Devil's Food (37 page)

“Couldn’t tell you, darling. At the time, I was unconscious on the backseat of the limo. This town’s full of thieves who’d
steal your balls if they weren’t attached.”

“Did you read it? How’d it look?”

“I hardly read two words before I got sick. Damn thing was wrapped in fifty layers of plastic, like a preemie in an incubator.
You saw it. Took ten minutes to saw all that crap off with my emery board. I read the title page and began to choke. That’s
all I remember. No, I remember pounding on the partition. The driver nearly rammed a tree when he saw the look on my face.
He floored it to the hospital. Shit! I stood up an important appointment because of this!”

“Don’t worry,” Philippa replied. “She’s still sleeping in your bed. What was the title of this script?”

“I don’t remember. The
Devils Toy
or something. Probably a bad translation. It really stank.”

“How would you know if you didn’t read it?”

“I mean it smelled disgusting. They must use paper made out of turnips over there. Maybe that’s why it was wrapped up like
that. Personally, I think Vitzkovich typed it in poison ink. I have a few serious enemies in Prague. Crap, here comes the
nurse. She’s been trying to give me an enema since I checked in. Call me tomorrow, would you?”

After hanging up, Philippa lingered a few moments at the phone. Odd that Simon hadn’t mentioned the mysterious producer at
all. Bad-mouthing every human on the planet was the joy of his existence. Now he hadn’t even told her the man’s sexual persuasion;
that was like not collecting his 20 percent commission.

Philippa dozed off during a late movie about Prohibition, awaking briefly during the heavier gunfights. Her wake-up call came
promptly at six; strangely bright and sharp, she called her sister in Boston. There it was nine in the morning; Ross would
have gone to work and Emily would be putzing around the house, looking for things to do. “Hi Em,” Philippa chirped. “Get back
in one piece?”

After long silence, a pale voice said, “Oh yeah.”

“What’s the matter? Emily! Are you all right? Say something!”

“Where are you?”

The quaver in her sister’s voice broke Philippa’s heart. “Back in LA. Tell me what’s wrong, honey.”

“A good friend of mine died. I just read it in the paper.”

Philippa’s guts became sawdust. “Who was that?”

“Guy Witten, my boss at Cafe Presto. He was in a car crash. No one even called to tell me.”

Philippa’s lungs finally got a little air moving through her larynx. “But you were away!”

“I have an answering machine. Ross said there were no messages.” Emily’s voice rose to a half wail. “Why wouldn’t anyone call?
They knew how close we were.”

“No one wanted to break the news. People are odd like that. They don’t like to congratulate you and they hate to tell you
that your”—here Philippa caught herself just in time—“your friend died. It’s perverse, but true.”

Emily blew her nose. “The article said he had injuries prior to the crash. I don’t understand what that means.”

“Didn’t he have an accident at his place last week?”

“How’d you know that?”

Damn! Damn! “Ross told me on the way to the airport,” Philippa lied. “When was the car crash?”

“Tuesday night, when I was flying to California.”

“Where’d it happen?”

“On Route Ninety-three right outside Boston. Guy lost control of his car. Ross says it was a rainy night.”

“It was a horrible night. Visibility zero. I’m so sorry, Em. Was he special?”

Was!
“I don’t know how I’m going to get over this one.”

“You will, honey. Ross will help you.” Philippa flushed at her own supernal hypocrisy. Thank God for the camouflage of telephones!

Emily sighed, at one with the dead. “Why did you leave the cabin?”

“I was frightened by a storm. My nerves weren’t used to days of silence, then all that noise. It was like ten horror films
at once. Ross was a dear to take me to the airport. Did he tell you about it?”

“Not much. You called him at the office?”

“Yes. It was quite late. He was still working, poor man.”

“He said you were pretty shaken up.”

“I was somewhat out of control by the time he got there. I had let my imagination and a few swallows of Cinzano run away with
me. Would you believe I ended up in Disney World? I holed up there for a day then flew to L.A. last night. My face is looking
much better.” Philippa had to pause for breath; her lungs still weren’t doing too well. “How was your breakfast with Simon?”

“It was a nonevent. We didn’t eat and this mysterious producer never showed.”

“How’d Simon get the manuscript, then?”

“This was weird, Philippa. We’re sitting at Luco’s at eight in the morning. Simon’s getting ticked waiting. Then, instead
of the producer, a waiter comes over with a script wrapped in plastic. People are staring as if it were the head of John the
Baptist. The waiter puts it on the table and tells us that Vitzkewicz can’t come but he wants a yes or no in twenty-four hours.
That was it. Simon didn’t want to stay, or should I say, pay, for breakfast. So we left. The whole episode took fifteen minutes.
I never even got to try the Lobster Baked Alaska.”

“That cheap schmuck! You’ll be pleased to know he ended up in the hospital. Passed out in his limo just as he was beginning
to read the script. Then as he was being hauled into the emergency room, someone stole it out of the backseat. Simon’s now
ranting about poison ink and paper that smelled like turnips.” Philippa sighed. “A brilliant day at the races.”

The sisters, mired in their separate catastrophes, did not speak for several moments. “What are you going to do now?” Emily
asked.

“I’m not sure. Lie low for another day or two, see if this script turns up again. I get bad vibes about the whole episode.
What about you?”

“I don’t know. Don’t know at all.” Emily blew her nose again. “I visited Aidan and got your fan-club list. Do people always
send you things like trivets made out of bobby pins?”

“Gifts from the heart,” Philippa replied. “Very touching.”

“Does the name Charles Moody mean anything to you?”

“No. Who’s that?”

“Just a fan who’s got the same post-office box as the dead dishwasher at Diavolina.”

“Dead dishwasher? What are you talking about?”

“Dana was not the only casualty that night. The dishwasher drowned in the Fenway a few hours later.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I have no idea, Emily replied. “Probably nothing. He was a wasted old alcoholic.”

“Why would a loser like that share a postbox with a fan of mine? It makes no sense.”

Emily yawned, tired of love and vanity. “Where can I reach you, Phil?”

“I think I’ll stay at this hotel for one more night. You’ve got me a little afraid to go home alone now. Say! Why don’t you
come out here for a few days? We can go to a spa.”

“That might be a good idea.”

After hanging up, Philippa went to the bathroom and vomited. Guy dead? Then she was an accessory to murder! If only she had
dragged him into the cabin and called an ambulance, he might be alive now.
But that would have been inconvenient!
Damn, she was in trouble, with the law, with the Furies, with her sister. Emily must never, ever find out. If Philippa wanted
to save her skin, she’d have to pretend Guy had never been to the cabin. She had never seen him in her life.
Never!
She drooped over the toilet, remembering the night Guy had swept into Dana’s chair at Diavolina and touched her cheek: instant
possession. She remembered Guy’s wooing voice, his mouth on her neck at Cafe Presto. He had had such beautiful eyes, sensual
hands ... and he had wanted her. Now he was dead?
No!
More likely Emily had found out about her little intrigue and was playing a practical joke in retaliation. After an hour’s
deliberation in the bathtub, Philippa called Cafe Presto. “I would like to speak with Guy Witten,” she commanded.

“You would, eh? Well, that’s tough shit! He’s dead! Don’t call again!” shouted that same insolent twerp, hanging up on her.

Philippa collapsed in tears on her bed.

Precisely at noon, Dagmar Pola’s maroon Lincoln rolled onto State Street, slowing to a halt in front of Ross’s office building.
To his surprise, she was driving. Today Dagmar wore pale green linen with her pearls. Her small feet just about reached the
gas pedal. “Good afternoon, Ross. You’re looking well.”

Why not? He had just regained his wife’s undivided attention. “Likewise.”

“Any suggestions for lunch?”

“Out of town,” Ross said. “It’s a great day for a ride.”

“How much time do you have?”

“I’m free until two. That’s good enough for a hot dog in Providence.” He looked over. “Would you like me to drive?”

“Please.” She slid over to the passenger seat as he walked around the front of the car. “I must confess to having called you
completely on the spur of the moment.”

Smiling, Ross headed toward the expressway. “What spurred the moment?”

“Oh—a pilgrim’s progress. What have you been doing with yourself lately?”

Oh—inciting weightlifters to homicide, investigating the origin of purple bikinis, spying on pathetic old actresses, lusting
after a secretary’s perfect legs, wondering how to reclaim a lost wife ... “Working,” Ross said. “It’s been a circus at the
office since Dana died.”

Dagmar didn’t say anything for a long while. “It must have been terribly hard for you.”

“Dana was my best friend. We had known each other since we were little boys. He was more than a brother to me.” Ross began
to tell Dagmar about Dana, beginning with Cub Scouts, working through the football team, college, their first building projects,
their last commission; someone besides Emily had to hear this, had to appreciate the size of the hole in Ross’s life. Dagmar
listened with patience and, evidently, perception, judging
from her occasional questions. They were almost in Providence before she asked, “What was Dana s wife like?”

Ross was temporarily speechless: Ardith unfailingly wrecked a good story. “She was his childhood sweetheart.”

“Dana married only once?”

“Yes. But you probably have some idea of what Ardith’s life was like.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t,” Dagmar replied icily. “Joseph never made an ass of himself in public the way Dana did.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” Ross touched Dagmar’s hand. “You were married for a long time, weren’t you?”

“Thirty-five years.”

Cold fact chilled the air for a mile. “How did you meet?” Ross finally asked.

“At the Athenaeum. A lecture on American poetry. He swept me off my feet. We were married six months later.”

“That’s quite romantic.”

“Not really. I was quite pregnant.”

Cripes! “Ah, so you have children?”

“No.” Dagmar did not elaborate. “Do you?”

Ross slowly veered around the Providence exit. “Not yet.”

“What does your wife do?”

“She’s a chef. Between jobs at the moment.” Between lovers, between husbands ...

He took Dagmar to a restaurant that Dana had used for high-risk liaisons: The wine list was long, the service quick, and across
the street was a motel. Ross discovered that Dagmar had grown up in the town next to his on the North Shore. Just like him,
she was an only child. They had both played the cello, gone to Ivy League colleges, and studied in Europe. On Friday afternoons
for the last thirteen years, Dagmar had been sitting in Symphony Hall just a dozen rows away from Ross; perhaps that was why
they felt they knew each other from somewhere.

Speaking with her was so easy; the more Ross spoke, the more he wanted to tell her, the more she seemed to know already. She
was soothing as a mother, invigorating as a sister: the age gap between them came and went, like a desert mirage. On the return
trip to Boston, breezing past trees that were just beginning to redden, they talked about everything but their marriages:
Why corrode a sweet afternoon with reality? Ross was back on State Street just a little after two. “Thank you, Dagmar,” he
said as she slid to the driver’s seat. “That was really marvelous.”

“Yes, it was.” She drove away.

Ross went upstairs. His sunny afterglow did not escape Marjorie, who had been shoveling garbage on his behalf since noon-time.
“And how is Dagmar?” she asked, glancing up from the word processor. “Ready for her ground-breaking ceremony?”

Not once over the course of lunch had Dagmar and he talked about Joe’s art collection. “I think so,” Ross said, shuffling
through his message slips. “Anything critical here?”

“Not particularly. Emily called. Said she’d be back from New York late tonight.”

What the hell was she doing in New York? “Right,” he said noncommittally, as if he and his wife had thoroughly discussed the
topic at breakfast. Almost at once, a little headache sprouted just behind his eyes, driving out concentration. Marjorie had
to explain a few messages twice.

She was reminding him of a dentist appointment tomorrow when Detective O’Keefe entered. His raincoat, hanging raggedly open,
looked more like a canvas tent with a half dozen unnecessary buttons. He needed a haircut. “I was in the neighborhood and
thought I’d follow up on a few things,” he explained, scanning Marjorie’s desk. “Got a minute?”

Ross wondered if O’Keefe had seen him leaving Dagmar’s car downstairs. The thought displeased him immensely. “Sure. Let’s
go to my office. This way.”

O’Keefe glanced into Dana’s office as they walked by. It looked barren and stale. Refusing an invitation to sit in the chair
opposite Ross’s desk, the detective said, “I have just one brief question, actually. I was wondering if any more of Dana Forbes’s
pill bottles had turned up.”

“No, we haven’t seen anything,” Ross answered. “Marjorie and I cleaned out his office quite thoroughly. Dana’s wife came
by last week to pick up his personal belongings. Still haven’t found that fancy antidepressant you think he was taking, eh?”

“Iproniazid. No.” O’Keefe had searched Dana’s boat, Dana’s house: zilch. One of these days, he’d ask Philippa Banks about
it again. “By the way, what were you doing last Wednesday night?”