by Denise Dietz
“She walked right in. My guess is that the maids were cleaning the room. Does Madison know?”
“Yes. But this time I won’t let him talk me into sending her back.”
“This time? She’s done it before?”
“Once, in the beginning of our…relationship. But Madison said she had to go back, that she needed full-time care. Doctor, nurse, the whole enchilada. He said she could get violent and…”
“And?”
“He said she tried to kill him.”
“Oh, I can’t believe that.”
“Neither can I. But I had no reason to believe he’d lie, and her doctor ‑‑”
“Caruth.”
“Right. Dr. Caruth said it would be disastrous for me to take her away, that she was violent. But I think Madison paid him to say that because her new doctor ‑‑”
“Feldman.”
“Right.” Sol gave me a lopsided grin. “Dr. Feldman said it would be good for her to visit, maybe even stay with me.” Sol’s eyes were very blue, and starry, like the bunting on an American flag. “I’m talking permanently, Frannie.”
“Cool.” I wondered if he knew about the needles, which had in all likelihood kept Peggy doped up for years. “Don’t you want to see your wayward child, Sol?”
“She’s no child, she’s a woman, my woman, and yes I want to see her.”
I meant to tell him his woman was asleep, but he’d barely stepped through the door when I heard Peggy’s voice.
“Sol, Sol, I rode an airplane. All by myself. I gave Nurse the slip again, even though, boy oh boy, was she mad the first time I gave her the slip. I took a taxi to the airport. L, A, X. I know the letters stand for something, but I told the driver L, A, X, and he drove me right to the door. After that, it was easy. People are always taking airplanes on TV, so I knew what to do. I showed the…dammit, what’s she called? The reservations lady, yes. I showed her a picture of me and gave her money and said Houston. She told me the number of a gate and said hurry, and there were signs to the gate and they let me on the airplane as soon as I showed them my ticket. When the airplane came down, I wasn’t sure what to do next. I guess I looked scared because a nice colored man who works for the airport asked me if I had bags and when I said no he asked me if I wanted a bus or a taxi or a…what’s it called? Shuttle, yes. I said taxi, and he showed me where they were. I wanted to give him money for being so nice, but he wouldn’t take any, so I got in the cab and told the driver the name of your hotel and…well…here I am. Sol, I love you, and I rode the airplane all by myself.”
“What a clever girl,” he said, his voice a caress. “But I swear, my love, you’ll never have to ride by yourself again.”
At which point, I decided I would visit the lounge in my workout clothes.
VICTOR MADISON’S HOTEL SUITE - HOUSTON
Victor Madison stared at the TV screen, where a Disney bitch was royally pissed at the King and Queen. The next frame depicted the baby who’d grow up to be one hell of a drowsy princess, you might even say the quintessential sleeping beauty, and the baby looked so fucking Disney, as if she didn’t dare shit her diaper. Or spit up. Or cry.
Peggy Mostel had done all those things; shit, spit, cry. Father, may he rest in Hell, had escaped to the nearest saloon, and Ma couldn’t cope. Chaim had been such a good baby, she kept saying. Chaim never cried.
So Chaim (who never cried) had changed Peggy’s muddy diapers and scrubbed infant-puke from his clothes. Every night he paced back and forth, Baby Piglet squealing against his eight-year-old shoulder. He tried to soothe her by singing songs from Snow White. Someday your prince will come and whistle while you work…
Nothing worked.
She cried and spit and cried and shit and cried, while Papa got drunk and Ma slept through it and Chaim thought he’d lose his mind.
So why did he want to make a baby with Frannie?
Because Victor would have a nurse-in-residence. Because Victor would buy a house large enough to muffle the baby’s cries. Because Victor wanted to watch his son nuzzle Frannie’s beautiful breasts.
He’d never filmed a normal family scene, and planned to record every stage of Orson Welles Madison’s growth, from babyhood to --
Holy Christ! Maybe he’d find a nurse who looked like Crawford. Or even better, Bette Davis. And weren’t Joan and Bette a couple of savvy actresses? Past their prime, they’d segued into horror films.
He’d dress Orson’s nurse in an old-fashioned uniform, hemline below the knees. Her face would be hidden by shadows. That way, the audience would see a healthy baby boy but feel an evil presence.
Black and white. Yes. He’d shoot the opening scenes in black and white, the only color a red splotch of blood on Nursie’s white uniform.
Why would parents hire a nurse with blood on her uniform? Hell, he’d figure something out. Maybe, when the parents weren’t looking, the wind would blow open Nursie’s old-fashioned cape and --
Speaking of nurses, he should have fired Peggy’s nurse years ago.
Shifting in his chair, his elbow nudged the notebook that lay on the table. He’d been scribbling Forever Asmodeus observations. Transcribed, the hen scratches would become a legible cast/crew critique. So why had he scribbled the word “Piglet” across an entire page?
Because he couldn’t get her off his mind.
How had she managed to fly to Houston? Where the fuck had she found the money for the ticket? From her new doctor? Christ almighty, Victor had known from the get-go that Feldman couldn’t be trusted. Caruth was easy to control; a physician who favored the same shots he gave his patients was infinitely persuadable. Had Piglet killed Caruth? The last time Victor had seen her, at the cottage, she’d insisted over and over that Caruth didn’t die of a heart attack. Stevie had asked how he died, and Piglet had clammed up. When Victor repeated the question, she’d said, “Don’t call me Piglet.” End of issue. End of focus.
What the hell. She was Sol’s problem now.
Ripping the Piglet page from his notebook, he stuck it inside a bedside copy of Forever Asmodeus. Then he propped himself against the bed’s headboard and focused his thoughts on Frannie. The chemistry was there; every time he touched her, she practically melted at his feet. However, he felt as if he were Chaim Mostel again, spending hours creating a Valentine’s Day card for the pretty girl who sat in front of him at school. She’d given him a card in return, one of those cheap cards you bought at the drugstore, 200 cards for a buck, and his heart had soared. Until he found, on the floor, in the corner of the classroom, a crumpled note she’d written to one of her girlfriends.
OMAR CHAIM IS UGLY, she’d written, then drawn a crude picture of a frog. With an erect penis. Even in Brooklyn, especially in Brooklyn, fifth-graders knew what an erection looked like. Today he would have been flattered by the length of her representation.
Last year he’d hired a P.I. to check her out. Her abusive husband managed a pizzeria. Her favorite music: country. Her favorite movies: Titanic and anything starring Julia Roberts. Her favorite TV show: Survivor.
He’d sent her a Valentine’s Day card. Inside, he wrote: “You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.” Her husband had probably given her one hell of a beating, assuming he read the card.
Victor had mailed the heart-embellished envelope to the pizzeria, but he’d carefully printed her name on it, which should have insured that she, not Hubby, opened the envelope…right?
He hadn’t needed Tenia for that caper. However, when it came to Frannie, Tenia was his insurance policy. Or perhaps collaborator would be a better designation. Victor accepted necromantic precepts. If he hadn’t believed in the supernatural, his horror comics would have been trashed by the age of ten. Long live the Grim Reaper. Werewolves. Vampires. Witches.
Tenia had been told to prepare a potion; Victor’s insurance, just in case Frannie’s melting came from fear rather than desire. He’d asked his witch-on-retainer for a simple love potion, nothing that required e
ye of newt or wing of bat, something that could be slipped into a drink or sprinkled on top of the oysters Frannie consumed by the dozen.
So far, Tenia had come through for him. A couple of requests, a couple of incantations, and he’d found a new scriptwriter, right here at the hotel. After one night in Victor’s suite, Norman Daniels was eager to begin scripting Victor’s next film project. Best of all, Norm hailed from San Francisco and planned to stay there. No cottage shenanigans.
Then, a fax from a Canadian author, Victoria Gordon. If Madison would send Stevie’s disk and notes, she would ghost-write the Forever Asmodeus sequel. Victor liked her chutzpah, and he really liked her sample chapters, also faxed to the hotel. He called his lawyer. Stevie Eisenberg had one living relative, her mother, who was more than happy to sign over all Asmodeus rights for $50,000. Christ! Assuming the Canadian author worked out, Victor Madison could become another V.C. Andrews.
The only goddamn fly in the goddamn ointment had been his verbal blunder. He’d told Tenia that, after the love potion, she was finished. She’d more than earned her retainer and he’d keep her in mind if he needed her again. Of course, he’d fly her back to New York.
His motive had been simple. He sensed Frannie didn’t care for Tenia, was, in fact, repulsed by her.
Tenia had been furious. She would not leave Houston, she said. Equally angry, he said he wouldn’t pay her hotel expenses. She said she’d board with a family ‑‑ Ruby, or Pearlstein, or Diamond, something like that ‑‑ and she wouldn’t even charge him extra for the love potion because Frannie deserved everything she got!
Yes she did, and he’d make sure she got everything she deserved. He had a few necromantic…and ro-mantic…tricks up his own sleeve.
Champagne, for starters, then scented oils. Musk for passion. Jasmine for love. And flowers. From what he’d read, violets and red roses and pink geraniums.
Not that he’d need it, but a mandrake root in his pocket would ensure his sexual prowess.
Stopping the tape, he clicked off the TV. Tonight he’d have his own sleeping beauty, whom he’d kiss awake. As Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim would say: Tonight there will be no morning star.
Chapter Forty-four
Clothed in a black leotard and white tights, I smelled my own sweat. Soon I’d call my room. Surely Sol and Peggy were gone by now.
John the bartender kept serving me oysters and Cokes. Despite The Beach Boys’ “Fun Fun Fun,” I could hear rain pelting the patio.
Too bad my odor didn’t bother Tenia. She straddled the bar stool on my left, flashed her I.D. at John, then ordered two frozen margaritas ‑‑ one for me. I didn’t want a drink, and ever since the Black Mass I’d tried to avoid Tenia. However, I couldn’t turn her down without hurting her feelings and a few minutes with Tenia-the-Witch wouldn’t hurt me.
In any case, she looked as if she was waiting for something or someone. Madison? The spider sequence had been successfully edited and he’d promised to join the cast and crew for a celebratory dinner at a nearby steak house. Maybe I’d go, maybe not. It was raining pitchforks and, without me, Bonnie could perform her own magic on our esteemed director. Bottom line: I didn’t want Victor Madison and Bonnie did.
A second margarita appeared at my elbow. Tempted to accidentally knock the glass over, I saw that John had scribbled NO TEQUILA on the beverage napkin.
“Hi Frannie, and thank you.” Sol claimed the stool on my right.
“You’re more than welcome.” Swiveling, I hugged him.
“Hi and bye Sol,” Tenia said. “I gotta go. How about one last toast, Frannie?”
“Sure.” I picked up my virgin margarita. “Here’s to…what?”
“Love,” Tenia said, clicking my glass with hers.
“Works for me,” I said.
“Me, too,” Sol said.
Tenia wended her way through the crowd to a table, then sat next to Jem and…oh, dear, oh, shit…Mary-Magdalene, novice witch. Should I warn Jem? Warn him about what?
Sheldon Giglia occupied the same table.
Gesturing toward Jem’s group, I said, “What’s Giglia doing here?”
“My guess is that he’s still sleeping with Dawn,” Sol said.
“Lynn Beth told me her ‘mommy’ took off for L.A.”
Sol shrugged. “Shelly looks like a drunk thundercloud. Madison had better watch his back.”
“Don’t be silly. I felled our ex-ass director with one blow.”
“You did? When?”
“During my screen test. You were putting makeup on Lynn Beth.”
“I still say Madison should watch his back. Shelly gets belligerent, especially if he’s drunk. A combination weasel and Bantam rooster.”
Scooping up my empty glass, John the bartender said “There was no tequila in the first margarita, either. You never drink, Frannie, but if I guessed wrong I’ll make you two more. With tequila.”
“You didn’t guess wrong, John. Thanks.”
“Go on, Frannie,” Sol said. “Have one drink. You’ve been…” He grinned again. “A good girl.”
“Okay, John, one.” I swiveled my stool toward Sol. “How’s our Peggy?”
“She’s asleep in my room, after a huge room service meal. A balanced meal, I might add. Vegetables, dairy, and fruit. Corn on the cob and cheesecake with blueberries. Not to mention ice cream with whipped cream, strawberries, and cherries.”
“I think corn is a starch, Sol.”
“I still can’t believe she’s here.”
“Hey Sol…I have a stupid question.”
“There are no stupid questions, just stupid answers.”
“My mother would disagree,” I said, thinking I hadn’t called Mom back yet. “Peggy was at Madison’s house before Stevie Eisenberg’s murder, maybe even during. That’s how she got the money for ‑‑”
“Yes, she told me.”
“My question is, how’d Peggy find the cottage?”
“She gave her nurse ‘the slip’ and took a bus. She had bus money. Madison gives her an allowance, for candy, tampons, books, whatever. Dr. Feldman’s idea. He wanted Peggy to feel independent.”
“Okay, but the security guard didn’t see anyone.”
“There’s a wooded area behind the estate. It’s a long trek, but Peggy’s familiar with the terrain. She’s been to the cottage a dozen times, usually via the gate, but she’s roamed through the woods, even picnicked there. She’s slow, Frannie, but not stupid, especially when her shots wear off.”
Sol looked so enraged, I thought Christ, I’d hate to have him mad at me!
“Apparently,” he said, his voice deceptively calm, “that fucking nurse has been over-tranquilizing her.”
“Yeah, I figured. Why was she at the cottage?”
“She saw something on TV, Jem’s show, the usual storyline…missing will…murder…so Peggy wanted to find her mother’s will.”
“Why?”
“No reason. She saw it on TV.”
“When did her mother die?”
“Years ago. She left everything to Madison. Before her mother’s death, Peggy was sent to a public institution. Which, in my opinion, really fucked her up.”
Now I felt Sol’s rage and wondered if I should continue the Stevie Eisenberg thread.
“After Peggy and I met,” Sol continued, “I had a long talk with her doctor, the first one, Caruth. I believed him when he said Peggy could become violent. I was such a bloody fool.”
“Hey, don’t blame ‑‑”
“I saw her as often as I could. Stupidly, I thought Madison would be grateful to get his sister off his hands.”
“It’s hard to believe he was afraid she would tarnish his image.”
“He’s a control freak, Frannie, but I think it goes deeper than that. I think it has to do with his whole background, the Chaim Mostel years. He’ll tout his films, but camouflage his private life. Even Larry King…all he could get out of Madison was the reason behind his Disney fixation. And wouldn�
�t the tabloids have fun, airing Madison’s dirty laundry?”
Samson’s bio, I thought. Soon a whole clothesline of dirty laundry will be aired, despite Madison’s convoluted precautions.
Carefully, I considered my next words. “Madison’s cottage was trashed, Sol. The cops said the motive was robbery. Stuff was missing. Jewelry. Madison’s silver lighter. His Golden Globe award.”
“The nurse said Peggy came back empty-handed,” Sol said, reading my mind.