The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  I braced myself, realizing his next revelation might be much worse than the first. “And what would that be?”

  “Well, as you may know, I sat in on Rickie Romero’s trial. Great true-crime material. And later I interviewed him in jail. I even arranged for a…uh…an editor to help him with Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof.” I sympathized with Hunter. He couldn’t reveal that Rickie Romero’s bestseller had been ghostwritten by Wanda Sparks without breaking their—and his own—confidentiality. Though soon Hunter might have no choice.

  Hunter stood, walked several yards over to a bar, and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

  I shook my head from side to side and waited silently while he poured himself a straight Johnny Walker Black. He returned to the loveseat and continued, “All through his trial, Romero had sworn on his mother’s grave that he hadn’t stolen the cursed Faith diamond; so now that he’s out, he can never sell it.”

  “Jeez. He really had stolen it?”

  “During the course of our growing friendship, Rickie’s veiled but boastful hints led me to figure out where he’d stashed the diamond. So you see, Jake, I also had a motive for attempting to murder him.”

  Nine

  The last owner of the Faith diamond had been another former MGM star, Susanne Tyler, whose seventh husband, an Arabian emir, had given the fourteen-carat gem to her as a wedding present. When Susanne had run away with a plumber, she’d gotten custody of the dia­mond. Six months later the stone had vanished from her East Coast residence, an eight-room apartment in the Dakota on Central Park West. The police never figured out how the thief had managed to break into the well-fortified building, but they suspected that New York City’s most notorious cat burglar, Rickie Romero, had been the culprit. However, with no witnesses, no prints, and no DNA, the NYPD burglary squad couldn’t prove Romero had scored with the steal of the century. Neither could the prosecutor at his trial, where Rickie had been convicted of two other cat burglaries. And had become something of a local folk hero in the process. A modern-day Robin Hood, robbing the rich but feeding Hell’s Kitchen’s homeless.

  I pondered all that jazz during the subway ride back uptown. Could Hell’s Kitchen be the common denomi­nator in this case? Senator Charlie Fione had grown up, as he often said in his campaign speeches, “on the side­walks of New York,” and those sidewalks were located in Hell’s Kitchen. Since Romero had endowed a home­less shelter on Tenth Avenue, maybe he’d grown up there too. Of course, that would have been quite a few decades after the senator’s childhood. Mom had told me that Holly Halligan had learned to ski as a child in the mountains near her home, somewhere upstate, but could Holly have had a Hell’s Kitchen connection?

  Hunter Green neither told me how he’d stumbled onto the Faith diamond’s hiding place nor where that location might be. After disclosing his multimillion-dollar mo­tive, he’d seemed glad to see me go. However, he did say that Rickie Romero was well aware and really an­noyed that Hunter had discovered where his cache was stashed.

  Though at any moment Ben Rubin might soon change that status, Rickie Romero was a free man. If Rickie believed that Hunter had tried to poison him in order to sell the diamond, the cat burglar might decide to retali­ate. Hunter Green might be in real danger. And not just from lying to Ben. Or could it be possible that my hero, Hunter, was the killer?

  With three potential victims and a myriad of mixed motives, the murderer could be anyone who’d attended the Crime Writers’ Conference. The leprechaun in the ladies’ room had to be either the killer or his/her accom­plice. I felt certain—well, almost certain—that either Wanda Sparks or Ashley Butler had dressed up as the little green man and served the pitcher of cyanide. And if neither had, one—or both of them—knew who did.

  The train, a local, was packed. The disheveled young man wrapped around the pole in front of me alternated flirtatious glances in my direction with scratching what seemed to be a serious itch on his butt. A pretty kid sloppily devouring a huge cone of cotton candy sat to my right, and an enormous man wearing too-tight ex­ercise clothes overlapped on my left. Every stop brought more hordes of people and more frustration into the sub­way car. By the time I breathed the fresh air, after a tight squeeze on the Ninety-sixth Street station’s esca­lator, I had a double-strength headache.

  I ran into my mother on the corner of Ninety-third and Madison, in front of Gypsy Rose’s large, three-story red-brick house. Her bookstore/tearoom was located on the first floor.

  Since Mom’s tote bag always contained a mini med­icine cabinet, as well as a large supply of tissues, cos­metics, hair and breath spray, and sundry snacks, I was able to swallow two Tylenol and wash them down with a small bottle of designer water. Maura O’Hara could have been the creator of the Boy Scouts motto.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “At Bloomingdale’s.” Her smile lit up the quickly darkening afternoon. “Checking out china patterns. I can’t decide between Villeroy and Boch’s Arco Weiss, with simple, almost stark, white lines, or a more elabo­rate, yet classic, Wedgwood design that evokes images of Jane Austen’s England.”

  “What will you do with Nana’s Wedgwood?”

  “Why, I thought I’d give her dishes to you, darling. They are a family heirloom, and someday you can pass them on to your daughter.”

  I reached for another Tylenol.

  My mother said, “That’s too many!” But I swallowed it anyway.

  Seemingly immune to my distress, my mother rattled on. “I stopped by the house, read your note, and called Gypsy Rose. Isn’t it exciting? Zelda has a message for Dennis. Maybe your father sent one for me.” She looked up at the sky. “I hope he’ll give his blessing to my mar­riage.” Then looked at me. “And I hope his daughter will give hers too.” I guess Mom wasn’t immune after all.

  Feeling scared, guilty, foolish, and loving, I put my arm around her shoulder. “I guess I don’t want to lose you.” Or my comfy co-op on Ninety-second Street.

  “Lose me?” My mother sounded horrified. “Never. Did you know that the Ostertags’ apartment on the third floor is up for sale? Aaron has suggested buying it and combining it with ours. Turning both apartments into one big duplex. You can have the top floor. And if you ever do get married, we can rethink the housing plan.” As someone smarter than I once said: Be careful what you pray for, your prayers may be answered.

  Modesty, her long, loose dress covered with a well-worn, ankle-length J. Peterman duster, bounced off the Madison Avenue bus and yelled from across the street, “Hey, Jake, I need to talk to you.”

  My mother touched my cheek.

  “Ben called. He’ll be over around eight. Then the four of us will have dinner.”

  “The four of us?”

  “Yes. A double date. Aaron and me and you and Ben. Just a little family post-engagement party. I think Aaron plans on giving me a ring tonight.”

  Lord, were we going to celebrate every night until the wedding day? “Why don’t you go ahead to Gypsy Rose’s, Mom? I’ll wait for Modesty.”

  Flushed a becoming shade of pink, Modesty arrived out of breath and agitated. “I’ve just returned from vis­iting Carita Magenta. She’s the type of woman I really hate.”

  What woman wasn’t? We ghostwriters have decided that with a few exceptions, Modesty has chosen to remain a misogynist, and has continued to work exclusively for women “authors” so that she can keep on bitching.

  “Carita’s so smug in that colorful New Age cocoon of hers that she’s rude as—well, much ruder—than I could ever be.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Modesty. Now tell me what happened. Where, exactly, is Carita’s cocoon?”

  “In Murray Hill. On First Avenue, right across the street from the morgue. It’s a refurbished tenement, but Carita still has the bathtub in the kitchen. She painted it purple; the kitchen itself is hot orange, with chartreuse floorboards
and molding. And when I arrived, I found Venus DeMill sitting in the tub, up to her neck in bub­bles, downing a huge Manhattan.”

  I laughed.

  “It isn’t funny, Jake.” Nothing ever was to Modesty. “They’d both had far too many Manhattans and Carita was totally out of line. What a foul mouth that big broad has. Incidentally, she’d never fit in that tiny tub. I guess during the Great Depression, people were smaller. Any­way, Venus DeMill’s legs were dangling almost to the floor. She paints her toenails bright yellow. Carita says that’s because Venus has an aura of sunshine.”

  “Come on, Modesty, we’ll be late for the séance.” We walked toward the bookstore’s entrance, on Ninety-third, just steps off Madison.

  “But listen, Jake. Carita claimed to have been robbed by Rickie Romero. Said it was a colorful, almost mys­tical experience. Said Rickie’s aura is apricot. And all the while Venus kept yelling at Carita, trying to get her to shut up.”

  “What? When did this robbery occur?”

  “Years ago. But Carita sounded furious that the entire episode, though thinly veiled, had been exposed in what she referred to as one of Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof’s more intriguing chapters.”

  “Jeez. What else did Carita say?”

  “Nothing.” Modesty shuddered. “Venus rose from the tub and strongly suggested that I leave.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean what did I do? I got the hell out of there.”

  “Modesty, run in and tell Mom and Gypsy Rose that I’ll be right there.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Gypsy Rose only carries self-help and New Age stuff. I want to see if the Corner Bookstore still has a copy of Cat on Trump Tower’s Roof. Mom lent hers to Mr. Kim.”

  “You plan on reading it during the séance?”

  I ignored her and dashed across the street.

  A huge clap of thunder accompanied my purchase of Rickie Romero’s bestseller. By the time I signed the receipt, rain was pummeling the avenue. I asked the saleslady for an extra plastic bag, tied it over my hair, stuffed my package under my jacket, stepped outside to brave the elements, and quite literally bumped into the book’s author.

  “You’re that pretty lady from the Crime Writer’s Con­ference.” Rickie’s smile dazzled, even as the rain pelted my face. “The one who said that all three of us had been poisoned.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad I was wrong.” I brushed the water from my eyes as the wind blew the plastic bag off my head and carried it into the gutter. Reaching under my jacket, I extracted my package and said, “I’ve just bought a copy of your book. In fact, I plan to read it—cover to cover—tonight.”

  “Do you live in the neighborhood?”

  “Right around the corner. On Ninety-second Street.”

  “I’m staying at a friend’s house over on Fifth.” Rickie gestured toward the west. “This is transition time for me. A period of adjustment between jail and my own apart­ment. Though I’m kind of worried.” His sooty eyelashes were so thick that the raindrops landing there served to weigh them down. “I think that homicide detective Ben Rubin would like my next move to be back into a cell.” I didn’t have a clue about how to respond to that. Rickie bent down and brushed my windswept hair out of my eyes. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to meet me for brunch and a book review tomorrow?”

  The cat burglar and I arranged a Sunday-morning date. Then, soaking wet but feeling sixteen, I finally headed to the séance.

  Ten

  They’d gathered around the table when I arrived. Mom sat between Gypsy Rose and Modesty. Dennis sat to my favorite psychic’s left. Apologizing for holding things up, I took the chair next to him. Gypsy Rose’s séances were casual affairs. Just family and a few close friends channeling their dead loved ones. Frankly, the results could be hit-or-miss, as the lines of communi­cation weren’t always open. Or, if open, none too clear. Sometimes, the channels seemed clogged. Full of nasty, squawky noise. But no conversation. No thought transference. No field reports from any plane. Then Gypsy Rose’s complaints of static would remind me of those old phone commercials. Sometimes, the call just didn’t go through. Other times, chatting up the spirit guides, who acted as conduits to the world beyond, worked wonderfully well. And, on occasion, Gypsy Rose would score a direct connection to the soul in question.

  Gypsy Rose’s townhouse had been built less than a decade after Andrew Carnegie’s mansion, making it one of the oldest homes in the neighborhood. Solid red brick, with several working fireplaces, well-polished oak floors, and filled with lovingly selected furnishings span­ning several eras, the house had a lived-in look, both comforting and charming. Like its owner. Today’s chan­neling was being conducted in her second-floor library. A great room, with twelve-foot-high ceilings and walls lined with cherry bookcases, spread across the entire length of the house.

  I’m convinced if Gypsy Rose hadn’t been a psychic and an entrepreneur, she could have had a career as an interior designer. When Louie Liebowitz had died, leav­ing behind a widow still in her early thirties—Mom al­ways said, “Just like Jackie Kennedy!”—Gypsy Rose had reinvented herself as our neighborhood’s favorite fortune-teller. She’d parlayed a small inheritance, a knack for cards—she could have beaten Bill Clinton at hearts—and an interest in New Age phenomena into a thriving business. With a bookstore/tearoom that pro­moted ESP and writers who specialized in reincarnation, spirit guides, angels, and aliens, she’d turned alternative-lifestyle authors into celebrities. And in the process, had become one of Carnegie Hill’s most successful and well-known women.

  Mom and Gypsy Rose were closer than sisters, and I had benefited from their relationship. Having no children and being naturally generous and loving, Gypsy Rose had showered attention and affection on me for over twenty-five years. Like Mom, I adored her. As far as these intimate hookups with the world beyond went, I reserved judgment, but often wondered: How the hell were we receiving messages from Zelda Fitzgerald? Yet I believed that Gypsy Rose believed. And some totally unexplainable, strange stuff had gone down during pre­vious channelings that I’d attended. I’d even had a chat with Emily Bronte or some other nonblithe spirit doing a damn good imitation of Emily. So I’ve kept an open mind.

  Dennis, on the other hand, remained a total skeptic. Only his good breeding and fear of his father’s wrath and/or of hurting Mom and Gypsy Rose, combined with curiosity, had kept his mouth shut at these séances. But even Dennis had admitted to being impressed with Gypsy Rose’s contacts. And what she’d gleaned from them. On whatever plane where they might be hanging out.

  Gypsy Rose has a sunshine policy for séances. Lights on. Eyes wide open. No hidden props, mysterious rappings, creaking doors, smoke, or mirrors. The living don’t hold hands or meditate. The dead don’t levitate. And Gypsy Rose has encouraged us to keep talking as she opens communications with the world beyond. “The spirits like to keep things lively.” Sometimes she used a Ouija board, but since there wasn’t one on the table, I gathered this afternoon would be a no-frills quickie.

  I dried my hair with the embroidered tea towel that Gypsy Rose had handed me, then wrapped it, turban style, around my head as she laid out the séance’s se­quence. “Okay, I’m going to channel Zelda. As you all know, I’ll be in a trance and she’ll use my body. With any luck, she’ll show up. This was her idea. Zelda asked to speak to Dennis, so chances are she’ll take a few minutes out of her post-life partying to visit with us.”

  “I thought we were going to contact Holly Halligan,” Modesty said.

  Gypsy Rose said, “That’s right. But this message comes from a sea captain who went down with his ship, and it concerns Holly Halligan. After we hear it, I’ll have Zelda channel Holly’s spirit guide.”

  “Maybe this captain will turn out to be her guide,” my mother said. “Holly really loved the ocean.”

  Modesty snarled, “S
he’d sunk to the bottom, selling the sea as a cemetery.”

  Dennis laughed. “Yeah. But that huckster bought into her own pitch. Would you like to guess who’s been as­signed as keeper of her urn? Damn nuisance. I have to deliver it to Norway, after stopping in Paris to pick up Jean-Claude, the designated flinger, for her Ashes Away cruise through the fjords. Holly’s ship shaped-like-a-ski isn’t finished yet. So I guess I’ll have to stow her in my office until it’s christened. The Staten Island Ferry would have been a hell of a lot more convenient.” At my mother’s frown, he added, “Er—no disrespect intended, Maura!”

  “Are you her executor?” I asked.

  “Not a role an entertainment lawyer usually gets to play.” Dennis shrugged. “But yes, I am, as of two days ago. Little did I know I’d be on call so soon.”

  “Another soul’s ashes are a big responsibility,” Mod­esty said. “Lillian Heilman served as Dorothy Parker’s executrix, but she left Dottie’s urn with her attorney, and the ashes remained in his office safe for decades. That’s another reason why I’m going directly to the grave in one piece.”

  I wondered who’d inherit Holly’s estate—probably a very large treasure chest. When Dennis and I had our meeting after the séance, I’d try and pry that information out of him.

  “Is there anyone here?” a refined, slightly southern voice inquired, sounding more amused than annoyed. Gypsy Rose had gone and Zelda had arrived. And we’d all been so busy gabbing, no one had even noticed.

  “Yes,” I said. “This is Jake O’Hara speaking, Zelda. You have a message for Dennis Kim?” I gestured toward him.

  “Hello there, Jake. Your father speaks so often and so fondly of you that I feel as if I’m part of the family. Actually, I did know you once in Paris.” As I was about to ask her if we’d been fellow expatriates, she continued, “But that was then and this is now. And I’ve come to deliver an important message.”