A Ghostwriter to Die For Read online

  We stood near the wing chairs where Jennifer and I had sat only yesterday...when Dick Peter had been very much alive and bitching.

  “Officer Franco, Jennifer needs medical assistance.” I somehow managed to sound both impertinent and intimidated.

  “I’ll ask the doc to take a look at her after he’s done with the stiff. But first, why don’t you tell me what happened, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “Now see here...” I began just as my phone rang. Damn. Only Ben—who’d given it to me—and my mother had the number. And Mom had strict instructions to only use it in an emergency. God, had something happened to her or Gypsy Rose? “Excuse me, I have to take this call.” Franco stared at me as if I were certifiable. Then he glowered. I pushed the “accept” button.

  “Jake, are you all right, darling?”

  “Sure, Mom.” I hoped that was accurate. “Why?”

  ‘Turn on the news. They just broke into Ramirez Now. Dick Peter is dead! Did you know?”

  The question was, how did they know? My money was on Santa Steve, who seemed to be among the missing at this moment.

  “I’m with the police now in Dick’s office.” I favored Franco with a smile as Officer Conway led Jennifer out of the room. I whispered to Conway, “Where are you going?”

  Conway replied, “To the lounge. Jennifer can rest there.”

  My mother said, “Is Ben there?”

  “Yes. Mom, I’ve got to go.”

  ‘Tell Ben to hurry up and put it on, Jake. Glory Flagg is on. She’s been telling all of America that throughout their six-year marriage, she and Peter were part of a sadomasochistic ménage à trois! With another man. The audience is going crazy. And just as Wendy Wu came on with the news bulletin announcing his death, Glory was screaming that Dick’s suing her for twenty million dollars—because she’s going public with a tell-all book!”

  I dropped the phone on Officer Franco’s foot and yelled, “Ben!”

  Four

  Every eye in the room—well, except for Dick’s—was glued on Glory Flagg, resplendent in a red, white, and blue star-spangled jumpsuit. The Abbott and Costello team had unearthed a television set from under a crumpled raincoat. Enthralled, we all listened along with host Eduardo Ramirez as the glorious Glory bashed Dick Peter—her verbal assault punctuated by her brash Brooklyn vowels and missing con­sonants.

  “Dickie and I were the odd couple, ya know. Him a grad­uate of Harvard, wit seven letters after his name, me a La­fayette High School dropout—I quit in my junior year to woik as a stripper. Kinda the college of bumps and grinds...” Glory was saying in response to Ramirez’s last question—how did she feel about Peter now.

  “And the sex was sensational,” she continued, “once you got past the kinky stuff. Being polyamorous can be a joyful journey for those ready to explore alternate erotica. I’m quoting from the deceased here.”

  “Polyamorous? Would you explain that term for our au­dience?” Eduardo Ramirez asked, an eager grin crossing his made-for-television face.

  “Yeah. Ya know, when a goil gets to boff more than one guy at a time. Or vice versa. But Dick’s favorite sexual sandwich has always been two guys with a masochistic miss spread like mayo in the middle. So I can’t understand why he was all bent outta shape about my upcoming book...”

  “Glory, regarding Dick Peter’s demise, how do you think that will impact you?” Ramirez’s ad-lib sentence structure certainly lacked his writer’s style. The camera moved in for a close-up of Glory; tricolor makeup encircled her eyes.

  “Eduardo, my guess is that his twenty-million-dollar law­suit against me and Harvest House will be as dead as Dick is.” Glory flashed her fabulous smile. Either her dentist had managed to bleach her teeth far whiter then mine or maybe contrasted against her scarlet lipstick, her teeth just looked brighter. No wonder Mom still used Revlon’s Fire and Ice.

  Officer Franco, who’d reluctantly joined our queue around the television set, said, “This broad just gave Senor Ramirez and most of America her motive for murder.”

  Ramirez asked Flagg, “Had Dick Peter been ill?”

  Glory giggled. “Eduardo, you’re an old acquaintance of Dick’s.” Ramirez nodded sagely, as she rattled on, “Ya know, spiritually, he’s the sickest soul around—and wouldn’t ya jest love to cover his Final Judgment on Court TV?—but physically that little sucker was the healthiest specimen I ever slept with. I ran into Mila, she let Dick back into the house over the weekend, and she said he’s still full of piss and vinegar. Um, that is, he was as of last night. I wonder what did do him in.” The network broke away from the show for a Volkswagen Beetle commercial.

  Ben said, “Whoever called with the news of Peter’s death obviously neglected to mention murder.”

  “And maybe on purpose,” I said, revising my rush to judgment of Steve the elevator operator as the caller, unless he also turned out to be the murderer. If Jennifer ever pulled herself together, I’d have to ask her why Steve held a grudge against Dick. For now, I went on with my theory. “Say the killer called in, knowing that Glory had been scheduled as this morning’s guest on Ramirez Now—he might not have wanted to reveal that Peter had been murdered, hoping that Glory would hang herself verbally. Which, as if I need to remind you, is exactly what happened.”

  Ben said, “Any one of the critics and editors with offices on his floor who passed by here this morning could have placed that call.”

  “Yeah, but, Ben...”

  Back on the air, Ramirez interrupted both my assessment of the murderer’s state of mind and Glory’s medical eval­uation of the dead Dick. “I’ve just been informed that Al­lison Carr of Manhattan magazine and a frequent contributor is on the line.” The television screen split three ways: a headshot of Eduardo to the left, a glowing Glory in the middle, and to the right, a network file photo of Al­lison Carr, with Manhattan’s “Bites From the Big Apple” editor and the magazine’s famous logo underneath. Sud­denly Carr’s photo filled the entire screen and we heard her cheery voice.

  “I arrived at work a little while ago, just ahead of the police. Things are buzzing in Dick Peter’s office. A homi­cide detective from the Nineteenth Precinct is in there...So is the coroner. I overheard a heavyset uniformed police­man say that Dick’s been stabbed in the back. My condo­lences, Glory. I know how you must mourn your dear departed Dick.”

  Ramirez in the studio and I in the victim’s office gulped in unison. I said to Ben, “Well, there you go. I guess Gypsy Rose is not the only psychic I know. And just how much do you think they contributed to Carr for this phone-in re­portage?”

  For once Eduardo Ramirez seemed speechless. But not our girl Glory. “Allison, the reason everyone reads your col­umn is because of your compassion. I’m sure you’ll miss old Dick as much as I will.” Glory Flagg gave Allison’s picture the finger, and we went to another commercial break.

  “Welcome to the age of instant information,” the medical examiner said.

  The lady fingerprint expert sighed wearily. “Gentlemen, there’s some instant information I could use right now.” She looked from the doctor to the detective. “When is Dick Pe­ter’s ETA into the body bag? I’ve got to dust his desk.” Ben Rubin clicked off the TV, telling Officer Franco, “Go get that woman off the phone. Tell her that her next inter­view will be with me and meanwhile to keep her mouth shut.” Then he turned to me. “Do you know where that Carr woman’s office is?” I nodded. ‘Take Franco there now.” The rest of the crime scene staff went back to work.

  Allison, all smiles, hung up the phone when Franco and I walked in.

  “Hi, Jake. Did you happen to catch me on TV? I just got through talking to Eduardo Ramirez and Glory Flagg.” And she was still smiling after Officer Franco read her the riot act. “Oh, great, I’ll look forward to chatting with Detective Rubin.” Did this lady ever lose her cool?

  There was precious little I could t
ell Officer Franco. From the time I’d discovered Dick’s body ’til Jennifer’s appear­ance, less than five minutes had elapsed. Franco, whose pa­trol car had been cruising Sixty-ninth Street, made the scene only moments later. We talked in the hall. “No, I didn’t touch a thing. Yes, I’ll be available for more questions.” My answers seemed to satisfy him and he dropped me off at the employees’ lounge, where Officer Conway was having less success with Jennifer.

  Since Jen remained semi-collapsed and Officer Conway had gathered neither evidence nor information, I spent the next few minutes essentially repeating what I’d told Franco.

  “Then you have no idea why Jennifer’s in such a state?”

  “Only that she told me she was afraid of dead people.” We spoke as if Jennifer weren’t there. I didn’t think she really was—at least not listening or caring. She was begin­ning to spook me.

  Michael Moran, dressed in motorcycle mod, pushed the door open. Like Dick Peter, Michael was a small, slim man, but much more wholesome-looking. Huck Finn in a biker’s helmet. I’ve always questioned what it could be that Jennifer found appealing about him; I’d tried to like him for years. Eventually, I just stopped trying.

  “What’s wrong? Jennifer, are you okay?” Jen, her head hanging on her chest, her mouth slack and her fingers twitching, said nothing. Michael shouted at me, “Jake, what the hell’s going on here? I got a call from the police,” he sneered in Officer Conway’s direction, “saying Jennifer had some kind of a spell. I demand to know what happened to her!”

  Conway spoke up. “It would seem murder made her sick.” That shut him up.

  While the officer advised Michael that the police weren’t through questioning Mrs. Moran and that they shouldn’t plan on leaving town, Barbara Ferris, the uniformed recep­tionist, joined us.

  “Hi, Jake. Detective Rubin sent me to help get Jennifer down to the lobby.” I wondered where she’d been all morning.

  Michael managed to get Jennifer on her feet. As I handed Barbara her shoulder bag, they each grabbed one of Jen’s arms, half carrying her out of the room. I hoped Michael didn’t plan on driving Jennifer home on his motorcycle.

  Sally Conway and I walked back to Peter’s office. I wanted to have a word with Ben, if he’d ever stop talking to the medical examiner...and ignoring me.

  Maybe this was payback time. Ben and I had met when he’d interviewed me—as a possible suspect—in a previous murder case. And even though I’m certain that he’d decided on my innocence as quickly as I’d checked out his Antonio Banderas looks, Mom, Gypsy Rose, and I had driven him crazy. Probably still did.

  Currently, we were—to use my mother’s term—courting; we sometimes double-dated with my mother and Ben’s fa­ther. “Weird,” Modesty M., a wordy gothic novelist and my fellow member of Ghostwriters Anonymous, had said. And for once, Modesty, an odd duck herself, had been totally accurate. However...My phone rang.

  Mom. I’d cut her off. “Hi.” I put my hand over the phone and said to Officer Conway, “Excuse me. Why don’t you go on ahead?” Conway nodded and left me alone in the hall, dwarfed by a huge print of Maxfield Parrish’s painting of a group of American Indians staring off into the distance at what looked like skyscrapers.

  “Listen, Mom, everything’s okay, I’m...”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Jake, but this is not your mother.” The sexy voice, chuckling as he spoke, belonged to Dennis Kim.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “You gave it to me the day you were almost killed. Re­member? I’ve kept it next to my heart ever since.”

  “Right.” Jesus, I was getting forgetful. “Look, Dennis, I’m in the middle of a murder here. What do you want? This phone is not to be used promiscuously.”

  “What kind of a guy do you think I am? Would I make promiscuous phone calls? This is a matter of life and death.”

  “Yes? I’m listening.”

  And curious, but I’d never give him that satisfaction.

  “I represent Pax Publishing, Jake. Dick’s murder presents a major problem for them.”

  “Did you draft my contract with Peter? Dennis Kim is written all over it.”

  “Yes, but only to protect Keith Morrison and Pax’s in­terests, not Peter’s. My first loyalty is to my client.” Wherever this conversation was going, it was good to know that up front. Dennis continued, “With their best interests in mind, I told them how you’d turned A Killing in Katmandu into what looks like a blockbuster—after the author’s death. And that you’d worked that miracle from a twenty-page out­line.”

  “With no royalties in my pocket, thanks to your crafty contract.”

  “My point exactly. Your employer was my client. But this time you have a share in all the royalties and that holds true even though Dick’s dead.”

  “You mean...?”

  “Yes. Keith Morrison would like to talk to you about completing the manuscript, under the same financial agree­ment. Maybe a tad more. If you’re interested, I’ll set up a meeting. Only you’d have to write fast, Jake. Dick should have been finished with this book long before he died. Keith said he’d discuss a bonus if you can deliver a manuscript in less than three months.”

  “God only knows I can use the money. Hey, thanks, Den­nis.”

  “There’s something else, Jake.”

  “Oh?”

  “Robert Stern would like to meet with you and me in his office. I’m pulling into a diplomat’s parking place in front of the Russian Embassy around the corner on Madison as we speak.” In all the years I’ve known Dennis, he’s never parked legally. “Stern’s office is on the fifth floor. Go on up, I’ll meet you there. Take the marble stairs in the center hall. The elevator doesn’t go to the top floor.” Why was I not surprised?

  Barbara Ferris rose from her desk across from the ele­vator. “Jennifer should be home by now, Jake. Mr. Stern had his limo waiting to drive her and Michael.”

  “That’s great. I’m on my way up the stairs to see Mr. Stern.”

  “Yes. I’ve been given clearance for you.” She handed me a big badge in the shape of an apple. “Pin this on your jacket; it gives you access to the top floor.”

  Jeez. Security couldn’t have been any tighter at the Man­hattan Project than it was at Manhattan magazine.

  Robert Stern fussed over me as his secretary served tea. “Your first two days with us have proved distressing, my dear. I do apologize. That unpleasantness in Allison’s office yesterday and then discovering Dick’s body today. You’re probably asking yourself what tomorrow will bring.” The question had occurred to me. Mr. Stern plopped a piece of lemon in his tea. “Our meeting will be brief. Then I want you to go home and get some rest.” He came across as avuncular and sincere.

  “Jake. Robert. What a pleasure to see two of my favorite people enjoying a chat.” Dennis charged across the thresh­old like a stunning Korean martial arts master wearing a Brooks Brothers suit. And, as it has done for over a quarter of a century, his presence pumped up my heart rate.

  The tea sandwiches were better than the Plaza’s or the Palace’s. Surprisingly, I was hungry. I reached for two more. Robert Stern said, “Dick’s sudden departure for the world beyond leaves us rather muddled here at Manhattan. I intend to put our best investigative reporters on the case. This crime will not only be covered, it will be solved. I shall make that promise to our readers. But my immediate need is a tem­porary replacement for Dick. Someone to do the reviews for the next two or three months. I understand Jennifer is ill. And while she’s a fine editor, her writing lacks bite. Dennis tells me you have plenty of bite.”

  I grinned at Dennis as memories of our childhood fight in Carnegie Hill flooded my mind; however, I hoped he hadn’t violated my ghostwriter’s anonymity while raving about my writing skills to Robert Stern.

  “Jake, I need a witty, pithy critic, and I need her now.” Mr. Stern’s
washed-out blue eyes smiled at me.

  “You’ve just hired one.” I smiled back.

  Which is how I wound up in my own office—a room with a view—and a title: associate editor. Before settling in, I called my mother, invited Dennis for drinks at the Polo Lounge, and dashed back to Dick’s office to have that chat with Ben.

  Five

  Dennis Kim waved to Joe Klein. Then he raised his glass in a salute to me, saying, “Stop thanking me. I’m always at your service. If you want me, all you have to do is whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you, Jake?”

  I laughed and took a sip of my extra dry martini. He’d accepted my cocktails and conversation offer, then asked if we could change the venue to the Royalton on 44th Street, which was far too trendy for my taste, but what the hell. Because of Dennis Kim’s intervention, I was going to remain gainfully employed...whether he wanted to hear about it or not. The lounge, almost empty at four o’clock in the afternoon, seemed soothing, despite the stark Euro-Mod decor—or maybe it was the gin that soothed.

  I changed the subject. “If the police round up the usual suspects, half of Manhattan would be in custody. It’s the people who didn’t want Dick dead who’ll make the short list.”

  Dennis nodded. “Just the authors alone would fill vol­umes. Maybe the Writers Guild chipped in and hired a hit man.”

  “Did you know him well, Dennis?”

  “Not really. Only through Stern and Keith Morrison—hey, don’t forget, I’ve set up a meeting with Morrison in the morning. Anyway, dealing with Dick was like dancing with the devil. Not a nice guy.”

  “I found that out, and I dreaded the idea of working with him. This is an awful thing to say, but his death and your connections have placed me in a dream job. Ghostwriting for the dead is so much more fun than working with a real, live pain.”