Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  “For killing her father?”

  “Or standing by and allowing him to drown.”

  “There would be no crime in that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Watching a person drown and not saving him may be morally reprehensible, but it’s not against the law.”

  “Do you mean to tell me one person can let another die, doing nothing to save him, and that’s perfectly legal?”

  “Absolutely. Unless the first person was responsible for the second person. For example, a parent for his child.”

  “But not in reverse? A daughter for her father?”

  “Nope. We have no Good Samaritan law here like they do in France.”

  “So, if someone shot my mother, I could let her bleed to death, and that would be okay with you?”

  “No. And I’m sure it wouldn’t be ‘okay’ with your mother. But it wouldn’t be a crime.”

  Ivan arrived with the food.

  After tasting the goulash, I decided that I should have ordered the trout, but what little appetite I’d had was gone anyway. Knowing it wasn’t appropriate dinner-date conversation, I forged on.

  “Well, if Kate killed her father—or allowed him to die, crime or not—either way would leave her open for blackmail, and if Emmie had found out, then told Barbara, and if Kate killed them to keep her secrets, and if Jonathan added those two murders to Kate’s blackmail tab for his silence, well, then Kate would have had to kill him too.”

  Ben swallowed a bite of fish. “That’s an awful lot of ifs.”

  “What if I can prove it?”

  “How?”

  “Caroline left me a message in the middle of the night. She says she’s found Kate’s journal. She told Patrick the same thing.”

  “When did you talk to Patrick?” Ben seemed bothered. By my playing detective again against his advice or by my talking to Patrick?

  “He’d called too. I stopped by to see him on my way home from the Algonquin. For what it’s worth, Kate seems to be his first choice for serial killer too.”

  “Where is this supposed journal? Our guys went through that place with a vengeance.”

  “Hidden in Vera Madison’s room. At least that’s what Caroline says.”

  “Okay, I have an appointment with the medical examiner in the morning; I’ll drop by about one and have another chat with both Vera and Caroline.”

  “Good, I’m going over at ten.”

  “Listen to me, Jake, you are not to play cop again. Not tomorrow, not ever. Do you understand?”

  A plot hatched in my aching head. “Yes, of course I do,” I said.

  We ordered apple strudel à la mode for dessert. Sipping espresso, I asked about Emmie’s computer. “Did your expert crack the code?”

  “Yes, today, in fact. ‘Rachel’ was the password. Most of the stuff was drab routine. There were notes for a new book she’ll never get to write.”

  I bit my lip. “So nothing then?”

  “Just one odd thing. In big, bold font, she’d typed over and over: WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF? Any idea why she’d have done that?”

  I told Ben about Dennis’s visit and Kate’s silent partner. “You see, that proves Emmie had discovered something.”

  “Yeah. But what?”

  “Ben, did you ever try to recall something, like the name of an old movie star or your second grade teacher? And you just can’t retrieve it? You know you know it, but the name’s escaped to some unreachable corner of your mind. That keeps happening to me in this case. First with Aubergine. It reminds me of someone or something. Same with Virginia Woolf. Not the writer or the movie—something else—that name rings another bell. Just not loud enough to reach the memory.”

  “I hated that movie,” Ben said. “I’m a sentimental slob, I guess. My favorite movie is It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  “That’s okay, Ben; I’ll tell you a secret that I’ve never told anyone.”

  “I’m honored. What?”

  “I cry at most Hallmark commercials. I turn my head or pretend I’m blowing my nose so that my mother doesn’t notice, but I suspect she’s crying too.”

  “And here I believed you were a hard-hearted woman, Jake. Maybe we are...” Ben reached into his jacket and handed me a cell phone, leaving his thought incomplete. “This is programmed. Speed dial 1, you’ll ring into my cell phone. Speed dial 2, you’ll reach my office, and 3 is 911. You’ll have Hank tagging along starting in the morning, but I wanted you to have this…just in case.”

  “Thank you, Ben. It’s the nicest present anyone has ever given me.” I reached over and kissed him on the lips as Ivan brought the check.

  Thirty-One

  I stood in front of Kate’s Sutton Place house on Monday morning, hesitating before ringing the bell. God, could it only be a week since the first time I’d stood here? Now three ghostwriters were dead, I’d had two death threats and one very real attempt to kill me, and today I would be alone with Kate in her library, where the serial killer’s choice of weapons lined the walls.

  Hank’s Ford Explorer was parked across the street. Taking comfort from that, I pushed the bell, hard. Carla opened the door as if she’d been waiting behind it. “Miss O’Hara, come in. I have coffee set up in the library. Miss Connors is in conference.” Carla gestured down the hallway toward the Conservatory. “She sug­gests that you have a bagel, then start gathering what you need to take with you; it may be an hour or so before she can join you.”

  I glanced up the stairs and spotted Caroline, peering down at us, from between the rungs on the banister. “Okay, Carla. I’m in your hands.” By the time Carla turned and we started to climb the staircase, Caroline had vanished.

  Eating my bagel, I thought, what a beautiful room. What an awesome way to live. This woman has it all: rich, famous, looking as marvelous as money can buy, an international bestselling author’s acclaim, and ghostwriters to do her grunt work. If someone—Jonathan?—had threatened all that? Certainly people have killed to pro­tect far less.

  The doorway to Jonathan’s office was still draped with yellow crime tape. I was surprised that I’d been allowed into the library. Wouldn’t the killer have come through here to get to Jonathan’s office? Or through the bathroom door as I once had? But, unless Carla had polished them away before the night of the murder, my fingerprints would have been all over the library any­way, as well as the bathroom and Jonathan’s office. I added more jam to my bagel, poured another cup of coffee, then sank into a big armchair, fumbling in my briefcase for Tylenol; the pain hadn’t lessened. I wished I were home in bed. Where had Caroline gone? And where was Vera this morning? If I could get rid of her, I could search her room.

  Impulsively I pulled the cell phone out of my brief­case and dialed Dennis. Thank God, he picked up. “Dennis, can you get Vera Madison out of Sutton Place and over to your office on some excuse? Like maybe you need to check her signature on that contract or something?”

  “Well, good morning, Jake. Plotting a little conflict, are you?”

  “You said you wanted to help. I need to get—”

  “I don’t want to know what you’re about to do—”

  “But you will help me?”

  “Now that you mention it, Jake, I would like to ask Vera what the V in Kate’s silent partner’s name stands for.”

  “Try ‘Virginia.’ See how Vera reacts. You’ll call her right away? Kate’s tied up with someone, but I don’t know for how long.”

  “Just as soon as we hang up.”

  “I’m sorry I bit you twenty-five years ago.”

  “Hell, I was hoping you might take another nibble.”

  I laughed, feeling flattered by his flirting, but got back to business. Something still scratched at my subcon­scious.

  “If you find out any more about that cable station or Kate’s partner, l
et me know.” I gave Dennis my cell phone number. “Thanks and bless you, Dennis.” I put the phone in my denim shirt pocket as Caroline, looking thin and pale, walked in.

  “Jake, I’m so glad to see you. ’Ave you come to save me, love?”

  “Maybe, Caroline. Maybe I have. Sit down; have a bagel and some coffee while we go over our game plan.”

  “Oh, jolly good, we ’ave a strategy, do we?”

  “Well, sort of…but before we get to that, tell me, quickly, what you discovered in Kate’s journal.”

  “Jake, it’s ’ot stuff. According to Kate’s own ’andwriting, she’s my grandmother! My blood grandmother. God ’elp me. And Kate’s father is Lily ’ansen’s—my mum’s—father too. I guess that makes ’im both my grandfather and my great-grandfather. No wonder I’m touched in the ’ead.”

  “You’re not crazy, Caroline. I suspect Kate has influ­enced your doctor to prescribe too many drugs and that she has you overmedicated.”

  “Well, that witch, Vera, is always ’anding me a fistful of pills, and ’alf the time I don’t know what they’re for.”

  Today, Caroline’s attire bordered on normalcy: black jeans, tee, and sneakers, no socks. With her scrubbed face and her long hair in a ponytail, she could have passed for a world-weary fourteen. I saw the hurt in her eyes and put my arm around her skinny shoulder.

  “Maybe, when this is all over, you can come and stay with Mom and me. She’d love to mother-hen you.” I could see Mom outfitting Caroline at Polo.

  Staring at the floor, Caroline whispered, “I’d like that.”

  I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Okay, what else? Just hit the high—or low—points. We don’t have much time.”

  “Well, ages ago, Kate killed ’er father. Says she laughed as she ’eld the bastard’s ’ead under the freezing water. Lovely values in the family tree, don’t you think?”

  Carla rapped on the library door and came in. “Can I bring you anything else, Miss O’Hara?”

  “I wish you’d call me Jake. No thanks. Oh, I guess you could bring more cups and plates. I gave Kate’s to Caroline.”

  Carla grinned. “Okay, Jake.” She paused. “Mrs. Madison has gone to Mr. Kim’s office. She said to tell Miss Caroline that she wouldn’t be long.” Long enough for Caroline and me to succeed in our mission, I hoped.

  Vera Madison’s room turned out to be a sick joke. The country French white four-poster bed, topped with a pink and white gingham comforter that matched the Cape Cod tieback curtains, was strewn with stuffed animals. All pink or white or some combination of that color scheme. A rocking chair’s cushion matched the checks, as did the seat pad on Vera’s desk chair. All the furniture was white, and here, the elegant old hardwood flooring had been covered in pale pink shag wall-to-wall carpeting. Posters of James Dean and Elvis added to the teenage time warp…a room straight out of Grease. The dour Mrs. Danvers’ exterior covered Gidget’s soul. Weird and somehow sad.

  “A regular Rocky ’orror show, ain’t it?” Caroline asked.

  “You’ve got that right. Now where’s this journal?”

  Caroline reached into Mrs. Madison’s top drawer and pulled out a large, pink leather jewelry box. “In ’ere.” She tossed it to me. God, I held Pandora’s box in my hands. It scared me more than I would have thought. I opened it and lifted out a book, about five by seven inches, covered in brown alligator. Not Vera’s taste, but definitely Kate’s.

  “How come the police never found this journal, Caroline? I understand that they did a thorough search.”

  “But not a strip search. Mrs. Madison ’ad this tucked away in ’er knickers. I ’appened to pass ’er room as the old witch made the switch from ’er drawers to ’er dresser.”

  Now that was more information than I felt I needed. “Come on, Caroline. We’re on countdown.”

  In this caper, Caroline would serve as lookout while I copied as much of the diary as I could. We agreed that she should be stationed outside the library on the second-floor landing, with her eyes on the front door and her ears tuned in to hear if Kate’s door might open. If either door opened, Caroline would scream, “Someone’s trying to kill me!” then dash down the stairs. Kate and Vera, as well as Carla, were used to Caroline’s hysteria. Still, the ensuing commotion should give me the chance to stash the copies, turn off the machine, and either hide the journal or get it back in the jewelry box. Okay, it wasn’t as well thought-out as D-day, but then I hadn’t had as much time as Eisenhower.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’d copied most of the diary, when I heard a bloodcurdling scream and footsteps thundering down the stairs. Caroline’s choreographed “Someone’s trying to kill me!” routine. My fingers flew, shoving papers into my briefcase; I managed to press the OFF button and close the top of the copier as I heard Mrs. Madison stomp toward the library doors. “If there is someone, he could be hiding in here.”

  Then Caroline’s weak objection, “I don’t think ’e could be in the library; Jake’s been working in there.”

  “And I think this is all a figment of your imagination, Caroline,” Mrs. Madison shouted as she flung open the door and I, aping her ploy, stuffed the journal down my jeans, then pulled my briefcase in front of me as I turned to face the dragon.

  “Where is Miss Connors?” Vera Madison demanded. Good question. I’d forgotten all about her.

  “Haven’t seen her. I guess she’s still with her visitor.” Struggling, I juggled to cover the journal’s bulk by carrying my briefcase like a six-month pregnancy.

  Mrs. Madison stared at me. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  “Gathering my material to take home with me as Kate requested. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Caroline’s thinks someone wants to kill her. She’s just overdue for her medicine. That’s all. I suggest you check in with Miss Connors. I know that she strongly believes you should start working at home immediately.”

  “Caroline, why don’t you come downstairs with me? There’s been one murder in this house, and if there’s an intruder, I’m sure your mother would want to know.” I gave Vera a nasty smirk as the book shifted, slipping toward my crotch. She left in a huff. I retrieved the contraband journal, shoved it in my bulging briefcase, and, slinging its strap over my still-sore shoulder, went downstairs with Caroline to the Conservatory.

  I knocked on the door three times. “Do you think we should just barge in?”

  Caroline giggled. “Yeah, let’s see what the old girl’s been up to all morning.”

  I went in, Caroline on my heels. Kate was alone. Her head lay on the desk, her glorious gray hair awry, her neck twisted to the left at a hideous angle, her eyes open and staring. Somehow, a vase of white roses had been knocked over, its spilled water now a puddle, running through her hair. I had no doubt...either that she was dead or that the serial killer had struck again.

  Thirty-Two

  Kate had been killed with the first edition of an abridged anthology of her Suzy Q murder mystery se­ries. A book heavy enough to split the thickest skull. The murderer had placed it to the right of her head, the spine facing the door. I’d admired its cover—burgundy leather and gold lettering—last week when I’d started work; the book had been on display upstairs in the li­brary. Who’d brought it down to the Conservatory?

  Back to square one. This blew my theory to hell and back. If Kate wasn’t the killer, who was? Just as I began to feel ashamed of myself for my lack of sorrow—but abundance of curiosity—about Kate’s death, Caroline let out a wail that made me jump and brought Carla running into the Conservatory. She stood frozen. Mrs. Madison couldn’t be far behind. Even Hank might have heard that shriek, sitting outside in his parked car.

  “I’d wished ’er dead a thousand times,” Caroline cried, her eyes opaque, her shoulders slumped. “Just this morning, I told ’er to sod off. Now she ’as, forever. My wicked stepmother...who’s rea
lly me old granny...is dead!” As the thought seemed to sink in, both Caro­line’s expression and her tone changed. “Jake, I’m rich. I’m not crazy anymore; I’m a wealthy eccentric. Bloody grand, isn’t it?”

  “Caroline, shut up,” I said, as Carla spun around and fled from the room, crashing into Mrs. Madison as she came charging through the door.

  Vera Madison sized up the situation and crumpled to the floor. Jesus. Whatever happened to her stony stoi­cism? “Carla,” I screamed, “come back here, bring a glass of brandy and a wet cloth.” I thought for a second, then added, “But first call the family doctor. And hurry up.”

  Shaken, I pulled my phone from my pocket and wound up pressing all three programmed numbers. I left two messages, one on Ben’s cell, the other at his office, then explained, at some length, to the 911 operator who—and where—I was and what had happened.

  Stepping over Mrs. Madison, I crossed the room to the desk and, timidly, touched Kate, checking her pulse. None. Her arm was still warm. This was my first corpse, other than those already laid out in a casket. At a wake, the body’s been painted and perfumed before the mourners arrive to kneel at the bier to say goodbye or a prayer. The close encounter with Kate’s corpse re­vealed the naked truth: Death is ugly.

  A warm breeze fluttered a few papers on the desk, and I realized that the French doors positioned to the right, behind the desk, were open. The killer could have exited through them, into the garden, then out the side gate to York Avenue. No one would have known, not even Hank, who was parked in the street in front of the house.

  Suddenly Caroline was next to me, reaching for the phone on Kate’s desk. “I must ring up Patrick.”

  “Don’t touch anything. Not ’til the police arrive. You understand?”

  “But…” She started to wail again. “I want ’im with me.”

  “Here, call him on this.” The irony that the first three calls on my new phone had been to Dennis, Ben, and Patrick did not go unnoticed, even as Vera Mad­ison’s moans rose from the floor and Carla returned with the requested items.