Book of Shadows (5 page)

But not much worse.

Customers. As Ellie said, they’d just been customers taking Nat to see an item too large to be carried into the shop.

Marisa watched Ellie stand up and walk over to Louie and pat his large head. Ellie said, “You don’t know how I’m looking forward to being numb, just plain numb. At the moment it’s—it’s all so fresh and I’m feeling it. Feeling too much.”

She looked at Marisa. “You know who’s taking this even harder than me? Larry. He really loved Nat. Larry’s broken up; he’s had to be sedated twice and he hasn’t been out of his apartment since the funeral. You and I have talked about this, Marisa, about how women feel about fags. I understand you’re not supposed to call them that.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“Thank you. I mean fags either reject you or compete with you, but Larry—well, him I could tolerate. Nat had his ‘toys,’ his ‘adventures,’ as he called them, and I learned to live with it. Those pretty boys with their vapid smiles and all of them wanting to be actors or painters or dancers and none of them with an iota of talent. Larry was somewhat different, more vulnerable than the rest, less conniving. I could tolerate him. Poor Larry. At the moment he’s living on Valium and Preparation H.”

“Preparation H? That’s for hemorrhoids, isn’t it?”

For the first time, Ellie smiled. “I know. Fags use it on their face. Smooths out the wrinkles, I’m told. I’ve never gotten around to trying it. I’ve invited Larry to dinner tomorrow. He’s cooking.”

Marisa said, “I remember.”

“Robert called,” said Ellie. “He’s in Chicago.”

Marisa stood up and reached out to stroke a bust of Caligula on a nearby end table. “I know. The publisher’s sending him on a ten city tour. Seems the book’s taking off and starting to do well.”

“Robert was kind,” said Ellie, as she and Louie walked toward Marisa. “Very, very kind.”

That’s a change,
thought Marisa.

Ellie looked down at Louie. “He told me the book’s in its third printing and it looks as if Paramount will definitely come up with a six-figure offer. Robert says he’ll do the script and help with the casting. He thinks he’ll be a very rich author.”

The sneer corner of Marisa’s mouth edged up a little higher. “That’s Robert for you. Advertisements for him self.”

Then she forced more warmth into her voice. “It was nice of him to call.”

“He finally seems to be getting the success he’s always wanted. He deserves it. Years and years of writing and nothing to show for it until now. You must be very happy for him.”

Marisa smiled.
Not really,
she thought.

Ellie squatted down beside the Great Dane and stroked his throat. His mouth was open and Marisa could see the large, jagged teeth now wet with saliva. Louie could probably demolish Ellie in two bites and have room in his stomach for more, but the dog was devoted to her. Ellie walked him, fed him, cared for him, pampered him. Louie was the closest thing she’d ever had to a child. Marisa was sure that Ellie preferred Louie to children, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Marisa didn’t want children either. She wanted to be an actress and she wanted to find the perfect lover. So far she was making do with one out of two.

“Louie has to eat,” said Ellie. “I’ll take him into the kitchen and feed him. After that, we’ll walk over to Central Park so he can stretch his legs.”

Ellie grinned. “You know the New York law that you’re supposed to clean up after your dog.”

“The poop scoop law.”

“Right. Well, after the law was passed I went out and bought a pooper scooper. Ellie Shields, good citizen, right? Marisa, don’t ever try to clean up after a Great Dane. Louie dumped a pile, the size of which …”

Ellie laughed. Too loudly, too shrilly.

Drying the tears, Ellie said, “Nat and I laughed about that for weeks. Naturally, we no longer scoop up after Louie.”

“Naturally. Could I use your phone? I want to check my answering service. My agent says I’m up for a voice-over. A day’s work and you do it in curlers and slacks. Just speak into the microphone and sound like you’re having an orgasm over chocolate chip cookies. Ten minutes later you’re through and you’ve made a few bucks.”

“Sure thing. It’s right over there behind the harpsichord. The table with the address book and the ashtray. Nat hated smoking, but you have to keep ashtrays around for guests. Louie and I will be in the kitchen.”

Marisa watched her leave and waited a few seconds to make sure Ellie wasn’t immediately coming back. Then she hurried to the phone, picked up the address book and quickly turned the pages until she found the name she was looking for.

Shifting so that she was facing toward the kitchen and could see Ellie when she returned, Marisa dialed and waited.
Come on, come on. Answer.

The phone continued to ring. Then—

“Hello?”

“Larry? Marisa.”

“Oh, Marisa. How’s it going?”

“Not bad. How do you feel?”

“Fucking rotten, man. Feel like somebody ripped out my insides. I’m slightly stoned so if I sound funny, don’t get uptight, okay?”

“Okay. Larry, a quick question. Did Nat ever tell you he had the feeling he was being followed?”

Larry sighed into the phone. “Ummm, can’t think. Can’t think right now.”

Marisa, her voice low, quickly looked toward the kitchen. “Think, Larry, think. It’s important.”

“It is? Why?” His words were becoming more slurred.

“I have to know.”

“Yeah, well, he and I did talk a lot, you know. I mean it wasn’t one of those things where I was trying to get all I could out of him. Nat and me were tight, man. Fucking tight.”

“Larry, please. Did he ever tell you he was being followed? He might not have told Ellie because he wouldn’t want to alarm her, but he would have told you. He’d have to tell somebody.”

“Come to think of it, he did say something about it. It was when he told me he missed the address book and the picture of us taken by that English boat guy.”

“Jack Lyle?”

“Yeah, Lyle. You’re right, Nat did say he had the feeling somebody was following him, just like he was sure somebody had broken into the house and searched it from top to bottom. Shit, my whole fucking head hurts. Whatever that doctor stabbed me in the ass with is making me feel sick.”

“A favor, Larry. Don’t mention this to Ellie, okay?”

“Sure. Whatever you say, Marisa. Any special reason?”

“I don’t want to upset her. She—she thinks Nat’s death was accidental and I don’t want her to start worrying—”

“Hey, hey. Run that by me again. I mean this is very, very heavy. Do you know something I don’t know?”

And then talking to Larry, drugged, depressed Larry, put the entire thing together in Marisa’s mind and the cold terror that squeezed her heart was physically painful.

Larry said, “You know who you sound like? Jack Lyle. That old bastard was always carrying on about somebody being after him and somebody coming after us because of that creepy book your friend Robert insisted on keeping. Lyle flipped out, man, remember? He was scared shitless, but we never took him seriously, remember?”

Marisa remembered.

London.

Marisa held the phone and listened to a terrified, drunken Jack Lyle shout into her ear, “It’s a
Book of Shadows,
the most precious thing a bloody witch can ever own on this bloody earth and you people ’ave it. You be carryin’ around your death warrant, I’m tellin’ yer. I’m an old man and me mind ain’t what it used to be and I sip the juice too often, but I’ve got the sense the good Lord gave me to be afraid and to know when somebody’s steppin’ on me shadow. I know they’re followin’ me.

“Them Druids, them witchy people, they hold me life in their ’ands. Too late fer me, I suppose. Too fuckin’ late. They know it was me what did a stupid thing and brought the boat to their village. They know me from the canal. They been watchin’ me sail up and down fer years and they let me live ’cause I never bothered them. Now they know I’m a part of them what ’as the book. I know what they do and they’ll not burn Jack Lyle, no sir. I’ll kill meself first. I just called to warn you, missy. You seem to have a little sense, so I’ll tell you that maybe, just maybe, you can live if you return that there book your friend’s holdin’ onto so tightly. Mr. Robert
—”

Robert rudely snatched the phone from Marisa’s hand, listened a few seconds and said coldly, “Mr. Robert’s listening, rummy. You’ve already ruined our vacation, you son of a bitch, and now you call when we’re leaving for the airport and give us more of your boozy ramblings. Crawl back into the bottle and pull the cork in after you. Better yet, take the bottle and shove it.”

Robert slammed down the phone, glared at Marisa, then turned and walked to the bed to resume packing.

“Asshole,” he said.

Me or Jack Lyle?
thought Marisa.

Marisa whispered into the phone, “Larry, Ellie’s coming back. Remember what I said: This is between you and me.”

“I’m cool, I’m cool. I was just wondering. With Nat gone, the money won’t be coming in, so I could use a little help. I hate to ask you, but could you get me a few days’ work on the show? I’ll take anything. Extra, walk on. Anything. Just until I can get started again. I have to have new photographs made, maybe lose a little weight, start acting classes again, start making the rounds.”

Sure, thought Marisa. What you really need is to find someone who’s looking for a new plaything. You want what every girl wants: a rich man to keep her.

Marisa, her mind on what Jack Lyle said to her a year ago in London, said to Larry, “Call Jules, my agent. Tell him I said it’s all right. He’ll speak to Monte, the producer, and I’ll back him up. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

When Ellie and Louie came into the room, Marisa smiled and said in a normal voice, “Fine, fine. Sounds all right to me. I’ll let you know.”

She hung up.

Ellie said, “Anything?”

“Nothing special. I’d like to think about it before making up my mind.”

“You look worried. Didn’t you tell me actresses aren’t supposed to frown because it puts lines in their face?”

“There’s always Preparation H.” They laughed.

Alone in her apartment that night, Marisa tossed the script aside and got out of bed to turn on the television set. She didn’t want to watch it; the sound was to help her think. She wanted to think about Jack Lyle, the frightened captain of the houseboat they’d all sailed on last year. Jack Lyle who they all laughed at and believed to be a senile old drunk. Jack Lyle who had telephoned Marisa in London to tell her he was being followed by Druids and “witchy people” who intended to burn him.

Nat Shields had said he too was being followed. And Nat Shields had burned to death.

And the
Book of Shadows
was here in New York. Who else was here in New York?

Marisa pulled her robe tight, hugged herself and leaned back in an upholstered chair and stared unseeingly at Greta Garbo’s classic beauty. Onscreen Garbo moved closer to kiss an understandably happy Melvyn Douglas.

Marisa thought about Jack Lyle and Nat Shields and what had happened a year ago in England.

F
ROM LONDON’S VICTORIA STATION
the five had taken an early morning train to Oxford, where, after carrying their luggage on board Jack Lyle’s boat moored in the Isis River, they’d been given two hours by Lyle to lunch and walk around the university town. The plan was to sail north on the Oxford Canal for ten days until reaching Manchester. Here they would leave the boat, rent two cars and drive a different route south to London. Then home to New York.

The trip was to be a leisurely one, with time for sightseeing in the English countryside and stops at villages, pubs, inns, and places of historical interest.

It was Marisa’s first vacation in years and she was looking forward to the rest. It meant three weeks of no rehearsals and taping; no petty squabbles with cast or crew; no rushing from play readings to filming television commercials; no memorizing ten pages of script a night. Above all, no more dieting. Marisa was going to eat and worry about it later.

Her only problem on the trip would be Robert.

He was an unsuccessful author and her lover and at the moment unhappy with being either. At thirty-eight, Robert Seldes was tall, blond, and, despite a long nose and weak chin, somewhat handsome. Marisa had been attracted by his intelligence, sense of humor, and sexual energy. But one did not live by bed alone, and after a year Robert’s defects were becoming increasingly obvious.

Years of writing unpopular novels had made him bitter toward critics, the public, and a series of agents and publishers. Nor was his disposition improved by the approach of his fortieth birthday, the increasing loss of his hair, and his resentment at the money Marisa was making. She hoped the trip would smooth things over between them. Of course it would have been better for her had she never fallen in love with him, but Marisa wasn’t the type to wallow in hindsight. You danced with the one you brung, someone once told her, and she’d brung Robert.

So she wrote the necessary checks covering their expenses on the trip and hoped that a change of scene would improve Robert’s disposition and take his mind off his ambition. The man was still a great lay.

For Nat Shields the journey by houseboat and car would combine business and pleasure. He’d told Marisa that he was going to look for antiques in out-of-the-way shops and in those secluded stately English homes and castles now forced to sell treasured possessions to meet high British taxes and rising household expenses.

Over lunch within sight of the honey-colored spires of Oxford’s Christ Church College, Nat explained to Marisa that antiques in London were overpriced, their inflated values brought on by dealers’ attempts to gouge oil-rich Arabs living there. Beirut, once the beautiful “Paris of the Middle East,” had been the place where Arabs found their pleasures—until civil war in Lebanon had all but demolished the city. Now those Arabs who wanted gambling, liquor, blonde women, expensive surgery, and stores to buy out had descended upon London. The British, whom Napoleon once termed a “nation of shopkeepers,” did as shopkeepers do. They politely overcharged the Arabs as often as possible and spoke contemptuously of them behind their backs for allowing it.