Devil's Food (12 page)

“Someone’s got to tell them.”

“Want me to come along?”

“No thanks. You’ve got problems of your own, I expect.” Ross glanced at the alarm clock: morning already. Funny how hours,
lives, just melted away. “Where’s Philippa?”

“She left last night for New York.”

He chuckled emptily. “She never was one for cleaning up her own mess. I wonder how I’m going to explain this to people.”

“ You don’t have to explain anything. Dana died with his clothes on.”

His wife still made excuses for Philippa. Ross couldn’t believe it. “Do me a favor, will you? Remind your sister that Dana
had a
wife and kids. I’d appreciate her resisting the temptation to get a few cheap headlines out of this.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Emily stood up. “Call you later.”

As she stepped outside, a light breeze lifted her hair. A yellow-white sun hovered above the Common; this would become one
of those serene September days, tinged with autumn, that broke the heart. Emily put her sunglasses on; sunshine was a particularly
cruel reminder that the gods never grieved over the death of a minuscule human. They just continued frolicking with the stars.

Entering Diavolina, Emily saw Ward and a man at a corner table. Even from a distance, Ward looked more wretched than usual.
Her hair lay flat against one ear, caromed off the other, as if a demon had been vacuuming her head as she slept. A Milky
Way of cooked oatmeal streaked the front of her sweatshirt. Emily had not seen her smoking before. “Hi Major,” Ward said in
a gritty baritone voice, brushing ash from her enormous thighs. “Speak to Detective O’Keefe.” She went into the kitchen.

The man shook Emily’s hand, appraising her with a candor honed by forty years in morgues, courtrooms, and bars. He beckoned
her to sit. On the table in front of him, a dozen ripped pink envelopes clustered a pot of coffee. “I’d like to ask a few
questions about last night,” he said, reaching for a notepad. “You were in charge of the kitchen and I understand you were
a friend of the deceased.”

“He was my husband’s business partner. I’ve known him for fifteen years.”

“Did he have any health problems that you were aware of? Allergies? Heart condition?”

“No. He was in good shape.”

“What did he eat last night?”

“Rolls, goat cheese, mushrooms in port, filet mignon with horseradish sauce, Swiss chard, potatoes, black currants and cream.
I think he drank champagne.”

O’Keefe looked at his notepad. “Plus vodka and chianti. And dried cherries. Who made the dinner?”

“Byron Marlowe, the sous-chef.”

“Why didn’t you make it?”

“Byron wanted to. Dana’s date was—is—a famous actress. Byron’s a fan. I had more important things to do in the kitchen.”

O’Keefe thought about that a moment. “Was Byron acquainted with the deceased?”

“Not that I know.”

“Is he a good chef?”

“He knows his way around a stove.”

“I mean mentally, what’s he like? Delusional? Hysterical? Still going for his fifteen minutes of fame?”

Emily shrugged. “I’ve only been working here for four days. Byron was fairly normal until Dana dropped dead during his little
speech. His nerves were already on edge from making dinner for Philippa Banks.” Emily paused; sooner or later she’d have to
make the next statement. “She’s my sister.”

O’Keefe nodded as if he knew that already and had just been waiting for Emily to mention it. “Were Forbes and your sister
old friends, then?”

“Is this relevant?”

The detective’s clear blue eyes suddenly met hers. “Insofar as it affected the dead man’s pulse rate, yes.”

“Then I would say that Dana’s pulse rate was somewhat higher than it would be had he been out to dinner with his wife.”

“Understood.” O’Keefe sipped his cold coffee before returning to his original line of questioning. “Did Forbes have any addictions?”

“Wine. Women. Work.”

“Any enemies?”

“What does that mean?”

“Just a routine question, Mrs. Major. A healthy man dropped dead over dinner. It doesn’t happen every day.”

“Why would Dana have any enemies? He hardly paid attention to his friends.”

“Was your husband his friend? Business aside?”

“They’ve known each other for forty years. They were like brothers.”

“No arguments? Business problems? Misunderstandings?”

“None that I’m aware of.” She marveled at her own cool mendacity: How easily one fibbed to protect a wounded husband.

O’Keefe waited a moment. “Where was your husband last night?”

“Working.”

“I see. Thanks for your help, Mrs. Major. The autopsy will probably explain everything.” O’Keefe stood up. “I’ll be in touch.”

The kitchen doors swung open, emitting Ward. “Can I get my kitchen back on track now, Detective?” she yelled, stalking to
the table. “You’ve got evidence up the wazoo. I’ve got five cooks going apeshit back here.” She looked at Emily. “The cops
are checking for food poisoning.”

No restaurant needed that kind of publicity. “Is this necessary?” Emily asked O’Keefe. “No one else got sick here last night.
My sister ate everything Dana did. She was alive and kicking when we put her on the plane.”

“How is she now?” he asked.

“I would have heard if she burped wrong. You can call her and check if you like.”

“Not necessary. I already have her statement from last night.” O’Keefe seemed reluctant to talk in front of Ward. “You’ve
both been very helpful. Thanks.”

They followed him to the kitchen, where O’Keefe’s assistant was finishing up with Byron. “I’ve told you again and again,”
the sous-chef was explaining, “this was a special meal. I didn’t use recipes. I only made enough for two people. It tasted
good. They ate everything. There were no leftovers. No doggie bags. Nothing.”

“Not even gravy?”

“Oh Christ, especially not gravy! Sauces are my specialty! Pump a few stomachs if you still need samples!”

“Okay, okay. Who handled the booze?” the assistant detective asked.

“Zoltan. You already grilled him.”

“And the waiter was ... Henry?”

“Eddy! Eddy! Don’t try to trick me!”

Klepp had been slouching in the doorway, smoking. “Just tell them about the arsenic in the mushrooms, Byron,” he called, spinning
the cigarette into the driveway. “Then we can all get back to work.”

O’Keefe walked over to him. “Think we’re joking here, Shorty?”

“Watch your language, Officer,” Chess warned. “I’m about ready to file harassment and discrimination charges.”

“Oh. Pardon me. I forgot.” O’Keefe suddenly twisted Klepp’s shirt tightly at the throat and nearly lifted him off the floor.
“Think we’re joking here, Mr. Altitudinally Challenged?” After a few seconds he let go. “One more crack and I’ll bust your
runty little ass.” O’Keefe looked over the kitchen crew. “Does anyone have anything to add to the statements made this morning?
No? Then we’ll let you get back to your business. Thank you kindly.” He and his assistant passed ominously close to Klepp
on their way out the rear door.

“You should know better than to mess with cops,” Mustapha muttered after a moment. “Especially when they’re twice your size.”

Klepp angrily rattled his sauté pans. “Leo never would have let the cops in the kitchen in the first place.”

“Let them do their jobs,” Emily said, looking around. “Where’s Slavomir?”

Chess fluffed a few dandelion greens. “He hasn’t come in yet.”

“Ha!” Byron snapped out of his stupor. “He knows I’ll kill him for drinking all my port last night. Wrecked my recipe. I hope
you’re going to take it out of his salary, Ward. Charge him for fifty broken dishes while you’re at it.”

“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’” quoted Mustapha. “Why are you so spiteful, Byron? They weren’t your dishes anyway.”

“That’s enough, children,” Ward interrupted. “Major, come with me. Everyone else, get to it. We’re serving lunch today.”

Emily followed her to the table in the dining room. Brushing aside O’Keefe’s mound of pink envelopes, Ward said, “I would
have appreciated knowing that Philippa Banks was your sister. It would have explained the chaos in here yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. I try to keep it quiet.” Emily felt intensely stupid.

“You’re not proud of a sister like that? What’s the matter with you?” Ward flicked a lock of hair out of her eye. “Obviously
I’m not too thrilled about a stiff in my dining room, either. What happened while I was away? I have five versions already.
May as well hear yours.”

“You left around eight, I think. We were already jammed and the kitchen was a zoo. Philippa and Dana got here about nine-thirty.
Eddy, the new waiter, served them. They ate and probably drank a lot. Byron wanted to make a little speech with dessert, so
he came out after the berries. He was about to start when Dana collapsed. That’s my version.”

Ward lit another cigarette. Her voice was raw. “Then what.”

“My sister has a great set of lungs,” Emily said. “Byron’s aren’t bad, either. When I realized they weren’t screaming at each
other, I rushed to the dining room. There were one hundred people, all staring at this body on the floor. Then they stared
at me because I look like Philippa. They probably thought the whole thing was a practical joke. I remember a few people laughing.
It was bizarre, a dream. Dana was dead.”

“You checked?”

“Any decent chef knows first aid.” Emily forced her voice down. “I announced that he had fainted and had Zoltan and Eddy lug
him to the kitchen.”

“What did your sister do?”

“She managed to half-faint into Byron’s arms.” Emily guffawed. “Would have fainted entirely if she thought Byron was strong
enough to carry her. Once we got Dana out of the dining room, things gradually returned to normal.”

“What about your sister? Did she realize Dana was dead?”

“Why the hell do you keep asking about my sister?” Emily snapped.

Ward looked surprised. “Sorry. What happened then?”

“Zoltan and Eddy carried the body to my office. Slavomir was in there sleeping. He went nuts when he saw Dana so I sent him
home. I put Philippa and Byron in your office with a bottle of brandy and told them everything would be all right. Then I
called the police. To answer your question, yes, Philippa knew he was dead.”

“How’d she know?”

“She saw my face as I was listening for a heartbeat.” It was the only time in her life that Emily had seen Philippa look helpless.
“Then the police came and took statements. They were carrying Dana out when you got back.”

“Nothing like running into a body bag on the steps of your restaurant. I’ll have diarrhea for a week.” Ward poured herself
a cup of cold coffee. “You’re a cool cucumber, lady. Not everyone could have handled a corpse with such aplomb.”

Emily’s heart twitched: laughing Dana a corpse? “I lived in Turkey and Korea,” she replied. “Bodies are part of the scenery
there.”

Out on Tremont Street, a redhead in a brilliant green suit was peering into the front window. “She’s a little early for lunch,”
Ward commented suspiciously, watching as the woman tested the doorknob. “Cripes, who left the door unlocked? Hello! Can I
help you?”

The woman walked to the table. Her purse matched her shoes matched her lipstick matched her eye shadow. The effect was merely
humanoid. “I’m looking for the person in charge here.”

Ward picked a fleck of oatmeal from her sweatshirt. “Speaking.”

“My name is Wyatt Pratt. I am here representing Ardith Forbes.” Seeing that neither name meant anything to Ward, she said,
“The widow of Dana Forbes.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

Pratt’s lips curved imperceptibly upward, as if she had just
been given an expensive chocolate. “Mrs. Forbes believes that the negligence of this restaurant is responsible for her husband’s
death.”

“That’s pretty swift,” Emily said. “He was only eating here twelve hours ago.”

Pratt lay a thick envelope on the table. “This is fairly self-explanatory. I’m sure you’ll consult your attorney if you have
any further questions.” Smiling with a saccharinity that tempted people to punch her in the teeth, she left.

Ward and Emily stared at Wyatt Pratt s envelope for a few moments, half expecting it to quiver to life, like a stunned rodent.
“This is all my fault,” Emily said finally. “Maybe I should have kept flipping pancakes at Cafe Presto.”

Ward slit the envelope open with a fork. “I can’t afford any goddamn lawyers.”

“Forget it! I’ll have my husband speak with Ardith. Once she knows I’m chef here, she’ll drop the suit.”

Ward skimmed the neat typing. Suddenly her eyes bulged at a couple of difficult words. “Is your friendship with Ardith worth
ten million bucks?”

Emily’s friendship with Ardith wasn’t worth two cents. Ardith was one of those overhauled, anorexic wives who knew that no
matter how perfectly lovely she looked, her husband would still prefer to sleep with raunchier women. “Ten million bucks?”
Emily cried. “That bitch has no case!”

“Let’s hope not.” Ward slowly eased herself from the chair, wincing as her ankles bore the brunt of her weight. “Why don’t
you go talk to your husband right now. Just for my peace of mind.”

Emily called home, got the machine. She called Ross’s private office line and got Marjorie, whose toneless voice left no doubt
that she had recently received some horrendous news. Yes, Ross was in, she told Emily. Of course, come on down.

Emily cabbed to State Street. Marjorie was not at her desk: That was like the Marines not guarding an embassy. Near the water
cooler, an assistant with wet, red eyes honked into a Kleenex. When the phone rang, an apprentice answered, telling
the caller that “he wasn’t in right now.” He politely took a number, hung up, and raked his fingers through a spiky haircut,
as if to reassure himself that his head was still round. Not one word passed among a dozen employees, many of whom were staring
out the windows. Others only nodded as Emily walked by.

She found Ross lying on the couch in his office. Marjorie sat at his side, holding a glass of water to his lips. It was a
pose of tremendous intimacy. Emily stopped in her tracks, startled: Here was another Ross, one bound to another woman, maybe
not in the same way he was bound to her, but with as deep a passion. Otherwise he would not have allowed his assistant to
sit so close, to whisper to him so. Never having seen them alone, in their natural habitat, Emily had always thought of Marjorie
as one of Ross’s office fixtures, a professional fact of life, like withholding tax. Now she realized that Marjorie was more
on the order of Ross’s alternate wife, occupying a niche that Emily never could; in the near future, without Dana, that niche
would probably widen to a canyon. Emily wondered if Ross slept with her. Why not, really. They had spent many years, and their
most creative energies, pursuing the same rainbow. All Emily had done was cheer from the wayside at dinnertime.