I stared at him in silence. “Come on, Jake. Tell me. I want to go to bed; I should have phoned, but I wanted to see you, er, to make sure that you’re okay.”

  For a second, totally brain-dead, I forgot what I’d wanted to know. Something about...Ashley Butler. Oh. I had a sudden flash of memory. “When Ashley stopped by here, on Monday, to ask me to ghostwrite for her, she said that Charlie Fione had recommended her to Pax Publishing. Did she have a special relationship with the senator? It struck me as odd at the time. Then tonight, Edwina told Gypsy Rose that the senator had been in­discreet, having an affair with another mystery writer—”

  “Strange, how timing is everything.” Dennis smiled. “During my otherwise tedious meeting with the man­agement of Pax, Fione’s editor did drop two tidbits that caught my attention. You know that Maurice Welch ghosted Death of a Filibuster.” I nodded. “Welch is in such a rage over the senator promising, but not paying, those big bucks that now he wants to sue Pax as well as Fione’s estate.”

  “And the second tidbit?”

  “The senator gave Pax’s legal department spe­cific instructions that all his royalties—Welch’s money was to come out of the advance—should go di­rectly to Miss Ashley Butler.”

  “Jesus.” Exhausted, I rested my head against the back of the couch. Suddenly Dennis’s eyes came closer to mine, then his lips gently kissed me. I flung my arms around him, hanging on as if my life depended on it. He whispered in my ear, “Jake, is it our turn? I do love you, you know. I guess I always have.”

  God knows what would have happened next if loud laughter hadn’t preceded my mother and Gypsy Rose’s entrance into the room.

  “Boy, will Edwina be annoyed,” my mother was say­ing. “There’s going to be a special election to fill Charlie Fione’s seat.”

  “He’s not even in his grave yet,” I said. “Right now I’m more interested in who killed Charlie Fione than in who will replace him in the Senate.”

  “But, Jake,” Mom said, “the governor just called Aaron and asked him to run. Your mother may become a Washington wife.”

  Thirty

  The sun couldn’t have shone more brightly this morning if I’d been in St. Croix, dashing for a dip in the ocean, instead of in Carnegie Hill, dressing for a funeral at St. Patrick’s.

  I’d spent a night filled with bizarre dreams, mixed emotions, and a rude awakening. The dreams were about Mom, suddenly turning into this century’s Perle Mesta, charming D.C. society, leaving me struggling alone in Manhattan. The emotions ran the gamut from guilt to lust. If I cared so deeply about Ben Rubin, how come I so desperately wanted to bed Dennis Kim? And finally, the awakening, better rude than never, might be consid­ered a psychological thunderbolt. Sometime in the night I’d been hit over the head with whodunit.

  Sneaking into the kitchen, trying not to wake Mom, I boiled water for tea and toasted a bagel, wanting to sate myself while rehearsing my lines before calling Edwina. When the clock struck eight, I dialed her number.

  “This is Edwina Carrington Fione.” She and her per­fect vowels sounded tired.

  “Jake O’Hara, Mrs. Fione. Sorry to bother you, today of all days, but I need to ask you something very im­portant.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I had to be cagey here; I didn’t want her to suspect that Gypsy Rose had told us all about Edwina having searched through Charlie’s email. “Would you know if the senator had any correspondence with Holly Halligan shortly before they were murdered? Maybe let­ters? Phone calls? Or email?”

  “No letters. At least not here in New York. There could be some letters from Miss Halligan in the senator’s office in Washington, but his chief of staff hasn’t men­tioned any.” She sighed. “I’d forgotten about this, Miss O’Hara, but now that you mention it, there was a mes­sage on the answering machine the day before Charlie died. From Holly Halligan.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Nothing much. Just that Charlie should call her, and I quote, ‘like yesterday.’ Since they’d both been sched­uled to appear on the same Crime Writers’ Conference panel the next day, I naturally assumed Holly Halligan wanted to talk to him about that. I gave my husband her message.”

  “And?”

  “And I presume he returned her call. Where in the world are you going with this, Miss O’Hara?”

  “Please indulge me, Mrs. Fione. Is there any way you could check to see if there was any email exchanged between Holly and your husband?”

  “Well, I am trying to get ready to escort the senator’s remains from Campbell’s to the cathedral. I’m meeting Father Fione and Charlie’s sister, Fatima Fione-Epstein, the governor, and a congressional delegation at the fu­neral parlor—’’

  “It’s really urgent.”

  “All right. But I may not have time to call you back. If there is any email, I’ll print it out and
bring it with me.” She hung up.

  Mom appeared wearing Velcro rollers and a clay mask. I poured her tea, then retreated to my bedroom to call Ben. Aaron, my future stepfather and as the gov­ernor’s handpicked candidate, probably New York’s fu­ture senator, answered on the first ring.

  “Ben’s not here, Jake. He’s on his way downtown. Rickie Romero showed up at the Nineteenth a few minutes ago, with his attorney in tow.”

  Pleased that Rickie had lived up to Modesty’s expec­tations but disappointed that once again I couldn’t con­nect with Ben, I hesitated.

  “Hey, Jake, don’t hang up. Ben said to tell you that he’ll see you at the funeral and that he misses you.”

  “Yeah. Well, Aaron, I have a message for him too. Tell Ben that he’s booking the wrong man—and I’d sug­gest he check out Charlie Fione’s email.”

  Then I called Modesty and hopped into in the shower, before realizing that I’d never congratulated Aaron.

  We were seated in a row toward the left rear of St. Patrick’s, near the statue of St. John Neumann. A relatively recent addition, this modern, alabaster, somewhat stark statue differed dramatically from the more traditional renditions of the longer canonized, whose statues were ensconced in their own niches, circling the cathedral. Today, as usual, the large array of vigil candles found in front of these saints blazed brightly.

  The Crime Writers filled the pew. The lineup, starting from the center aisle, was Donald Jay, Wanda Sparks, Ashley Butler, Venus DeMill, Maurice Welch, Hunter Greene, then Mom, Gypsy Rose, and Modesty, with me on the far side, closest to the confessional, St. John, and the candles.

  Modesty, mourning neither Holly Halligan’s nor Charlie Fione’s death, but rather Rickie Romero’s decision to turn himself in, knelt in prayer. A pious mini-­monk, in her brown habit-like long dress and gold cross. When we picked her up in the taxi, she’d greeted me with an order. “Find the killer before we disembark from this Ashes Away cruise, Jake, or else Rickie will sail straight onto death row.” Then, indicating her high level of distress, she allowed my mother to hold her hand all the way down Fifth Avenue to St. Patrick’s. Now, as she fiddled with her rosary belt, I watched that hand tremble. If my middle-of-the-night thunderbolt had been on target, I would—happily—honor and obey Modesty’s command.