by K. K. Beck
“A diet of worms!”
“It was some theological convention or something.”
“Okay, okay, forget all this intellectual Jeopardy! stuff, please.” Nadia gnawed on her knuckle as she so often did when overwrought. Melanie thought she looked kind of like a squirrel when she did it, baring her teeth in an odd way.
“Anyway,” said Melanie in a calm, kindergarten-teacher voice she hoped would soothe Nadia, “the treaty says that if something is still in copyright outside the U.S., then the U.S. has to allow it to be in copyright here too. And apparently Valerian Ricardo’s books, technically, are in copyright in England. These guys say he published them there first. You see, England just signed a treaty with the European Union so that all their copyrights would have the same length of time. On the first of January 1997, a lot of English copyrights were restored to match German ones, including Valerian Ricardo’s, which means the U.S. has to recognize them too under the Uruguay Round.”
“God! It’s so unfair. Why should these fucking Uruguayans and Germans tell me what I can or can’t do?”
“It’s a bitch, isn’t it,” said Melanie. She knew when to stop explaining. Nadia seemed to be slowly getting the fact there was a copyright holder.
“But those books haven’t been in print in years,” said Nadia. “No one knows about them but me.”
“Apparently the owners of the copyright know about them,” said Melanie. “Their attorney has written us a strong letter. We’ll have to negotiate with them. This Quentin Smith character seems to be trying to do that. Although what Vince Fontana is doing here beats me. He seems to be implying that the copyright holder, this company in the Caribbean somewhere, is part of the Mafia and they’ll break our legs if we don’t pay them whatever they ask.”
“Get George on the line and set it up on the speakerphone,” said Nadia pacing. “I want to hear from him who fucked this up and why and what he’s going to do about it.”
As Melanie made the call that she knew would chill George’s bones down to the marrow, Nadia shouted, “Kali-Ra is mine, mine.” Her arms were rigid, her hands were in fists, her eyes were cast upward as if she were laying down the law about this with God. “I will never swerve from my course until I have secured my prize completely.”
Melanie wasn’t sure, but she was pretty certain the phrase came from The Island of Kali-Ra.
* * *
Back in the living room, Rosemary came in and looked at the buffet table with disapproval. “You hardly ate anything,” she announced to everyone. “It’s not getting any warmer.” Glen Pendergast apologetically helped himself to a plate of dinner and Nick refilled the plate that he had hastily abandoned earlier when he heard the crashing jar and the scream. Rosemary sighed and left.
Lila was still haranguing Quentin. Nick thought sadly that if Uncle Sid hadn’t married this nutty old babe years ago, he would be the sole heir, and he’d be the one deciding if he wanted to go for the max or cut a sweet, simple deal that would put him through graduate school in style.
“Listen to her,” said Glen sadly. “She put me through hell and now she’ll put poor Nadia through hell with her phony claims.”
“Is there anything to this stuff about these guys being crooks?” Nick glanced over at Fontana. “I’ve always heard the Mafia made his career and he’s done errands for them ever since.”
“I don’t know anything about that, but there is some doubt in my mind that Lila was ever actually married to your uncle.”
“Really?” said Nick. “Wow.”
“Did you read that book of hers?” Glen rolled his eyes.
“I found it kind of heavy going,” said Nick. “There was all that occult stuff, and the writing was terrible. It was all about her, not him.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of crap in there about how they were brought together in a pure union of two souls, blessed by the Enlightened Ones on a mountaintop in perfect harmony with the universe. Nothing about a marriage license. Valerian Ricardo always made a big point about flaunting convention.”
“Interesting,” said Nick, his heart leaping with hope.
* * *
In the kitchen, Bruno sat at the kitchen table finishing his herbal tea while Rosemary wiped down the counters and told him her life story. “So after Jerry died, I was in a weird space. I needed a place to grieve and regroup, a comfort zone, somewhere where I could do the kind of food I believe in and have some time to work on my memoir of the years I spent on the road. I’m one of the only ones who goes all the way back to the very birth of the Grateful Dead.”
“Wow.”
“It’s important that younger people know how it all went down.”
Bruno nodded. “For sure. My generation is so cut off from the past.”
Rosemary adjusted a long Indian earring. “Yeah, it’s turning out to be so much more than a memoir. It’s like a way for me to get in touch with who I am and I’m sure that’s what will make it so moving to others. I thought after it comes out I could do a cookbook as a follow-up.”
“Great idea.” he indicated his empty plate. “This was a really good meal.”
“Thanks. Hey, I don’t know what you did, but my shoulder hasn’t felt this good in ages. My naturopath hasn’t been able to do anything. I was thinking of going to a chiropractor.”
“I’ll give you my card,” said Bruno. “I put in about ten hours a week as a massage therapist, but I’m working on my degree from Long Beach State in physical therapy.”
“So you don’t work full-time for Mr. Fontana?”
“No. I just drive for the old guy as needed and check in on him once a day. His family is worried about him getting in trouble.”
Rosemary gave the base of the blender a polish. “Drugs and booze, or sex—or both?”
“His problems are more interesting than that,” said Bruno.
Quentin, overwhelmed by Lila’s harangue, had made his escape and come into the kitchen, ostensibly to use the phone. He was surprised to see Bruno there. “Oh, thank God,” he said. “I thought you were all tied up in the garage.”
“The car’s fine,” said Bruno, looking puzzled. “Are you and Mr. Fontana ready to go yet?” He checked his watch. “It’s getting a little late for him.”
“Maybe I’ll just call a cab,” said Quentin, eager to part company with Vince as soon as possible. He’d let Nadia Wentworth and her assistant figure out how to get rid of the old crooner by themselves, and he’d leave as soon as the two women emerged from their conference. He wanted to try for a little more damage limitation and a friendly departure.
“Just out of curiosity, Bruno,” said Quentin, emboldened by the fact that he was about to break free of Fontana and his hired muscle, “where were you when Miss Wentworth screamed?”
“I was down in the basement with Rosemary,” he said. “I carried down the laundry for her because she has some inflammation in her shoulder and should definitely give her deltoids a rest.” He shrugged. “It’s pretty far away and the dryer was going but I did hear what I thought could have been a scream. I wanted to come up and check it out, but Rosemary told me that Miss Wentworth yells all the time.”
* * *
Back in the living room, Nick noticed that Duncan Blaine was practically sitting in Callie’s lap, with a hand on the incredibly smooth knee that had emerged from the slit in her sarong. “Did it hurt much when they punched that hole next to your belly button?” he was asking as he drained his glass. “Maybe I should freshen these up, my dear. Same again?”
Nick didn’t like her relaxed posture, or the fact that she seemed to be giggling. While Duncan was busying himself over by the liquor cabinet, he leaned over the back of the sofa and whispered, “Need rescuing?”
“Sure,” she said, offering him a lazy arm, indicating she wanted to be pulled off the sofa. He obliged, and she fell onto his shoulder, then took his hand. “Come with me,” she said. “Into the moonlit garden. I have much to reveal, Raymond Vernon, things that will asto
nish you.”
“Maybe we should wait until the police come,” he said.
“It is my wish, the wish of Kali-Ra,” she said throatily.
“Okay,” said Nick. “Your wish is my command. Fresh air will do us both good.” Nick himself had been drinking wine throughout the eventful evening, and it was clear he would be doing the driving later.
She led him back out onto the dark but balmy and flower-scented terrace and past some dense shrubs, then opened the little woven pouch she wore strapped to her torso and took out what appeared to be a fat joint and a Zippo lighter. “This has all been a pretty weird couple of hours,” she said, lighting up with a practiced hand. She stared up at the stars, exhaled in a series of parsimonious puffs, and handed it to him. “This is some good shit,” she said. “Your uncle Sid would have loved it.”
* * *
Quentin Smith sat in a corner of the living room trying to look tiny and remain unnoticed. Fortunately, Lila had decided to babble away at Glen Pendergast. Meanwhile, Vince Fontana and Duncan Blaine seemed to have patched things up and were busying themselves over at the end of the room with the liquor cabinet, drinking and chain-smoking like a couple of fifties rat packers.
Things were about as bad as they could possibly be. Quentin saw nothing but obstacles to his goal of securing Maurice a million plus for the Kali-Ra rights.
First of all, there was Maurice’s operation itself, which was a criminal enterprise, and ripe for a RICO prosecution.
Years ago, as a lawyer representing a lot of people in show business, Maurice had arranged to buy up rights, collect the fees and royalties they generated, then pay his clients under the table in cash, saving them a bundle in taxes. A liberal and flexible tax policy in his offshore hideaway, which also offered citizenship for a flat fee, eliminated any tax problems Maurice himself might have encountered.
His hefty income was based on his commissions as a cutout. Every once in a while he got lucky and a rock star died of a drug overdose. Then, Maurice, the legal owner, could keep all the royalties, leaving the ignorant heirs high and dry.
The whole thing had worked smoothly for years, saving some of the biggest names in show business a lot of money. The customers, people like Vince Fontana, whose tax problems had been enormous before they “sold” the rights to Maurice, weren’t about to complain. But now that Carla Lomax of Carla and the Cleartones was on the job, and until she could be bought off, things in Maurice’s empire were pretty shaky.
Even if they managed to get Carla in line, Lila Ricardo was ready to do battle. As far as Quentin could tell, she had neither evidence that Maurice was running a scam nor deep pockets. But she could raise a lot of hell, which could be dangerous, especially with Carla Lomax on the offensive at the same time. And Nadia Wentworth seemed tight with the old woman. She might finance a suit for Lila.
Quentin looked over at Lila now, nattering away at the professor. If only that gigantic vase had hit her! He wouldn’t have minded helping it along himself. This was as low as he’d ever sunk. Yes, it had come to this. He was ready to kill old ladies to keep Maurice off his back.
CHAPTER XXII
A MESSAGE OF DOOM
Nadia was still yelling at George on the phone when Melanie decided to leave the office and check to see if the police had arrived. It seemed to be taking them a while. Tom and Kevin weren’t back either.
In the living room, Lila was carrying on to Glen Pendergast about Valerian Ricardo and how tragic it had been that his genius had never been acknowledged in his lifetime. “Your book could have done something about this terrible injustice,” she said in an accusing tone.
Melanie had had it. Lila was going to bed right now. She went over to her and said in a bossy voice, “The doctor says you need your rest.”
“Yes,” said Glen Pendergast hastily. “He gave her some sleeping pills too.”
This was good news. “Where are they?” demanded Melanie.
“I don’t know,” said Lila vaguely. “Maybe Nadia has them.”
“I saw her put them in her purse,” said Glen, pointing at Lila’s big handbag. “The doctor was very worried about you. You better take those pills and go to bed,” he said sternly to the old woman.
“After what’s happened, I’m a little nervous about sleeping in the guest cottage,” Lila said.
“I understand,” said Melanie. “You can sleep in the Blue Room.” With Duncan Blaine and Glen Pendergast both in residence, this was the only free bedroom.
“Is the bed on a north and south axis?” asked Lila suspiciously. “The Enlightened Ones told Valerian long ago that it’s psychically dangerous for highly sensitive people to sleep at an angle to polar magnetism.”
Melanie was beginning to feel as if she were trying to get an obstinate five-year-old to tuck in for the night. She mentally reviewed the orientation of all the beds in the house and realized that only one of them would meet the Enlightened Ones’ criterion.
“Fine. We’ll put you in Nadia’s room. You’ll love it. There’s a swan bed on a raised platform and a fireplace and a private balcony and a Jacuzzi and everything.” If Nadia protested, Melanie would simply say they had no choice because the Enlightened Ones wanted it this way. Maybe that would accelerate the process of disillusion.
“Well, all right,” said Lila.
Melanie grabbed Lila’s handbag and clicked it open. She removed a bottle of pills, and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. There, she was surprised to see Rosemary watching a baseball game with a young man who looked like a bouncer or a loan shark’s enforcer.
“This is Bruno, Mr. Fontana’s driver,” explained Rosemary.
Melanie nodded warily. “Listen, Rosemary,” she said, “I’m sorry we’ve kept you working so late. If you could do one last thing before you go to bed, I’d appreciate it. Lila needs to be settled in for the night in Nadia’s room.”
Rosemary raised her eyebrows. Melanie handed over the pills. “And give her a couple of these too. Make sure she takes them.” As far as Melanie was concerned, if Lila never woke up it would be too soon.
* * *
Like everything else about the place, the pool looked exactly as a movie star’s pool should look, vast, trimmed in Moorish tiles, fringed with palm trees. At one end, there was a kind of covered patio area with a tiled fireplace and masses of wicker chairs and settees; at the other were what looked like changing rooms.
“Oh, God, it’s so beautiful,” said Callie, staring at the darkness of the pool. “The stars are reflected in the water.” She turned to Nick, gripped his shoulder and said in an excited voice, “Being rich must be the most wonderful thing in the world. You can even buy stars to float in your pool.”
“Stars should be free,” he said, puzzled. But she was right. They were for sale, weren’t they? In Minneapolis they were often under cloud, but if you bought a house here you could buy clear skies, reflecting bodies of water to capture them, and balmy evenings in which to appreciate them.
“Let’s swim,” said Callie.
“Do you think it’s okay?”
“I don’t care if it is or not,” said Callie fiercely. “When else can we have a private moonlight swim in a huge garden? Maybe never.”
“Maybe there are some suits in the changing rooms,” said Nick, trying the door handle. It was locked. He walked over to the next one, but was interrupted by the sight of Callie flinging off her little purse, and stepping out of her sandals. A moment later, she had shed her bikini top and cast it aside, untied her sarong and let it slither to the ground, and stepped out of a sliver of white lace.
She gave a wild little laugh, then ran naked to the edge of the pool and stood there in a diving pose for a second. He had just a glance of her pale body gleaming in the moonlight before she executed a perfect dive, scattering the stars in the pool. Nick scrambled out of his own clothes and dove in after her.
* * *
Nadia had slammed down the phone after firing George and stormed back into the
living room. There was no one there but Duncan Blaine and Glen Pendergast. “Where’s Melanie?” she demanded.
“She’s seeing Vince Fontana and that wet guy out the front door,” said Pendergast.
“Nadia, darling,” said Duncan gushily, “I’ve just written the most beautiful scene for you. It makes the whole story come alive.” Suddenly his expression changed. “Oh, hell,” he said. “I lost the whole fucking thing in that power outage. I’ve got to recapture it!”
“Listen, Duncan,” said Nadia, with a curl of her lip. “Don’t bother me with your stupid problems. Why don’t you get back upstairs and get to work? That’s what we’re paying you for.”
Glen could see that Duncan Blaine’s face had taken on a look of pure hate, but Nadia had already turned away from him and flung herself sulkily into a chair. She had sounded pretty harsh, he thought, but of course the poor woman was under such pressure. With what looked like a great effort of will, Duncan regained his composure and left the room with an air of quiet dignity.
“Boy, you sure have been stressed out today, haven’t you?” said Glen in a kindly voice.
She closed her eyes, allowed her head to fall back and ran her hand across her brow. “I’ve been through hell. As if almost getting killed weren’t enough, now some creeps from Uruguay are fucking me over.”
“I gather that there’s some confusion about the rights.”
She sighed. “Those bastards will probably try to hold me up for really big bucks. It might even jeopardize the project.”
“That would be terrible,” he said solemnly. “You were born to play Kali-Ra.”
“Yes, I know I was,” said Nadia.
“I know this sounds kind of weird,” said Glen, earnestly, “but I first thought that a long time ago, when I was doing my research on Valerian Ricardo and read all the books. I kept seeing you as Kali-Ra. To me, you are the Queen of Doom.”
“Really?” said Nadia. Her eyes opened, her lovely head resumed its upright position, and she looked over at Glen with a softened expression.
