by Janice Weber
Emily gently broke away to turn over the lamb chops. “I got fired this morning.”
“Thank God. That place was beneath your dignity. What was the reason?”
“Byron, the sous-chef, died unexpectedly. Ward holds me responsible.”
“How so? You didn’t boil him in oil, did you?”
Emily felt a familiar tension cramp her heart: mention cherries or Choke Hold or Philippa and Ross’s good mood would cinderize. “He overdosed on heroin.”
“Another real winner. That place was full of them. How does Byron’s OD get you fired?”
“Ward’s superstitious. Said I was killing off her kitchen crew.”
Ross chuckled. “You bought that?”
Sort of, yes. “I didn’t care enough to argue.”
“Good.” He swallowed a slug of wine. “So what did you do the rest of the day?”
“Cleaned the house. Baked a pie. Thought about you.”
Her voice always went a little white when she was lying, and this time was no exception. Ross played with her apron strings, sifting through tonight’s priorities. First and absolutely foremost, he was going to fuck her. Nothing was going to get in the way of that. Then maybe he would ask her again what she did all day. The truth could wait a few hours; other necessities could not. “Really? What kind of pie?”
“Blueberry.” Emily took the chops off the grill. “Hungry?”
With her, always. Ross watched the soft sloshing of her buttocks as she preceded him up the steps to the balcony. As they ate, he told her about his day, touching on all appointments but Dagmar’s; he wasn’t ready to share her humiliation, or all those naked women, with Emily yet. Instead Ross told her about Ardith’s vicious little visit, but not about Dana’s purple silk bikini. Neither mentioned Marjorie or Philippa; that might prick this precious, convivial bubble. Emily seemed slightly elsewhere tonight: temporary unemployment benefits? After dessert, Ross took her hand. He had just embarked on some serious foreplay when the phone rang. Sighing, he followed his wife to the counter, continuing to unbutton her shirt as she answered.
“Em? I think there’s a bear outside,” Philippa whispered.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Emily replied cautiously, not wanting Ross to overhear too many details.
“I’m scared shitless! What if it breaks in and tries to eat me?”
“That sort of thing just doesn’t happen.”
“Easy for you to say! You’re in downtown Boston! And it’s so damn dark up here! What a stupid idea this was. I should never have listened to you. Forget someone trying to murder me. The animals are going to finish me off first.”
“Philippa, have a hot toddy and go to sleep. You’re perfectly safe.”
“Did you get hold of Millicent? Did she send you a list of names?”
“I’m working on it. Look, I’ve got to run,” Emily said. Ross had several vagrant fingers in her pants. “I’ll call you first thing in the morning.” She hung up.
“What was that all about?”
“Philippa’s up at the cabin for a few days.” That was the truth. “She needed someplace to hang out until her face returns to normal.” That was part of the truth.
Ross’s insinuating fingers paused. “You took her up there? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to get you upset.”
“I’m not in the least upset.” On the contrary, he was delighted: If Emily had been driving back and forth to New Hampshire all day, she hadn’t had time to get into mischief with Guy Witten. “How long is she going to stay up there? Until all my booze is gone?”
“Very funny. You mustn’t tell anyone. Not even Simon knows about this.”
His fingers resumed their delicious invasions. “She called just now because she couldn’t sleep?”
“Thought she heard a bear.”
Ross turned out the kitchen lights. “Come with me,” he whispered, seeing Dagmar’s canvases.
As daylight was just beginning to iridesce the windows, Ross opened his eyes and listened: Something was not right. Then he heard Emily swallow. “You awake, honey?” he asked, slithering over to her.
“Yes.”
“Something on your mind?”
Guy, Slavomir, Byron, O’Keefe, Philippa, Marjorie, marriage, murder, and postbox keys. “No.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks.” For a time Emily lay warm and taut beneath his caresses. Then she asked, “Did you get a fax for me at the office yesterday?”
“Marjorie got something,” Ross answered drowsily. “What was it?”
“A list of people who went to an AIDS benefit.”
Ross dreamily connected that with the restaurant business. “It’s in my briefcase.”
Emily went to the hallway and opened Ross’s briefcase. Marjorie’s envelope for her lay on top. As Emily took it, she noticed a small white box. She lifted it out, separated the tissue paper: a purple bikini? From whom? To whom? No note, of course: Marjorie was more clever than that. How dare Ross just leave it out like that, the stupid bastard! With shaking hands, Emily took the box to the bedroom.
“Going running, honey?” he asked sleepily.
She winged the box at his head. “What the hells this?”
He stared at the object on the adjacent pillow, trying to link it with anything in the real world. Finally making a very bad connection, Ross said, “Where did you find that?”
“In your briefcase.” Emily began furiously yanking on jogging clothes. “How’d it get there?”
“Marjorie must have put it there.”
Of course Marjorie put it there! “You do know what’s inside, don’t you?”
“Men’s purple underwear,” Ross said. “Belonging to Dana.”
Emily laughed harshly. “Oh, right.”
“Marjorie and I were cleaning out his closet before Ardith arrived.”
“Saving poor Ardith again, eh? Why didn’t you just throw them out? Why did Marjorie put them in your case?”
“I have no idea. I certainly didn’t tell her to. Maybe she was just trying to help out.”
“Help out what?”
Ross realized that further answers, any answers, would only suck him deeper into a potentially fatal quicksand. “I really don’t know, Emily. I’ll ask when I get to the office.”
“You do that.” Pulling her second shoelace tight, she left the bedroom.
The rising sun bedazzled the mirrored buildings along the Charles River, creating wide bands of light that illuminated trees on the opposite bank. Emily ran along the Esplanade, where the sanitation crews were lethargically spearing rubbish from last night’s rock concert, and crossed the bridge to Cambridge. Traffic was already mucked up at the end of Storrow Drive. She ran past Dana’s marina, noticing his boat still tethered to the dock: so Ardith hadn’t sunk it yet. She was probably too busy counting her money. Emily looped to Back Bay at Mass Ave, threading through clumps of MIT students on foot, bike, and rollerskate. A heavy mix of carbon monoxide and ocean filled her lungs.
She returned home only after Ross had departed for another long day with Marjorie, taking that little box with him. Emily showered and dressed. Brutally hungry, she went to the kitchen. Ross had eaten the last English muffin. He had saved her a half inch of orange juice. Instead of a note of apology on the kitchen table, he had left his dirty breakfast dishes in the sink. Christ! Men! She picked up the phone and called Philippa.
“What time is it?” her sister groaned.
“Eight-thirty. Did I wake you?”
“I only got to sleep an hour ago. It was the worst night of my life. All kinds of animals were scratching the windows. I swear a few mice ran over the pillow inches from my face.”
“Look, I have that guest list from Millicent. Got a minute? I’ll read off the people who bought tickets to the party.” Emily recited two hundred names. Philippa recognized about ten, but couldn’t connect any with homicidal passions.
“Isn’t this rather
pointless, Em? If you were going to kill me, wouldn’t you use an alias?”
“No. That would look suspicious.” Emily threw an orange rind into the disposal. “I want the name of everyone who’s written to your fan club in the last six months. Maybe we’ll find a match with Millicent’s list or see some other name we recognize.”
“And where’s this list supposed to be sent? To my hideout in New Hampshire? What is the matter with you this morning? You’re an absolute maniac.”
Nothing like a few ounces of silk in your husband’s briefcase to rev up the biosystem. Emily glanced impatiently at her watch; she had places to go, people to see. “I need that list right away, Phil. Think about how we’re going to get it.”
“Sure. Are you coming up this afternoon? Staying overnight?”
“I’ll try. Why don’t you go for a walk? Enjoy the scenery.”
“I’ll enjoy going back to sleep.”
If Philippa didn’t care who murdered her, why should Emily? Fed up with her sister’s problems, unwilling to sit home and contemplate her own, Emily went to the post office at South Station. Astir with businessmen and vagrants, it was the perfect setting for an anonymous box; here was as good a place as any to begin testing the key that Slavomir had bequeathed her. Emily saw a long wall lined with tiny cubicles; inside them lay letters that could salvage, inspire, or destroy lives. She took Slavomir’s key from her pocket and double-checked the number etched on it. Then she went to the matching box, tried the lock: Inside was a large envelope with her name on it. Emily went to a side table and tore it open.
Slavomir had left her two smudged sketches of—herself? Terribly unflattering, one. Where’d he get the wicked little smirk, the naughty gleam in the eye? Beneath that sketch, Slavomir had written Diavolina. The second drawing was softer, more innocent; Slavomir had titled that one Angelina. On the reverse was a short message in wobbly block letters: Leo loks for you. Be carful. That was it? Emily peered into the envelope: nothing.
Why would Leo be looking for her? Why should she be careful? What were these pictures all about? Who drew them? Emily tried to recall her brief association with the dishwasher: not much raw material there. He had never spoken directly to her, except for the first time Ward had introduced them to each other. Slavomir had dropped his spray nozzle, soaking everyone. Thereafter, he had been drunk and totally unreliable. That last night at Diavolina, he had swilled a half bottle of port, stumbled over the gas repairman’s toolbox, bumped his head, gone berserk, and rested in her office. Emily next saw Slavomir at the morgue. End of story. She stared at the sketches for a long time. Little Angel, Little Devil? And Leo, always back to the phantom Leo. How did Slavomir know Leo was looking for her? Was she that hard to find, for Christ’s sake? What was Leo going to do when he found her?
Enough of this nonsense: back to Philippa. Emily found a phone and called information. “Byron Marlowe, please.” Hopefully, his roommate was still alive. “Jimmy? This is Emily Major, from the restaurant.” Silence. “I’m Philippa s sister. I wonder if I could talk to you.” Resuscitating at once, Jimmy arranged to meet Emily at a little cafe in the North End. He liked the cannoli there.
She waited for him at a sunny corner table. Byron’s bereaved roommate wasn’t hard to spot: head-to-toe black, shoes shiny as his heavy sunglasses, chainsmoking. He still wore an overdose of the perfume she remembered from the Choke Hold gala. “Jimmy?” she called, waving uncertainly. Technically, they had never met.
“Hi.” He slid into the chair opposite her and studied her face a moment. “You’re prettier than your sister. She overdoes her eyebrows. You really must tell her about that.” He lit a fresh cigarette, calling over his shoulder for a double espresso and cannoli.
“I’ve very sorry about Byron,” Emily began.
“I’m not. He lied to me. Told me he was reformed. I spent an absolute fortune on that bastard’s rehabilitation. I bought him clothes, food, and jewelry. What does he do first chance he gets? Dives right back into the slime. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to pay for his funeral now. I absolutely refuse. Fucking liar.” A tear dribbled beneath Jimmy’s sunglasses. “I hate him.”
Emily ignored the two women staring at them from the adjacent table. “Were you together a long time?”
“Almost a year. I found him in the gutter, you know.”
“I understand Byron led a rather bohemian existence.”
“Bohemian? The man was a prostitute! I rescued him!”
A round, pleasantly bristled woman brought Jimmy’s cannoli. Emily watched as he pressed his fork into one, raining crumbs over the table. “Did you find Byron his job at Diavolina?”
“No, he met Leo at a supermarket. They were arguing over the last slab of mortadella.”
“What was Leo like?”
“A wild stallion. He had an eye patch. Byron worshiped him.”
“Why?”
“He treated him like a son, I guess.” Jimmy lapsed into a black reverie.
Emily finished her espresso. “Why would Byron start doing drugs again?”
“Honey, I don’t know. He had a rotten past and a neurotic imagination. He always thought his enemies were after him.”
“What sort of enemies?”
“I don’t know. People from the street. Former Johns.”
That narrowed it down to ten thousand or so suspects. “Where would Byron get the cash for a drug habit?”
“He had a job and I gave him money, you silly thing. I spoiled him rotten.”
“That night of the party, weren’t you together the whole time?”
“Darling, I didn’t walk around with my thumb up his butt. He had plenty of opportunity to go off with someone for a few minutes.” Jimmy pulled angrily on his cigarette. “Byron was depressed after your sister’s agent shat on him. Afterward, he went into the men’s room without me.”
“Had he been drinking?”
“This was a party, wasn’t it?”
“What had he been drinking?”
“What else, darling? Vodka with dried cherries.” Jimmy calmly finished his cannoli. “Byron always thought you were a very nice lady. Much nicer than your sister.”
The smoke from Jimmy’s cigarette was beginning to singe Emily’s eyes. She paid the bill and left.
10
Ah Emily, what a fine little hypocrite you are. Apparently it’s all right for you to screw Guy, but it’s not all right for me to screw Marjorie. I’m delighted that you discovered a pair of purple bikinis in my briefcase. Shook you up a bit, eh, my dear? Now you know how I felt finding that lovely photograph of Witten and Philippa in your back pocket. I’ll bet you couldn’t believe it at first. It never makes sense for the first ten horrible seconds; thereafter, it makes perfect, obvious sense, so obvious in fact that you can’t believe your own stupidity. Humiliation feels terrific, doesn’t it? Black, hot as tar: quite unlike any emotion you’ve ever experienced before. Interesting, though, how differently we reacted to it. You came flying into the bedroom, knickers in a twist, throwing that little box at my head, demanding an explanation, so delighted to discover a sin counterbalancing your own that you never stopped to think that perhaps I’m quite innocent. And now you’ve played your hand. The Wounded Bride probably expects me to come groveling home tonight with flowers and perfume, begging forgiveness. It’snot going to happen like that, darling. First of all,you have no sin to forgive. Secondly, I’m still sitting on my own nest of rotten eggs, hatching your punishment. It’s always better to think and wait, love. Remember that adage about revenge being a dish best eaten cold? Obviously you don’t. Women always feel better, somehow more purified, burning their bridges. The night I discovered those pictures of yours, I would never have stomped into the shower and demanded an explanation. Why not? Because I know you too well: You would have left me then and there, and I wasn’t sure I wanted that. Besides, you did not deserve such an easy out. You married a man who dislikes bedroom Armageddons, who prefers less spectacular methods of eveni
ng the score. You know I’ve got the patience and cunning, Emily; just give me a bit of opportunity. We’re not done with this yet.
A legion of disgruntled mercenaries tromped briskly along State Street, disregarding traffic lights whenever possible. As a sharp wind blew in from the harbor, Ross once again reminded himself to wear a hat to work tomorrow morning; sunshine no longer induced mild temperatures. As usual, he was first at his office. Nothing had changed since he had left last night except for the quality of light; now a fragile, yellow glow suffused the rooms, inviting him in. He loved working here alone before anyone else arrived, before the phone hijacked his imagination and a thousand petty little crises chiseled his energy to dust. In that marvelous, yellow quiet he drew his best buildings, dreamed his purest dreams.... Ross’s heart invariably sank the moment he heard someone rattling the coffeepot in the kitchenette, for then the gods fled, demoting him from creator to traffic controller. He didn’t mind too much when Dana had been around to insulate him from ambitious assistants and horny clients, all gunning for promotions and seductions and commissions that would make them famous. Without Dana, the bickering overwhelmed him. And the fun was gone; Ross hadn’t realized until now that the fun was as important as the money. But Dana had been telling him that for years.
The fax machine trailed a long streamer of queries and quibbles. Ross stopped reading after five pages. He had little enthusiasm for business today. Perhaps it was time for him to ... what? Retire to the cabin in New Hampshire with Emily? Chuckling, Ross went into Dana’s office and flopped onto the deep, green couch where his partner had spent so many hours recuperating from six-martini lunches and extramarital fiascos. If he looked out the window from this soft vantage, all he saw was sky. No humans, no buildings, just sky: No wonder Dana spent so much time lying here. Ross ached like a defeated man. Soon he’d have to decide what to do with this office. He couldn’t leave it empty too much longer. Raising himself up on one elbow, Ross looked around. What the hell was he going to do with those old books? These embroidered pillows from Dana’s girlfriends? That stupid bust in the corner? And why would Dana save a pair of purple bikinis from someone named Madly? Dana had kept a lot of secrets to himself. Some damn best friend!
