The Devil's Interval (30 page)

The elegant sales associate rounded the corner. “Oh, your friend found you,” she said. She looked more closely at the two of us, taking in Ivory's tear-stained face. “What do you think about the dress?” she asked briskly. “Your…companion says he'd like to buy it for you, if you're happy with it.”

Ivory looked confused, as if she couldn't quite figure out where she was, what she was doing, and why on earth I was standing there with her.

Then, she stood a little straighter, turned and went back into the dressing room, lifted the dress off the hook, and put it gently into the saleswoman's hands. “It's perfect,” she said flatly. “I'd love it. Tell him thank you.”

She turned away from me, slipped on her shoes and threw her handbag over her shoulder.

“Last week, when I was visiting Travis, he asked me why I wore black so much. He said,” her voice began to break again, “are you mourning me already, Mom?”

“Oh,” I said.

“Gus and I were running errands, and I was telling him the story, and that I wanted to wear anything but black this week.” She paused. “And suddenly, he stopped in front of this window and just pointed at this dress and said, ‘Let's go in. You try it on.' I joked and said yellow wasn't my color. I'm lots of things, but never a coward, so I couldn't wear yellow.” She paused, and swallowed hard. “He said, ‘Maybe they've got it in another color. When you get to the Q, you'll class up the joint.'”

I nodded. “You will,” I said. “Absolutely, you will.”

“Plus, Gus said,” she stopped, took a breath, “I should wear something pretty for the rent party. Keeps me from looking desperate.”

“Are you?” I asked.

She nodded, “I'm desperate about Travis. About The Devil's Interval, I don't care so much anymore. But a bunch of our friends convinced me it's important to Travis that we keep it going. And I just can't do it without help from Gus every month, and that's…” she paused. “Not right,” she said firmly. “It's just not right, not for the long haul.”

Gus was waiting by the sleek, stone counter in the center of the store when Ivory and I emerged. He looked puzzled when he caught sight of me.

“Gus,” said Ivory, “you remember Maggie Fiori. She's working with Isabella.”

“Well, not exactly,” I protested, in exactly the same moment that Gus said, “Yeah, sure. I remember.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “I just happened to be walking by and saw Ivory in the store.” Gus didn't say anything. “She looks beautiful in the dress,” I offered.

Gus said gruffly, “She looks beautiful in any damn thing she puts on.”

I heard Ivory give a little sigh. She glanced at her watch, “I've got to get back to The Interval,” she said. “Things to do before we open.”

“Nice to see you both,” I said, in some vain attempt at figuring out what Miss Manners would do in this circumstance. What
is
the proper way to say goodbye to someone whose life is shredding before her, after an encounter in a chic store, while her unlikely sugar daddy beau stands by?

I
t was nearly two o'clock when I got back to my office. Gertie raised her eyebrows and handed me yet another batch of message slips. “Phone calls from people who say you haven't answered their e-mails or texts.” I was shedding my jacket by the time I pushed open my office door. Puck Morris, our music critic, was behind the desk; Calvin was in the visitor's chair. They were arm-wrestling and barely looked up when I walked in the room.

“Oh, give me a break,” I said, hanging up my coat. “Can you two boytoys work out your competitive stuff by comparing equipment in the men's room? Or playing pool or something? You've got to do this right now, in my office?”

Puck had already turned bright red. With a whoop, Calvin slammed his arm on the desk.

Puck scowled. “How about two out of three?”

“That was two out of three, my man,” said Calvin. “Get over it.”

“Both of you, get over it, and get out of here,” I said. “And Calvin, you should be ashamed. You're bigger and younger than Puck.”

“And blacker,” offered Calvin.

“You are not,” snapped Puck. “You're the whitest black guy I've ever known. You're not even an Oreo.”

“Hey, you ought to feel twice as bad then,” said Calvin, unfolding himself from the guest chair, and ambling to the couch in the corner of the office. He redraped himself in the corner.

“Sit down, Maggie,” said Puck, his face slowly fading to pink.

“You're sure I shouldn't call 911?” I asked.

Puck put his feet up on the desk, “I'm the picture of vitality,” he said. “I'm just trying to give the kid a sense of false confidence. Then one day, wham, blam, slam it on the desk.”

Calvin shook his head. “Bravado, my friend.”

I looked at both of them. “Don't we all have work to do?”

“Don't you want to tell us about your lunch with Lt. Moon?” countered Calvin.

“No,” I said. Silence fell. Calvin and Puck exchanged glances.

“Okay,” I said, “What's going on?”

“Here's the deal, Maggie,” began Puck.

I waited.

“See, this opportunity came up to help you with your detective work.”

“What detective work?” I asked.

“Chill,” Calvin said. “We all know what's up with this story. How dumb do you think we are?”

“Depends on what day it is,” I muttered.

“Let me handle this,” said Puck to Calvin. “As I started to explain to you, we have an opportunity to kinda, sorta—well, double-date somewhere interesting.”

“Double-date?” I asked, with as much incredulity as I could muster. “Are we in study hall or what? And who's double-dating with whom? Last time I looked, I was married, Calvin's chasing Andrea, and you haven't been able to get somebody to go to the malt shop with you, much less out on a real date, for several months.”

Puck adjusted his feet and leaned back even farther in the chair. I winced, waiting for the crash. “You know, Mags,” he said. “You are one ungrateful, uncooperative—what's the word I'm looking for here, Oreo-man? Help me out.”

“Well, she's your boss, so you can't call her a bitch,” said Calvin. “Shall we just settle for a ‘mean girl'?”

“All right,” I said, trying not to glance at my watch again. “I'm sorry, guys. I'm a little zonked, preoccupied, behind in work, and
what else?”

“PMSish,” offered Puck, helpfully.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Okay, just spill it.”

“The Crimson Club, Friday night, you and me, Calvin and Andrea. Dig out something you wouldn't wear to the PTfuckinA.”

That caught my attention. “Could be some double date,” I said. “Tell me more.”

“We could probably get an extra ticket for old Mikey, too, if you think he'd be into the scene,” offered Puck. “But the deal is that I got sent four comp tickets for Friday night, because they're actually having some kind of real band, instead of that trancey, club-mix crap they usually pipe in as background to all the steamy sex.”

“I didn't realize it was a performance venue,” I said, raising my hands. “And skip the performance jokes.”

“I think they're trying to attract a slightly more mainstream crowd,” said Puck. “So, they've sent out a media advisory and comp tickets and the whole deal. Maybe they'll hand out party favors, too—flavored K-Y jelly or French ticklers or something.”

“Setting aside just for the moment how I'd position this adventure to Michael,” I said, “how would this be helpful to me?”

“Maggie,” Calvin said patiently, “don't be a nitwit. You know that your murdered lady hung out at the Crimson, with or without her husband and paramour. Aren't you curious to see the inside of the place?”

“Not particularly,” I lied. Of course, I was curious. I'd wondered about it from the first moment Travis had described it to me. I kept picturing some impenetrable, smoky red-and-black nest, hosted by some guy in a long red cape, and maybe some boots to hide his cloven feet.

“Chicken,” said Puck, at exactly the same moment Calvin said, “Liar.”

“Okay, you're right,” I admitted. “Plus, it would be useful background for the story. For Andrea,” I added hastily. “And me, as her editor. Geez, what's she going to wear?”

“As little as possible, I hope,” said Calvin.

Interval No. 5 with Dr. Mephisto

I
had to hand it to Dr. Mephisto: She seemed to be able to take one look—or sniff or something—and tell when there was something new in the air between us. We were settled in our self-assigned places, watching her pretzel herself into one of her tantric positions, sipping at her peppermint-chamomile-borage-blossom-milkweed or whatever brew it was in that mug of hers.

“What's up?” she asked.

We both sat silent. I glanced at Michael. He was extraordinary at waiting me out. I knew he could sit there in complete, self-satisfied silence until I couldn't stand it a minute longer and spoke up. When my friends went on and on about how Michael was too perfect for words, I would say: “You can't imagine how exhausting it is living with someone who's
always
right.

He waited. I broke. “I'm going on a little field trip, I think.” I added hastily, “That is, unless Michael really objects. In which case I would want to reconsider.”

“I have no objection,” said Michael with a bland smile.

Dr. Mephisto looked from one of us to the other.

“A business trip?” she inquired.

Michael cleared his throat.

“Not exactly,” I said.

I had presented the Crimson Club opportunity to Michael after dinner the night before. The kids were in bed, Anya smooching on the back deck with Dr. Bollywood.

We both had our feet up, me on the couch, Michael on the ottoman. He was reading
The Leopard
, in his quest to deconstruct what it meant to be an Italian man. He had politely—if a little impatiently—put his book face down on the arm of his chair once I cleared my throat and started talking. Raider was curled up,
crammed into the space between the ottoman and the easy chair, content just to be breathing the same air as Michael.

“So, that's the story,” I said. “What do you think?”

He swirled the brandy in his glass, and looked at it.

“I think I should start drinking
grappa
,” he said. “More in keeping with my heritage.”

“I meant,” I said, “what do you think about going to the Crimson Club?”

“With Puck and Calvin and Andrea?” he said. “I think you should go.”

“You do?” I asked, somewhat astonished.

He took another swig. “Sure. You'll find stuff out, and tell me about it. And how much trouble can you get in, if Calvin and Andrea are along? Besides, maybe you'll find out you're a PWP and invite me along.”

“PW what?” I asked.

“'Poly wanna potluck'” he responded. “It's when polyamorists get together for dining and more.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Polyamorists? I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, really?” he asked. “Not familiar with the expression? Polyamorists are people who have multiple sexual relationships at the same time.”

“Oh.” We sat in silence for another minute. “How'd you know that?”

“You're not the only one who collects arcane pieces of information,
cara
.”

Michael picked up his book and began reading again. His right foot slipped off the ottoman and rested on Raider's fur. Raider let out a huge sigh of contentment. The master's touch—oh, divine!

Try as I might, I couldn't get him to say another word on the topic the rest of the evening. He wasn't unfriendly, or even deliberately distant, just not engaged.

After an unrestful night, with Raider snuggled between us, virtually preventing any serious contact, I found myself actually
looking forward to the conversation with Dr. Mephisto. I don't know what I'd expected, but I had some hope she'd coax a little more information out of Michael.

“Okay, I'm not a mind reader,” said Mephisto. “One of you might explain to me. Maggie, since it's your field trip, why don't you start?”

So I did. Briefly. I felt, rather than saw, Michael's lazy smile emerge next to me. It's his “Oh, this should be good,” look, and it usually accompanies his conviction that he's given someone just enough rope to hang him—or her—self. As I talked, I began to feel very much like the guest of honor at the necktie party.

Dr. Mephisto took a gulp out of her witch's brew.

“I got the picture,” she says. “Michael, you told Maggie you had no objections to her going?”