Devil's Food (16 page)

The more Philippa thought about Ross, the less enthusiastic she felt about him finding her here this evening. Emily wouldn’t
be too thrilled, either. Discovery of that picture had salvaged her trip; after her prescription was delivered, Philippa called
a
cab and hobbled to the airport. She was back in her Manhattan hotel a few hours later.

After Dana’s funeral, Ross and Emily drove to Maine. They ate lobster and spent most of the day walking along the beach, holding
hands as the surf chased their feet. For miles they hardly spoke. After fifteen years of marriage, conversation had acquired
the rhythm, the inevitability, of a body function: When it happened, it happened. Finally Ross began talking about a year
off, just traveling. He’d like to spend a few months in Tahiti studying the fish. Talking about fish led him to talk about
boats, about harbors, about Singapore, then about his new project there, the old projects he still had to finish up. By the
time they had circled back to their car, Ross was resigned to going back to the office tomorrow and picking up the pieces.

Around midnight, they returned to an empty house on Beacon Hill. Since Emily had not mentioned the possibility of an overnight
guest to Ross, she was relieved to see no sign of Philippa, not even a note of thanks next to the house keys. But Philippa
was no idiot; after a lifetime of romantic entanglements, she had learned when to make a grand entrance, and when to utterly
vanish. Emily resolved to call her first thing in the morning, ask how she was feeling; then she realized she had no idea
where Philippa had gone. It was always like that.

Early the next day, Emily returned to Diavolina. A new menu would be in effect and she thought the staff would be at work
preparing for the debut. Instead, she found everyone at the coffee machine handing Klepp money.

“Hello, Major,” he called. “Have a nice day off? You got a little sun, I see.”

She walked over. “What’s going on here?”

“Give me ten bucks, please. You have to guess how many people are going to order the Mixed Tofu Grill tonight. Winner take
all.”

Chess had fought viciously to get it on the menu. “What if no one orders it?” Emily asked.

“Sorry, I already put my money on zero. You’ll have to pick another number.”

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“What? It’s a tradition. Leo always ran a pool when he changed the menu.”

Emily put twenty bucks on fifty orders and told everyone to return to their stations. She met with the day’s suppliers and
was about to leave the storeroom when Byron came in. “Maje,” he said in an undertone, “I have something for you. Well, not
for you, for Phil. Why didn’t you just tell me she was your sister? I can understand you wanting to protect her privacy. But
I wouldn’t have told anyone. Really. Anyway, could you give these to her, with love from Jimmy?” Byron drew a handful of photographs
from his apron pocket. “Souvenirs of her evening at Diavolina.”

“He took pictures?!”

“It was totally discreet! Jimmy’s a pro. He has a special camera.”

Emily grabbed the stack and began riffling through the uppermost snapshots: all Philippa and Dana, smiling, swallowing, toasting,
preening, autographing, unaware of what was about to happen to them. Emily’s ribs began to fuse one to the other, squeezing
her heart to a walnut.

“Great, aren’t they?” Byron murmured after a long, transfixed moment.

Her eyeballs burned. “I presume Jimmy only took pictures of the living.”

“You mean did he take any of the body on the floor? Gad, no! He almost fainted himself! You will deliver these to Phil, won’t
you, Maje? Maybe you could get an autographed head shot in return.”

Ward loomed at the door. Her hair looked as if mice had nibbled away all the best parts. “You’ve got a monk asking for you,
Emily.”

Emily stuffed the pictures into her pants pocket. “Thanks.”

Brother Augustine was waiting at the counter with another basket of mushrooms. As she approached, he studied her intently,
quizzically, the way many people had over the years;
Emily resisted an urge to ask if he had seen Philippa in
Tropical Heat.
Under the kitchen lights he looked wise but very old; then again, he had been hearing the same hackneyed plots in the confessional
for half a century,

“Hello, Emily,” Augustine showed her the contents of his basket, “We’ve had excellent luck in the woods lately. Were the grisettes
I brought you last week a success?”

“Howling,” answered Klepp.

Augustine ignored him. “How’s your supply of honey holding out?”

“Fine. What else can you offer me?”

“Fruitcakes and Labrador retrievers. Not to eat, of course,”

“Some monastery, Augie,” Byron called, “What’s its name again? Saint Wal-Mart?”

Emily invited Augustine to her office, “Sorry about that,” she said when her door was shut. “They’re the worst eavesdroppers
I’ve met in my life.”

“You’ve never been in a monastery, my dear.” Augustine sat in the chair across from her, “So! What can I do for you?”

“You haven’t sent me a bill,” Emily said,

“I thought that Leo would have told you about our arrangement,”

“I’ve never met Leo in my life.”

The monk went very still. “Leo didn’t bring you here?” he asked quietly.

“No, he skipped town. I’m not quite sure why. Is he some kind of lunatic?”

Augustine took a deep breath. “I’ve known Leo Cullen since we were teenagers. He’s had a very difficult life. Beneath his
frightening exterior, he’s a decent man. He’s been in the restaurant business almost as long as I’ ve been wearing a robe.
Over the years, we’ve been able to help each other out in a number of ways.”

That was a lot of free mushrooms. “What happens to the restaurant if Leo doesn’t come back?”

“He always does,” Augustine said with a monk’s delphic smile.

After changing the topic to fruitcakes and retrievers, Emily walked Augustine to his can “You’ll be back on Monday?”

“Of course.” He got in. “Do you enjoy working here?”

Again she felt that this was more than a simple inquiry, and was torn between a desire to confess all and an irritation that
Augustine didn’t ask the real question on his mind. “It beats watching Fellini,” she replied after a moment.

He nodded and drove away. Emily went to Ward’s office. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Ward shoved a few papers aside. “How was lover boy’s funeral?”

“Not fun.” Emily sat on the tattered couch. “How long have you been working here?”

“Seventeen years. I started as a waitress. Waitron. Whatever. Then I was the weekend hostess, then bartender, then manager.
Why?”

“So you’ve known this man Leo for a long time.”

“He hired me, sweetheart. I told you that already. Why do you keep asking about Leo? Did Augustine say something?”

“ I don’t understand why Leo just took off. He’s the owner, he’s the chef, Diavolina’s his baby. Have you heard from him at
all?”

Ward sighed, ever so slightly beginning to lose her patience. “The last I heard from him was about two weeks ago. He called
at three in the morning and said an emergency had come up. He had to leave town and I might not be hearing from him for a
while. He told me to do anything necessary to keep the place running. I grabbed at a few straws and you turned up. Something
of a mixed blessing, I might add.”

But that was the story of her life. “I see.” Emily returned to the kitchen.

The new menu involved lots of pasta, fish, and late summer vegetables. Mustapha worked silently on an array of compotes and
ice cream, featured prominently in this month’s carte; they were hard to burn. Byron flitted around the kitchen, dispensing
unsought advice. Emily went over the wine list with Zoltan and met a half dozen suppliers. At eleven o’clock, Bruna from the
Peace Power Farm arrived. “Leo back yet?” she asked, heaving a few crates onto the counter.

For a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the chitter of knives on cutting boards. Then Emily wearily said, “Not yet,
Bruna.”

When the supplier had left, Emily went to the bar, where Zoltan was instructing a new waitron how to pour wine. “How are your
reservations for tonight?”

“Full. Ever since the accident Monday, weVe been busy. In the old days, if someone dropped dead in a restaurant, it would
suffer. Now, it increases business. America is a strange country.” The phone rang. “Diavolina. One moment, please.” With a
sly smile, he handed the phone to Emily.

It was Guy. “Hello, love. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Whoever answered the phone is standing two feet away, right?” Guy switched to Yes, No, and Okay questions. “Was Dana’s funeral
yesterday? I thought it would be easier for you if I didn’t go. Is Ross doing all right? How’s Diavolina? Could we get together?”
No answer. “Just to say hello?” Silence. “Please? I’d like to stay your friend, darling. Really.”

Emily realized that she had made a critical mistake in leaving Guy before her lust had run its course. Had she stuck around
another two weeks and let that happen, perhaps they could be friends now. But the fire was still raging, undoused by familiarity
and access and the million tiny discoveries that demoted ardor to coziness to, finally, platonism. Maybe Philippa was right:
screw the guy blind, then get to know him. You’d find out a lot quicker which ones really loved you for your brains. “I’ll
call you back,” she said, hanging up.

Dinner was a smash. First there was a run on shrimp with bitter chocolate sauce. Then they moved a ton of ziti with roast
squab. Even Chess’s Mixed Tofu Grill sold nicely, although a lot of it came back uneaten and no one asked for doggie bags.
Pink wine and sloe gin did particularly well; maybe it was the full moon. When the rush had ended, Emily turned the kitchen
over to Byron and went home.

She found Ross out on the balcony. It was a clear, calm night, just a bit cool, shimmering with the music of crickets: summer’s
death rattles. Emily poured herself some gin and sat beside him. “Hanging in there, darling?”

“Somewhat.” Major & Forbes was rebounding. Everyone who’d had a project in the pipeline with Dana had called, wanting Ross
to take over. Four of the senior staff had expressed an interest in moving to Dana’s office; tomorrow, the remaining three
senior staff would do the same. Ross could feel the seven of them pawing the ground, preparing to stampede. He was tempted
to divide Dana’s projects among them, wait a year, and see if he had a business left. All day long he had been receiving condolences
from the overseas accounts who had just read Dana’s obituary in the
International Herald Tribune.
Bouquets were choking the office. Tomorrow he’d try to concentrate on his current clients.

“How’s Marjorie doing?”

Ross finally smiled. “She’s running the show. I just do what she tells me.”

Emily took a long swig of gin and listened to a million crickets drone their mating calls. The loudest ones usually won. “Maybe
you should put Marjorie in Dana’s office.”

“Now that’s a great idea. I might do that.”

She followed the slow lights of an airplane across the sky. “Any word from Ardith?”

“Regarding lawsuits? You don’t have a thing to worry about. The accountant told me she was ecstatic with her widow’s benefits.
She’s not going to blow thousands of dollars on a lawyer who will probably lose her case with Diavolina.” Ross patted his
wife’s knee. Then his face hardened. “She’s coming in tomorrow afternoon to clean out Dana’s office. Marjorie and I will have
to spend the morning getting it ready. Remove the panties from his bottom desk drawer, get a couple hats out of there, confiscate
his address book, rip up all the love letters he hid in the building code manuals. Things like that.”

“Why bother?” Emily said. “Ardith knows.”

“Maybe. But she doesn’t know how much. No need to rub her nose in it.” He looked at her. “Is there?”

Danger here: Emily retreated. “No, I suppose not. Were there that many?”

“Dozens.” Hundreds, actually. In retrospect, Dana was incredibly lucky. No paternity suits, no VD, no blackmail threats, nothing.
Until Philippa, of course. Ross toyed with an ice cube. “How was Diavolina today?”

“Everyone keeps hoping this phantom called Leo comes back. My sous-chef’s begging for a black eye and Ward’s been hitting
the bottle nonstop since the dishwasher drowned. Somehow it seems worse when a weight lifter loses it. All that discipline
wasted.” Then Emily thought of the newspaper article in Ward’s files. “Do you remember anything about a girl jumping off the
Darnell Building?”

Ross looked blankly at her. “What brings that up?”

“I happened to see an old clipping. Dana was mentioned.”

“Naturally. He was the architect. I vaguely remember some poor girl trying to fly off the fortieth floor. Probably on drugs.”

“When was this?”

“About ten years ago. Where’d you see the article?”

“On Ward’s desk. Kind of strange to save a clipping like that for ten years, don’t you think?”

“People hang on to all kinds of strange things for a long time. Look at you and your flannel pajamas.”

The phone rang. Ross picked it up. “Hello? Sure.” With a puzzled expression, he handed Emily the phone.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Woo asked.

“Much better, thank you,” she said.

“You were not really yourself yesterday, I think. Not yourself at all.”

So Woo had made a house call. Emily could only guess what damage Philippa had done trying to impersonate her. “I’m very sorry
if I offended you. Please forgive me. I feel fine now. Perfectly fine.”

“I recommend you avoid raw eggs and steak tartare for the moment.”

“I will. Thanks.” Emily hung up. Crap!

“What was that all about?” Ross asked.

“Philippa saw Dr. Woo yesterday. For some stupid reason, she pretended to be me.”

Ross suddenly lost his temper. “What is this, some kind of game? Why does Philippa keep masquerading as you? And you keep
letting her? I hope you don’t think it’s some kind of reverse compliment.”

Ouch. “I’m not sure what she’s doing.”