The Luck of the Ghostwriter

by Noreen Wald

  “Perhaps Rickie had another reason for killing her,” my mother said. “Remember, in the book, the thief slips up, letting the Carita character know where his jewels are stashed. If that’s true, and Rickie’s on the prowl, Venus could be his next victim.”

  “Jeez, Mom. Speaking of where the jewels might be stashed reminds me of something else. Ben thinks that Rickie and Hunter may be in this together. Hunter him­self admitted to me that when he was hanging around Rickie’s cell, he found out where the Faith diamond was hidden, so Ben—”

  “You can’t possibly believe that Hunter Green would have helped Rickie poison Holly Halligan and Senator Fione, can you?” My mother jostled her cup and some tea spilled onto her saucer.

  “No.” I sighed. “However, Hunter did have a major motive for killing Holly Halligan. He even threatened her in front of all those witnesses at Angela’s funeral. I can understand where Ben’s coming from…” As a look of horror filled my mother’s face, I quickly added, “That doesn’t mean I agree with him.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t think so,” Mom said, then switched gears. “How about Maurice Welch? As crazy as it sounds, could he have killed Carita to eliminate his com­petition for Venus’s favors?”

  “Do you realize that Maurice is the only suspect who had three motives, one for each member of the poisoned panel? He wanted Romero dead, because of what he perceived as Cat on Trump Tower’s Roofs attack on Carita and Venus…and he had no reason to suspect that Rickie didn’t drink—”

  “Can you be certain about that?”

  I shrugged. “No, I can’t. Rickie was locked up in a cell, and they weren’t serving cocktails there. After he was released, who knows? Maybe, no one—including the killer—ever noticed that Romero didn’t drink. What we do know is this: In addition to avenging Venus DeMill’s honor by killing Rickie, Maurice had two mo­tives for murdering Holly Halligan. She broke his young heart, and in his old age, she screwed him out of a small fortune for his future Ashes Away voyage. And accord­ing to Venus, Senator Fione welshed on Welch—twice—first on his co-author credit on Death of a Filibuster’s cover, then on his more-than-half-million-dollar ghost­writing fee.”

  “Why haven’t the police shown more interest in Welch? Or Wanda? Or even Edwina Fione?”

  “That’s a good question, Mom. Tunnel vision, I guess. Ben set his aim on Rickie Romero that first day in the Plaza ballroom, and no matter what other suspects jump into his crosshairs, Ben can’t see them. Last night he seemed bound and determined to prove that Hunter was Rickie’s accomplice.”

  “A case certainly could be made against Rickie. Mi­nus Hunter. That cat burglar has always been a lone wolf, and now he’s gone undercover.”

  “And I’m afraid to even contemplate just whose cover that big bad wolf could be hiding under—”

  “Good God, Jake. Why do you say that? Who are you talking about? Where? You have to tell Ben. Now. I won’t have you aiding and abetting an accused killer. If you have any idea where Romero is...we—” The in­tercom buzzer interrupted my mother. “Modesty and Too-Tall Tom are on their way up.”

  In what had to be a true measurement of my mother’s concern, she greeted Modesty and Too-Tall Tom still wearing her flannel bathrobe, fuzzy slippers, and a naked face. Mom ordered me to put the kettle on while she frantically filled the ghostwriters in on our sleuth session and spread raspberry jam on their English muffins. Well aware that one muffin wouldn’t make a dent in Too-Tall Tom’s appetite, I stuck four more in the toaster oven.

  “Jake’s just about to call Ben and tell him where she suspects Rickie Romero may be bedded down,” Mom finished her recap.

  Modesty’s heavy gold chain held the thickest cross I’ve ever seen. And the widest. It covered most of her chest. Where had this hunk of gold come from? It must have cost a fortune. I marveled that carrying all that weight she could stand up straight. At Mom’s words, Modesty twisted the chain, but then seemed to stand taller than her sixty-two inches. Her pale green eyes, flickering with fury, met mine.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Nancy Drew went out of control there for a moment, Mom. I don’t really have any thoughts on where Rickie Romero might be.” My mother shot me a look of disbelief. But before she could cross-examine me, I rambled on, “Or any other bright ideas, for that matter, so if you guys have—”

  Too-Tall Tom jumped in. “That’s exactly why Mod­esty and I are here, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and chock-full of theories that must be discussed before we leave for the wake. Think of all those potential murderers, drop­ping by to say their last goodbyes to Senator Fione. Why, this afternoon, Campbell’s Funeral Home will turn into a veritable playing held, filled with killer action. And our team needs to be at the top of our game.”

  Our strategy was severely hampered by our conflict­ing positions on whodunit. And why. We were all over the place. And all over each other. Everyone did agree on one point: Carita Magenta’s murder had been con­nected to—and a direct result of—the poisonings.

  “I was so sure that the now-departed Carita had sent those threatening letters to Dr. Nujurian,” I said. “The Murray Hill postmark, those messages scrawled in crayon, all of it seemed to tie in with the printing used on the bucket of paint that just missed coloring me red.” I shook my head. “Do you think the letters and the pail were only magenta herrings?” Too-Tall Tom laughed and Modesty almost smiled.

  Too-Tall Tom started on his second English muffin and third theory, and was pouring himself a freshly brewed cup of the gourmet coffee that he’d brought along with him, knowing ours was a tea-drinking house, when Jane arrived.

  Her well-honed organizational skills, as well as her smart new Ellen Tracey navy wool suit, were very much in evidence as she handed out sheets of computer­-generated graphs with color-coded lines, dots, checks, and stars and bars, each color representing one of our suspects. Printed in bold, black letters across the top of the graph were the words MOTIVE, OPPORTUNITY, and MEANS. Jane’s presentation looked as professional as a Dow Jones corporation’s stock report. And as compli­cated.

  Too-Tall Tom served Jane a cup of coffee and I of­fered to share my graph with Mom, but she glanced at the kitchen clock and shrieked, “My God, it’s almost noon, I have to start getting dressed.” Since the wake started at two and Mom’s toilette could run up to ninety minutes, I assured her we’d clean up the kitchen.

  Then, taking charge, Jane explained that the chart only reflected the poisonings, not the drowning, but any of the seven colorful suspects could have killed Carita. Who, why, and what Magenta might have known re­mained blank.

  We went to work. Jane pointed out the color-coordinated-to-suspect vertical lines and the matching bars, located at the bottom of the graph, that addressed the sum of our combined evidence, suspicions, obser­vations, questions, and/or suppositions.

  As instructed, we began with the blue line: Wanda Sparks. Under “Motive,” Wanda had two stars. Going down to her first blue bar, we read: 1) As an unrequited admirer and an uncredited ghostwriter, Wanda wanted to mur­der Rickie Romero and was willing to sacrifice Holly Halligan and the senator. Jane’s note: Lame. Don’t buy into this theory for a minute. 2) Wanda still loved Rom­ero, though he’d pushed her out of his heart and off his book’s cover.

  Jane’s questions: A) Was Wanda unaware that the beer contained cyanide? B) Or, knowing that Rickie would inherit Holly’s estate, an accomplice to murder? C) Could Wanda have staged her own robbery? D) If not, what evidence connecting RR to HH was in those papers? Was there any motive for either Rickie Romero or Wanda to kill the senator? Other than some rumored long-ago connection between RR and Charlie Fione? Jane’s conclusion: Some version of motive #2 might fly.

  Under “Opportunity,” Jane had entered a big bold blue check. Her observations: Yes, Wanda could have been the leprechaun. She claimed she’d been in bath­room—changing into costume?—but neither Carita, Ve­nus, nor Ash
ley spotted her there. Of course, Wanda said that she hadn’t seen any of them either. “Means” received another big blue check. Jane’s supposition: See “Opportunity.” If Wanda was the leprechaun, she trans­ported the cyanide to the panelists. Notes: If Wanda worked with Rickie, he probably provided the poison. Same theory would apply if Wanda served as any other suspect’s accomplice.

  “Jane, this is great,” I said. “Puts it all in perspective.” Too-Tall Tom agreed, and suggested that we complete the graph before beginning any lengthy discussion. Modesty said nothing.

  We moved on to the color purple. Edwina Carrington Fione. I wondered how Jane had chosen the color for each suspect. There wasn’t too much evidence to raise the bar on Senator’s Fione’s widow. Yes, she’d arranged his Ashes Away cruise—had been overheard, saying how thrilled she’d been about it—and her husband’s ap­pointment with Dr. Assisted Suicide, but wanting, or wishing, someone dead didn’t make you a murderer. The senator’s mysterious, long-ago connection to Holly Hal­ligan provided Edwina with a motive. But nothing you could take to court. Jane had entered a plump purple question mark under “Motive.” And based on my reportage—I’d sat right across the aisle from her and Mrs. Fione never left her seat—Jane concluded that if Edwina had poisoned the panel, she had an accomplice.

  Orange, representing Donald Jay, Jane’s favorite for killer—though last night, she seemed to be tilting toward Romero, while acknowledging that Jay himself had shoved her in that direction—bounced around the chart. An orange check mark next to the word Greed appeared under “Motive.” Jane’s strong suspicion: Jay wanted to stop Charlie Fione from killing the waste-management bill, so he killed the senator. Holly and Rickie had the bad luck of being assigned to the wrong panel. Jane had serious questions regarding Jay’s relationship with Rom­ero. Maybe Donald wanted him dead too. He’d certainly tried to pin the murders on Rickie. Under “Opportunity,” Jane cited an accomplice. Wanda, Ashley, or some other flunky had played the part of leprechaun and served the cyanide. Possibly not knowing the beer had been spiked and that he—or she—had been the “Means” to murder.

  “The leprechaun was afraid to come forward, but that same theory would apply if the leprechaun had been Welch’s little helper,” Too-Tall Tom said, sneaking in his favorite suspect.

  “Fear,” Jane agreed. “Scared that the police wouldn’t believe her—or him—but, in this scenario, more fright­ened of Donald Jay’s wrath.”

  Hunter, of course, was green. And, unfortunately, so was much of the graph. The man had major “Motives” for murder: revenge and greed. Holly Halligan had not only conned his wife into an Ashes Away cruise, she’d arranged Angela’s assisted suicide. And with Rickie Romero dead, Hunter could retrieve the Faith diamond. As I followed the multiple green lines, stars, bars, dots, and check marks, I wondered where that diamond was hidden. Somehow, I sensed this information could be important. Jane’s dire conclusions concurred with Hom­icide’s. While someone else had carried the cyanide, much of the evidence pointed to Hunter as the killer.

  Red, however, ran rampant. Maurice. The man with three “Motives:” one per panelist. All of Jane’s conclu­sions, as Mom’s and mine had done earlier, reinforced Too-Tall Tom’s suspicions. And he also held to his po­sition that Maurice—or Venus—had murdered Carita.

  But Rickie Romero’s black lines also led to guilt. In­heriting Holly Halligan’s estate. Now, there was a “Mo­tive.” And his not drinking, how convenient was that? Then his ties to Hell’s Kitchen and a reported Romero/Fione Plattsburgh connection could uncover a second motive. Jane’s summary was terse: Review second the­ory for Wanda.

  Venus DeMill’s buttercup yellow—an eerie choice, considering Carita had informed Modesty that Venus had a yellow aura, and Modesty had mentioned her yel­low toenails—appeared in far too few places to make her a serious contender. No known “Motive” for killing any of the panelists, except Rickie, and that would have to be considered a long shot. No “Opportunity.” Venus had been in the ladies’ room with Carita earlier, but had been seated behind me when the leprechaun delivered the lethal potion. No visible “Means.” Of course, as with any of the suspects, someone could have carried the poi­son for her. So, despite Too-Tall Tom’s belief that Venus was capable of killing Carita, Jane summarized the yel­low readout regarding her poisoning the panel: Not likely.

  Then Modesty finally spoke. ‘Two questions have oc­curred to me. Could Carita have recognized the lepre­chaun in the ladies’ room? And if so, had she told Venus who it was?” None of us had an answer for either ques­tion.

  Lavender was last. Representing Ashley. Pretty slim pickings. No “Motive” for murdering any of the three panelists. However, she certainly did have the “Oppor­tunity.” Ashley claimed that she’d been locked in a stall, suffering the pangs of food poisoning—and one couldn’t miss the irony there—while the leprechaun was front and center, but no one could confirm her alibi. Yet with no motive, it didn’t appear that Ashley had worked solo, and if she’d been another suspect’s accomplice, who—and why—remained questions. Jane’s bottom line: Can’t connect the dots.

  Just as the ghostwriters, with the possible exception of Modesty, were ready to dive in and dissect Jane’s report, my mother came dashing into the kitchen. She looked great, all done up in basic black Donna Karan, with suede pumps and bag and the Franklin Mint’s copy of Jackie Kennedy’s much-photographed pearls. Noting her per­fect makeup and hair, I knew too much time had gone by. “Jake, it’s twenty after one. CNN is showing the mourners arriving at Campbell’s and you’re still in your bathrobe!”

  Twenty-Three

  Beating my personal-best time, I was dressed and ready to leave for the wake in fifteen fast-paced minutes. Since Mom had popped in and out, having a snit when I wouldn’t wear my own DKNY “good black dress,” which she’d just pressed, and instead selected a wool pantsuit, “totally inappropriate for viewing a dead senator,” I regarded this record toilette as a major vic­tory.

  Too-Tall Tom, bless him, finished cleaning up the kitchen and went downstairs to hail two cabs. Not an easy assignment. The rest of us were almost out the door when the phone rang.

  “Don’t answer that,” my mother said.

  “It might be Dennis, and I need to talk to him. You go on ahead with Modesty and Jane. I’ll share the sec­ond cab with Too-Tall Tom.” As I ran back to my bed­room, I yelled over my shoulder, “What about Gypsy Rose? How will she get there?”

  “She has a book signing at two, she’ll meet us at Campbell’s after it’s over,” my mother said. “Gypsy Rose would have had one of the assistant sorceresses introduce the author, but it’s that famous southern writer—you know—the one who always wears an old-fashioned white suit.”

  “Tom Wolfe,” I shouted as I picked up the phone.

  “No, no. What’s-his-name? Tom somebody else!” she shouted back. “Oh yes, I remember now. Tom Finn Sawyer—the guy who claims to be the reincarnation of Mark Twain.” I heard the door slam behind her.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Jake, but this isn’t Tom Wolfe. Or even Mark Twain, calling from the world be­yond,” Dennis said. “However, if it will impress you and your mother, I’ll spring for a white suit.”

  “Look, Dennis, I have no time to chat. We’re late for the wake. Aren’t you going?’

  “Yes, later. I’m in court, but I’ll be finished here in about thirty minutes. When I checked in with my office, my secretary said you’d called. What’s up?”

  “Something’s been nagging me. About Holly Halli­gan. Mom says she came from upstate. The Catskills? And that she’d learned to ski at Grossinger’s and an MGM talent scout discovered her on their slopes. Her first husband was a ski instructor. Is that right?”

  “Maura O’Hara is, as usual, absolutely correct. Holly herself told me that she’d lived in Leeds, a small town in the Catskills. She worked as a waitress at Grossin­ger’s, then f
ell in love with a ski instructor, and the sport too. Funny you should ask. Just this morning, while reviewing her documents, I discovered that though Holly had lived in Leeds, she was born in a town called Au Sable Forks.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Well, it’s just south of Plattsburgh.”

  Dennis quietly dropped his bomb, then waited in silence for my reac­tion.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  Dennis laughed.

  “They may be the only three people who aren’t connected to Plattsburgh. Should I tell Ben or do you want to?”

  My head hurt. “I will…but not until after the wake. If Donald Jay is there, I want to have a chat with him first.”

  “Well, don’t be guilty of obstructing justice, Jake. I’ll see you at Campbell’s.” Dennis hung up.

  Mrs. McMahon, who owned the co-op across from the Neals, waylaid me in the hall. Mom and I were con­vinced that our nosy neighbor had to be the busiest busy­body in New York City.

  “Going to the wake, Jake?” It didn’t take a mystery-writing ghostwriter to deduce that Mrs. M., draped in black crepe, her hair teased into a helmet, carrying her ratty Persian-lamb jacket in one hand and a Mass card in the other, planned on paying her own condolence call. Vis­iting the dead was her avocation. She never missed any funeral or wake within our zip code, unless the obit specified “family only.”

  “Yes. And I’m running late.” I scooted past her. It wasn’t very gracious, but I wanted—at any cost—to avoid sharing a cab with this harpy.

  “My daughter, the Mary Kay district manager, is pick­ing me up in her pink Cadillac. You never know, Patricia Ann might meet some prospective new customers at the viewing. She’s the company’s number-one sales star across the entire United States. Won a trip to Las Vegas. But, what with you being a ghostwriter, your profession has no recognition like that, does it?”