by Janice Weber
“Maybe we should explain everything to the police. Let them take care of it. You don’t have the time for this.”
“I just lost my job, remember? How the hell else am I going to amuse myself?” Emily pulled into the parking lot of a shopping mall. “I wouldn’t involve the police. They’ll tell the newspapers.”
Philippa perked up. “Hey, that might be just what Simon needs.”
“Sure. Have him plant the story in every rag he can. Then some wacko slasher can read about it and decide to join the fun. Stay here, Phil. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Emily bought groceries. When she returned to the car, her sister was listening glumly to a rock station, hoping to hear a capsule review of Choke Hold. She snapped the radio off as the deejay read a capsule review of Julia Roberts’s new movie instead. “Your cabin has a bathtub, doesn’t it?” Philippa asked finally as they entered an unpaved driveway. “I can’t live without a bathtub.”
“Sorry. Showers only. You can bathe in the lake, of course. Very invigorating this time of year. The quiet will grow on you, Phil. Read a book. Watch television. Contemplate life.”
“God! That would drive me to suicide!”
Emily stopped the car in front of the cabin. Beyond the rear deck, protected by tall spruce, the black lake gleamed in the midday sun. She had thought many times of coming up here alone with Guy. She still thought about it. It was one of her fondest fantasies, right up there with having children and being twenty again. “Don’t give me this suicide crap, Phil. You have it all.”
“Had it all! You have no idea how wretched it is to outlive your usefulness!”
“No, I wouldn’t have any idea. That’s because I’ve never been useful in the first place.”
“You are a spoiled brat/’Philippa snorted. “Women would die to be in your shoes. You’ve got a great house, a great husband, a job you don’t need, total freedom.... You’re set for life. What the hell else could you want?”
Having again provided Emily with the perfect opening, Philippa waited to be told all about Guy Witten. Instead, after a long silence, Emily said, “Children, maybe.”
“Not that again! You’re too old! You’d be senile before they went to their first prom! Ross would have a heart attack trying to play touch football with his six-year-old! Be realistic, Emily. There are certain things that neither of us is ever going to have. A mother, for one. Children, for two. Just let it go.” Philippa sighed. “Go back to your husband. Get a life. He’s your best friend.”
Emily looked oddly at her sister. “What do you mean, go back to your husband?”
“I meant drive back to Boston,” Philippa lied quickly. “Bake Ross a cherry pie.”
“So he doesn’t kill me?” Emily asked sarcastically.
“That’s right.” Philippa opened her door and stretched in the sunshine. “I hope you got some decent food for me. My stomach’s still upset from that food poisoning.”
Emily started unloading groceries. “Your stomach might feel better if you went on the wagon for a few days.” She carried two heavy bags over a rocky path as Philippa followed gingerly in her high-heeled boots. “When was the last time you were here?” Emily asked, unlocking the cabin door. “Was it with Gary?”
That had been Philippa’s fourth husband, the one who plucked his eyebrows and pretended to be British. “I think so,” Philippa said, looking around the living room. Pure Ross: simple yet extravagant. “Hasn’t changed a bit, has it?”
Warmed by the sun, they ate lunch on the deck. As Philippa talked about hemlines and Paris, polishing off the half bottle of wine she had found in the refrigerator, she gradually noticed that her sister was not really listening. “Is something on your mind, Em?” she asked finally.
Emily flushed. She had been imagining herself swimming in the lake with Guy. “I was just wondering what I’d do for a job now,” she fibbed.
Philippa pounced on her speck of opportunity. “What happened to your old job?”
“Told you. I got fired.”
“No, the one before that. Did you get fired from that, too?”
“I quit.”
“Why’d you do that? You’re not a quitter.” Philippa nonchalantly chewed some spaghetti, unable to swallow, waiting: If Emily confessed her affair with Guy Witten, it was probably over. If she said nothing, it was still smoldering. After a few seconds, Philippa studied her sister’s face and was disheartened to see a rigid mask, the sort that women clamped on only when affairs reached life-or-death altitudes.
“I left because I was bored,” Emily said at last, standing up. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here by yourself?”
“Of course! I’m a big girl!” Philippa slurped the last of her spaghetti and followed her sister into the kitchen. “I presume I can use the phone.”
“To call me, yes. But no one else. You’ve disappeared, remember. The whole point of this exercise is that no one knows you’re here. Could you go over your enemies list one more time? Maybe there are some people you’ve left out.”
“What a delightful thought. By the way, have you considered that someone was trying to knock off Byron, not me or you?”
“It’s possible. O’Keefe tells me he used to be a prostitute. And he didn’t get along with the people at Diavolina.” Emily put her plate into the dishwasher. “But he swallowed those four cherries by accident. Let’s both think about it some more.” Emily showed Philippa how to operate the microwave and the alarm system. “In case you finish all the books in the house, there’s a general store a mile that way. I’ll call you tonight. Just stay put.”
“Where would I be going? You didn’t leave me any wheels.”
“My hiking shoes are in the closet,” Emily got into her can “Bye-bye.”
After she had driven away, Philippa helped herself to another bottle of wine and returned to the deck, sipping thoughtfully as ducks honked over the lake. It felt strange to be so far away from cigarette smoke and sycophantic laughter and the omnipotent, carnivorous media: Mother Nature was no substitute for thieving, conniving humanity. For a long while, Philippa considered her enemies. She was halfway successful, so there were plenty. But which of them would risk killing her? It was a compliment she knew she did not deserve. After carefully rehashing her last dozen movies, and all the people she had shafted thereby, Philippa concluded that only two people on earth would have the guts to kill her: Emily, when she found out about Philippa pursuing Guy Witten; and Guy Witten, when he found out about Philippa impersonating Emily.
The afternoon suddenly seemed eerily quiet and cold. Philippa shivered, sure that thousands of unseen animals were staring at her from the bushes, getting angry about her fur coat. She thought about the horror movies she had made about women alone in wooded cabins; now those ludicrous scripts seemed all too realistic. Hastening inside, she checked that the doors and windows were locked. She activated the alarm system. Then she got the biggest carving knife from the kitchen and took a long shower, thinking about her immediate future. Obviously, she would have to call Guy very soon and beg for his cooperation and silence. It would be humiliating beyond words; however, confessing to Emily would be even worse. Unthinkable, in fact. Philippa flipped on the television and stared zom-bielike at the screen as more complex scenarios played in her head.
Rush-hour traffic stalled on the Tobin Bridge as the police tried to clear the last splinters of a runaway boat/trailer from the highway up ahead. Joining thousands of inbound commuters on the hoods of their cars, Emily passed the time watching ships chug in and out of the harbor. When a gorgeous yacht floated by, gleaming in the late afternoon sun, she thought of Dana. No more Fourth of July sailing parties; that would leave a big hole in the summer. How would she and Ross watch the fireworks now? Emily wondered if Ardith had sold Dana’s boat yet. No question it would be one of the first things she’d get rid of; for too many years, what had been recreation to Dana had been nothing but a huge, bobbing slap in the face to Ardith. Why had she let him get away with it for so long?
One affair, maybe, a wife could swallow. Several hundred was a different story. Emily tried to imagine how she’d feel if Ross slept with a new woman every week. The first betrayal would be horrendously upsetting, a taste of death. But the second betrayal would be the last. No, she couldn’t imagine beyond two. But she had never related to Ardith.
Traffic way up front began squeezing past the tollbooths: obstruction removed. Emily went back to her car and slogged to Beacon Hill. It was nearly six; Ross was still at the office sharpening pencils with Marjorie. God only knew when he would remember to come home. Emily may as well play detective meanwhile. She found the business card that Millicent had given her as she was leaving the Choke Hold gala last night. Park Avenue address, Emily saw, unimpressed: Nowadays, it meant only that the doorman carried an Uzi instead of a handgun. After two rings, the housemaid answered.
“This is Philippa Banks,” Emily announced. “Is Millicent in, please?”
“Oh! Miss Banks! Yes! Certainly!”
Millicent picked up the phone next to the bathtub. “Philippa, darling. Thank you for last night. It was a tremendous success. We collected over eight hundred thousand dollars. Your film was magnificent, your acting superb. And I must apologize for that sickening accident. It cast a pall over my whole party. I understand the police had to ask you a few questions this morning. I hope they were not rude.”
“Not at all. They visited you too?”
“Of course, darling. Heroin is such a sloppy drug! I wish people would have the decency to overdose at home. Not at charitable functions.”
“I agree.” Emily delicately cleared her throat. “Millicent, I met several ... ah ... intriguing men at your gala. Would you mind faxing me a copy of the guest list? Just to refresh my memory? I’m so bad with last names.”
“Certainly. But you ought to be aware that some of them would not be interested in women.”
“Only one way to find out.” Emily gave her Ross’s office fax number. “Thanks, darling. And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, particularly Simon. He’s so possessive.”
“My lips are sealed.” Millicent asked several salacious questions regarding three well-known actors. “Don’t be coy, Philippa,” she said. “I know you’ve slept with them all.”
Emily made up silly answers then asked which caterer Millicent had used for the gala. “Ditzi’s, of course! Weren’t those canapés stupendous?”
“Out of this world. Did Ditzi’s also supply the serving staff?”
“Everything. Don’t tell me you saw a cute waiter, now!”
Emily giggled ambiguously and soon got off the line. Then she called Major & Forbes. “Hi Marjorie. Do me a favor? You’re going to get a fax soon. Nothing but a list of names. Could you put it in an envelope for Ross to take home?”
“Of course.”
Was that voice just a tad smug? Vaguely possessive? Emily stomped into the bedroom to change into running clothes; talking just a few seconds with the competition had flooded her bile ducts. She’d have to jog all the way to Hopkinton to detox. Emily ripped some shorts out of a drawer. Damn! No clean T-shirts! Remembering the spare that she had brought back from Diavolina that morning, she went to the front hall. Her tote bag lay in a heap next to the umbrella stand, where she had left it before rushing to the airport to fetch her sister. Emily pulled on the T-shirt and swore again: Something had scratched her.
She yanked it off. Someone had pinned a tiny envelope inside. To Emily, it said in irregular block letters, A secret from Slavom. The m in his name ended in a long streak.
She couldn’t have been more stunned had the dishwasher’s ghost appeared in the hallway. Emily tore the envelope open. A key: USPS DO NOT DUPLICATE. Why had Slavomir given her a postbox key? He hadn’t said three words to her in his life. She was surprised that he even knew her name. Emily turned the key over: Below the serial number she saw 274 etched faintly, carefully, on the metal. She peered again into the envelope, looking for an address, a ZIP code; instead she saw an old photograph of a young girl. It was tattered and a little damp, as if Slavomir had carried it around in his pocket. Who was the girl? When had he put the key and picture in her drawer at Diavolina? The only time she recalled him being in her office was the night he had tripped over the toolbox and bashed his head. She had told him to go there and lie down awhile. That had been the night of Dana’s accident. It had also been the night Slavomir had drowned. He had gone to a lot of trouble to pin the envelope inside her T-shirt, out of sight. A secret? Had someone interrupted him as he was signing his name, before he got to an address? She upended the tote bag, hoping to find more clues among her office scraps: nothing, of course. Cryptography required forethought and sobriety.
Now what, call O’Keefe? She’d have to think about that. Again. Emily tried to recall Slavomir’s address; she had looked it up in Ward’s files the day she had identified the dishwasher’s body at the morgue. Although no street came to mind, a seedy area behind South Station did. In the morning, when she got tired of figuring out who was trying to knock off Philippa, she’d visit a few post offices in that area. Then, depending on what she found, she’d consider involving the detective, who was obviously interested in anything having to do with the inmates of Diavolina. Of course he would wonder why Slavomir would leave Emily, of all people, the key to a postbox and a picture of a girl. She could just see his eyes as she replied, “No idea.” Ah, just what she needed: another man convinced she was a liar. Emily smeared on some sunscreen and jogged slowly toward the Promenade. She missed Guy terribly.
9
The morning after the Choke Hold gala, Ross had pretended to be asleep as Emily quietly kissed his ear and left the bed. While she dressed, he lay motionless, listening to the rustle of her clothing, wondering what she was wearing to work today. How did she even have the energy to get up? Emily had only gone to bed at four o’clock, after returning to Boston from her glitzy party in New York. Poor dear: last night a movie star, this morning a galley slave. Ross remembered a strained conversation before she had gone to bed. Over what this time? Oh yes, his midnight strolls; Emily didn’t like them. Well, that was too bad. There would be more.
Feeling none too swift himself, having gone to bed as late as his wife, Ross dragged into the shower. Emily had left him about seven minutes of hot water, barely enough to steam out the cricks in his neck. And she had used his razor again. Damn! Soaking, Ross pawed around the medicine chest for a new blade. He found none, of course; that was why Emily had used his. Swearing, he stepped back into the shower. When he slammed the door, the shampoo fell to the floor. Ross ate breakfast alone, which dejected him further. He was used to starting the day with coffee, the obituaries, and his wife across the table crunching toast. Instead of eating on the balcony, he stayed inside, his back to the blinding sunshine. Ross paged absently through the newspaper, trying not to imagine himself facing every morning like this. He put his dishes in the sink, then smiled bleakly: Were he divorced, they’d still be waiting for him when he returned home tonight. Ross put on his coat and left for work, beginning to understand why grown men at the office had been useless for years after their wives had left them.
He perked up as Marjorie smiled at him from her desk; she’d give him a lot of stupid little chores to keep him occupied all day long. “Good morning,” Ross said, looking over her shoulder at his appointment calendar. “Leave me any time to blow my nose?”
“Sure,” Marjorie replied, glancing up. “And I left time to shave. I suggest doing it now. Umberto’s coming in three minutes.” The plasterer. “He wants to discuss the Glazer renovation. Apparently Mrs. Glazer is changing her mind again. Now she wants to drop the cornices and add another curved wall.”
Ross had little patience with Dana’s clients, who viewed architecture not as frozen music but as petrified mammon. “I thought I gave that project to Peters.”
“You did. Mrs. Glazer fired him.” Marjorie followed Ross to his executive washroom, ticking off two-sentence summaries of
his appointments as he hastily shaved. “Ardith’s coming in to pick up the rest of Dana’s things. We still have some clearing out to do.”
Ross hadn’t seen Ardith since the funeral. Already he felt guilty about not taking better care of her; God knows if he had died, Dana would be consoling Emily twenty-four hours a day. Bah. Ross splashed his face with cold water as Marjorie churned through his agenda. “You’re meeting Dagmar Pola at ten to check out her art collection,” she said. “So you can get inspired to design a space for it.”
“I’m already inspired. She tells me they’re all nudes.”
Blushing, Marjorie left to send a few faxes. As soon as she had gone, Ross phoned Billy Murphy, their contact at City HalL Yesterday, requesting a small favor, he had given Billy the license number of the truck he had seen crashing through the window of Cafe Presto. “Good morning,” Ross said. “Any luck with your friend at the Motor Vehicle Agency?”
“No problem. The vehicle’s registered to Peace Power Farm, Hale, Massachusetts. Whatever the hell that is.” Billy knew better than to ask why Ross had needed the identification. Nine times out of ten it involved mistresses, paramours, or cuckolds. “You didn’t tell me they were commercial plates.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Commercial plates? Ross was lucky he had even been able to read the damn numbers as the pickup truck sped away from Cafe Presto. He and Billy talked a while about building permits. Then Marjorie buzzed: Umberto had arrived. “My plasterer’s here,” Ross said. “Thanks a million, Billy.”
He had a short, soothing conference with Umberto, who was on the verge of pouring a ton of wet plaster over Mrs. Glazer. Then Ross met a young couple who wanted to build a tree house with flushing toilet for their adorable six-year-old. He talked to a CEO who had visions of a corporate Taj Mahal on Route 128. Then he and Marjorie went into Dana’s office: Ardith would be showing up any minute to collect the last of Dana’s personal belongings.
“I’ll take the shelves and closet,” Marjorie directed, veering toward the far wall. “You finish the desk. What should I do about that hat?”
