Book of Shadows (28 page)

Today was Sunday and Bofil knew that by midnight tomorrow the Comforts had to be in their village with the
Book of Shadows
or four people would die. The Comforts would have to concentrate all their efforts on
g
etting the book then hurrying to England in order to save their own lives and the lives of their daughter and grandson. That left little time for them to seek out Bofil and kill him, but the changeling was taking no chances. They had promised to kill him and he had to believe they might try.

He thought of Cornell Castle and how he had died. Throat cut, then burned. Bofil shook his head. The old ways weren’t dead after all. He hated the idea of having to serve those who believed in doing things that way. It was crude, ridiculous, out of tune with the way the world had changed. The world today was power and money and manipulation, a never-ending chess game. Bofil was a master player. No one manipulated him.

The second bodyguard, a tall, thin-shouldered man named Barry, sat in the living room watching a baseball game. A .357 magnum was on the coffee table in front of him. Barry had explained that this was the most powerful handgun in the world; one bullet from it could tear a man’s entire fist from his arm or leave a hole in him the size of an orange.

Barry had been caught taking payoffs from gamblers in Queens and had been allowed to resign. Had he been brought to trial he might have named fellow cops with sticky fingers, which was why Barry hadn’t spent one night in jail. He was doing part-time work for those same gamblers, collecting overdue debts and loans. Bofil had insisted that Ronald use a man who was dependable.

“Dependable,” Ronald knew, meant somebody willing to do whatever Bofil wanted done, no questions asked. Ronald, who had been dropped from the force for shooting an unarmed suspect in the back and crippling him for life, was dependable himself.

The phone rang and Bofil flinched. Barry never took his eyes from the television set.

“Ronald,” said Bofil.

His bodyguard, who had been reading the
Daily News
sports section, dropped the papers on the couch and crossed the room. Picking up the phone he said, “Congressman Bofil’s apartment.”

He listened, then placed a hand over the mouth of the receiver.

“It’s Novak.”

“Ask him what he wants,” said an irritated Bofil.

Ronald said into the phone, “Tell me your problem.”

The bodyguard listened, then placed his hand over the receiver again. “Says he wants to know if it’s all right to make the meeting with Crafford for Wednesday breakfast.”

Bofil said, “Tell that dipshit he’s being paid to arrange my calendar without running to me every thirty seconds. Tell him to use his head for something besides growing hair.”

Ronald said into the phone, “The man says it’s on you and don’t bug him.” He hung up and walked back to the couch.

Bofil said, “No calls for the rest of the day. I mean no calls. You guys understand?”

Barry, eyes on the ball game, lifted a hand. Ronald said, “You’re calling it, Mr. B.”

Alone in his bedroom, Bofil looked at a small alarm clock. Just a few hours left. The Comforts would have to return to England tomorrow. They would have to bring the book back or they would have to return to plead for their own lives and the lives of their daughter and grandson. They couldn’t afford to hang around New York to try to kill Bofil; if they didn’t get him today, they wouldn’t get him. If he survived today, he’d make it.

He could do it. He could. The old ways didn’t count anymore and Bofil was going to prove it.

The tall woman was smiling when the door opened. “Mr. Seldes? Mr. Robert Seldes?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Miss Barnes. Miss June Barnes? We spoke briefly on the telephone. May I?”

Robert, a section of the Sunday
New York Times
in one hand, stepped aside and used the other hand to motion her into his apartment. He wore a Japanese kimono of orange silk and straw sandals he’d purchased a few weeks ago when he and Marisa were in Bermuda. His eyes quickly traveled the length of the tall woman and just as quickly dismissed her as ugly and of no sexual use to him.

He motioned toward the couch. “You said you had a message from Alison, something you couldn’t tell me over the phone. You said it concerns Marisa. How is Alison? I’ve tried calling her but she’s not home.”

“Oh, she’s recovering quite well, actually. Miss Heggen did put her through a spot of bother, but it looks as if everything will be all right. Miss Sales is staying with a friend. She wishes she could talk with you, but she just doesn’t know how to discuss what occurred when Miss Heggen invited her over to her flat.”

“She invited Alison over? Marisa didn’t tell me that. Exactly what did happen?”

The tall woman touched her thick glasses and blushed. “Well, it’s not the sort of thing one likes to repeat.”

“Those are the only things worth repeating. What happened? Did Marisa turn dyke in her old age and try to jump Alison’s bones?”

“Dear me.” The tall woman blushed again, covering her mouth with her hand.

Robert’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. You are kidding. Is that it? Did Marisa come on to Alison?”

The woman looked away.

Robert softened his voice. “You can tell me. Alison wanted me to know.”

The woman, who hadn’t bothered to sit, looked around as though afraid she would be overheard.

‘“We’re alone!’ said Robert. “No eavesdroppers. Just you, me, and four walls. Start dishing, Miss Barnes.”

“Are you sure we’re alone?”

Robert nodded.

The tall woman, whose left forearm was bandaged, stepped swiftly toward him.

I
T OCCURRED TO MARISA
that she probably looked ridiculous chewing bubblegum and laughing at the same time—and doing it in a good restaurant, no less. But she didn’t care. She was enjoying herself and chewing for all she was worth, as were Edith Gupta and Gina. And it was Marisa who led the applause when Gina bounced up and down in her chair, excited at being the first to blow a bubble, a huge pink and transparent globe that all but hid her small face.

Marisa, pop-eyed with playful intensity, was next. Her bubble wasn’t as large as Gina’s, but for an adult it was respectable. Edith’s was the smallest, a bubble no bigger than an orange and seemingly appropriate to the tiny woman’s reserved manner.

An amused Joseph Bess had refused to participate. He sat in a corner of the booth hugging the Sunday newspapers to his chest and shaking his head in mock disapproval. When Gina’s bubble burst and stuck to her face, he laughed out loud.

The waitress returned with Marisa’s credit card and the actress, the bubble still in front of her face, shrugged at the waitress as she took her pen and signed the check. The waitress giggled, a hand over her mouth.

Marisa had been right. It was a good day. The brunch was a success and Gina was happy and the food was good and the sun was still shining. Marisa was having fun.

After the four left, the waitress began clearing off their table. When she had loaded a tray with dishes and uneaten food, she picked it up and left.

Instantly a man eased into the booth, his left hand sliding along under the table until it found the set of keys stuck there by moist bubblegum. On his wrist was a thick silver bracelet studded with pearls.

Denise Vandis was naked in bed and smoking Colombian Red when the telephone rang. After fumbling with the receiver, she finally gripped it and brought it to her ear. “Mmhmm,” she said, as though she’d just hear something she totally agreed with.

“Mrs. Vandis?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Rupert Comfort speaking. I wonder if I might talk to you about your son Gregory. It concerns his death and the person responsible for it.”

Denise Vandis sat up, closed her eyes then opened them wide. “What … what did you say?”

“Listen to me carefully. I don’t have much time. Your son was murdered and I know who did it.”

“Who … what
—”

“Now listen to me, you silly cow, because I don’t have time to waste on your nonsense. Have the police contacted you recently?”

The joint slipped through her fingers and began burning a hole in the sheet. There was a sharp pain in her thigh as it burned her and she said,
“Shit”
and brushed the joint away.

“I’m listening, Mr. Comfort. Really I am. Honest.”

“The police, did they
—”

“Yesterday afternoon. A Sergeant Beth
—”

“Bess.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bess. He mentioned something about a different blood type found on Gregory’s jeans and pieces of skin under his nails. He said the police were still investigating and they wanted to be sure before officially calling it murder. Mr. Comfort … I … uh … Reggie Michaels, he called me and said we were to stay away from Bofil, that you and Bofil
—”

“That is precisely why I’m calling, Mrs. Vandis. I’d like to talk to you about Bofil. He’s the man responsible for your son’s death.”

Denise Vandis almost dropped the receiver.

Rupert Comfort said, “What Michaels told you is correct. My wife and I have a score to settle with Bofil because of his treachery regarding the book. We have no quarrel with your lot. It’s Bofil we want. What he did to your boy is tied in with his attempts to get the book for himself. He tried to get Gregory to go along with him and the lad refused. That’s why Bofil killed him. I can prove this. I’d like you to help me do it. I’d like you to help me get Bofil.”

“What … what can I do? He’s so important.”

“Yes, he is. But didn’t you mention that you’d heard from Sergeant Bess?”

She nodded her head. “Yes.”

“Good. Now I have evidence that can convict Bofil of your son’s murder, but I can’t very well hand it over to the police myself. However, you can. You can contact Bess and give it over to him.”

“But won’t that make trouble for the rest of us?”

“No, it won’t. The evidence points directly to Bofil and only Bofil. As Michaels told you, Bofil has been doing quite a few things on his own, things neither you nor anyone else in the coven knows the first thing about. I think you agree with me that he mustn’t get away with what he’s done to you.”

Denise Vandis narrowed her eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“I knew you’d feel that way. Let me come over now and give you the evidence I have. You can then pass it on to Bess and let him take it from there. This will finish Bofil and put him away for quite a long time. I think your son would want you to avenge him. We mustn’t let Bofil get away with this.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I’m in the neighborhood and I can be at your flat in minutes.”

“I’ll see you soon, Mr. Comfort.” She hung up.

A nude man stood in the bedroom doorway. “Who was that? I smell something burning in here.”

“You’ll have to leave.”

“What for? The party hasn’t even started. I just got here. You called me, remember?”

She tossed the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed. “I said leave.”

The man snorted and cupped his penis. “No way, baby. You dragged me crosstown to play and we are gonna play whether you like it or not.”

Denise Vandis grabbed a large pair of scissors from a drawer in the night table.

“Get your fucking ass out of here before I cut off your dick and stuff it in your stupid mouth! I swear I’ll do it! On the head of my dead son, I swear it!”

As Joseph Bess and Marisa sat on the couch watching television, Gina walked in front of them carrying the comic section from the Sunday
Daily News.

“The kid’s a pack rat,” said Bess as Gina disappeared into her room. “If I’m missing anything, I usually look under her bed or in her closet. She even uses my ties for a belt ever since she saw Fred Astaire do that in one of his old movies.”

Marisa said, “Television can really turn your head around. At one point I was getting letters from a couple in Montana who claimed I was their long-lost daughter. They’d seen me on the show and just knew I was their Sharon, who had run away when she was fifteen. They didn’t want money from me. All they wanted was for me to acknowledge them as my parents. Some phone calls, a few letters from time to time, nothing more.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. The last thing I needed was a second set of parents. The ones I had are dead, but they served me quite nicely, thank you. Besides, a lot of people who write you these days are peculiar, to say the least. I wouldn’t want them moving in or sending me assorted aunts and cousins to amuse in the big city.”

Bess pointed to the television screen. “Did you ever do a play like that?”

“You mean in costume? Sure. I’ve done repertory theater where you do everything from clean the toilets to wear a wig and beard and go on stage as a Hun. From Hun to nun. I think I’ll use that title for my memoirs.”

“It’s been a nice day for us, for all of us, and it’s all because of you. Thank you, Marisa.”

She looked at him. “Doesn’t take much to win your approval. A free brunch and you’re on one knee with a hand over your heart.”

He grinned. “I’ll have you know that was a long speech for me.”

“I believe it. Maybe I’ll take us all to brunch next Sunday. Anything for another speech.”

Bess looked at the television screen. “Robert’s not going to like your staying here. You know what he’s going to think.”

“I think it’s time Robert and I faced one important fact. We don’t have a third act.”

Bess looked at her.

She smiled. “Actors’ talk. No finish for the play. Robert and I have been running in place, which isn’t the same as getting somewhere.”

Bess looked back at the screen. Finally he said, “Maybe when this is over, we can still keep in touch.”