The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  She looked around, then pointing to the dentil molding, and said, “This is such a comfy old shoe of a co-op and fairly large as a New York apartment’s size and scale goes. As a country girl, raised on a plantation, I just can’t get used to sharing space in a building with sixty other families. Kinda like being placed on a shelf, you know. And, mercy me, one that holds three other apart­ments beside mine. Have you all lived here long?”

  “Most of my life, and I love it.” I could hear my teeth clench. “So, will you be returning to Tara and the land anytime soon?”

  “Aren’t you a sweet little thing, picturing me as Miss Scarlett O’Hara. She’s the quintessential Southern belle, don’t you think? As well as your namesake. Though I must tell you, this is not the first time I’ve heard that comparison, Jake. Gone With the Wind is my very fa­vorite book.”

  “Look, Ashley, I have an appointment in a few minutes. Could we move this along?”

  “Well sure, sugar. We’re on topic now. I want to talk to you about writing, and there never has been a better writer than Miss Margaret Mitchell of Atlanta, Georgia, has there?”

  Hemingway and Tolstoy came to mind, but I just said, “Go on.”

  “Dennis Kim certainly thinks mighty highly of you, Jake. Have you two been acquainted for some time?”

  I didn’t feel like playing twenty questions with Ashley Butler controlling the game. “More than twenty-five years, but can we please get to the reason for your visit?”

  She pouted. “Dennis is representing my mystery novel, actually, at the late Senator Fione’s suggestion. Pax Publishing has given me a tidy advance. The prem­ise is darling—sweet-potato-pie appeal—kinda Harper Lee meets Truman Capote. As kids, they were neighbors in real life, did you know that?”

  “Yes, I knew.” I wondered where she was going with this and why Dennis hadn’t mentioned a business con­nection to Charlie Fione.

  “Well, Pax just loved the proposal and synopsis. And my editor said I had an amusing and intriguing opening chapter, describing it as playful as a frisky puppy. But now my promising puppy has turned into an old bitch. I can’t get that dog’s tail to wag. I’m in terminal writer’s block, Jake. I need a ghostwriter.”

  Puzzled, I stared at her. If she’d ghosted all of Carita Magenta’s color-me-comatose books, why would she suddenly need a ghostwriter for her own project?

  “Will you do it, Jake?” Ashley sounded as if her life depended on it. “There’s a big advance and I’m prepared to be generous regarding royalties. Dennis says you’re a great ghostwriter, though, of course, he can’t reveal what you’ve written. And that’s one entertainment attorney who really knows this business, even if, in your case, he’s more than a little prejudiced. You are aware that the gentleman’s completely crazy about you, aren’t you?”

  Nineteen

  As we drove across the seemingly endless span of the Tappan Zee Bridge, I marveled at the beauty of its struc­ture and the magnificent view. The windows of the Volkswagen were wide open and the late-morning sun warmed my face as I stuck my head out to savor the scenery.

  Modesty, after expressing revulsion at having been assaulted head-on by Ashley’s hair as the latter had ex­ited my lobby, remained unusually quiet. Her tiny fea­tures were set in an inscrutable but intriguing expression. The corners of her glossed but color-free lips had turned up in what might be considered a slight smile. And the glint that flickered in those pale green eyes hadn’t been caused by the sunshine. If I didn’t know how totally out of character it would be, I’d almost believe Modesty had a man on her mind.

  Pulling myself away from the river, I took another look at her profile. “A dollar for your thoughts.”

  “A booming-economy joke, Jake? Not funny.” Like she’d laugh if it had been. “Here’s what I’m thinking: Tarrytown is a big place and God only knows where Dr. Assisted Suicide’s residence is located. I hope you can read a map. There’s one in the glove compartment. See if you can find Heaven Scent Vista. Now, that’s funny.” We passed several estates and the space between the mansions expanded when we turned onto a tree-hooded road. Even in mid-March, I could imagine how lush this lane would be from May through October. And how dangerous with ice on the trees in winter. I strained to read the calligraphy on a Victorian signpost a few feet ahead. “Dove Drive. Make a right here, Modesty. We go about a half mile, then turn left on Serenity Way. That should lead us straight to Heaven Scent Vista.”

  “This entire trip is a sick joke. What do you expect to learn from Dr. Deadly?”

  Dove Drive was unpaved and the Bug bounced in its ruts. “I told you—and this is just a hunch—if we ask the doctor the right questions, I think we’ll get some answers. Maybe even find out more about those threat­ening letters. Something that will help prove Hunter didn’t send them. And last night you agreed with my gut feeling that Edwina’s scheduling Charlie’s appoint­ment with Dr. Nujurian has some connection, however tenuous, with his murder.”

  “I still do, or I wouldn’t be here. But we don’t have an appointment. Why should the doctor agree to see us?”

  “I’ll make sure that her nurse or receptionist lets the doctor know that we’re suspicious. I’ll even point out that instead of Senator Fione’s keeping his date with the doctor tomorrow, we’ll be attending his wake at Camp­bell’s. That should get Nujurian’s attention. Then, if nothing else, curiosity should entice her to talk to us.”

  “Not if she’s the one who provided Edwina with the poison.”

  “Dr. N’s assisted suicides are painless passings; cya­nide is a rotten way to go. That’s not the connection.”

  “What is?”

  “Slow down. Make a left after the Christmas tree; that’s Serenity Way. I don’t know what the connection is, but I know there is one. The next right should be Heaven Scent Vista. Let’s hope we have an awakening when we arrive there.”

  Two enormous blue spruces—at least sixty feet high—formed an arch framing the entrance to Serenity Lane. Either one would have been a fine selection for this year’s Christmas tree-lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center’s skating rink.

  As we drove through the natural gate, the path turned primitive. Ruts became furrows, fallen branches blocked our way, and mud from the recent rain splattered Mod­esty’s whitewall tires. A castle on a hill loomed to our right. Veering away from the bramble, Modesty inched up a steep hill, our final destination confirmed by a large hand-lettered sign, posted on a tree: HEAVEN SCENT VISTA—KEEP OUT. Only the moat was missing.

  A Norman Revival, too big to be merely a mansion and clearly intended to be a home its owner could call a castle, covered about half an acre. Its red-brick facade had touches of Tudor. I wondered if a Tower of Tarrytown, providing prison cells for the doctor’s enemies, had been built in the backyard. Two big bronze lions stood guard in front of stone steps leading to massive oak front doors. Under winged Gothic gargoyles, whose cruel eyes glared at all guests, dozens of ivy-twined tur­rets and high, tiny, wood-framed windows evoked im­ages of Rapunzel letting her hair down. In lieu of a rose garden, a wrought-iron gated cemetery covered most of the courtyard. Ancient marble angels topped many of the less-than-manicured graves’ crumbling tombstones.

  Modesty glanced from Dr. Nujurian’s castle to the cemetery. “One-stop shopping?” My nervous laughter seemed loud enough to carry up the stone steps. The left door swung open. Jesus, could that tinny titter really have penetrated the thick oak? A tall, skinny young man, with sparse, wren-brown hair, thick glasses, and the larg­est Adam’s apple I’ve ever encountered, stood and si­lently stared out at us.

  “We want to see the doctor. Is she in?’ Modesty stared back and delivered her lines, using her icy-cold, I’m-a-longtime-practicing-Manhattan-eccentric-so-don’t-believe-even-for-a-New-York-second-that-any-Ichabod-Crane-Sleepy-Hollow-type-hick-can-act-odder-than-I-do voice.

  And it worked. The man said, “Dr. Nuj
urian is with a patient.” God, could she be giving a lethal injection to someone as we spoke? “If you’ll come in and state your reason for being here, when she finishes, I’ll discuss it with her; however, the doctor never sees anyone without an appointment.” Except for a narrow slit in his lips, hardly a muscle on his face moved.

  The entrance hall could have been used as a ballroom. The ceiling was so high that the wide marble staircase seemed to be stretching to the sky. Requisite suits of armor lined one wall. Three long, narrow, rough-hewn oak benches, positioned below what appeared to be the entire Plantagenet family’s portraits, lined the other and continued up the wall behind the brass banister.

  “Please follow me.” The young man’s lockjaw had to be congenital. We trailed behind him, deep into the belly of the beast, to another oak floor-to-ceiling double door. He opened it and we entered a Cecil-Beaton-meets-Alfred-Hitchcock-and-creates-ye-olde-grand-Gothic-castle-movie-set design.

  Frescoes on the ceiling featured pastel murals of a heaven where all the pleasingly plump cherubs had pale yellow wings spread over soft pink clouds, spun gold ringlets, rosy cheeks, and baby blue eyes. These con­trasted sharply with the bronze, gargoyle-ugly heads of young women that had been placed, facedown—the bet­ter to startle the visitors—in each of the ceiling’s four corners.

  The walls were covered with tapestries that seemed to recount some knightly tale of honor. There were six or seven groupings of furniture—enough to fill as many living rooms. We stood near the door in an area containing two peach satin French side chairs, a rust velvet settee, a gold brocade couch, and three oak tables. Oriental rugs, in shades of rust, blue, and peach, were scattered over the stone floor.

  “Let me introduce myself,” our host said, allowing himself a tight smile. “I’m Bartholomew Irving, Dr. Nu­jurian’s assistant.” He looked at us with great expecta­tions.

  Once again, Modesty lived up to them. Throwing away my proposed script, she improvised a far better one, with great dialogue. “I’m Modesty Meade and this is an emergency, Mr. Irving.” She placed an arm around me. “My sister, Jake, is dying. Meanwhile, she lives in agony and we must see Dr. Nujurian today. We’ve been driving all night through hell and back. This is our last chance. Jake can’t suffer through tomorrow without knowing the end is in sight.”

  I gasped, and unwittingly played into Modesty’s sce­nario. She shoved me into the nearest peach satin chair. “Sit down, sis.” Then, glancing at me, she stage-whispered to Irving, “This is such a strange disease. Her color is good, but her liver is shot.”

  I sank into the chair, trying to look sick. Through half-closed eyes, I watched Bartholomew Irving’s Adam’s apple bob.

  “What’s wrong with her?” He sounded like a man in the throes of sexual excitement. “Are you sure it’s terminal?” His breath came in pants. No doubt about it, the possibility of my death was a turn-on.

  Modesty took my wrist in her hand and felt my pulse. “She should have been gone weeks ago. This is too cruel. Jake used to be so alive, so attractive, so young. I wish you could have known her...before.” Her voice broke. A Tony Award performance. “Do you realize that she’s only eighteen, though she looks forty? The ravages of this deadly disease causes its victims to age rapidly.” If we pulled this off, I’d consider injecting Modesty with cyanide. “Please, Mr. Irving, go and tell Dr. Nujurian that we need to see her. Now.”

  “Oh God.” Irving shuddered. And his breathing re­mained heavy. I hoped he didn’t climax before we reached the next plateau. “She’s with a patient, but if Jake can hold on for just a tad longer, I’ll inform Dr. Nujurian that your sister is ready and waiting.”

  With me leaning on Modesty, we slowly followed Mr. Irving out of the great room, across the huge entrance hall, to yet another enormous oak double door. This one led to an elegant reception area, and beyond that the good doctor’s office. Slumped on a settee, attempting to pro­ject pain, I thought, this has to be the goddamn cheeriest room I’ve ever seen. Yellow dominated, with lots of white and touches of blue. Crisp chintz and linen fab­rics—their patterns combining the three colors—cov­ered the overstuffed chairs and love seats. White and yellow daisies filled blue Ming vases. And beneath high stone arches, glass doors let the sunshine in from a gar­den that had slate steps leading down to the river.

  Modesty asked Bartholomew Irving to please fetch—I couldn’t believe she actually used that verb—a glass of water as she thought I was about to faint. After he left, she totally lost it. “You should act sicker, you know.” Sounding annoyed as hell. “How can I convince Dr. Nujurian that you want to commit suicide if your cheeks are so pink?” She thrust a tissue at me. “Here, wipe off that blush, then rub some of your mascara under your eyes. Haggard. That’s the look I want. You need to ap­pear haggard before you die.”

  “Jesus, I’m not wearing any blush.” I decided it was definite. I was going to kill her. “If my cheeks are flushed, it’s probably high blood pressure. You’re mak­ing me nervous. Stop acting so weird. I think you’re starting to believe that I really am dying.”

  “Just do it, Jake,” Modesty directed. “Don’t question motivation.”

  Bartholomew Irving entered from the hall door, carry­ing a tall crystal glass of water and a small bucket of ice on a silver tray just as across the room, the door to the doctor’s inner sanctum opened and a dead ringer for Doris Day, circa Pillow Talk, bounced in, chatting away to an elderly couple. Dr. Nujurian, I presumed. She even had the same catch in her voice as Doris’s 1960s movie virgins. But what caught my attention—scaring me to death and causing me to jump up and to knock the tray out of Irving’s hand, blowing my sick-and-dying act while spilling water on the Persian rug—were her pa­tients. Standing tall, proud, and sad beside the doctor were my favorite Carnegie Hill neighbors, former baby­sitters, and dear old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Neal.

  Twenty

  Bartholomew Irving finally dropped his jaw, staring in total amazement at my miraculous recovery. “Put Tarrytown right up there with Lourdes,” I said, hopping over the broken glass, elbowing the doctor out of my way, and embracing the Neals.

  “Who is this woman?” Dr. Nujurian’s voice had lost the endearing Doris Day catch and become quite stri­dent.

  Mr. Neal kissed my cheek. “Why, Jake, what in the world are you doing here?”

  “She’s a charlatan!” Irving screamed as he knelt to mop up the mess that my unexpected recovery had left behind.

  “You bloody idiot,” the doctor snarled.

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Nujurian,” Bartholomew Irving stammered, picking up the pieces of glass. “She really did appear to be dying.”

  “My prayers are answered,” Modesty said. “My sister is saved!” She sounded like a TV reverend broadcasting live on Sunday mornings. “Praise the Lord.” She joined my circle, giving both the Neals a big hug.

  “I didn’t know Jake and, er…” Mrs. Neal looked up at her husband.

  “It’s Modesty, dear.” He smiled at his wife.

  “Well, I didn’t know Jake and Modesty were sisters. How nice for them,” Mrs. Neal said. “This is an evil house, isn’t it? Can we all leave now and go for a nice cup of tea at, er, at that place I like?”

  “Sarabeth’s,” Modesty said. “Great idea, Mrs. Neal. Jake and I like it too.”

  Desperate, I quickly tried to calculate where to go from here and decided that the only course of action left was a direct attack. But first I wanted to take care of my friends. “Mr. Neal, how did you get here?”

  “The Amtrak, then a cab from the station.” Visibly upset, Harry Neal shook his head. “Hell of a ride.”

  “Well, you’re coming home with us.” I turned to Modesty. “Please take the Neals to the car and stay with them until I’m finished here. I have some questions for the doctor. If I’m not out in fifteen minutes, call Ben Rubin.”

  “Now just a minute,” Dr. Nujurian be
gan.

  I gave her my sweetest smile. “Look, you either talk to me right now or I tell the police about those threat­ening letters you’ve been receiving”—which I had every intention of doing anyway—“and you can deal with them. Then I’d bet the district attorney might be interested to learn that you’ve been soliciting suicides while out on bail. But first, scratch the Neals from your list of patients.” I hissed this last sentence into her face, actu­ally, wanting to spit.

  “We’ll talk in my office. Follow me,” Dr. Nujurian ordered as Modesty led the Neals out. Doris Day playing doctor was history; a bitchy Bette Davis had replaced her.

  The old oak desk had to be six feet across. The doc­tor’s whimsical choice of decor—Steuben-glass angel mobiles, Jessie Wilcox Smith prints, and several vases filled with fresh yellow roses—must have been intended to uplift the spirits of her potential assisted-suicide pa­tients. But the total picture, repeating the reception room’s yellow, white, and blue color scheme, made me want to throw up.

  “Sit down.” The doctor pointed to a comfy chintz chair in front of her desk, then sat in the swivel chair behind her desk. “Okay, who the hell are you and how do you know about those letters? Did you send them?”

  “No. And neither did Hunter Green.”

  She laughed. The dullest laugh I’d ever heard, devoid of any warmth or humor. “Did Hunter hire you? Are you a private investigator?”

  “Just a friend, who knows him well enough to be certain that he never wrote them. Now listen up, Doctor. I watched two people die from cyanide poisoning a few days ago. An ugly end. The police think Hunter may be a double murderer. But I believe that the real killer may have sent you those letters as a red herring.”