Death of a Blue Movie Star

She pulled on her jeans and a red silk kimono, then walked to the front of the boat. She opened the door and found she was looking at Shelly Lowe's back. The actress was examining the water lapping under her feet as she stood on a small gangway painted egg-yolk yellow. She turned and shook her head. Rune nodded at the familiar reaction.

"It's a houseboat. You live on a houseboat."

Rune said, "I used to make wisecracks about having water in the basement. But the material's limited. There aren't a lot of houseboat jokes."

"You don't get seasick?"

"The Hudson River isn't exactly Cape Horn." Rune stepped back to let Shelly into the narrow entryway. In the distance, along the roof of the pier to the north, a flash of color. Red. It reminded her of something disturbing. She couldn't remember what.

She followed Shelly into the boat.

"Give me a tour."

The style: nautical suburban ranch, mid-fifties. Downstairs were the living room, kitchen and bath. Up a narrow staircase were two small rooms: the pilot house and bedroom. Outside, a railing and deck circled the living quarters.

The smell was of motor oil and rose potpourri.

Inside, Rune showed her a recent acquisition: a half-dozen Lucite paperweights with flecks of colored plastic chips in them. "I'm very into antiques. These are guaranteed 1955. That was a great year, my mother tells me."

Shelly nodded with detached politeness and looked around the rest of the room. There was a lot to put politeness to the test: turquoise walls, a painted vase (the scene: a woman in pedal pushers walking a poodle), Lava lamps, kidney-shaped plastic tables, a lampshade made out of Bon Ami and Ajax cleanser cartons, wrought-iron and black-canvas chairs you sank down into like hammocks, an old Motorola console TV.

Also: an assortment of fairy-tale dolls, stuffed animals and shelves filled with old books.

Shelly pulled a scaly, battered Brothers Grimm off the shelf, flipped through and replaced it.

Rune squinted at Shelly, studying her. A thought occurred to her. She laughed. "Know what's weird? I've got a picture of you."

"Me?"

"Well, sort of. Here, look."

She took a dusty book from the shelf and opened it up. Metamorphoses.

"Some old Roman dude wrote these stories."

"Roman?" Shelly asked. "As in Julius Caesar?"

"Yeah. Here, look at this picture."

Shelly glanced at the color plate of a beautiful woman being led out of a dark cave by a man playing a lyre. The caption read: Orpheus and Eurydice.

"See, you're her. Eurydice. You look just like her.". Shelly shook her head, then squinted. She laughed. "I do, you know. That's funny." She looked at the spine of the book. "This is Roman mythology?"

Rune nodded. "It was a sad story. Eurydice died and went down to Hades. Then Orpheus-he was her husband, this musician guy-went to rescue her. Isn't that romantic?"

"Wait. I've heard that story. It was an opera. Didn't something go wrong?"

"Yeah, those Roman gods had weird rules. The thing is he could take her out of the Underworld as long as he didn't look back at her. That makes a lot of sense, right? Anyway, he did and that blew the whole thing. Back she went. People think myths and fairy tales have happy endings. But they don't all."

Shelly gazed at the picture for a moment. "I collect old books too."

"What kind?" Rune assumed erotica.

But Shelly said, "Plays mostly. In high school I was president of the drama club. A thespian." She laughed. "Whenever I tell somebody in the Industry-I mean, the porn business-tell them that, they say something like, 'What's that, a dyke with a speech problem?' " She shook her head. "My profession's got a pretty low common denominator."

Rune clicked on an ultraviolet light. A black-light poster of a ship sailing around the moon popped out into three dimensions. It was next to purple-and-orange tie-dye hangings. "I mix my eras. But you don't want to get too locked in, do you now? Never be too literal. That's my motto."

"Avoid it at all costs." Shelly had climbed up to the pilot house and was pulling the whistle cord. There was no noise. "Can you take this thing out for rides?"

"Naw, it doesn't drive," Rune said. "Oh, no wait, I'm supposed to say she. She doesn't drive."

"Drive?"

"Well, sail or whatever. There's a motor, but it doesn't work. My old boyfriend and I were driving up along the Hudson and we found it-I mean, her -moored near Bear Mountain. She was for sale. I asked the owner to take me out for a spin and he said the motor didn't work so we went out for a tow. We did a lot of haggling and when he agreed to throw in the Formica dining room set I had to get it."

"You pay to dock it here?"

"Yep. You pay the Port Authority. They still run the docks even though they don't have much ship traffic anymore. It's pretty expensive. I don't think I can stay here forever. But it'll do for now."

"Is it safe?"