Devil's Food (38 page)

The night Guy had died: The question caught Ross so off guard that he could only stare.

“We were working,” Marjorie answered for him.

“You were both here?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How late?”

O’Keefe saw Marjorie shoot a laser glance at Ross. “Ten or eleven o’clock,” she said. “Why?”

“I was walking by and thought I saw your lights on.” O’Keefe smiled at Ross. “Just games we detectives play with ourselves.
Thanks for your time.” He left.

Marjorie stared at Ross. “He looked up forty-eight floors from the sidewalk and thought he saw our office lights on? That
is bizarre.”

Ross went to the window and watched a small airplane flit above the harbor. He didn’t know how or why, but he knew O’Keefe
was after him. The detective had probably been snooping around Cafe Presto this morning. Perhaps Bert had told him of Ross’s
late afternoon visit the other day and gotten a few suspicious wheels turning. Had someone at Presto dropped a few hints about
Emily and Guy? Had O’Keefe actually gotten a confession out of Emily? Goddamn it! Why had she disappeared to New York just
when Ross needed to ask a few critical questions? “Marj,” Ross said softly because his headache was killing him, “were you
able to get that file on the Darnell Building?”

“Yes. Just a minute.” When she returned and saw Ross sprawled on his couch in a five-aspirin pose, she quickly de-toured to
the washroom. “Here you go,” she said, sitting beside him, handing him a glass of water and a pill bottle. Her rear end almost
touched his side.

“Thanks.” Ross studied a brochure of the Darnell Building, a glitzy commission they had received during the eighties boom.
He and Dana had fought over those cute little balconies on the upper floors. Dana had won. “Do you remember anything about
a girl jumping off?”

“Sure. It happened during the dinner that Dana was awarded Architect of the Year.”

“Where was I again?”

“In Korea.”

“You were at the dinner, weren’t you? Tell me about it.”

“It was a typical blowout in the upstairs ballroom. About three hundred people came. The only indication that some-thing had
happened was a few cops walking through the back of the room during Dana’s acceptance speech. Afterward, there was dancing.
I left early.” That was because Ross had not been there to dance with her, of course. “There were lots of police cars and
an ambulance outside. I heard that someone had jumped. The next day they came to the office with photographs of the girl.
No one recognized her. Then the police thought that she had been a waitress. It turned out that she had talked her way past
a guard, somehow gotten to one of the balconies, and jumped. She left a note behind blaming a failed love affair. I didn’t
follow the case too closely. It was a hectic time here.”

“How would she have gotten to a balcony?” Ross asked. “That’s not exactly public access.”

“Maybe she sneaked past a cleaning lady. Or she was involved with someone in another office upstairs.” Marjorie fixed Ross
with an even gaze. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Ross was suddenly aware of her knees just inches from his chin. He could so easily reach over, slide a hand along her smooth
thighs ... Christ! Why must she sit so close all the time? Ross raised his hand; by a supernal effort of will, he found a
way to bypass Marjorie’s knees and cover his eyes instead. One more complication in his life and he might jump off a balcony
himself.

“Thanks, Marjie.”

She left. He began to draw.

H
ow many seconds elapsed between balcony and pavement? Three? What kind of thoughts would have gone through that girls head
as she sailed through the air? Those of blazing, final triumph? Blind despair? I wonder if she was pretty; that would have
made the final gore all the more horrific. Brains, guts, all over the sidewalk
...
pity the poor pedestrian out for a nice evening walk when
whap,
a monster falls from the sky. How did the police ever identify her? Forget the face. Dental records? First they’d have to
find her teeth. Jewelry? I doubt there was a wedding ring. Clothing, probably. Shoes. No, only one shoe, Ward said. It probably
didn’t look much the worse for wear. Shoes survive falls, they survive getting run over, a week in the ocean.... Shoes always
come back, the better to lead feet into mischief. I wonder what the suicide note said. Would the police have given it to Ward
or do they keep that kind of thing in their files forever? Three seconds and no turning back: Where did she find the courage
to jump? Was the love of a man worth her life? Yes, I can see that.

But what about Guy, the cause of it all? Did he feel bad? Christ, I wish he were here to ask! Maybe the girl was a psycho;
look at her sister, Ward. What if she was some muscle-bound gorilla chasing him around, phoning at all hours of the night?
Then he couldn’t possibly have felt bad. Maybe she was just a friend who never declared herself; then he might have felt a
modest twinge. I wonder where they met. Ten years ago, was it? Guy was married then. The girl must have been a fling who had
delusions of becoming more than a sideshow.

They’re both dead now and I’m so curious. Ward’s the only one with some answers. But I’d better stay away from her for the
moment; instead of regretting her crime, she feels cheated that she didn’t get to chuck Guy off the Tobin Bridge. And O’Keefe
makes me uneasy as well. He’s got to be wondering who would hate Guy enough to kill him. He’ll never find Ward; the trail
is too old and fuzzy. Unless she does something rash, of course. I worry about that. And there’s always Philippa ... but she’ll
never confess a thing. Emily might have forgiven her for Dana, but she won’t forgive her for Guy, so chalk Philippa off the
worry list. I suppose, if O’Keefe is any detective at all, I’ll become his number one suspect. He’s already tipped his hand
by coming here this morning. Good luck, buddy. You’d like to solve a murder; I’d like to keep my wife. No contest.

Poor Guy! What did he do to deserve this but love one woman, not love another!

It was a brilliant autumn morning, invigorating and crisp, same as the morning after Dana had died, only twenty degrees cooler:
lecherous winter panting after Boston. The sun burned from a pellucid sky. After her chat with Detective O’Keefe, Emily wandered
from Cafe Presto to the North End. Her other senses having fled, or collapsed in shock, she was all nose today, cogently aware
of aromas seeping to the street from the tiny Italian bakeries and groceries. She walked up a steep, narrow rise to a hilltop
park overlooking the harbor: Guy and she had occasionally
come here after a long day at Presto, when they were grimy and tired but somehow not quite ready to go home. As always, the
sight of graceful, white sails on the water soothed her; how lovely it must be just to drift with the breeze and tide. She
sat for an hour, throbbing numbly for Guy. Eventually a huge cloud devoured the sun. Emily left the park.

She walked to South Station and Slavomir’s mailbox—hey, it was something to do with her legs besides watching the hair grow.
The final wave of rush-hour commuters was whishing through the terminal as otiose benchwarmers observed them. Constant announcements
of trains and platforms cut through the jostling. Emily walked past the food stalls to the post office behind the station.

In Slavomir’s box was a large pink envelope, bent in half, addressed to Mr. Charles Moody.
PHOTOGRAPHS DO NOT BEND,
Emily read, then saw the return address: Philippa Banks International Fan Club. She laughed out loud, as if someone had sent
her a hilarious card. Emily opened the envelope and removed a sheet of pink paper with an ornate silver letterhead.

Dear Mr. Moody,

On behalf of Miss Banks, I would like to thank you for your lovely note of 9/20. We are so happy that fans such as yourself
take the time to express concern for Philippa’s safety. Sad but true, in this day and age no one, not even the President of
the United States, can truly claim to be totally safe from fanatics and evildoers. However, please rest assured that Miss
Banks takes all proper safety precautions in public and would never want to jeopardize the happiness of her loyal fans by
exposing herself to dangerous situations.

In appreciation of your concern, Miss Banks would like you to have her latest snapshot, which she sends with her love and
gratitude.

The letter was Very Sincerely signed by Aidan Jackson, President of the PBIFC. He had enclosed a picture that Emily had
autographed just the other day. Aidan hadn’t been kidding when he told her that Philippa had an efficient sales force: Moody
had received a reply to his letter within four days of sending it. Emily returned to the station and drank a slow cup of coffee.
Then she phoned directory assistance in Los Angeles. It was around seven-thirty in California; were Aidan’s recent assertions
about his workday true, he had been slaving in the office for half an hour already.

“Good morning,” he answered. “World headquarters of the Philippa Banks International Fan Club. This is Aidan speaking.”

“Just checking up on you, shithead.”

“Hey! Phil! What are you doing up so early?”

“I’m calling about that printout you gave me the other day.”

“Don’t tell me you found your next husband already!”

“Well, I’ve come up with a name. I get strong vibrations with Charles Moody.”

A long pause. “Are you sure about that, sweetheart? He wrote a very rocky letter the other day. Very rocky.”

“No kidding! Could you read it to me?”

“It’s still in the Out bin. Hold on. Okay. Here goes: ’Dear Miss Banks, I must warn you that you are in danger. I feel there
are people about who would greatly harm you. Would it be possible to hire a bodyguard? Please be very, very careful, and warn
your sister as well. Sincerely yours, Charles Moody.’ No wonder you got strong vibes about this guy, Phil. I was considering
taking the letter to the police, but it’s not really threatening. It’s just a warning. But you never know how these psychos
work. He could be warning you about himself. And what’s this about a sister? I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“No one does,” Emily replied, trying to laugh. “So what did you do?”

“I sent him a polite pooh-pooh back with a picture. If he writes again, I won’t be as nice.”

“He’s written before?”

“Off and on. Christmas cards, birthday cards.”

“He knows my birthday?” Emily cried.

“Of course, Phil, it’s a matter of public record. All the astrologers have it. The day’s right, but the year is fudged. Moody’s
been paying fan-club dues since day one. He’s a charter member. That’s why I can’t figure out this dire-warning bullshit.
Maybe he’s having a midlife crisis. All those years fantasizing about you have finally put him over the edge. Want me to fax
the letter to you? You’re home, aren’t you?”

“No! No!” Emily almost shouted. “Maybe I’ll drop by in a few days and check it out myself. Don’t discuss this with anyone,
all right?”

“You’re not going to call the guy, are you, Phil? Consult Zilda the Gypsy a few more times before making your next move, promise?
There are lots of nuts out there. By the way,
Choke Hold
just got another great review. Want to hear it?”

“Later. I’m going to bed now. Aidan, thanks for everything. I wouldn’t be where I am without you.”

“Do you realize this is the first time you’ve ever thanked me for anything?”

“I’m a beast! I know it! Forgive me! I love you! I mean it! Bye-bye, darling!” Breathless, Emily hung up. So many eyes in
the terminal; surely a pair of them observed her now. Who was Charles Moody? How did he know of her existence? Why write such
an urgent note to Philippa? Why not just go to her movie openings, her parades and local appearances, go to Simon’s office
for cripe’s sake, and deliver his message in person? Obeying her feet rather than her brain, Emily boarded a train about to
leave for New York. She took a window seat and stared out the window for most of the journey. The earth was so beautiful today,
yet Guy would see it no more; she couldn’t understand that. The more she tried, the more illusory the union of flesh and time
seemed. Her spirit, alone on a stark promontory, howled for him: There was the reality. The rest was just poor transubstantiation.

Emily half awoke in New York, where time was God. She cabbed from Penn Station to Ditzi’s, a popular cafe on the East Side.
The place reminded her of an overpriced, pretentious Cafe Presto. The counter help was young and snotty, averse to handling
anything less than one-hundred-dollar bills. Emily waited at the counter as the people ahead of her bought teensy lamb chops
and overcomplicated salads. “I’m interested in some catering,” she said when one of the girls finally deigned to assist her.

She was led to a small, bright office. A fiftyish woman, dressed with the extravagant, lupine authority of an Upper East Side
realtor, stood up. She stared a moment at Emily, nearly recognizing her face. “I’m Florence.” She smiled, beckoning to a chair
on the other side of her desk. “How may I help you?”