Devil's Food (43 page)

“Sorry to drop in on you like this,” Ross said. “I’m interested in a student who attended classes here about ten years ago.
Her name was Rita Ward.”

“Ah, Rita. I remember her well. Very talented. Quite popular with the boys. Lovely girl. She committed suicide, you know.”

“No!”

“Just before graduation. Quite unexpected.”

“Poor thing. Had she been depressed?”

The dean shrugged. “Every artist goes through a period of depression. It’s part of the learning process.”

“Maybe it was a man.”

“As a matter of fact, she left a suicide note to that effect. But no one ever saw her with a boyfriend. Rita was a very private
person. Only two people here really knew her. Guy Witten and her teacher.”

“Guy Witten? The caterer?” Ross croaked.

“Yes. He just died in a car accident.” The dean sighed. “He was a model here for years.”

Ross blinked a few times, rolling with the punch. “He knew Rita well, you said?”

“He was like a big brother to her. I doubt it was a romantic relationship. Guy had just married a beautiful actress. Didn’t
last, of course.”

That must have been Guy’s first wife; Emily would probably know all the anguished details. “Perhaps I could speak with Rita’s
teacher,” Ross said carefully. “I’m quite interested to know more about her work.”

The dean’s smile plummeted. “I’m afraid her teacher would not be of much assistance. He retired the year Rita died and fell
into extreme dissolution. I recently read his obituary. A very sad case indeed. His name was Dubrinsky.”

A muffled bell tolled in Ross’s memory. Why was everyone dead? Rising, suddenly desperate to escape this shabby man and his
shabbier stories, Ross put his business card on the dean’s desk. “I believe we have a sculpture of Rita’s in our office. I
always like to know about the provenance of company artwork.”

“One of her mobiles?”

“No, a bust of my partner. Quite lifelike.”

“I see. Have you ever thought about teaching architecture? We would be honored to have you on the faculty. Well. It’s been
a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Major.”

Autumn had begun to leach all the heat out of the sun, and Ross had not worn a coat. He walked briskly toward his office,
trying to stay warm. Strange things had happened at that Academy of Art, and the dean wasn’t going to be filling in any holes:
more trivial secrets, no doubt. He was so damn tired of them. He missed Dana terribly. He missed his wife. They were his only
sounding boards; without them, ideas didn’t bounce, they just rolled aimlessly around the inside of his head, too weak to
hatch. And the longer they were trapped inside, the more of them were slowly eaten by viperous guilt. He had to snap out of
this coma before it consumed his existence. It would have been easier twenty years ago, when he had more energy, less experience:
Work would have been the answer. Now Ross didn’t need the money or the ego jolt that came with building skyscrapers. He had
done so many of them that the trek from drawing board to real estate was no longer miraculous; it kind of happened, like the
phone bill. Ross squinted at his haggard reflection in a storefront window. Burnout had intersected midlife crisis: wonderful.
Were it not for the riddle of Guy’s death, he’d have nothing to get him out of bed in the morning.

Downtown Crossing thronged with office workers on their lunch breaks and teenagers on leave from the pressures of single parenthood.
As Ross cut through the crowd, he began to think about Marjorie. He was a little afraid to see her, to read in her eyes that
last night had not been a dream after all. His heart sank when, getting off the elevator at State Street, he saw her sitting
at her desk; he had been hoping that she would take the day off, give them both a chance to contemplate their sins. She looked
quite normal and calm, however, just as she did yesterday. Maybe even a little brighter than yesterday. No one in the office
would ever guess that she had been heaving naked with Ross all night long. When she looked at him, his stomach turned; he
wanted her all over again.

“Hi,” he said softly. No one was around. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she answered equally softly. After a moment she remembered today’s play, today’s theater, and changed to speaking
voice. “Care to hear your messages?”

He watched her mouth and eyelashes as she recited them. No one important had called. There was nothing important to do this
afternoon. Maybe they both could go to the lake. When Marjorie began asking him about a few faxes that had come in, he held
up his hand. “Come to the office a minute.”

In the hallway, they talked business. In the office, Ross sat on a chair rather than his couch, where Marjorie might sit beside
him. “So,” he began officiously, then dwindled to silence. She was wearing another of her short skirts, maybe to torment him.
He stared at her for a long moment. “I have no idea what to say to you, Marjorie.”

“What’s to say? I’m a big girl. Would you do it again, now that your curiosity has been satisfied?”

Yes. Immediately. He watched her cross her long legs. “Would you?”

She didn’t answer at once. “It would be suicide, Ross. Both professional and personal. You know that.”

“Does that mean no?”

“I think so. I love my job. You know I love you.” She let that hang in the air a wondrous moment; he would not be hearing
it again. “There’s no way I would be able to handle an affair with you. What do you say we quit while we’re ahead?”

Ross suddenly shut his eyes. Christ! Had Emily posed the same question to Guy a few weeks ago? Of course she had! And Guy
had answered incorrectly, because Emily had quit working for him. He must have said, “No, once was not enough.” Took guts,
that; but Guy had guts. Ross sighed, fighting an insane desire to carry Marjorie to the couch. But she had asked a question
to which there was only one sane answer. So he said, “That’s a good idea.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “As easy as that, eh?”

“No, goddamn it! Not easy at all!” He went to the window and glowered at the millions of people out there who managed to lead
uncomplicated, successful lives while everything he touched turned to shit. “I should be grateful to have had one night together
with you. It was an island in a cold sea.”

She came to the window and put a finger on his lips. “I know.” Then she left him to his work.

Emily’s flight from L.A. landed in Boston around nine in the evening. Ross was waiting for her at the gate with a dozen roses.
“Hello, darling,” he said, kissing her. “Case solved?”

“We’re getting there.” Emily sniffed the roses; Ross was either welcoming her home or feeling guilty about Marjorie. “How
sweet.”

Ross had made late reservations at a restaurant overlooking the Common. It was one of those places where the chefs tried to
compensate for puny portions by making the food look too
pretty to eat. Ross liked the decor, a busy meld of Aztec and Third Reich, and the wine list. Over a great bottle of burgundy,
he listened to the details of Emily’s interview with Agatha the waitress. “So you think the waitress was only the messenger?”
he asked. “Another woman switched drinks at that party in New York?”

“Yes. And the same woman sent Simon a poisoned script in L.A.”

Ross listened quietly to his wife’s outlandish tale. It made perfect sense, as did voodoo and reincarnation, to those who
believed it. “So who is this woman?” he asked finally.

“No idea.”

“How are you ever going to catch her?”

“We don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t wait for her to nail you first, Em. Maybe you and Philippa should set a trap. Grab this thing by the horns.”

“What do you suggest?”

Ross thought a moment. “Get Simon to set up some kind of party like the one in New York. That wouldn’t be too difficult, would
it?”

“Actually, it might. Do you know that
Choke Hold
is the fourth most popular movie in the country? Philippa’s the hottest ticket in town.”

Ross looked out the window for several moments before finishing his wine. “I take it she’s recovered from her fright in the
woods, then.”

“I think so. The bruises on her face are almost gone. She’s ready to beat the bushes again.”

“She’s not afraid of this woman who’s after her?”

“Philippa’s not going to let some lunatic cramp her style. Especially a woman.”

Their food arrived. Suddenly very quiet, Ross concentrated on cutting his exquisite food with exquisite precision. Then, in
midmouthful, he asked, “What about that fan letter warning that someone was trying to kill the two of you?”

Emily had to answer this one carefully. Ross had gotten quite feisty when he first heard about Moody’s note; if he learned
that
the man was right here in Boston, he’d saddle her with a round-the-clock bodyguard. “Oh, that was a false alarm,” she said.
“The note was meant for the Pointer Sisters and got sent to Philippa by mistake.”

“How do you figure that?”

Damn
! “Because the Pointer Sisters got a letter about
Choke Hold
.” Noticing Ross’s frown, Emily quickly added, “The president of their fan club called the president of Philippa’s fan club.
They all had a good chuckle once they figured out the guy had screwed up his word-processing program.”

Ross studied his wife’s face, trying to understand why she would lie to him about something as serious as a death threat.
For the moment, he’d back off; tonight Emily looked frazzled, slightly insane. But he’d get to the bottom of this. At least
she was home, safe with him. He was going to forbid any more excursions to Los Angeles. Ross took her hand.”I’m glad you’re
back, darling.”

“I am too.” She smiled. “What have you been doing with yourself? Business as usual?”

“I went to Guy’s funeral yesterday.” Was that his imagination or were her fingers becoming cold?

“Was everyone there?” Emily asked.

“More or less.”

“I just couldn’t face it.”

“I know.”

Her face softened a little. “You took time off from work.”

“No problem. I just stayed later that night.” He took the office to bed with him, in fact. Dropping Emily’s icy hand, Ross
returned to his dinner. “This morning I had a meeting with Dagmar Pola.”

“The Pretzel Lady?”

“Would you mind not calling her that? She’s actually quite wonderful. I’d like you to meet her one of these days.”

“Sure. Invite her over. I’ll make lasagna. Easy on the dentures.” Suddenly Emily sat upright. “By the way, you never told
me that Dana had done renovations at Diavolina.”

His fork paused in midair. “What are you talking about?”

“The night Philippa ate there, she said that Dana was talking with the maître d’, who said they hadn’t seen him at Diavolina
since the renovations.”

Hell! Now what mischief had happened while he was out of the office? “You got me,” Ross said. Maybe Marjorie knew. The thought
of her filled him with equal doses of love and regret. “Em, let’s get away for a while. Forget the last month ever happened.
What do you say?”

So he had finally slept with his secretary. Emily recognized the postcoital guilt all too well. Anger flared and subsided:
Ross and she were even now. Nothing would be gained by forcing this game into overtime. “Ready when you are,” she said.

“You decide where and for how long. Then let’s do it.”

Ross signaled for the check. Back home, as Emily dawdled through a world atlas, suggesting destinations, Ross dawdled a finger
in her hair. It was like old times, but older. They went to bed early, clinging to each other like two half-drowned passengers
who, through no cleverness of their own, had managed to survive the
Titanic.

Early the next morning, after his usual communion with the editorials and the obituaries, Ross left for work. Emily went to
the North End, where the mad fan Charles Moody had once lived. Narrow, cobbled Sheafe Street was behind the park where she
and Guy had frequently watched the ships in the harbor. A battery of old Italian women, leaning over their ground-floor windowsills,
observed Emily as she walked by. She was not familiar so they did not smile. Emily poised a finger above the four doorbells
on Moody’s apartment building. She was about to press the second bell, roust the new occupant of Moody’s apartment, when she
read the name next to the little black nipple:
LEO CULLEN
.

Emily blinked in dismay. Leo from Diavolina? After a moment’s hesitation, she rang the doorbell. Futile, of course: If Leo
were in town, he would be at work. But she had to do something in front of all those staring old ladies. Emily rang twice,
waited, then walked to the nearest crone. “Hello.” She smiled, to no avail.

“You are an actress.”

Emily kept smiling. “I’m looking for Leo Cullen.”

“Away.”

“Have you lived here for a long time?” Shrug. “Do you remember someone named Charles Moody? He lived here before Leo.” Another
shrug, more emphatic. Emily gave up. “Thank you.”

She went to the park. Surrounded by sailboats, a big cruise ship floated across the harbor. Maybe the passengers were throwing
gold doubloons overboard. What the hell did Leo have to do with Charles Moody? Taking over his apartment couldn’t be just
another coincidence like Slavomir taking over Moody’s post-office box. The three of them were connected and Emily had only
one option now: return to Diavolina. Oy! Ward again? That would be like revisiting a lion’s den. Maybe she could ask someone
else. Emily looked at her watch: Klepp would be taking his cigarette break out back in half an hour. She’d try him.

Emily walked to the South End. Except for the meter maids and a few floral deliveries, Tremont Street slept. Little red neon
loops still spelled
DIAVOUNA
in the restaurant’s front window. Still in business: Emily stared a moment, just an iota disappointed that they had managed
to survive without her. She stepped into the driveway and waited behind a Dumpster for Klepp to emerge.

Precisely at ten, as was his habit, Klepp slapped open the door and sat on the rear steps of the restaurant. When Emily heard
the click of his lighter, she peeped around the Dumpster. “Psst! Klepp!”