by Janice Weber
Much later, Emily found Ward on the floor of her office lifting barbells. “I’m sorry about Slavomir. Did you go to the morgue?”
“They wouldn’t let me in. I didn’t have an invitation.”
“Did he have any family?”
“None that I know of.” Ward counted five more repetitions, then let the barbells roll away. “Maybe Leo would have an idea, but he’s gone. God knows when he’s coming back.”
“Why should Leo come back? Didn’t he quit?”
“He owns the joint, honey.”
Emily sat slowly in Ward’s chair. “And where does that leave me?”
“Right where you are. You’ re the chef.” Ward took her martini. “Or you’re the bubonic plague. Your husband’s going to muzzle that lawyer for me?”
“He’s going to try.”
The phone rang. After a few seconds, Zoltan’s voice came over the intercom. “Emily, it’s for you.”
“Hello,” she said warily.
“Em,” Philippa bubbled, “I can come to Boston tonight!”
Emily almost felt her brain stripping gears. “Weren’t you just in Boston? Things are a little tight here right now.”
“ That’s why I’m coming. To help out.”
“Forget it, Philippa. There’s no way you can help.” Then Emily remembered O’Keefe’s question. “How are you feeling?”
“Great. I just had five fantastic interviews. I’m on Joan Rivers this Friday. And my agent Simon got me a great part in a mini-series. I’m a brain surgeon whose husband beats her up just before she operates on the President.”
“I meant how’s your stomach. Any indigestion? Cramps?”
“No. Why?”
“Just checking. Listen, I think it would be better if you stayed out of town for a while. Ross is not doing well. Ardith’s not too happy, either.”
“That’s exactly why I should come! Families have got to stick together!”
“Stick to something else for a while, would you?” Emily slammed down the phone. “I need a visit from my sister like a hole in the head.”
“She probably feels bad about what happened,” Ward said. “Remember, her boyfriend died, too.”
“Boyfriend? She’s forgotten his name already. You may have noticed that she didn’t mention Dana once in our entire conversation.”
“Maybe she’s grieving.”
“Give me a break! There’s something else on her mind.”
“You are incredibly unfair. Maybe you’re just jealous.”
“Maybe I am. Tell me more about it when you have a sister like Philippa.”
For a wee second, Emily thought Ward would punch her. Fortunately, Byron came pounding on the door. “Maje! That fuckin’ dishwasher still hasn’t turned up!”
“Wash the dishes yourself,” Ward shouted back. She yawned enormously, tired to death. “Go make dinner, Emily,” she said listlessly, and closed her eyes.
Around six o’clock, Detective O’Keefe returned to Diavolina, using the service entrance. He looked soggy, oily, in need of a few beers, or a young wife. Byron saw him first. “What are you doing back here?” he cried. “Don’t tell me this is a courtesy call.”
O’Keefe frowned only slightly. “Where’s Chef Major?”
Byron pointed to the pantry, where Emily was sitting on a crate of lettuce, doodling on a shopping list. She had just called Ross’s office and had been told for the third time that her husband and Marjorie were still at lunch. She was not going to call the office anymore today, perhaps anymore ever. Seeing O’Keefe in the doorway, she motioned to a box of oysters. “Howdy.”
“Good news,” he said, sitting. “Forbes died of substance abuse.”
Well, hip-hip-hooray. “Which substance?”
“Chianti, for one. Cheese, for two.”
“How can wine and cheese kill you?”
“When you’re on iproniazid, easily.”
“What’s that? I never heard of it.”
“It’s an extremely potent antidepressant, no longer available in the U.S. because of its toxicity. Red wine and cheese accelerate its effect, making a small dose a megadose. The central nervous system zooms up and down like a roller coaster. Eventually the heart and lungs collapse, Dana’s did, anyway. We can only assume he either wasn’t told about mixing alcohol and inhibitors, or he forgot in the heat of the moment.” O’Keefe glanced at Emily’s doodling. It looked like a bunch of ornate little faces. “So you can stop worrying about your culinary reputation.”
Not to mention Ardith’s lawsuit. “But why would Dana take antidepressants?”
“Obviously, he thought he was depressed. Any idea where I might find the prescription? A little concrete proof never hurt.”
“Dana had a lot of pills at his office.” It still seemed so ridiculous, such an elementary mistake. “You’re sure about this?”
“The medical examiner seems pretty satisfied. If your sister’s got a moment, have her call, would you? Maybe she saw him take something.”
Ward lurched into the pantry. She had been crying and was quite drunk. “Who killed my dishwasher, O’Keefe?”
Across the room, the detective could smell gin on Ward’s breath. “I believe he drowned by accident. He had been drinking pure grain spirits, then decided to go for a little walk in a pond.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“He wasn’t robbed or assaulted in any way. All we found in his pockets was a check from Diavolina and a little orange tassel. Looks like it came from a lampshade. You’ re welcome to take a look at it any time. It’s in a drawer at the morgue with his other belongings.”
Ward sagged against the door frame. “I hate morgues.”
“There’s some good news,” Emily said after a moment. “We’re off the hook with lawsuits. Dana died of substance abuse. He mixed antidepressants and alcohol.”
“Who cares about that idiot?” Burping robustly, Ward rummaged in her pockets for a tissue. “Slavomir never mixed drinks. Whatever he started with, he stuck with. The night he drowned, he started with port.” She blew her nose so hard it sounded like brains, not phlegm, avalanching through her sinuses. “You think about that, Detective.” She left the pantry.
O’Keefe sighed. “On that fine note, I think I’ll call it a day.”
Emily accompanied him to the door and watched him pad lightly down the back steps. “So what’s the verdict, Major?” Klepp called as she returned to the kitchen. “Don’t keep us in suspense. Did Byron’s sauce finally kill someone?”
She turned. Even Yip Chick was waiting for her reply. “Respiratory failure.”
“Makes sense.” Klepp sighed to his gherkins. “That broad’s cleavage would choke any red-blooded man to death.”
Emily left the kitchen as Chess, for the nth time, was expressing her profound outrage at Klepp’s remarks; the two of them had no idea how like an old married couple they sounded.
By the time Detective O’Keefe had battled his way from Diavolina through rush-hour traffic to State Street, the traumatized employees of Major & Forbes had fled. At first, O’Keefe thought the office was empty; then he saw a purse on Marjorie’s chair, so he rang again. Finally she came to the door. “Yes?”
He introduced himself. “You’re an employee here?”
“I’m the executive secretary, Marjorie Fischer.”
Made sense; she was the perfect cross between a mother hen and Genghis Khan. And she had great legs. “I’d like to ask a few questions about Dana Forbes.”
“Then you might wish to speak with Mr. Major, his partner.” Marjorie kept O’Keefe waiting in the foyer while she went to a rear office. After quite a pause, she returned. “This way, please.”
Ross was at his large window, watching boats in the harbor. As he turned to face the detective, a black cloud turned with him and filled the room. “I’m Ross Major,” he said, extending a hand. “How can I help you?”
O’Keefe felt bad for even thinking that Major had been back here fooling around wit
h his secretary. “I’m sorry about your partner,” the detective began. Noticing Ross’s face harden, he decided to skip the eulogies. “Would you happen to know if he was taking any drugs?”
“He gave up cocaine a few years ago.” Hampered his erectile tissue.
“How about prescription drugs? Pills of any kind?”
Ross’s eyes glittered harshly. “Dana took plenty of them.”
“Would he have left any bottles here?” O’Keefe saw Ross and Marjorie exchange an intimate, questioning glance; maybe they were sleeping together after all.
“This way,” Marjorie answered not quite immediately. She led O’Keefe to Dana’s office, which the setting sun had flooded with soft, red light. Baccarat decanters on the shelves sprayed a thousand blue fires along the mahogany walls. The office was so alive, so much Dana’s, at this time of day; no wonder Ross couldn’t bear to come in. Marjorie gestured toward the colony of bottles on Dana’s desk. “They’re mostly vitamins, I think.”
O’Keefe poked through kelp, cod-liver oil, B-complex tablets, amino acids, and assorted dietary supplements guaranteed to achieve, if not immortality, a body that would outlast a senile mind by a good decade. After thirty bottles, he gave up. “Is that all?”
“Maybe there’s something in his worktable.”
Ross appeared in the doorway, watching as O’Keefe opened Dana’s top drawer. “What are you looking for?”
“Iproniazid. It’s an inhibitor. Cheerful little pink pills. For severe depression.”
“What? Dana was never depressed a day in his life.”
“That’s what your wife said,” O’Keefe answered, realizing too late that he had made a faux pas.
“Dana took an overdose of antidepressant pills?” Ross said.
“Not quite. He mixed them with cheese and alcohol. The combination was lethal.” O’Keefe looked at Marjorie. “Did you happen to see him take any pills yesterday?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
Marjorie suddenly scowled. “I have no idea.”
O’Keefe sensed that he was standing in the crossfire of a battle that only peripherally involved the deceased. His opinion was reinforced by the sight of a large, frilly hat perched on a bronze bust in the corner. “Thank you very much,” he said, heading for the door. “I think that will take care of everything.”
After he had left, Marjorie turned to Ross. “Have you ever heard of iproniazid?”
“No. I thought Dana only took aphrodisiacs.” He frowned; Dana had never mentioned anything about clinical depression, either. “At least Emily’s off the hook.”
Ross sent Marjorie home. Before leaving the office, he went to Dana’s window and stood for a long time watching the sun coruscate the surrounding skyscrapers, wondering if he would ever build another.
5
Ardith had sent a dashing photograph of her husband to the Boston Globe along with his obituary. Ironically, it had been taken aboard his yacht, where he had spent his happiest hours, away from her. Ross read the article twice, yet his attention always returned to the number following Dana’s name. Forty-five: That was only half a lifetime.
It was a humid, gloomy morning, appropriate for a premature burial. It was not a day to eat breakfast out on the veranda. Ross glanced across the kitchen table at Emily. “’Died unexpectedly,” it says. There’s no mention of the restaurant or your sister.”
“Everyone knows that already.” She tried to swallow a bite of toast. Blah: not hungry. “I wonder how many people will be at the funeral. There wasn’t much in the way of advance notice.”
“Word gets around. And this should help.” Ross showed her the announcement in the lower left corner of page two: Major & Forbes, Architects, would be closed today in memory of Dana Forbes. Still not quite believing the words in front of him, Ross stood up. “I think I’ll mow the lawn.”
“It’s only six o’clock, honey. You can’t make any noise until seven.” Emily went to Ross’s chair and slid her hands behind his neck. “Come lie down. I’ll give you a back rub.”
Good idea. His entire body ached: adrenaline versus exhaustion. Ross couldn’t remember the last time he had gone back to bed right after breakfast. Maybe on his honeymoon. He couldn’t think of a better way to pass the three hours before Dana’s funeral other than asleep, a half dimension closer to his departed friend. If Emily gave him a back rub, he might be able to doze for a while. He took his robe off and lay naked on the bed. One advantage of not having children: no need to wear pajamas. Emily straddled him and began kneading the knots cabling Ross’s neck. Dense as elm roots; another week like this and his head might fuse to his shoulders. She pressed and pummeled his familiar body, loving it all the more fiercely and protectively as its youth faded. It was a trophy of the years they had spent together, a gentle reminder of the years they had left. How many would that be? More years than Dana had. She kissed Ross’s ear. “I love you.”
He smiled into the pillow. Emily, Emily ... without her, he was just vinegar and dust. Ross rolled over, tilting her to the bed: enough back rub. Now he wanted a front rub. “In a playing mood?”
“Sure, big boy.”
Several hours later, clad in black, they left for Dana’s funeral. Ross wanted to be early, in case Ardith needed him. The service was in Weston, at the picturesque church where Dana and Ardith had married. Over the past twenty years, the Forbes family had returned to it at Christmas and Easter, so the minister sort of knew them, and there was still space in the graveyard.
“Lots of cars,” Ross remarked as they drew up. Indeed, the front steps of the church pullulated with architects, lawyers, and accountants, all sorry to be there, but discreetly networking nonetheless. The smokers in the crowd pulled heavily on their cigarettes, taunting the gods. Just about everyone recognized Ross. As he mounted the half-dozen steps, many came over to pay their respects; he, not Ardith, was the one burying a partner today. His colleagues made small talk as best they could, careful to avoid mentioning the actual circumstances of Dana’s death. Rumors involved a tryst with an actress and a spectacular finale in a posh restaurant: pure Dana. He died as he had lived. That was about as heroic as one got nowadays.
Ross and Emily gradually made their way into the church foyer, where Ardith was surrounded by family members. Neither she nor her college-aged sons were crying. Then again, Dana had not spent much time at home over the last fifteen years. Emily’s grip on her husband’s arm tightened as they approached: Everyone in this corner knew exactly where, how, and with whom Dana had died. They all must know that it really was her fault. Now she’d have to shake Ardith’s cold hand and say she was sorry.
Feeling his wife’s anxiety, Ross patted her arm. Then he embraced Dana’s widow. “Hello, Ardith.” Emily repeated the embrace, without the words; Ardith made the perfunctory response. They had never seen each other except on social occasions, and perhaps this was just another social occasion. All things considered, Ardith looked outstanding today. She was dressed for afternoon tea rather than her first days of widowhood. Her breath smelled like champagne.
Ross led Emily inside the sanctuary. He looked around a moment, then headed for a pew near the front. In it sat Marjorie, staring at Dana’s shiny mauve coffin. At this proximity, it appeared tremendous, impenetrable as Fort Knox. Could Dana be trapped forever inside? Finally noticing Ross and Emily, Marjorie moved over. Ross sat next to her; perhaps their shoulders touched. Gradually the church filled and the service began. Observing that some people smirked when he referred to Dana as a “faithful servant of the Lord,” the minister kept his sermon brief. The skies thickened as the mourners filed outside to the graveyard, stepping quietly between the headstones: Beneath their feet rested many broken hearts. More and more people began daubing their eyes with handkerchiefs. Dana was no saint, but he sinned with style. They would miss him terribly for a while.
As the minister was reading about dust to dust, a long white limousine prowled up to the church. The sound of cru
nching pebbles diverted the mourners’ thoughts from the eternal to the temporal: Dana had been upstaged. Please, God, no, Emily prayed as the vehicle, molecule by molecule, came to a halt. Even the minister paused.
The chauffeur silently opened a rear door and helped a black-swathed figure to the curb. No one could make out face nor race: too many filigree veils, gloves, and stockings. Gender obvious, however. A silk frock rustled around her calves as she walked to a tree well away from the crowd and stood silently in its shade, as if she were too ethereal to get any closer to bestial humanity.
Emily looked at Ross and imperceptibly shook her head.
After a moment’s inertia, Ross turned coolly toward the minister, who resumed his text and gradually regained everyone’s attention. Except Ardith’ s, that is: With excruciating deliberation, Ardith glanced over, lingeringly, toward the black figure. Then her gaze traveled slowly toward Emily, who knew in that moment that Diavolina’s lawsuit had just risen from the dead. Oh Christ, what could Philippa have hoped to achieve by coming here? Had she brought a photographer along? Emily’s guts began to churn as she imagined the cinematic possibilities. Philippa was not above throwing herself into the open grave in an orgasm of grief.
The minister finished with a few upbeat comments about resurrection and everyone said Amen; hell, it really would be great to see Dana again. Then they all threw a little dirt on the shiny mauve coffin, about the color of Revlon Frosted Nail Polish #42, that Ardith had picked out. The service was over. Dana’s colleagues bid their respects to his widow, whose eyes were not only dry but positively caustic, and returned to their cars. The solitary figure in black remained under the tree as the crowd rippled past; every man there thought about introducing himself, but she was so obviously one of Dana’s mistresses that now was not really the time. Maybe they’d ask Ross about her in a week or two. Finally, when only a dozen die-hards remained at the graveside, she returned to her limousine. It rolled majestically away.
