Dorothy Parker Drank Here (23 page)

N
orah rushed back to the Algonquin and checked with the doorman, who confirmed that Audrey had been there yesterday, not today. She thanked him and went straight to the office on the second floor to see if she could talk someone into giving her an address for the one other person likely to have stolen the Algonquin guest book: Edie Coates.

The woman in the office, a cheerful redhead named Debbie, told her that the only individual who might have Edie Coates's home address was their attorney, and Norah knew that she would never be able to pry that information from someone who makes their living keeping secrets.

“Would a Manhattan phone book help?” Debbie asked, pulling a large volume out of her overhead cabinet.

Norah thanked her and quickly thumbed through the tissuey leaves until she reached the right page. She ran her finger down the column of people named Coates, picturing them spread throughout the city, their apartment windows lit up like stars in the night sky. There was no “Edie” in the constellation, but there was a “Coates, E.”
Norah wanted to find out if it was the right person before embarking on her surprise visit, and so she called the number and asked for Edie.

“Who?” said a man with a gravelly voice. Norah was pretty sure she had woken him up.

“Is this the residence of Edie Coates?”

“
Ezra
Coates,” he said.

“Any relation—”

“Wrong number,” he said, and hung up.

Norah sighed and handed the phone book back to Debbie. “I hate to ask,” Norah said, “but could I use your computer for a minute?”

“I wish I could, but I'm not allowed,” Debbie said. “You want to check the other boroughs? I have every phone book.”

“That would be great,” Norah said. “Thanks.”

Debbie opened the cabinet again and grabbed the thick volumes one by one, dropping them heavily onto her desk. Norah picked up the Brooklyn book and began to look through it as Debbie went back to work, typing furiously at her computer.

“Is that
Coates
with an
e
on the end?” Debbie asked, as she stared at her computer screen.

“Yes, why?”

“You didn't hear it from me,” she said, “but try Queens.”

—

T
he subway ride to Forest Hills, Queens, was shorter than Norah had expected. She exited the station and walked past the commercial part of the neighborhood into a quiet residential area filled with tall trees and substantial brick houses with red tile roofs.

She located the address she had found in the phone book, and it was a pretty house, though not as grand as some of the others. It looked like a storybook colonial, and Norah guessed it was well over a hundred years old. She knew that a lot of these historic New York
residences stayed in the same families for generations, and she wondered if this place had ever been home to Percy Coates.

The front door, framed in white-painted molding that contrasted dramatically with the dark red brick, gave the home a stately character. Norah walked up four stone steps to reach it and pressed the bell. A few moments later she heard Edie's voice scream “Who's there!” in a way that sounded accusatory.

“My name is Norah Wolfe. We met at the Algonquin.”

Edie Coates pulled open the door. Her hair was wild and unbrushed, and she was dressed in a colorful floor-length dashiki.
This woman
, Norah thought,
has the most unusual wardrobe I've ever seen
.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“Can I come in?”

“No!”

“Edie, I'm not here to make trouble, but I think you have something that belongs to the hotel.”

“What's it to you? You don't work there.”

That took the wind out of Norah. Edie Coates had been doing her homework. She struggled to find something to say.

“That's right!” Edie continued. “I asked around and found out you were just a
guest
. And a thief, too! Now you have the nerve to come to my door? I should call the police.”

“I'm not a thief,” Norah said. “I . . .” She remembered how terrified Edie had been when Dorothy Parker had appeared, and quickly decided she would play the fear card, pretending she had some potent and mystical connection too mysterious to speak of. “I'm just someone who knows the
power
of that book.”

“Power?” Edie asked.

“It's not something you want to keep in your home,” Norah said. “It could be very dangerous for you.”

Edie went pale. “I know that! You think I don't know that?”

“But you . . . have it,” Norah said.

“I didn't
want
to take it,” Edie said. She looked over her shoulder as if someone might overhear her. “I had no choice,” she whispered.

Norah took a deep breath. “It's vitally important that I get it back,” she said.

“Why? So you can sell it? Make a pile of money?”

“No, nothing like that. There's a reporter who's doing a story about it and . . . a lot is riding on this.”

“That book is very valuable,” Edie said.

Norah waited for her to finish making her point, but Edie just stood there and stared. At last she understood. “Are you offering to sell it to me?”

“Maybe.”

“I'm pretty broke,” Norah said.

“How much do you have?”

“On me?”

Edie nodded. “In cash,” she said.

“Maybe sixty bucks?”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, you can have it for sixty bucks. But you have to give me the money right now.”

Norah looked at Edie's wild, desperate eyes. Was this woman for real? Was she really selling Norah back the book for only sixty dollars? Or was she going to take the money and slam the door in her face?

“I think it's a pretty fair deal,” Edie said.

With no other ideas on the horizon, Norah decided to risk it. She opened her purse, took out her wallet, and extracted all her cash—fifty-seven dollars. She handed it to Edie, who counted it, then folded the bills in thirds and stuffed it into her bra.

“Can I come in?” Norah asked.

Edie shook her head. “I'll be right back,” she said, and slammed the door. Norah heard her footsteps and about thirty seconds later the door opened again.

“Okay, you can come in,” Edie said. “Just don't touch anything. And go along with anything I say. Got it?”

Norah nodded and followed the woman into the house, wondering how dangerous it was to be alone with someone who was so clearly paranoid and delusional.

When they reached the living room, Norah saw that her hunch about the house had been right—it had been in the family for generations. The decor was an accident of years, faded old wallpaper and a crazy conglomeration of mismatched furniture, from dark and cumbersome antiques to midcentury kitsch. And right in the middle of it all was a cheap contemporary couch that looked like the result of a weekend excursion to Ikea.

“Wait here,” Edie said.

Alone, Norah studied the knickknacks that graced every shelf and surface. There were sleek Lladró sculptures and grotesque Toby mugs depicting the faces of weathered seamen in shiny ceramic. One shelf held an assortment of empty wine bottles coated in oily dust. There were seashells and rocks, trophies and souvenirs. Some resident of the home had clearly been an Empire State Building aficionado, as there was an entire case of miniature replicas. The china closet contained dishes from at least three different sets, one of which was heavily rimmed in gold. Incongruously, the bottom shelf held an assortment of Barbie dolls from the 1960s and '70s, propped up on stands. The smell of mold was oppressive.

“You didn't touch anything, did you?” Edie said.

“Of course not.”

Edie presented her with the Algonquin guest book. “Thank you for not pressing charges,” she said loudly, as if there were an audience present. “I honestly don't know what I was thinking when I walked
off with it. I guess you knew it was me because you saw it on the security tapes.”

“Uh, yes. That's right,” Norah said, opening the book to inspect it.

“Don't open it!” Edie cried, pulling the book from her hands and slamming it shut. She looked around and then whispered, “I don't like ghosts.”

“I understand,” Norah said, prying the book from Edie's tight grip. “I promise I won't open it.”

“Please tell your employers at the Algonquin that I'm very sorry, and that I'm dropping my suit. I have no interest in owning this thing.” This, again, was loud.

“No problem at all,” Norah said. “We're glad to have it back.”

“I'll walk you out,” Edie said. She went out to the front stoop with Norah and closed the door behind them. “I fixed the book,” she said in her normal voice.

“Fixed it?”

“The page with the paw print,” Edie said. “I taped it back in.”

“You're the one who ripped it out?”

“When I first read about the book in the
New Yorker
, I almost
died
. I mean, here I was desperate for money, and the answer to all my problems was just a subway ride away. It was perfect—a family artifact that my brother didn't even know about.”

“Your brother?” Norah said.

“Never mind,” Edie said. “The point is, I figured it was rightly mine, and that I could easily sell it without . . . well, let's just say that no one had to know. I'm totally broke, you see, and I have no prospects.”

“I understand,” Norah said, though she didn't. If this woman was so desperate for money, why didn't she just sell her house, or one of the millions of collectibles inside?

“At first, I wasn't going to sue. I went up to the office and very politely explained to them that I was Percy Coates's great-niece, and that I was the rightful heir. But they were so rude! They didn't even
believe I was who I said I was. I was so furious I marched right downstairs and ripped out the last page of the book. I know I shouldn't have done it, but, oh . . . I was in a state!”

“Why did you want to put it back?” Norah asked.

“Are you kidding? When I found out it was a book of ghosts, I
had
to put it back. No way I wanted that hanging over my head.”

“You did the right thing,” Norah said.

Edie leaned in. “You don't think the ghosts are still angry with me, do you?”

“I'll put in a good word for you,” Norah said, holding the book tight against her chest.

“Hey, would you like something to eat?” Edie asked. “A cup of mushroom soup, maybe?”

“I'm fine, thanks,” Norah said, pretending it was an entirely normal question, and left as quickly as she could.

—

N
orah hurried toward the subway station, grateful she still had her MetroCard so that she could get all the way home without stopping at an ATM for cash. She was eager to reach her apartment so she could open the book and have a chat with Dorothy Parker. Then she would return the book to the Algonquin Hotel once and for all.

Norah was also curious about the page Edie had taped back in. Was it possible the book's magic would continue to work, and that Dorothy Parker would get her beloved poodle back for all eternity?

Still clutching the book to her chest, she descended into the dark maw of the subway station, realizing it was nothing but wishful thinking. Dorothy Parker was no more likely to get her dog back than Norah was to recapture her dream of having a meaningful connection with Ted Shriver.

She got a seat on the train and opened the book to inspect it. The pages looked unharmed. She turned to the back to see how Edie
had mended the torn leaf, and discovered that she had done a fairly careful job of matching up the ragged edges and covering them with transparent tape.

As she studied it, Norah became aware of something in her periphery. She looked to her right and saw a swarm of floating dust particles. This time, it wasn't her imagination—the specks were arranging themselves into the shape of a woman. She stared, surprised that Dorothy Parker would materialize right there on the F train.

Norah glanced around, wondering if she should slam the book shut. In typical New Yorker fashion, everyone looked away before she could make eye contact. And when the dust particles settled themselves into a human form, no one reacted, except to go back to their books and newspapers, pretending they hadn't seen it.
This town
, she thought,
is shocked by nothing
.

Dorothy Parker looked up, her hands neatly folded in her lap. “Well,” she said, “this is a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to be rescued quite so soon.”

“You're a surprise for me, too,” Norah said. “I didn't think you would materialize in a crowded public place.”

“I knew no one would notice,” Mrs. Parker said. “New York straphangers are an unflappable lot.”