Book of Shadows

by Marc Olden

  Returning from the bathroom, Gina climbed into bed and turned her back to Marisa, who lay awake watching the child. Gina was a bright girl, pleasant when she wanted to be, but also given to fits of moodiness and periods of noncommunication. Marisa attributed the dark side of the child’s nature to the sexual abuse she’d suffered three years ago in the school basement. Perhaps the memory of that horror made Gina cling to her father for protection. Bess was under constant pressure to make up for it.

  But deep inside, the detective knew he could never erase the scars his daughter bore, and this knowledge often made him as moody as Gina.

  Now that Marisa was awake, she had worries of her own. Should she tell anybody, including her agent, that she was staying with Joseph Bess for a few days? Actors lived for the ring of a telephone; it could mean a job. Ninety percent of an actor’s time was spent looking for work. A mere ten percent was spent acting. To ask Marisa or any actor to avoid talking to agents was like asking rabbits not to breed.

  Marisa would have to telephone Jules. She dismissed the thought that he might be a changeling or a witch. She’d been with him six years and he was good old Jules, a shrewd, calm man who was an expert chef, had a dry sense of humor, and preferred cocker spaniels to people. Nor could she suspect the actors and production people she worked with on World and Forever. While most actors weren’t wrapped too tight to begin with, it was hard to imagine any of the ones she knew chanting bare-assed around a boiling cauldron.

  But anything was possible. Anyone could be a changeling, and anyone could be a witch. A few weeks ago would Marisa have imagined herself naked in her apartment wielding a knife and fighting for her life? Would she have imagined Nat and Ellie Shields murdered? Would she have imagined herself stalked by people from a barbaric past, who were very much alive and in tune with that past?

  Would she have imagined that she faced being burned alive because of a book?

  Marisa looked over at Gina, who was either asleep or pretending to be. In either case it was best to leave her alone. Tomorrow Marisa would turn on the charm and simply dazzle the snaggle-toothed little dear. There were other thoughts preventing Marisa from sleeping, thoughts that had to do with Cornell Castle and Alison Sales. Something had occurred or been said in Marisa’s apartment when those two were there, and it was important that she remember. But she couldn’t. For the life of her she couldn’t.

  On Monday Joseph Bess would have to file his report on the murder attempt and the assault and Marisa would have to answer more questions. Maybe the questions would jog her memory. It was the detective’s feeling that whoever was after the Book of Shadows would be making a move soon. He guessed that if the book was important enough to trigger a power struggle between the coven and the Druids, it was important enough to invite more trouble. The name of the politician-changeling was somewhere in its pages and that alone meant the person holding the book was in danger.

  Thank God Bess was armed. He also knew the neighborhood beat cops and had asked them to keep an eye on his building. He was, he said, expecting trouble from some crazies involved in one of his cases. The only description he had was of a stocky, white-haired man and a tall woman with thick glasses.

  A uniformed patrolman had rung the bell Saturday night and spoken to Bess, promising to have someone else check in Sunday morning. Marisa should have slept better knowing all of this, but she hadn’t. The danger she usually faced was unreal and on stage or in front of a television camera. Reality had never interested her, and the possibility of her death was something she had long ago pushed far back into her mind. Now suddenly she had to confront dying and it wasn’t pleasant. If I could find the author of this script, she thought, I’d have him do a rewrite.

  Eventually she fell asleep and dreamed dreams that made her wake up more than once with her heart pounding. Each time she looked over at Gina without quite knowing why, only to find the child quietly sleeping, her back still to Marisa.

  The next time Marisa awakened, the sun was in her eyes and she smelled fresh coffee. Somewhere in the apartment Edith Gupta laughed and in another apartment a tenant was practicing vocal scales badly and enthusiastically. Gina’s bed was empty.

  And then the door opened and a smiling Gina entered carrying a glass of orange juice on a tray. “I made this for you,” she said. “I took out all the seeds.”

  “Thank you,” said Marisa. “I absolutely hate seeds.”

  Gina’s smile grew wider. Stroking, thought Marisa. The kid needs stroking just like the rest of us.

  The sun was warm on Marisa’s bed and across her legs and when she reached out to touch Gina’s long blond hair, the child gently and lovingly caressed Marisa’s hand.

  Marisa sipped the orange juice and closed her eyes with pleasure. It was going to be a good day after all.

  After hanging up the phone, Anthony Paul Bofil took his pencil and crossed the last name off his list. He flopped back in the huge black leather chair and folded his hands in his lap. He’d just finished canceling all of his appointments for the next forty-eight hours. Some he’d canceled himself, the rest he’d left to his staff to handle. Bofil was staying in New York for the next two or three days because New York was where he could best defend his life.

  It was approaching noon on a sun-filled Sunday and he’d been on the phone for almost two hours. There was no need now for him to leave his Sutton Place coop, where he felt safe from the Comforts or anyone else. The building security was excellent, with closed circuit television, electric eyes, burglar alarms, and round-the-clock doormen.

  As for the duplex itself, there were only two doors in or out. The apartment had an expensive silent alarm system and the doors, commissioned by Bofil’s law firm, were solid oak with a steel plate embedded in each one. In addition to Ronald, his chauffeur-bodyguard, Bofil had hired another bodyguard and both men, armed, were to stay inside the apartment with him. Like Ronald, the second bodyguard was also a former cop who had been dismissed from the force for criminal activity. Bofil found such men efficient in matters of violence and less likely to draw the line at dirty tricks than an honest citizen would be.

  The two bodyguards had worked out a system of standing watch that allowed one man a few hours’ sleep while the other stayed awake. Most of the time, however, both men were awake.

  But the one asleep at night slept fully clothed in the bedroom next to Bofil’s, his gun under the pillow with the safety off. The bedroom door remained open at all times.

  All Bofil had told his bodyguards was that he was having some difficulty with people he’d run up against in politics and that there might be some shooting. The men would be required to guard him for the next three days. After that the trouble should be over.

  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 getting 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 allowe
d 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.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  IT 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 w
e 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?”