The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  Gypsy Rose is the most open and honorable woman I know, as well as Carnegie Hill’s favorite psychic. A leggy redhead, with wild curly hair, a round, shapely figure, and a flare for fashion, she’s a siren at sixty. And a smart businesswoman, who owns and operates a suc­cessful bookstore/tearoom on the corner of Ninety-third and Madison, where New Age mavens often lecture. My mother works there part-time. Gypsy Rose and Mom have been best friends for over a quarter of a century, ever since we moved into the roomy old co-op on Ninety-second Street that Mom had inherited from her great aunt.

  Some of Gypsy Rose’s more successful séances have made me rethink reincarnation and other odd ghost sto­ries. Via Zelda Fitzgerald, Gypsy Rose’s spirit guide, Mom receives messages from and gossip about Jack O’Hara and his “lifestyle” in the world beyond. Though Mom had been long divorced from Dad when he passed over to another plane, upon his death, she canonized him. Now we hear he’s taking dancing lessons from Fred Astaire. I don’t know what to make of all this. But I do know if Gypsy Rose Liebowitz thinks Carita Magenta’s a fake, she probably is.

  “Jake, finish that last oatmeal cookie,” my mother said. “It’s almost one o’clock. Let’s go down to the Grand Ballroom. I’d like to get a good seat so I can see Charlie Fione up close.”

  Dennis said, “Oh, I’ll be happy to introduce you and Gypsy Rose to him, Maura. The senator has an eye for pretty women.”

  I stuffed the oatmeal cookie in my mouth.

  Four

  Over three hundred authors, wannabe writers, agents, editors, book doctors, homicide detectives, Hol­lywood producers, as well as assorted arson, poison, and firearms experts had descended upon the floor of the Grand Ballroom. No one wanted to miss the opening celebrity-filled panel: Turn Your Career into Murder. All three hundred were talking at once.

  The third panelist, sharing the spotlight with Holly Halligan and Senator Charlie Fione, would be the man that most of the attendees—including me—wanted to chat up. The recently paroled cat burglar, Rickie Rom­ero. A charming thief, Rickie had caught the public’s fancy when, during his trial ten years ago, America learned he’d endowed a shelter on Eleventh Avenue for Hell’s Kitchen’s homeless. His strong resemblance to Fabio hadn’t hurt his popularity either.

  Romero’s book, Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof, starred a gentleman thief whose assorted victims—wealthy wid­ows, dilettante debutantes, and tyro trophy wives—all had fallen in love with him. When Rickie’s antihero was arrested for murdering an heiress in bed, all the formerly bejeweled women whom he’d romanced then robbed rushed to his defense. Many critics considered it, like so many first novels, to be autobiographical and declared it to be a fun read. My mother agreed, and since I hadn’t read it yet, had given me her rave review. Romero’s mystery was outselling Halligan’s Murder at MGM and Fione’s Death of a Filibuster.

  Holly, now dressed in a chic black pantsuit with her silver hair piled high on her head, every inch the movie star, greeted us as soon as we crossed the threshold. “I’ve saved five seats in the front row; follow me.” She glided toward the front of the huge room, bowing and waving to the crowd. We, her entourage, trailed behind.

  A staggering Maurice Welch, the dean emeritus of international suspense, leaning on the slim shoulder of Wanda Sparks, preceded us down the aisle. Pasty-faced and hunched, he looked sick. I guessed that Wanda had been babysitting the literary enfant terrible for the last hour or so, keeping him dry.

  As Wanda and Maurice arrived at the front row, Rickie Romero, dashing in designer black wool, his smart blazer adorned with a green carnation, jumped up from his aisle seat and insisted that Welch take it. The rumpled Maurice collapsed as if the air had gone out of his balloon. Then Romero swept a flushed Sparks off to the sidelines. Dennis sat next to Maurice, and Modesty, Mom, Gypsy Rose, and I filled the next four chairs.

  Fascinated, I stretched my neck to watch Wanda Sparks and Rickie Romero. They now stood, heads to­gether, talking, near a buffet table set up against the west wall. Suddenly Wanda jerked away from Romero and ran off toward the French doors.

  Holly took her place at the head table to loud cheers. An even louder roar from the crowd greeted the arrival of the senior senator from New York. Tall, portly but well-tailored, his thick gray hair slightly awry, he strode down the aisle to loud cheers and a few scattered boos. Not everyone here had voted for Charlie Fione. Me, for one. Though I’d never told my mother. Edwina walked at his side. Both were smiling and waving, working the room like they would a political rally. The senator sat to Holly’s left at the speaker’s table; his wife perched, as if ready to flee, directly across the aisle from Maurice Welch.

  Modesty, no doubt at my mother’s request, climbed over Dennis and Maurice Welch and darted up to the head table, Mom’s camcorder in hand, to film the senator and the former movie star just as Rickie Romero, clutching a coffee cup from the buffet table, joined his two co-panelists. Rickie kissed Holly’s hand, then sat to her right. The audience, acknowledging the three best­selling authors manning the Turn Your Career into Mur­der panel, went wild. And Modesty grabbed the photo op.

  The Crime Writers’ president, Hunter Green, took the podium, signaling the official start of the thirty-fifth an­nual Greater New York Crime Writers’ Conference. Re­ceiving a rousing welcome, he held the group’s total attention and respect.

  Hunter’s a honey. I’ve long considered his books to be the finest examples of true-crime writing since In Cold Blood. This afternoon, in keeping with both his name and St. Patrick’s Day, Hun­ter was all in green—from his kelly bowler to his olive corduroy jeans. On lanky, handsome Hunter, an African-American, the out­landish garb looked great.

  When Hunter announced that the warlock who’d been scheduled for Gypsy Rose’s out-of-this-world panel was stuck in Salem, and added that Hunter himself—having just finished covering a vampire murder trial—would fill in, Gypsy Rose clapped the loudest. Then stage-whispered, “What a coup, Jake. I’m sharing a panel with an Edgar winner.”

  “Maybe that will make Carita Magenta somewhat eas­ier to swallow,” I said.

  Gypsy Rose giggled. “About as easy as a dose of cas­tor oil. Thank God the warlock’s car broke down. One nut per panel is all I can stomach.”

  At that moment Venus DeMill, the glamorous, aging author of a murder-mystery series set in ancient Rome, dressed in Versace and quarreling none too quietly with Carita Magenta, arrived late, and disturbing the people already seated there, claimed two chairs in the second row. Carita squeezed her considerable bulk into a seat directly behind me. Having removed her coat of many colors, she now wore green tights and an oversized sweatshirt with “Kiss me, I’m Irish!” emblazoned across her breasts. When Carita had managed to contain her girth, she reached across my back and grabbed the collar of Gypsy Rose’s coral cashmere dress. As Gypsy Rose, obviously startled, swung around, Carita yelled, ‘Tell your friends to hold their water, there’s a leprechaun in the ladies’ room.”

  Hunter Green handed the mike over to Donald Jay, who spent the next ten minutes reviewing the conference rules, managing to transform the Plaza’s ballroom into a cross between a college dorm and an SS camp. Elic­iting grunts and groans from the attendees, he concluded with, “If you have any complaints, see Wanda Sparks or Ashley Butler; that is, if you can ever find either of them.”

  Maurice Welch, apparently resurrected, poked my mother in the arm and announced with a booming Brooklyn accent, “That half-baked potato’s stuffed with crap, ain’t he, Blondie?”

  To my delight, Mom replied, “You got that right.” Donald Jay finally shut up. And his restless audience did too. Now all eyes were locked on the head table. The senior senator from New York, the ex-movie-star-turned-television-pitch-person, and the retired cat burglar smiled back at their fans.

  Yet another haunting rendition of “Danny Boy,” this time performed by what sounded like a score of bagpip­ers parading along
Fifth Avenue, echoed through the ballroom. My mother said, “For God’s sake, can’t they let that Irishman rest in peace?”

  Seemingly from out of nowhere, a lively leprechaun appeared and placed a pitcher of green beer in front of Charlie Fione. The senator laughed, leaned into his mike, and, affecting an Irish brogue, said, “Happy St. Patrick’s Day. And may we all be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows we’re dead.” Fione graciously filled Halligan and Romero’s glasses before his own.

  Holly clicked her glass against Charlie’s and Rickie’s, then held it up as if to toast the audience, saying, “Erin Go Bragh!” Shouts of approval swept through the ball­room as the panelists raised their beers to their lips.

  Charlie Fione screamed first. Then rolled from his seat, grabbing at his throat, and landed, clutching his stomach, on the Persian carpet. Holly Halligan’s mouth formed a perfect O, but nothing came out. On my feet, stepping on Gypsy Rose’s pumps, trying to get to the head table, I watched Holly tumble to the floor, thrash­ing and flaying. Not a pretty picture. Rickie Romero shook as if in violent denial, then crashed face first into the bowl of shamrocks on the table in front of him. Mod­esty, who’d scampered out of the row before me, filmed the ghastly scene while Dennis dialed 911 and my mother cried, “God help us! Someone has killed them all!”

  Five

  As the medical examiner for the City of New York—he’d been scheduled for a Cause of Death sem­inar at five—checked for pulses, Dennis Kim, Hunter Green, and a suddenly surprisingly, sober Maurice Welch kept pandemonium at bay, instructing the Plaza staff to see that no one touched the bodies or left the room. However, Gypsy Rose said, “I saw that lepre­chaun disappear through the French doors right after de­livering the pitcher of beer.”

  Edwina Fione knelt silently at her husband’s side, head bowed as if in prayer. Carita Magenta had fainted and was now stuck in her chair as Venus DeMill fran­tically attempted to revive her. Several of the crime re­porters from the local newspapers were on their cellphones. Others were writing their leads.

  Donald Jay, his pasty face now flushed a bright red, paced back and forth in front of the podium. “Where the hell is Ashley Butler?” He directed his question to Hun­ter Green, but, clearly neither expecting or wanting an answer, continued in a voice a decibel lower than hys­teria. “We have to issue some sort of a statement. A press release. That’s her job. Those media vultures will be all over this. I need Ashley to explain to America’s mystery fans how three famous authors could end up murdered at my Crime Writers’ Conference.” Though I choked back a giggle, Donald had spoken without irony.

  My mother fished a bottle of spring water out of her tote bag and passed it to Venus DeMill, who then damp­ened her Hermès scarf and placed it on Carita’s fore­head. Just how much money did Venus make on those ancient-history mysteries? Why hadn’t she interrupted her ministrations long enough to walk over to the sideboard and pick up a napkin to use as Magenta’s head­ache rag?

  I watched the ME gently close Senator Fione’s eyes, then bend over Holly Halligan’s contorted face. “They’ve been poisoned,” I said to Modesty. I felt like I might throw up. “They’re all dead.”

  The coroner confirmed my first call. “A slight smell of bitter almonds. Looks like cyanide—lots of it to act so fast.” He moved on to Rickie’s inert form. But boy, was I wrong on my second. Holly Halligan and Charlie Fione, indeed, had died in several ugly, painful minutes, but Rickie Romero had been playing possum.

  When the ME touched the pulse in Romero’s neck, the cat burglar raised his handsome face from the bowl of shamrocks and smiled. The coroner jumped away, almost losing his balance. The audience emitted a col­lective shriek. Carita Magenta, who’d just come to, passed out again.

  “What the hell is going on?” Dennis shouted.

  “Just why did you play dead?” Maurice Welch asked, pulling a pad and pen from his wrinkled jacket’s pocket. “What was your motivation?”

  Rickie laughed. “You think I’d give a crazed mass murderer a second chance? That creep might have had a gun. I probably saved my butt by pretending I’d been poisoned. And put your notes away, Mr. Welch. I’m writing this book myself.”

  A booming voice came from the back of the ballroom. “Are you a clairvoyant as well as a cat burglar?” Detec­tive Lieutenant Ben Rubin, chief of homicide at Man­hattan’s Nineteenth Precinct and the current man in my life, strode down the aisle and introduced himself to Rickie Romero. “As I understand it, a room full of wit­nesses saw you raise the glass to your mouth. Did you suspect a cyanide cocktail? Or do you have an allergy to green beer?”

  Rickie shrugged. “Well, I guess you could call it an allergy. I’m a recovering alcoholic, Detective. No way would I have swallowed that beer. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend that you’ve taken a sip than it is to explain why you’re not drinking. Especially on St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “You’re just a great pretender, aren’t you, Romero?” I could hear Ben’s controlled rage.

  “Exactly, Detective, exactly.” Rickie Romero, seem­ingly in total agreement with Ben Rubin’s assessment, flashed his perfect teeth.

  Ten minutes later Donald Jay stepped up the podium to announce, officially, that the conference had been can­celed, but Ben warned everyone in the room not to plan on leaving the city. The police would be speaking to all three hundred attendees over the next few days. Those of us who lived in the city could check out of our rooms after giving our home addresses to the policemen at the door. But a visibly agitated Donald Jay would have to honor the out-of-town writers’ reservations at the Plaza even though his show never got off the ground. And, as Maurice Welch said to my mother, with what could pass for glee, “Dear old Donald may lose his job.”

  As the bodies were about to be tagged and bagged, Ben ordered the stragglers out of the ballroom. Dennis invited Mom, Gypsy Rose, Modesty, and me to join him for tea in the Palm Court. My mother, looking wan, ac­cepted for all of us. Feeling both surprised and guilty, I realized that I was starving.

  The soft lights, beautiful furnishings, and old-world charm of the open Palm Court, set in the center of the Plaza lobby, soothed my jangled nerves. Still, I couldn’t erase the images of Holly Halligan’s last gasp or Charlie Fione holding his stomach. What a rotten way to go. Ben seemed to have targeted Rickie Romero as the killer, holding him as a material witness, but I wasn’t so sure. Call it a hunch. I wondered what my tea compan­ions were thinking. With this bunch, I wouldn’t have to pry out suspicions, but we did wait until the scones had been served.

  “Do you believe the murderer is a crazy celebrity stalker?” My mother began the recap. “Or do you think Rickie did it?”

  Gypsy Rose had closed her eyes. Probably chatting about clues with Zelda Fitzgerald. Opening those Sophia Loren eyes, my favorite fortune-teller said, “I’ve re­ceived a strong impression that neither of those expla­nations is correct.”

  “Me too,” I said. “And I’m not even psychic. When could Rickie have spiked the beer with cyanide?” Modesty examined the tea tray. “I heard the senator say something strange to Holly Halligan. And I have it on video.” She popped a scone in her mouth.

  “What?” Mom, Gypsy Rose, Dennis, and I asked in unison.

  “Senator Fione said, ‘A hell of a place for a reunion, isn’t it, Helen Mary Houlihan?’ And he didn’t look happy. For that matter, neither did she.”

  “So they knew each other,” I said.

  “Yep.” Modesty spread strawberry jam on another scone. “Furthermore, I think both Hunter Green and Donald Jay overheard what the senator said to Holly.”

  “You have to turn that video over to the police,” Dennis said.

  “Done,” Modesty muttered through a full mouth.

  “What about the leprechaun?” my mother asked. “Was he an accomplice? Or the killer?”

  Gypsy Rose nodded. “And what had he been doing in th
e ladies’ room? Remember what Carita Magenta said.”

  Pouring more tea, Dennis said, “Hunter Green had a confrontation with Rickie Romero in the men’s room shortly before the panel got started. Something about having faith.”

  “Lots of action going down in the restrooms,” Gypsy Rose said. “But then everyone at the conference wanted a chance to stroke that cat burglar.”

  “Did anyone notice Rickie Romero with Wanda Sparks?” I asked.

  “I did, Jake.” Gypsy Rose frowned. “‘Fizzles’ might be a better name for Ms. Sparks, but no question, Rickie did seem interested in her.”

  Dennis said, “Another thing; Holly mentioned to me that Maurice Welch has booked an Ashes Away party boat for his last fling.”

  “I think Holly Halligan was a ghoul,” Modesty said.

  “Now that’s she’s dead, she’s in her element.”

  “Okay. So what do a former movie star, a powerful United States senator, and a cat burglar have in com­mon?” I asked. “Are we looking for one killer with three motives? And if so, are those motives somehow tied together? Or are we looking for a killer with just one motive—but one strong enough to have him murder two other innocent people just for his convenience or, maybe, our confusion?”

  “Or could we be looking for more than one killer?” Dennis asked.

  I felt an overwhelming urge. “Well, if each of us did just the least bit of digging, we might...”

  My mother glared at me. “Don’t even think about it, Jake. Let Ben Rubin and his homicide department solve these murders. Promise me. Now.”

  Gypsy Rose came through with the save. “Perhaps just a small séance...”

  Six

  The St. Patrick’s Day parade veered right at Eighty-sixth Street. The snow had stopped. And along Third Avenue, many of the units had dispersed into the local watering holes. Dennis Kim weaved the Rolls around the masses who’d migrated up to Ninety-second Street and deposited Mom and me in front of our co-op.