Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  Seventeen

  Washington Square Park and the wonderful nineteenth-century homes surrounding it evoked images of The Heiress. The handsome con man Morris banging and begging at the front door while the plain, spumed Catherine ignored his pleas for forgiveness.

  I’d taken the subway to Astor Place, walked the few blocks downtown to West Fourth and paused near the park, eating up the atmosphere. No Ho—North of Hous­ton—was a neighborhood as diversified as any in Man­hattan. College kids from NYU shared benches with the homeless and the wealthy dowagers who lived in the elegant Washington Square houses. Young mothers pushed baby carriages as teenagers rollerbladed around them. Tower Records, three floors filled with music, from rap to Rachmaninov, was jumping. The flea market in the empty lot to its south swarmed with shoppers. The street vendors were hawking ethnic food grazings rang­ing from Italian to Thai. I hadn’t spotted one drug dealer or pimp. On this Thursday afternoon in June, Washing­ton Square was alive with the sights, sounds, and smells of the city I loved.

  My destination, Christopher Street, epitomized Green­wich Village. Too-Tall Tom, the handiest man in Man­hattan, had crafted a Victorian gingerbread home in an old townhouse only nine feet wide. He’d told me, when I’d called to make sure he’d be there when I arrived, that he’d have the tea cart ready.

  Before leaving Kate’s, I’d made several calls. Ivan had answered, sounding annoyed, telling me that he’d left me two messages. He’d been heading out the door to Budapest East for his evening shift. He’d finish at eleven. We agreed to meet at Elaine’s for a drink. I’d be buying.

  Patrick’s polite elderly receptionist told me his last patient would finish at seven. When Patrick picked up the phone, I was armed and ready to fire. “I’ll be at your office at seven when you’re through for the day.” Unless he canceled his last appointment or ordered his receptionist to banish me, I had—so to speak—a date with Patrick.

  When I finally checked my messages, there was one from Modesty. She, Ginger, and I were to have dinner with Bill Bernside at the Stanhope at eight. My dance card for the evening was full.

  Too-Tall Tom welcomed me with a bear hug, lifting me so high off his Persian carpet that I could have grabbed hold of the Venetian glass chandelier. As always, being around this great guy comforted me. Too-Tall Tom eked out a wage, slightly more than minimum, as a how-to ghostwriter; however, as a jack of all trades and master carpenter who could transform Manhattan box­-shaped apartments into Edwardian flats, he made some real money. Selective in his customers—after all, he was a writer who dabbled in handicraft, not the other way around—he budgeted his time to turn out one ghostwritten project a year. Like the rest of the ghostwriters, he hadn’t succeeded in selling any of his own works-in-progress. Too esoteric, he’d been told.

  Sipping Earl Gray tea—not my favorite, I think it smells like perfume—sitting on a red settee, with Too-Tall Tom perched on a high ladder-back oak chair, I admired the tea sandwiches and cream puffs. “Did you make all this?”

  “Jake, why do you think God gave us delis and French bakeries? Your phone call prompted a walk over to Giattois. Now what’s so important?”

  “Tell me about running into Bill Bernside and Jonathan Arthur on Tuesday night. They strike me as the odd couple. Had you met either one of them before the memorial service that morning?”

  “No. Remember, Bill’s from Philadelphia...and I guess Jonathan never made the Tribeca scene. I recognized them from the funeral. Why, I’d had a long chat with Bill at the Harvard Club, so I dashed right over to say hello.”

  “And?”

  “Well, neither of them seemed happy to see me. Before I’d pushed through the crowd, they’d been dancing cheek to cheek and had held hands on their way back to the bar. Being so tall, I don’t miss much. But when I approached them, they seemed reserved. Stuffy.”

  “Jonathan is stuffy. Maybe the stuffiest stiff in New York.” I reached for another cream puff, hating myself, and added, “If he seemed loose on the dance floor, that’s not his usual style.”

  Too-Tall Tom thought for moment. “I didn’t speak to him at any length at the reception, but I agree with you, Jake, he struck me as a prig.”

  ‘‘Yet he and Bill were openly romantic?”

  ‘‘Oh, my dear, yes. As a long-time observer of the mating game, I’d say in the throes of a passionate courtship.”

  ‘‘In most love affairs, one person seems to be the pursuer, one seems to want the other more, to care more...”

  Too-Tall Tom banged his Royal Doulton teacup down on its saucer. “You’re right, and I always seem destined to be the one giving chase. In this romance, however, Bill was the most smitten. He had the look of love smeared all over his face while they were dancing.”

  “Do you think any of the club regulars might know either Bill or Jonathan?”

  “I don’t know, Jake, I’ll ask around. Of course, Bill’s an out-of-towner, but if Jonathan has ever stepped out of his closet and into any of the gay clubs, I’ll know someone who knows him.”

  Too-Tall Tom promised to call me with any information, advised me to be careful, and kissed me goodbye. I splurged on a cab home. I wanted to talk to Mom and change my clothes. Dinner at the Stanhope required mascara, high heels, and a skirt. Or could it be the meeting with Patrick that required those items?

  My mother had news. Linda Rogers had been told by the police that Emmie had been pregnant.

  “What do you think of that?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t know what to think, Mom.” That was true enough.

  “Ivan,” my mother almost snarled. “I told you he was no good. Maybe he murdered Emmie, and Barbara too, because somehow she’d found out. His aura’s so strong that Gypsy surely could have picked it up at Campbell’s.”

  ‘‘I think you’re confusing Ivan’s aura with his odor.” But it’s amazing how my mother’s bizarre thought processes so often made sense. “Ivan certainly could be guilty.”

  I decided not to tell her that I was meeting Ivan the Terrible later that evening. Maura O’Hara had elevated worry to an applied science. I did tell her that Ginger, Modesty, and I were dining with Bill—not to wait up—and I had an appointment before that, so I’d better move my buns.

  As I fished in my closet for Stanhope-appropriate dinner attire, I checked my messages. The warmth that flash-flooded through my body when I heard Ben’s voice surprised me.

  “Jake, it’s Ben, I need to talk to you.” But he was neither at the police station nor at home. Frustrated, I left messages both places, telling him I probably wouldn’t be back ’til midnight. And decided as soon as I received my advance from Kate, I was buying a cell phone.

  I kissed my mother goodbye; she advised me to be on my guard and that she approved of my dress. As I hailed my second taxi of the day—I was turning into Gypsy Rose Liebowitz, whose idea of the great outdoors was the space between the hotel lobby and the taxi—I pondered my mother’s parting query. “What are you wearing to Emmie’s viewing tomorrow night?” When Armageddon strikes, I know my mother will have just the right outfit.

  Reversing my modus operandi, I actually arrived at Patrick’s twenty minutes early. The receptionist exited Patrick’s office, calling, “Good night,” over her shoulder as I entered the waiting room. It appeared as if I’d startled her.

  “Oh...yes, Miss O’Hara, isn’t it? I was just leaving.” Her handbag dangled from one arm; a perky straw hat topped her stylish gray hair. Ready to go. I figured she’d planned on locking the waiting room door, leaving me stranded in the hall. Maybe arriving early has its merits.

  Flustered, she looked from Patrick’s door to me to the hallway...knowing I’d heard her say, “good night,” and she had no reason to go back into his office to warn him that the enemy had landed. Mumbling, “Good­bye,” she left, probably wondering if she’d have a job in the morning.

  In her co
nfusion, she’d not noticed that the door leading into Patrick’s office hadn’t clicked shut. It appeared closed, but in fact, had remained infinitesimally open. I inched in as close as I could get to the tiny crack and eavesdropped.

  Patrick’s last patient of the day was Kate Lloyd Connors. It sounded as if they were having a spat. About me.

  “How can you be so certain?” Kate asked Patrick. “Vera says she’s caught Jake spying in Jonathan’s office on two separate occasions. Once this very afternoon. God knows I don’t think she’d find anything there, Jonathan’s office is an autoclave. But if she starts going through my—”

  “You don’t keep any important papers in the library, do you?”

  “Of course not. Too damn many ghostwriters have been in that room. I just think Jake’s too smart for her own good. If she’s digging she’ll find dirt. Maybe I should fire her.”

  “Don’t overreact, dearest lady, you don’t want to make her suspicious. Your past belongs only to you. Wait a while.”

  Dearest lady, indeed. Maybe Patrick did practice hands-on therapy with both mother and daughter. I wanted to throw up.

  “Then there’s Caroline,” Kate said, as if reading my mind. “I scolded Vera for leaving her and Jake alone during lunch. One can only imagine what Caroline had to say to her. Vera wants to tape their conversations from now on. I wish she’d started today.”

  Jesus. Damn good thing she hadn’t or I’d be out of Chez Connors in a Manhattan millisecond.

  “Let me stop by later tonight. We’ll work on tension. I promise you’ll feel better when I’m finished.” Patrick’s voice soothed. “But now, you’d better go before Jake arrives.”

  “I thought your receptionist locked the outside door.”

  “Yes, but you don’t want to run into Jake in the hall.”

  I panicked. What should I do? Crouch behind the couch? Make a dash for the hallway? Brazen it out? Before I could decide, Kate pulled the door open, strode into the reception room, then stopped dead when she saw me. Patrick was right behind her. Seeing the expressions on their faces seemed worth the price of admission—whatever that might be.

  “Hi, Kate. I guess you’re Patrick’s last patient for the day; my visit’s a social call.” I’d call that bold, if not brazen. Kate regained control almost immediately, her face falling back into neutral.

  “Jake, how nice to see you. Well, good night, Patrick. I look forward to tomorrow’s work session, Jake.”

  I watched her walk out with great style. Whatever else I felt about the lady, she had class.

  Patrick too had made a fast recovery. “Jake, please come into my office. What can I do for you?”

  I followed him into his office, but I remained standing. “Is Caroline on drugs?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Is she under a psychiatrist’s care?”

  “Yes, she is. I thought you knew that.”

  “And does he have her on drug therapy?”

  “Jake, I’ve told you I can’t discuss my patients.”

  “Who’s her doctor? Does he know how much she’s taking? I’d bet not.”

  “I tell you what, Jake. I’ll voice your concerns to Caroline’s doctor. Is there anything else?” He stood, crossed in front of me, gesturing toward the door. “If not,” he added, “it’s been a long day.”

  I should have left then, but I had to have the last word. “Just one more thing. Are you the father of Emmie Rogers’ baby?”

  His response surprised me. “Maybe you should consider seeing Caroline’s psychiatrist. It sounds as if you could use one.”

  I walked to the hallway door, paused, and swung around to face him. “Then I guess you’d have no objection to taking a paternity test.” I stomped out—if not with as much style as Kate—with a definite flare. Of anger.

  My date with Patrick over early, I rode the Madison Avenue bus uptown for dinner at eight at the Stanhope.

  The solicitous waiters, the serene atmosphere, and the sophisticated conversation while we dined almost made me forget that one murder had brought the four of us together tonight and that a second would reunite us at tomorrow evening’s viewing.

  Over a peach brandy soufflé, almost too sinful to swallow, I brought up Jonathan. “One of the ghostwriters tells me that you’re a good friend of Jonathan Arthur’s, Bill.” Bill blushed. Honest to God...scarlet. Ginger raised a perfectly plucked brow. Her eyebrows always reminded me of Candice Bergen’s. Modesty gave me a filthy look. I realized that she thought the ghostwriter I’d referred to was her.

  “Yes,” I went on, “Too-Tall Tom and I had tea together this afternoon, and he mentioned running into you and Jonathan on Tuesday night.”

  Modesty relaxed her shoulders.

  “Jake, I do know Jonathan. Patrick Hemmings, an old friend of mine, introduced us on one of my visits to Barbara. I met Jonathan’s employer, the famous mystery writer, Kate Lloyd Connors, as well.” Bill worked hard to make his remarks seem easy—and oh so casual. Then he excused himself and went to the john.

  Modesty demanded, “Why are you cross-examining Bill?”

  “Jonathan Arthur’s a dangerous man. I bet Bill has no idea what a money-grabbing turncoat caught his fancy.”

  The waiter interrupted me. “More decaf, ladies?”

  When Bill returned, he asked for the check, then excused himself, saying he was exhausted and would see us at the viewing. Modesty, Ginger, and I stayed for another cup of coffee, then shared a cab. I dropped them off and asked the driver to take me to Elaine’s.

  For the second time in the same evening, I arrived early for an appointment. Today had proved memorable in more ways than one. And I found an empty bar stool.

  “Sit down, it has your name on it, Jake.” Joe smiled. “Haven’t seen you since the night after you stood Emmie up.”

  “Jesus, Joe.”

  “Well…er…I just meant, who’d’ve thought she’d turn up dead? That, in fact, she’d already been murdered?” With those comforting words, he mixed a Bloody Mary for the man to my right.

  I guess Joe felt guilty for upsetting me. When he served my white wine spritzer, he said, “It’s on the house.”

  Ivan caught me unaware. “Jake, vat is it you vant to talk about?” He stood so close, smelling not like garlic, but goulash.

  With Ivan, I could be direct. “Why did you and Emmie quarrel last Friday at Budapest East?”

  “Vat do you mean?”

  I was tired, cranky, and fresh out of charm. “Several people heard you scream at Emmie. What about?”

  “Igor, what are you drinking?” Joe asked.

  “Ivan,” Ivan and I said in unison.

  I smiled at Joe, nodding to Ivan. “My treat.” I said.

  Ivan ordered Louis XIII Cognac. And a Coke. What a creep. Did I have enough money on me? No way. I hoped my card worked.

  “So?” I said, as Joe went to fetch Ivan’s one-hundred-thirty-five-dollar after-dinner drink.

  “So vat? Nothink. I loved Emmie. That’s vat.”

  “And were you the father of her child?”

  Ivan’s answer, like Patrick’s, took me by surprise.

  “I would have married her, Jake, but I can’t be any baby’s father. The mumps. Two years ago. I’m sterile.”

  Eighteen

  The phone rang as I entered my bedroom at eleven forty p.m. I was tempted not to answer, but it might be Ben. Caroline’s loud, agitated voice hurt my ear.

  “Jake, I’ve run away from ’ome. Can I pop over to your ’ouse for a while?”

  “Caroline, I need my job with your stepmother. If she found out that you came here, I’d be fired. What’s wrong?”

  “Kate and I had an ugly scene over Patrick. Our ’andsome ’ypnotist left a little bit ago. They’d been closeted in ’er bedroom. You know ’e’s mine.”

 
“Where are you now?”

  “I’m in a pub near Times Square. I’m afraid to go over to Patrick’s, but I might.”

  “Go home, Caroline. I’ll be at work at ten in the morning; we’ll talk then. Promise me you’ll go straight home.”

  She promised, but I didn’t believe her.

  Should I call Patrick in a half hour and see if she’d arrived? Or should I leave Eliza and the Marlboro Man to their own devices? Should I tell Ben? Should I mind my own business? Caroline might be crazy, but so were several of my acquaintances. I didn’t try to control them, and I couldn’t control Caroline.

  The gurgling of the WaterPik muffled the sound, but no question, I had another phone call. This time, it was Ben, offering to drive me to Emmie’s viewing. Getting to Queens on a Friday evening in June, fighting the ex­odus to Long Island, could be a royal pain in the butt. I accepted.

  Ben had spent the afternoon and much of the evening discussing “opportunity” with the various members of Connors and company.

  “Do tell.”

  “Okay, let’s start with Emmie’s murder. We know it happened sometime between late Friday night and quite early Saturday morning. Kate Lloyd Connors claims she was in bed with a good book. Read ’til midnight. Then fell asleep.”

  “The book wasn’t Crime and Punishment, was it?”

  Ignoring me, Ben continued. “Mrs. Vera Madison, now there’s a charmer, said she went to bed at nine p.m. She had a glass of warm milk, and awoke, as she always does, at five a.m.”

  “What about Jonathan? He’s a hot prospect.” I never mentioned today’s snooping.

  “Jonathan attended a movie near Lincoln Center from nine to eleven thirty. Alone. Never spoke to any­one. Walked all the way home. Everyone was asleep, he says. He went directly to his room.”

  “That’s a hell of a long walk. Did he cut through the Park—alone—at that hour?”

  “So he says.”

  “Next, I spoke to Caroline Evans. What a nut. Says she had a late therapy session at Patrick’s. Arrived home at ten o’clock. Caroline assumed Kate and Mrs. Madison were in their rooms. Carla let her in and she went ‘straight away’ to her room. But who’s to say she stayed home? Early-to-bedders, aren’t they all?”