Dorothy Parker Drank Here (6 page)

D
orothy Parker seemed so confident they would be able to talk Ted into doing the show that Norah got swept along in the current. Now that they were on the elevator rising toward his floor, however, she felt an undertow of doubt. She didn't disagree with the notion that deep down a part of him wanted to clear his name. She simply recognized that tapping into such a buried desire would be an enormous challenge. He had been dug in for twenty-five years, and a single conversation about appearing on
Simon Janey Live
wouldn't change that. Dorothy Parker wanted to use the information to blackmail him into doing the show—threatening to leak the story to bottom-feeders if he didn't agree to the interview. But Norah thought that would only enrage him.

No, the way to use the information was through reason—to break past the unjustified loyalty he felt toward his ex-wife. How long would it take to convince him that Audrey had done a heinous thing and didn't deserve his protection? Weeks? Months? The TV show didn't have that long to survive. And for all she knew, neither did Ted.

Norah closed her eyes against a vision of Ted Shriver's funeral—of
his coffin being lowered into the ground as her mother's had been. She recalled that feeling of wanting to stay at the cemetery so her mom wouldn't be all alone. “It's time to go” her uncle had said, and all she could think was
I can't leave her here.
Who is going to stay with her?

“Are you all right, dear?” Dorothy asked.

“Fine,” she said, avoiding eye contact, but her companion stared at her, waiting for more. “I said I'm
fine,
” Norah repeated.

“Yes, of course. Silly me.”

“If I wanted to talk about it, I would talk about it.”

“One of us is willing to drop the subject, but that doesn't seem to be you.”

Norah pushed the already-lighted button for the twelfth floor. “Has anyone ever told you you're exasperating?”

“Part of my charm, dear.”

The elevator stopped on seven and the doors opened.

“Going down?” asked a heavyset woman with overbleached hair, loose jowls, and an ill-advised plaid suit.

“Up,” Norah said.

The woman's eyes fixed on the open book in Norah's hand. “What is that?” she asked.

Norah pushed the
Close Door
button.

The woman blocked it and stepped inside. Norah looked around and realized she was alone. Dorothy Parker had disappeared.

“What do you want?” she asked, backing up.

The woman squinted at her. “Where are you going with that book?”

“What's it to you?”

“Do you work for the hotel?”

“Say yes,”
a voice whispered in Norah's ear. It was Dorothy Parker.

“Yes,” said Norah.

“Are you a lawyer?” the woman asked.

“Why? Does she want to sue the person who sold her that suit?”

“Is there something I can do for you?” Norah asked.

The woman folded her arms. “Don't you know who I am?”

“Of course. How could anyone forget that upholstery?”

“I'm afraid not,” Norah said.

“Are you playing games with me?” the woman asked. “I know they talk about me in the office.”

“I'm sure that's not true.”

“Of course it's true! And I'm
glad
. You know why? Because the only thing worse than being talked about is
not
being talked about. Dorothy Parker said that. You can look it up.”

“Oh please, Norah dear, find out where she lives so you can poison her food.”

“I believe that was Oscar Wilde,” Norah said.

“Who?”

“On second thought, use your bare hands and strangle her now.”

“You never heard of Oscar Wilde?”

The woman bit her lip. “Oh, right. He's that gay guy with all those famous quotes.”

“I'm thinking of one right now: Some cause happiness wherever they go; others
whenever
they go.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you want from me,” Norah said.

“I'm Edie Coates.” She put her hands on her hips for punctuation.

“Great-niece of Percy Coates. She's suing the hotel for the guest book.”

“What floor do you want, Ms. Coates?”

“I want my book.”

“It's not hers.”

“It's not yours.”

“Is too.”

“Now, children.”

“I have nothing more to say to you, Ms. Coates.”

“
Why don't you just give me the book and save yourself a lot of trouble?”

Norah put it behind her back. “I'll call security,” she said.

The woman balled her fists. “It's my book!” Her face contorted like a child's when she's about to cry.

“It is not.”

“It is too!” She tried to reach around Norah to grab it.

“Don't close the book!”
Dorothy Parker said, but Norah didn't know what choice she had. The woman was after it, and Norah couldn't possibly get a grip on it otherwise. She slammed it shut and pressed her back against it, wedging it between her body and the rear wall of the elevator.

Norah tried to stand her ground as the crazed woman shoved her, but the book began to slide downward. The woman gave Norah one hard push and her bottom hit the floor.

Edie snatched the prized possession just as the elevator doors opened. She tried to make a run for it, but Norah grabbed her ankle and she went sprawling. The guest book fell open upon the carpeted hallway, emitting a cloud of dust. As the two of them watched, the particles rose and joined together, forming a fuzzy image resembling a small woman in an old-fashioned hat.

“What the hell?” cried Edie Coates, scrambling to her feet.

The image became more vivid until the particles were inseparable, and the form quite human. Edie stared, frozen in place, her eyes wide in terror.

“I thought I told you not to close the book,” Dorothy Parker said to Norah. She turned to Edie. “And as for you, my dear,
boo
.”

Edie Coates shrieked and ran, ducking into the stairwell.

“Come along,” Mrs. Parker said to Norah, who picked up the book and followed her.

“What on earth was that about?” Norah asked, dusting her hip as they walked down the hallway toward Ted Shriver's room.

“About six months ago, a small article about the guest book appeared in the
New Yorker
, along with speculation that it was
priceless. This attracted far too much attention, and within days some awful vandal ripped out the last page, depriving me of my most precious companion, Cliché, a French poodle who kept me company in some of my darkest hours—both in life and in death. About that same time, this odd woman slithered into the hotel insisting she was the sole heir to Percy Coates's estate and that the book was rightfully hers. But of course, it belongs to the hotel. It has always belonged to the hotel. In fact, several other famous guests have signed it in the years since Percy died.”

“Like who? Writers? Celebrities? Have you met any of them?”

“Yes, dear. I meet them after they perish.”

“That must be fascinating.”

“Not as much as you'd think. Besides, they usually leave me after a single conversation. That damned white light they all think is so appealing. Here's Teddy's room.”

Mrs. Parker knocked but there was no response.

Norah pressed her ear up against the door. “I can hear him,” she said.

“Teddy, dear,” said Mrs. Parker as she knocked again, “open the door.”

Silence.

“Don't be childish. I need to speak with you.”

Norah listened again. “I hear his footsteps,” she said.

“Ted, I'm here with that charming young woman.”

They waited.

“There's something you need to know, Ted,” Dorothy Parker said. “I told her about Audrey . . . about Audrey and your book.”

Norah heard a glass break. “Uh-oh.”

The door opened two inches, remaining latched, and Norah could see a sliver of Ted's face. “You did not,” he said. “You wouldn't.”

“I would. And I did.”

“I could kill you!”

“A little late for that.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“We just want to talk,” Norah said. “Let us in.”

“Not a chance.”

“Mr. Shriver,” she continued, “I understand that you feel a sense of loyalty to your ex-wife, but when you think about—”

“You understand
nothing
.”

“Then explain it to us.”

“Go to hell.”

“Whatever crime you think you're guilty of, you didn't deserve to have your reputation ruined forever. The very fact that Audrey never came forward to exonerate you proves that she's no good. You have to believe me. What she did was . . . monstrous.”

“And who do you think
created
that monster?”

“Fine. You were a terrible person. You cheated on your wife. Shouldn't she have forgiven you by now?”

He didn't respond.

“Think about it,” Norah said. “You've celebrated over twenty-five birthdays and New Years since then. When do you get to turn the page? Shouldn't there be a statute of limitations—”

“Never,” he said, and slammed the door.

“Teddy,” Mrs. Parker said, knocking. “Teddy! Let us in and we won't go to the media with this.”

Norah put her hand on Dorothy Parker's arm. “Forget it,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I just realized there's only one thing that would get him to change his mind.”

“And what's that?”

“Audrey,” Norah said. “We have to find her.”

W
hen Edie Coates's brother died at age forty-nine, she wept in relief. If only she had known he wasn't nearly finished with her.

Gavin had bullied her their entire lives. Her parents explained that he was “just jealous,” which never made any sense to her. What was he jealous of? He was her big brother, and better at everything—sports, schoolwork, making friends. And it wasn't as if their parents showed her any favoritism. He just seethed with resentment that she was alive and occupying space on earth, and no amount of cowering on her part made any difference. As long as there was no one around to see it, Edie Coates's brother hit her every time she came within reach.

And then there was the mockery. On most mornings, her clothing made him snort with derision. And no matter how carefully she measured her words, he found her conversation worthy of ridicule.

Mealtimes were a special problem, as Gavin had decided that average-sized Edie was overweight, and insisted on calling her Chubbo, which he later shortened to Chubs
,
a nickname he would never tire of
.
Everything she put on her plate was subject to his scrutiny and
derision, and her parents were too genteel to intervene. The strongest thing her father ever said was “Mind your manners, Gavin.” And of course, that only made him angrier.

Eventually, she stopped eating dinner with the family, preferring to take food up to her room to eat in private. This suited everyone well. Her brother was glad to be rid of her. Her parents were grateful for the mealtime peace. And Edie found exquisite solace in being able to indulge without judgment. Soon enough, his nickname for her was not an exaggeration.

They lived in an old house that had belonged to her father's uncle, Percy Coates, an eccentric hotelier who had an odd obsession with death. The house had been filled with such strange relics—including several ghoulish taxidermy specimens—that the neighborhood kids called them the Addams Family.

As adults, Edie and Gavin reached an uneasy truce. They were cordial to each other at family gatherings, but she tried to keep a safe distance, as the danger of ridicule was never far off.

When her mother got sick, Edie moved back into the house to take care of her. Gavin couldn't imagine that she had done it out of any sense of obligation and accused her of trying to steal the house out from under him. Then, when her mother died and bequeathed the house to Edie, he brought his fury down like a storm. He called again and again, screaming in rage, until she stopped answering the phone. Then he wrote letters, threatening to sue if she didn't sell the house and split the profits with him. She ignored him, and made modest changes to the home. Notably, she packed up all the preserved dead animals and brought them to a storage unit, where she arranged them facing the door as if ready to attack whomever entered. For good measure, she draped the largest of the beasts—an open-mouthed leopard—with the silk kimono her parents had always warned her not to touch. It was said to possess secret powers that would bring the dead back to life, and had been one of her
great-uncle's favorite acquisitions. She didn't believe it would awaken the long-dead cat, but she got a charge out of the gesture.

She mailed the locker key to Gavin, along with a note saying she had only paid for three months' worth of storage, and he was free to do with it whatever he wished. A few weeks later, he left a message on her answering machine saying she had “no fucking right” to remove the animals from the house, and that his lawyer would hear about it. She hired her own counsel at that point, and he sent Gavin a cease and desist letter.

He paid her one visit after that, demanding the antique train sets in the basement.

“I'll leave you alone after that,” he said. “I promise.”

She wasn't inclined to trust him, but she was so eager for peace she risked letting him into the house. She made sure he went straight to the basement, as there was nothing down there of value except for the trains. As he rummaged around, she went into the kitchen to finish eating her lunch. Edie had made herself a big bowl of mushroom soup, her favorite, and didn't want it to get cold.

When she came out, he was standing in the living room, holding two bags filled with trains and related paraphernalia. She wiped a bit of soup from the corner of her mouth and glanced at him to see if he'd noticed, but he looked wary himself. She scanned the room to make sure he hadn't taken anything. It was so jam-packed with generations of collectibles it was hard to tell if something was missing.

“Did you take anything from here?” she asked.

“Who would want any of this old crap?”

“Good-bye, Gavin. Have a nice life.”

“You have soup on your chin, Chubs. And the place smells like dog shit.”

He stopped contacting her after that, as promised, and didn't attend any more family functions. By that point, he was living with his girlfriend, a woman named Carol Steiner who was ten years older
than him. As far as Edie could tell, they were like a million other mildly unhappy childless couples who thought they were smarter and less lucky than most people they knew.

About five years later Edie got a call from Carol, telling her that Gavin had died unexpectedly that morning from a massive stroke. Edie attended the funeral, accepting condolences from cousins and old friends, eager for it all to be over so she could finally get on with her life, free of her horrible brother.

A few days later, a FedEx box arrived at her house. It contained the mysterious silk kimono she had left in the storage locker, along with a note from Carol saying,
Gavin wanted you to have this
.

Edie stared at the gift, wondering what to do. She could have thrown it right into the trash, which would have been the end of her problems. But she brought it upstairs and hung it in the closet of the old guest room, where it had been most of her life.

That night, Edie was awoken about three a.m. by a man's voice calling her despised nickname. She sat up in bed, terrified. It was Gavin. His voice was unmistakable. But she knew he was dead—she had seen the body. That could mean only one thing . . . he had returned as a ghost.
My God
, she thought.
The kimono!
What a fool she had been! The family lore was thick with ghost tales, and she should have known this was a possibility.

She buried herself under the covers and tried to ignore him, but he called over and over, “Chubs! Chubs! I'm back!”

He went on and on, nearly driving her mad. Finally, she pulled out the baseball bat she kept under her bed and approached the guest room. She would simply grab the kimono, put it outside in the trash.

But when she reached the room, there he was, standing in the doorway, looking as real as he did in life, only paler and more hideous, the kimono over his shoulders like a prizefighter's robe.

“What are you doing here!” she shouted.

“Put the bat away, you idiot. You can't kill a ghost.”

“What do you want?”

“I'm here to protect the house.”

“Protect it? From what?”

“From
you
.”

She tried to take a swing at him with the bat but he was too quick pulling it out of her hands. He held it over her head as if he were about to smash her skull, and she dropped to the floor, cowering.

“Don't hurt me!” she cried. “Please!”

“You think
I'm
mean,” he said, “you should meet the other ghosts in this house.”

She felt a bit of urine leak into her panties. “Other ghosts?”

“If you don't want me to unleash them, you will do what I say. Never sell a single item in this house, do you hear me?”

“But I need the money!” she said. “I spent so much on the lawyers.”

“To hell with the money.”

Edie thought about her dwindling bank account. This house had so many treasures that she knew she could live off them forever. What would she do without them? Except for one disastrous stint as assistant to her father's stockbroker, Edie had never held a paying job in her life. She simply didn't have the constitution for it. Even the cheap apartment she had lived in with a friend had been subsidized by her parents.

Now her brother had cut off her only means of income. And so, with the ghost of Gavin as her controlling roommate, she continued to spend down her inheritance. Every so often she tried to sneak off with a small treasure but was always caught. And there was no chance of getting rid of the dreaded kimono because he never took it off. With money running out, she ate little more than day-old bread and off-brand canned soup she purchased at the dollar store. Edie was poor and miserable, and this made Gavin feel very rich indeed.