Dorothy Parker Drank Here (14 page)

N
orah's first thought had been to meet Audrey in a public place, which seemed a good deal safer than being alone in the apartment with her. But the conversation was going to require privacy, so after a lengthy phone call in which she explained to Audrey that she was, in fact, coming over to discuss a job with her, the high-strung journalist promised to behave professionally. And Norah decided to take her at her word.

She pressed the buzzer on Audrey's apartment door, holding the Algonquin guest book in one hand and a ten-week-old Cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy in the other. It was the cutest, softest, most alluring dog she could find, and a critical part of her strategy.

“I'm unarmed,” Audrey said as she opened the door to her apartment. She put her hands up as if to prove she had no intention of reaching for a gun.

“That makes two of us,” Norah said. “Put your hands down.”

“You brought me a puppy?” she said, taking a step back.

“It's not for you.”

“Good, I'm scared of dogs.”

Norah glanced at the pup, which was about as scary as a scoop of
warm mashed potatoes. “He's not going to hurt you,” she said. “Can I come in?”

Audrey opened the door wider and Norah walked into the living room.

“What's his name?” Audrey asked.

Norah sat on the sofa. “I'm calling him Jim Beam.”

“Funny name for a dog,” Audrey said, sitting opposite her in a faded blue easy chair with rolled arms.

“I thought
Whiskey
was too precious.”

“Why did you bring him?”

“I'll get to that soon,” Norah said. “First, I want to tell about
this
.” She placed the Algonquin guest book on the coffee table between them, then leaned back, getting comfortable with the puppy. He gave her hand a lick and she petted his silky head. He was easy to get attached to.

“What
is
this?” Audrey asked, reaching for the book.

“Tell me if you recognize any of the names.”

Audrey skimmed through the pages. “I recognize almost all of them,” she said. “Mostly twentieth-century American writers, heavily skewed toward the Algonquin Round Table era.”

“Exactly,” Norah said. “In the nineteen twenties, the book was owned by the manager of the Algonquin Hotel.”

“I think I read an article about this.”

“You did, but it didn't tell the whole story. That's why I'm here. This book holds a lot of secrets.”

Audrey's eyes welled with tears. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose.

“Are you crying?” Norah asked.

“I'm just so grateful you're giving me a story.”

Under different circumstances, Norah would have considered being forthright about her motivation, just to be sure there were no surprises down the road that might derail this fragile creature. But
given Audrey's reaction the last time Ted's name came up, she knew it was best to keep him out of the conversation unless absolutely necessary.

“Wait until you hear what it's about,” Norah said. “Because it's going to take a lot of guts to write this piece.”

Audrey composed herself, then reached for a pen and stenographer's pad on the side table. She opened the cover. “I'm ready.”

“Just listen for now,” Norah said.

Audrey put down the pad and nodded. “Go on.”

Norah took a moment and proceeded with the facts Dorothy Parker had given her. “During the Round Table era,” she began, “the manager of the Algonquin Hotel was a man named Percy Coates. They say he worshipped writers and loved having them around the hotel. But he had another obsession: contacting the spirit world. In his efforts to make the connection, he reached out to people all over the globe who were reputed to be gifted mediums. Eventually, he found a Romanian woman named Madame Lucescu.”

“How does this tie into the book?”

“She's the one who gave it to him. I understand he paid a small fortune for it, because it was said to possess special powers.” Norah leaned in. “Madame Lucescu explained to Percy Coates that anyone who signed it would have the chance to stay in the physical world after they died.”

“And?”

“And she wasn't lying.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that as long as the book is open, anyone who signed it rematerializes after they die. Most of them cross right over into the light, but one in particular has stuck around . . . and you've met her.”

There was a long pause as Audrey took that in, her brow creased in confusion. Then her eyes lit up as if she just heard the punch line
to a long joke. She laughed so hard she doubled over. “That is rich!” she said.

“It's true,” Norah said, trying to turn the conversation serious. “Every word of it.”

Audrey looked irritated. “You must really think I'm some kind of idiot. I mean, I'm temperamental, but I'm not stupid.”

“I'm going to prove it to you,” Norah said.

Audrey closed the book and pushed it back to her. “I'm not going to make a fool of myself,” she said.

“I know it's hard to believe, but—”

“It's
impossible
to believe. I don't even know why you came.”

Norah sighed. “Do you remember that woman I was here with?”

“Your boss?”

“She wasn't really my boss.” Norah opened the book and turned it back toward Audrey. “You see that name?” she said, pointing to the middle of the page.

“Dorothy Parker?”

“Didn't the woman I called ‘Didi' look familiar?”

Audrey folded her arms and sat back. “Okay, so she looked a little like Dorothy Parker. That's meaningless.”

“Give me a second,” Norah said. She positioned the open guest book in the middle of the table. “Mrs. Parker,” she said, talking into it, “I know you're mad at me, but I think I can make it up to you.” She held up the puppy. “Can you see this? I bought him for you. Maxed out my credit card. He's yours to keep, but you have to appear right this minute or I'm taking him back.”

Nothing happened.

“Please, Mrs. Parker,” Norah said. “Look how cute he is. He needs someone to love him. He's lonely, just like you.”

Audrey sighed, exasperated. “And they say
I'm
crazy.”

“Hold on,” Norah said. “I know I can get her to appear. She won't be able to resist this puppy for much longer.”

Audrey shook her head. “I'm thirsty,” she said, rising. “Can I get you something?”

Norah declined and Audrey went into the kitchen. The moment she was gone, a swirl of dust particles settled themselves upon the faded blue chair, and Dorothy Parker's form quickly emerged. She held her hands out toward the dog.

“Give him to me,” she said.

“Forget it,” Norah said. “Not unless you show yourself to Audrey.”

“We've been over this, my dear.”

Norah stroked the puppy's head and gave him a kiss. “He's so darling, isn't he? I've never seen a sweeter puppy.” She spoke to the dog. “You're a little dumpling, aren't you? Oh, yes you are.”

Dorothy Parker stamped her foot. “I want that dog
now
,” she said through her teeth.

“I'm sorry, I can't hear you,” Norah said. “Can you speak up?”

“I must have him,” Mrs. Parker whispered.

“What's going on in here?” Audrey asked as she walked back into the room.

And just like that, Dorothy Parker vanished.

“Did you see her?” Norah asked.

“Sure. Little woman in a hat—the ghost of Dorothy Parker.”

Norah stood, excited. “You did?”

“Absolutely. She came with Oscar Wilde, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, and Santa Claus.”

Disappointed, Norah sat down again. “Didn't you at least hear voices?”

“I heard
your
voice.”

The puppy rolled over on Norah's lap. He wanted his belly scratched and she complied. His little hind leg twitched in ecstasy.

Audrey picked up the book again. “It's a pretty interesting relic, and certainly valuable. But I just don't see how there's a story here.”

“Uh-huh,” Norah said, not really listening. She knew Dorothy
Parker was so enamored with the puppy that it would be easy to coax her out again. The trick was distracting her, if just for a second. All she needed was for Audrey to catch a glimpse. She considered another tactic.

“I think Jim Beam is thirsty, too,” Norah said. “Do you mind if I get him some water?”

“Help yourself,” Audrey said, nodding toward the kitchen.

Norah placed the docile little pup on the table next to the book. “Keep an eye on him for me, okay?”

“Does he bite?”

“He's two pounds, Audrey. I think you can handle this.” She went into the kitchen and started opening cabinets, intentionally making noise.

“What's going on?” Audrey called.

“I can't find a shallow bowl!” Norah said, and continued creating a racket.

Just as she had hoped, Audrey came into the kitchen . . . without the dog.

“These are all too deep,” Norah explained, indicating the pile of bowls she had placed on the counter.

“Did you look in the oven?” Audrey asked.

“The oven?”

Audrey opened it, and showed Norah the piles of dishes she had stored in there. She pulled out a shallow china soup bowl. “Will this do?”

“Thanks,” Norah said, inspecting the bowl. It was an old-fashioned pattern—probably something her grandmother had given her. Norah turned it over and saw the name Wedgwood printed on the bottom. She filled it with water from the tap and handed it to Audrey.

“You want
me
to give it to him?”

“I'll be out in a minute,” Norah said quietly. “I'll just put these bowls away.”

Audrey hesitated.

“Go on,” Norah said. “He's harmless. Just make sure you step in very quietly so you don't startle him.”

Finally, Audrey walked out, and Norah continued making noise in the kitchen, banging together metal mixing bowls. Her goal was to make it sound as if there were still two people in the kitchen. She strained to listen carefully over the clanging, and then she heard it—the distinct sound of fine china breaking. And then, a scream.

Norah ran into the living room, where she saw Audrey standing, her face white and her hands shaking. The broken bowl was at her feet. Jim Beam was on the shabby blue chair. Norah went to him and scooped him up. His poor little body was trembling. She petted him gently.

“Are you okay?” she said to Audrey.

“She was there. I saw her.”

Norah smiled, satisfied. “Why don't you sit down,” she said, leading Audrey back to the blue chair.

“She was right here,” Audrey said, running her hand through the empty space over the seat. “She was petting the dog. Then she just . . . vanished.”

“She does that.”

Audrey lowered herself slowly into the chair, as if she were afraid she might sit on something. “Was it really her? It looked like her. It looked like Dorothy Parker, sitting right here in my living room. And then she turned to dust and vanished. Am I imagining things? Did I really see that?”

“Of course you did,” Norah said. “Hold Jim Beam for a minute. I'll clean up the mess and then we can chat.” She handed Audrey the dog, and got some paper towels from the kitchen.

“I'm sorry about your Wedgwood,” Norah said as she cleaned and dried the floor.

Audrey remained expressionless, absently petting the tiny puppy.

“You seem shell-shocked,” she continued. “Can I get you anything?”

“I've never seen a ghost before.”

Norah threw the mess away and came back into the living room. She was going to take the dog back, but Audrey was still stroking him.

“So what do you think?” Norah said.

“Think?”

“About the book, about writing the story.”

Audrey looked down at the pup. “He really is cute.
Awfully
cute.”

“Focus,” Norah said. “I need you to focus.”

“I never knew dogs could be so sweet.”

“Audrey,” Norah said, “this is the opportunity of a lifetime for you.”

“Opportunity,” Audrey repeated.

“Listen to me,” Norah said. “If you write this story, you'll be a star. It's going to get national attention. Your career will take off.”

Audrey stared at her blankly. Norah took the puppy from her arms, and it seemed to break her reverie.

“Are you paying attention?” Norah asked. “This is what you've been waiting for. You're going to have work again—more than you can handle. I wouldn't be surprised if you got a book deal. But you have to concentrate now.”

“Okay,” Audrey said, and she did indeed look focused. Her demeanor had transformed—she was back in the conversation.

“Do you understand how big this story is going to be?”