The Mystery of the Magic Circle - M. V. Carey [22]
“Isn’t thirteen an odd number to have at a dinner table?” said Jupe.
Farber smiled. “Not if you’re a witch,” he said.
“Then there was a coven!” cried Bob.
Now Farber laughed out loud. “Sure. Why not? Madeline was a witch — or at least she thought she was. She called it the Old Religion. It didn’t have anything to do with riding broomsticks or selling your soul to the devil, but Madeline was convinced that she had some magical powers. We all went along with the act. Madeline was the star, after all, and if she’d decided that we were all going to paint ourselves purple, we’d all have done it. We became members of the coven. Estelle DuBarry and Lurine Hazel and Janet Pierce and even poor, dull Clara Adams — witches one and all.”
“And Jefferson Long?” said Jupe.
“Sure,” said Farber. “I don’t suppose he’d like it known today. He’s got kind of a stuffy image on his television show. But he was a witch.”
Jupiter smiled. “Do you keep in touch with any of those people?”
“With some of them,” said Farber. “Jefferson Long speaks only to policemen these days, so nobody keeps in touch with him. Poor little Estelle, who caused all the trouble between Madeline and Desparto, never made it to the big time. She didn’t really have talent and she didn’t wear well. She now looks like my grandmother and she runs a little motel in Hollywood. She’s not a bad sort.”
“Do you think she’d consent to be interviewed?” asked Jupe.
“Sure. She’d enjoy the attention. Hey, what are you kids doing, anyway? The project of the year for a juvenile fan magazine?”
“Well, I’m taking a course on the history of films,” said Jupe, “and …”
“I see.” Farber took the photo from Bob and studied it. “I’ll give you Estelle DuBarry’s address,” he said. “And I’ve got Ted Finley’s telephone number. He’s a great old guy. And still working in pictures even though he must be about eighty.
Mention my name when you call him.”
“How about the others?” asked Bob.
“Well, Ramon Desparto is dead, of course,” said Farber. “I don’t know how you’d get to talk to Clara Adams. She lives with Madeline and they don’t see anyone.
Nicholas Fowler, the scriptwriter, is dead, too. He had a heart attack a few years back.
Forget about Janet Pierce. She married a count or a duke or somebody like that and went to Europe to live and never came back. Lurine Hazel’s gone, too. She married her hometown sweetheart and went to live in Billsville, Montana. And Marie Alexander — well, it’s a shame about Marie.”
“She’s the pretty girl with the long hair, isn’t she?” said Pete. “What happened to her?”
“She went swimming off Malibu one day and got caught in a riptide and drowned.”
“Good grief!” exclaimed Pete. “That’s three people in the coven who are dead!”
“It’s been a long time since that picture was taken,” said Farber. “We haven’t done too badly. Now Gloria Gibbs, the plain one who was Ramon Desparto’s secretary, she works for a broker out in Century City. Every once in a while I take her out to dinner.”
Jupiter took the photo and looked at it again. He pointed to the man who was identified in the caption as Charles Goodfellow. He was a very thin young fellow with dark hair that was slicked back. “He looks familiar,” said Jupe. “Is he still working in films?”
Farber frowned. “Goodfellow? I’d almost forgotten about him. He did bit parts back in the old days — you know, playing taxi drivers and doormen. You’ve probably seen him if you watch a lot of old movies on TV. I don’t know what happened to him.
He’s the only one I’ve completely lost track of. He’s one of those people who are easy to forget. About the only thing I remember is that he was American, but for some reason his parents lived in Holland when he was a child. He was a strange one. Very fussy. He almost had a fit when he found out that we were all supposed to sip honey and water out of the same cup at the Sabbats. He used to do it, but he always went and gargled afterwards.”
The three boys laughed. “You make a witch