by Janice Weber
Marjorie walked in with a memo pad and a new blue dress with, for her, a daringly short hemline. “Good morning,” she said agreeably, sitting in a chair and crossing her legs as if their tiff last night had never occurred.
Ross could see a good twelve inches up the back of her thighs. For the thousandth time, he thought about pulling her onto the couch and seeing if her legs were as strong as they looked. But that would answer only one pleasantly intriguing question at the cost of a trillion darker ones, and he was tired of those, so Ross got off the couch and went to the bronze bust in the corner. “Where did Dana get this?“he asked.
“Someone sent it to him. That’s what he said, anyway.”
“Why? To repay a favor?”
“You got me.”
“When was this?”
“About ten years ago. Ross! What are you doing? That thing weighs a ton!” Rushing to the corner, Marjorie steadied the pedestal as Ross tipped the statue on its side.
“Does it say anything on the bottom?” he asked. “Initials? Date? Occasion?”
Marjorie peered at a patch of small incisions. “’R.W. 83.’ That’s all.”
Disappointed, Ross rolled the bust back to its former position. For a moment there, he had thought it looked like the statue in Joe Pola’s bedroom. His eyes must have been deceived by the sunlight on Marjorie’s thighs. He returned to the couch but didn’t lie down. “What did you find out about that chapel Dana built forJoePola?”
Marjorie back-paged through her memo pad. “According to my notes, Pola called here about two years ago.”
“Why? Did someone recommend us?”
“Don’t know. Dana’s notes don’t say, either. Dana drew a few sketches and construction began in September. They finished by Christmas.” Marjorie handed Ross a photograph of the finished chapel. “Not much for two million bucks.”
He barely remembered it. “What was I doing at the time?”
“Commuting to Turkey.”
Ross took the folder. “What was Joe Pola like? You met him, I presume.”
“Oh yes. Very sexy.”
“Well? What the hell does that mean?” he snapped. “Tall? Short? Bald? Fat? He had to be at least eighty.”
“He looked fifty. Wavy white hair, medium height, slim, tan. He wore beautiful suits.”
“And that made him sexy?”
“The way he walked, the way he looked at you was ... very attractive.”
“Sounds like you had a crush on him.” Ross tried to sound amused.
“He always brought me yellow roses.”
“Did he ever ask you out?”
“What? Of course not.”
Ross’s irritation ebbed a tiny notch. “Did he ever come in here with Dagmar?”
“No. Never. My suspicion is that Dagmar didn’t even know about this project.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Joe and Dana were having too much fun. Two afternoons a week they’d drive out to the site in Dana’s Jaguar and not get back until after midnight. Unless Dagmar traveled in the trunk, she didn’t go along. Anyway, you’ve met Dagmar. Not what you’d call a blithe spirit. She strikes me as the type of wife who would have been here every day counting nails had she been in on it.”
For a long moment Ross stared at the bust in the corner: Dana, Dana, answer me. “Well, she knows about the chapel now.”
“Why are you so interested in it?”
“I’m trying to get a fix on Dagmar. She’s more interesting than you think, by the way.”
“You always did have a soft spot for the old ladies.”
“Speaking of soft spots,” Ross retorted, “what in hell possessed you to put those purple bikinis in my briefcase? I had a great time explaining them to my wife.”
“But you’re so good at explaining, Ross.” With infuriating nonchalance, Marjorie flipped to the next page on her memo pad.
“Well? Why did you put them there?”
“I presumed you wanted them.”
“Sometimes you presume too much.” Inexplicably enraged, Ross jumped off the couch. “Cancel my appointments until this afternoon.”
“Where are you going?”
“Errands.”
Outside, the sun had gotten higher but the earth had not gotten warmer, so Ross took a cab to Newbury Street. He got out at a shop wedged between a furrier and a goldsmith. As he entered, the tinkling of the bell above the door was immediately stifled by the plush rugs. Potpourri overwhelmed oxygen. Along the dark green walls, tiny pools of light played on briefs and bras as if they were Grecian urns or the Star of India. A salesman whished oven “May I help you, sir?”
Ross took the little white box from his coat pocket. “I have a problem,” he said, laying the purple bikini on a cushion. “I can’t seem to remember who gave these to me. Most embarrassing.”
The salesman studied the label. “How long have you had them?”
“I don’t remember that, either. I found them in a back drawer. Nothing about them rings a bell.” As the fellow inspected the briefs under the light, Ross spotted a bit of black stitching. “Would it be possible to look up that monogram?”
“That’s not a monogram, sir.”
“What is it then?”
“I’d say it’s a pitchfork.” The man looked slyly at Ross. “Does that ring any bells?”
“No. You can’t look a pitchfork up?”
“This was not done by us. Furthermore, we discontinued this style over five years ago.”
Ross put two fifty-dollar bills on the counter. “Try to find something for me, would you? I’ll call in a few days.”
Why hadn’t Dana told him about Madly either? Had she been another heavy like Philippa? Ross walked agitatedly to Beacon Hill, angry at all the secrets everyone was keeping from him. Neither Emily nor her car was at home. As he backed his Saab onto Joy Street, Ross wondered whether that was something to worry about. Hell, of course it was. Everything she did was something to worry about now. He threaded through midday traffic to Storrow Drive, then to the turnpike heading west.
As he drove over exactly the same route his wife had taken a few days earlier, Ross thought about Dagmar. He kept seeing her still, intent face as she led him through the apartment her husband had kept to himself for so many years. He tried to comprehend what Dagmar had felt upon discovering it for the first time: impossible. How had she managed to survive betrayal of such magnitude? By forgiving and forgetting? Ross needed to ask, to learn, although in comparison to hers, his little problem with Emily was a joke. Not even a joke, a pun. He wondered if Dagmar had any children, and if that had mitigated anything. He admired her fortitude, or, equally as important, her bravado. He wanted to know her better. Deep in thought, Ross zipped right past the monastery and Dana’s chapel in the woods. Soon he saw a neat white sign for Peace Power Farm. WE LOVE VISITORS, it said. Well see, Ross thought, pulling into the overgrown driveway. He parked near several other cars and studied the nearby farmhouse. An undistinguished structure in the first place, its charm was further eroded by chipped paint and a sagging porch. Dead leaves blanketed the half-dead lawn. The pickup truck that had rammed Guy Witten’s front window rested behind an oak. Ross walked over, checked the license plate: yep, same vehicle that had shattered the window of Cafe Presto the other night. Someone had ineptly hammered the dents out of the front fender.
A collie bounded over, yapping as if he were a thief. “Stop it, Fidel,” someone called from the porch. “Fidel!”
Fidel understood the tongue of Ross’s shoe a little better than he did English. Ross went into the barn, where the odor of hay and rotting wood enveloped him. No cows therein; instead, one end had been converted into a slipshod farm stand. Ross saw a very big woman behind a counter piled with eggs and cheese. Well, he was almost sure she was a woman.
“Yes?” she demanded.
Had she appeared in the least helpless or frightened, he probably would have bought some eggs and gone home. However, rising to mee
t her hostility, Ross said, “I noticed a few dents in the pickup truck outside. Perhaps you could help.”
“Who are you?”
“For the moment, let’s just say I’m a neutral witness to an accident.”
“Fuck off, buddy. I don’t need this shit.”
“You probably don’t. That’s why you should tell me why you drove through the front window of Cafe Presto a few nights ago. You sent two people to the hospital.”
“I didn’t send anyone anywhere. I was here making goat cheese.”
“But you know who was driving and why. Tell me and I’ll leave you alone.” Ross smiled sweetly over the counter as the woman’s imagination filled in the Or Else.
“Swine,” she muttered after a moment. Lifting the tray in the bottom of her register, she placed a little red card on the counter. “Ask there.”
Ross’s smile sagged when he read the card. Diavolina? What the hell did Diavolina have to do with this? Was Emily involved? Was she playing some sort of smoke-and-mirrors trick on him? He gently pushed the little red card away. “Ask whom there?” he echoed softly.
“Ward. Now get out.”
He wandered east, back to the office.
Startled by a branch hitting the roof of the cabin, Philippa woke up around one in the afternoon. It was bright but cold in the bedroom; were it not for exigencies of stomach and bladder, she would not have gotten out of bed at all. She dashed to the bathroom, raising great roiling clouds of steam before stepping into the shower, then raided Emily’s drawer for socks and sweaters. After breakfast, when the vapor had left the bathroom mirror, Philippa inspected her face, and groaned. In no way could she be seen like this: Her bruises still looked too much like a face lift. She watched television for a while, catching up on the activities of other actresses who had less talent but better agents. It was hard to believe the world contained so many blond bombshells, with more being born every day. When even the commercials began to upset her, Philippa switched off the TV and tried to read a book. Unfortunately, the shelves contained only biographies of serious people.
Desperate to amuse herself, she bundled up in lumberjack gear, found a large stick, and began walking to the liquor store: Her scotch reserves were down to half a bottle. It was a clear, blustery day, and Philippa enjoyed the exercise for the first two miles. Thereafter, her enthusiasm waned as she realized that for each step forward, she’d eventually have to take one in reverse, lugging an armful of booze. Twice Philippa came to a complete halt, almost in tears; only the specter of an evening without alcoholic consolation impelled her forward. Finally she arrived at a small store named Marty’s. A wizened man stood at the register. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a month but had only been able to sprout a few grungy millimeters of beard in the interim.
“Why hello, Emily,” he said. “What happened to your pretty little face?”
“My name is not Emily,” Philippa snapped. “And nothing happened to my face. I am expecting an important guest this evening. Please deliver three dozen oysters, one pound of prosciutto, and a few bottles of French champagne to my premises. I would also like a gallon of your best scotch to take home with me now.”
After a moment’s acute contemplation, the man answered in a completely different tone of voice, “You’re in New Hampshire.”
“Yes, I’m perfectly aware of that. Would you have any single malts available?”
“I told you this is New Hampshire,” he repeated. “You’ll have to go to the state liquor store for the hard stuff.”
“Goddamn it! How far is that?”
“Fifteen miles.” Seeing the negative effect of his news, the man added, “I can sell you some beer or blush.”
“That pink swill? I wouldn’t even douche with it!” Spying a rack of paperbacks, Philippa bought the two fattest ones with the raunchiest covers. She looked disdainfully at the local newspapers stacked next to the register. “I suppose you’re all out of Wall Street Journals.”
The man glanced out the window. “It’s a nice day for a walk. I suggest you go back where you came from.”
Had she been wearing boots instead of sneakers, Philippa could have stomped out with much more authority. Now she had to settle for a flyweight slam of the screen door. Fueled by frustration, she returned to the cabin with good speed. It was lunchtime. Philippa drank several martinis with her tuna fish sandwich. Finally, maddened by the sounds of her own chewing and swallowing, she phoned her agent, who should have left New York for California last night.
Simon picked up after one ring. “You stupid bitch! I don’t know what kind of stunt you think you’re pulling, but I’m not amused.”
“The hell with your amusement,” Philippa retorted. “I’m in hiding, if you really really want to know. My life is in danger.”
Simon laughed for almost a solid minute, but he had just levitated his mood with a generous dusting of cocaine. When he finally got his post-hysterical wheezing under control, he said, “I recommend you come out of hiding by tomorrow night. You’ve got a date with a Czech director. Here.”
“That’s impossible!” Philippa screamed. “I can’t be seen like this!”
“Seen like what? You didn’t get a skin peel without consulting me, did you?”
Damn, damn. She had never told him about her face; now it was a little late. “Who’s this director?”
“Name’s full of Zs and Cs. He’s some kind of big cheese in eastern Europe and he’s got bucks. He’s seen your films and is thinking of casting you in a biblical epic.”
“Why me?” Philippa asked, suddenly suspicious.
Simon had no idea; his office had gotten a cold call from this stranger yesterday. “Why you? Because I’ve been working my tush off since the fall of the Berlin Wall trying to arrange it! Now are you going to be at Luco’s at eight o’clock tomorrow morning or am I going to have to suggest someone else?”
“I’ll be there,” Philippa said. “What about you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling. You know I adore power breakfasts.”
After hanging up, Philippa calmly took three empty liquor bottles outside and flung them as far as possible into the lake. They made a few circles in the water, then vanished without trace: There was a lesson in that. She stood for a time thinking about what she wanted, where she was headed, and whether those two lines might ever intersect, nay, come within light-years of each other, before she died. Lately, she had begun to doubt it. Worse, she had almost begun to accept the doubt. Totally deflated, she went inside and opened one of her paperbacks.
Around four that afternoon, as Philippa was dozing over page thirty, Emily arrived. “Having fun?” she called, dropping her suitcase with a thud.
Philippa followed her sister into the bedroom. “Ah, Em—before you unpack, could we talk? Something’s come up.”
“Something good?”
“I think so.” Philippa sat on the bed. “I called Simon this afternoon. I know, I know, I shouldn’t have! But I didn’t tell him where I was! He thinks I’m stashed with a lover someplace.”
“No such luck, of course.”
“No.” Not yet, anyway. “He’s arranged a breakfast meeting with a Czech producer tomorrow. Wants me to be there.”
“So you told him to postpone, right?”
“Of course not. Em! You’ve got to do it for me! One last time!”
“Oh Christ! Not again, Philippa!”
“You don’t want to help me?” Philippa mumbled piteously.
“It’s not a matter of helping! Don’t you realize someone’s trying to kill you?”
“No, I don’t. I think your chef OD’d all by himself and maybe you’ve let your imagination run away with you. Maybe someone murdering me is just wishful thinking.”
“How could you say something like that? My own sister!”
“Sorry, it slipped out. I get crazy up here in the woods. Listen, Em, I’ve thought of a plan. Fly to L.A. tonight. Have a quickie with this producer. You’ll be back
by tomorrow night.”
Emily stared at her sister. “You can’t be serious.”
“You know I’d do it myself if I had half a face! Did you have something more important to do tonight or tomorrow?”
“I was looking forward to a little fishing, to tell the truth.”
“Fishing? Do I mean less to you than a fucking trout?”
Emily put her arms around Philippa, who had broken into sobs. “Shh. Let me think about it. I just got here, you know.”
“You have no idea what an easy life you have,” Philippa wept. “You’ve got money, a husband, houses, pension plans, family doctors, and a career you can shove- I’m all by myself. I have to fight for every little crumb that any schmuck throws at me. And they only throw it once. No one protects me from anything. Everyone lies to me. I wish I had your life.”
Emily went to the bathroom and ran a facecloth under cold water. She returned to the bed and daubed her sister’s red eyes. “Why don’t you retire? Open a bookstore or something.”
“I need a man, not a bookstore! And I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet. Say you’ll go, Em. I have all the clothes you’ll ever need right here.”
“I think you’re forgetting something. If someone’s trying to kill you, they might kill me while I’m out there eating breakfast.”
“You’re perfectly safe. None of my enemies would think of getting up before lunchtime.”
Emily hesitated. “I guess I could drop in on your fan club and get that list we need.”
“Right!” Sensing victory, Philippa went for the coup de grâce. “Luco’s is one of the best restaurants in town. You must try their Lobster Baked Alaska.”
For a number of reasons involving escape, retribution, curiosity, and suicide, Emily finally agreed to go. While Philippa packed her suitcase, she booked her flight and hotel. She took a brief swim in the lake before phoning Ross. “I’m at the cabin,”she announced.
