Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

  “She wore heavy makeup and jewelry, and an expensive suit with fat buttons. She could have been a fag hag.”

  Emily had no idea what that meant but nodded anyway. “What color was her hair?”

  “Black, I think. So were her eyebrows. She was wearing a black turban and thick glasses. And awful perfume. Probably cost a fortune.”

  “How old was she?”

  Agatha shrugged. “About Simon’s age, I guess. Thirty-five.”

  Emily tried not to laugh. “He told you he was thirty-five?”

  “Shhh! It’s a secret!”

  The nurse left Simon’s room. “What are you two doing out there,” Simon called tetchily. “Someone get in here and fix my blankets.”

  “Do you have any more questions, Miss Banks?”

  “No. Go fix Simon.” Emily watched the girl dotingly rearrange her Svengali’s covers as he cursed nurses, doctors, and hospitals. “So what’s the matter with you, Si? Tertiary syphilis?”

  “You’re a real hoot, Phil. There’s something wrong with my blood. It’s got strange crystals in it that no one can figure out. No one believes me when I tell them it was that script from Vitkovich on polluted paper. They keep asking me if I ate mothballs and weed killer for breakfast.” He snorted. “Morons. I’m not staying here one more day. This place is the Enema Capital of the universe.”

  Emily retrieved her baseball cap. “Nice seeing you, Agatha. Good luck in Hollywood. I’m sure Uncle Simon will take good care of you for a few weeks.”

  “You’d better be sharp for those interviews tomorrow,” Simon snapped. “I called in ten thousand favors to get them.”

  “Why thank you, darling. Let me know when Mr. Vitzkewicz turns up.”

  Emily ran back to the hotel, where she found Philippa curled up on the bed, lacquering her toenails. “Great news, Phil,” she said. “Agatha the waitress was visiting Simon at the hospital. We’re not imagining things after all. Your enemy is a middle-aged bitch in a black turban, glasses, and awful perfume. I’m going back to Luco’s tomorrow. The waiter’s got to remember something about that script.” Emily looked over at her sister, who just sat on the bed blowing her toenails dry. “Well? Aren’t you excited? Say something!”

  Philippa finally took her toes out of her face. “How old is Agatha?”

  “Who the hell cares about Agatha?”

  “I do. Look Em, I can’t stay holed up like this anymore. I’ve got to get back into the dogfight before ten Agathas get ahead of me. I can’t disappear just when Choke Hold hits the charts. That’s suicide.”

  “But someone’s trying to kill you.”

  She shrugged. “So let them! An eye for an eye!”

  What the hell did that mean? “Just let me run with it a little, all right?” Emily said. “You do your interviews tomorrow. I’ll go to the restaurant and maybe drop in on the fan club again.”

  “What for?”

  Emily began stripping off her running clothes. “It’s kind of fun pretending to be you. Like dressing up for real. Maybe someday you can pretend to be me. If you ever want to, that is.”

  Philippa’s face turned a violent red. Luckily, Emily was already in the bathroom. They ordered in Chinese food and watched three videos; afterward, crazed, they jumped into the hotel pool. Only as she was shutting out the lights did Philippa realize that Emily had not called Ross, nor he her.

  Still functioning on Eastern time, Emily popped wide awake at five o’clock in the morning. Her sister snored lightly from the other bed. Careful not to disturb Philippa’s beauty sleep, Emily dressed and got into her car, looking for breakfast. Although dawn was just unhinging the night with a wedge of gold at the horizon, traffic already overran the roadways. Commuters here drove as if they had been ordered to, or from, an earthquake. Emily joined the herd and crawled across town, arriving much later at Luco’s, the restaurant she had recently visited with Simon. It would open at seven for breakfast.

  Sitting at a bus stop, Emily watched the staff slowly piddle in. Finally she saw the fellow who had served them the other morning. “Yoo-hoo!” she called, chucking a burrito into the garbage. “Franco!”

  He stared; without their makeup, jewels, and pushup bras, many actresses were nondescript as guppies. “Philippa Banks,” he said after a few seconds. “You’re up with the sun. Looking gorgeous, I might add.”

  “Cut the shit. It’s too early.” Did this town contain one honest person? “You brought a script to my table the other day. It was all wrapped up in plastic.”

  “That’s right. You were with Simon Stern. He didn’t leave much of a tip.”

  “You didn’t serve much of a breakfast. Who gave you the script? I need to know. It’s very important.”

  Franco hesitated, uncertain whether he should ask Philippa for money or for a date. On one hand, she was the star of that campy new sleeper, Choke Hold; on the other hand, her breath smelled like onions. “It’s a little hazy,” he said.

  “You told us she had diamonds as big as her eyes and filming began in two weeks. Does that ring any bells?” Emily dug in her purse. “Look, I’m desperate. Here’s all my money and three tickets to the Massachusetts Megabucks. The jackpot’s up to seven million and the drawing’s on Saturday.”

  “Forget the money!” Franco said. Maybe it was the wind in her hair. “It’s coming back to me now. It was a lady with Coke-bottle glasses and a black turban. She looked like a Gypsy wearing her own little crystal balls.”

  “How old?”

  “Anywhere between thirty and sixty. You just can’t tell these days.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yes. She put two C-notes on the table and asked me to deliver the script and a message to you. She seemed nervous. Smoked constantly.”

  “Was she dark or light?”

  “Dark.”

  “Did you notice anything else besides her rings? Like warts? Bracelets?”

  “I didn’t have much time to look. She was in and out in ten minutes.”

  Emily scribbled a phone number on one of the lottery tickets. “If you think of anything else, call me here in the next few hours. Ask for Emily Major. I really appreciate it.” She returned to her car and drove to Simon’s office, arriving shortly before eight. Aidan nearly dropped his croissant when she walked in.

  “My God! What are you doing up so early?”

  “Working, dear. I don’t want to look as if I just rolled out of bed for those three interviews today.” Emily helped herself to a corner of Aidan’s croissant. “What’s new?”

  “Choke Hold was fourth at the box office last week and moving up fast.”

  “Any reason why?”

  “Never ask, Phil Just count your blessings. Simon’s getting a lot of phone calls about you.”

  “Really? He didn’t mention shit when I saw him yesterday.” Too busy with Orifice Agatha. Emily peered over Aidan’s desk. “How’s my fan mail? Heard anything more from my friend Charles Moody?”

  “No. You’re still getting vibrations about him?” Aidan frowned. “Get a second opinion, would you? Carmen isn’t the most reliable astrologer in town, you know.”

  “You told me that Moody’s been a member of the fan club for almost twenty years,” Emily said. “Has his address always been the same?”

  Aidan’s frown deepened. “You’re not going to visit him, are you?”

  “Good God, no! I just want to know where he’s from. Carmen told me never to marry a man from a state with only three syllables.”

  Aidan bought that; Emily didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted. “I’ll have to look in the old card file,” he said, taking her to a back room. “We keep all the precomputer records here.” He pulled open the Mi-Mo drawer and located Moody’s small card. “Here’s your boy.”

  Until eight years ago, Charles Moody had been receiving the Philippa Banks newsletter at Sheafe Street in Boston. Then he had switched to the box at South Station. “Well, I guess he passes the test,” Emily said.

 
“You’re not going to marry him just because he lives in Massachusetts, are you?” Aidan cried, snatching the card away. “That’s absurd!”

  “It’s not just a question of the state,” Emily protested. “Carmen’s got to know the numbers and letters in the address so she can add them up and divide according to the phase of the moon. Then we’ll see.” She looked at her watch. “How do you suggest I dress for these interviews?”

  “Wear the orange suit with your diamonds from Cornell.” That was Philippa’s fifth husband. “And see a hairdresser as soon as you can, Phil. You’re about five shades off the blond your fans have come to know and love.” Aidan walked Emily to the door. “Don’t forget the nail polish!” he shouted as the elevator swallowed her.

  Outside, the sun had begun to bake thighs, fanny tucks, and silicone. Emily crawled from red light to red light, arriving an hour later at Santa Monica. Her room was as dark as when she had left it at sunrise. “Wake up, Phil!” she called, raking aside the thick curtains. “Breakfast.”

  The mound on the bed slowly stirred. “What time is it?”

  “Nine-thirty. You’ve got an interview in two hours.”

  “Crap! I won’t have time for a bath!” Philippa began poking through the bag Emily had brought from a nearby bakery. “Where have you been? Jogging again?”

  “I went to Luco’s.”

  “And you didn’t bring back any Scallop Hash? They do takeout, Em!”

  “I wasn’t there to eat.” Emily recounted her little chat with Franco the waiter. “Sounds like the person who switched drinks in New York was the same one who sent that bogus script to the table.”

  Philippa took a mighty chomp into a croissant. “So I should be on the lookout for a frump with heavy glasses? That’s a big help.”

  Emily followed her sister into the bathroom. “I dropped in on Aidan this morning.”

  “Again? And got away with it? Jesus, you’re getting good.”

  Emily sat on the toilet seat as steam slowly shrouded the bathroom. “Do you realize that bad things have happened whenever you’ve eaten somewhere?”

  Bad things had also happened whenever Philippa had met Guy Witten but she didn’t point that out to her sister. “What are you getting at, Em?”

  “Think back to your dinner at Diavolina for me, okay? Do you remember seeing someone there with a turban and heavy glasses?”

  “Afraid not. Dana had my full attention.”

  “Was there anything he ate that you didn’t eat? Anything he touched? I know we’ve been through this before, but try again.”

  Philippa tried. “We switched steaks. Mine was almost raw. That moron of a waiter screwed up.”

  The steaks were fine; Emily had watched Byron make them. “Did anyone odd come to your table, or leave anything on it?”

  “Someone sent us a bottle of wine. But we both drank it. That weird-looking ghoul with the orange face showed up with a few drinks from someone at the bar. Two vodkas with cherries. I told you that already.”

  “Refresh my memory,” Emily said. “Who sent them?”

  “Ardith’s aerobics coach. You and I never figured out how he got there. Then Jack-o’-Lantern chewed the fat with Dana a little.”

  “His name’s Zoltan. What did he say?”

  “Something about not seeing Dana since the renovation. Then Dana asked what had happened to some statue behind the bar.”

  Statue? “And?”

  “I’m trying to think, Em. This happened a long time ago.” Philippa tried to shampoo her memory back. “Right! The feminists took it down.” Philippa emerged from the shower and, as was her habit, studied her body in the mirror. “This goddamn potbelly! You’d think I had six kids!” Philippa turned ninety degrees. “My nipples are beginning to point up. That means everything else is starting to sag.” She began toweling herself off. “Have you noticed that your periods are getting shorter?”

  “A little.”

  “How about your cycle? Is that getting shorter too? Mine’s down to twenty-five days.”

  Emily didn’t even remember when her last period had been. Sometime before Dana’s funeral. “You still keep track of that sort of thing?”

  “Of course! I don’t let Simon schedule any interviews the week before my period. It would be suicide. I’m really cranky if I can’t fit into my leather pants.” Philippa slathered her face with a heavy white cream. “You mean you don’t keep those little charts for your temperature anymore?”

  “No. Ross got fed up with screwing on command.”

  This time, Philippa did not make any wisecracks about other volunteers who might like to step into the breech. “So stop demanding,” Philippa said, flipping on her hair dryer. “Go on a vacation together. Ross is still crazy about you. I bet if you picked up the phone and asked him to take the next plane out, he would.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking him to do such a thing.”

  “No, you probably wouldn’t. That’s how youVe managed to stay married for fifteen years.” Philippa began tissuing the white slime from her face, finally aware that Emily would never tell her about Guy Witten. It was probably better that way. But Emily still needed advice; her lover was gone. If Philippa had learned anything from her five marriages and twenty affairs, it was that once they were over, they were over. Emily didn’t have the experience to know that brooding over the Dearly Departed was about as productive as scolding a hurricane. “Look, I’m no Einstein, but I can see that you and Ross are having a rough patch lately. I’m sure it’s my fault. I should never had laid a finger on Dana Forbes. But I did and I’m sorry.” Philippa looked at her lovely, trusting sister. “No, I’m not sorry. I don’t regret one minute. You’ve just got to pick up and go on.” Satisfied with her sermon, she sailed out of the bathroom. “What do you think I should wear today?”

  Emily watched her dig through a tumble of lingerie. “Aidan recommends the orange pantsuit. He told me that Choke Hold is fourth on the charts and moving up fast.”

  “Hot shit.” Whistling, Philippa got a pair of gold sandals from the closet. “God, it’s great to be alive!”

  The phone rang. Emily picked it up. “Hello?”

  “This is Franco. You spoke to me this morning at Luco’s.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you were free for dinner tonight.”

  “Do you have something to tell me? We can do that over the phone.”

  “No, we can’t. I want to see you again. I know I’m just a waiter. But don’t say no.”

  Emily thought a moment. “Come to room four-sixteen at eight tonight.” She hung up. “Did you hear that?”

  “Of course I did. More mystery witnesses?”

  “No, your dinner date.” That sounded more romantic than bodyguard.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going home,” Emily said. “Try not to make me fly out here in two days for your funeral, okay?”

  15

  If hell exists, I deserve to go there. In the space of three days, I’ve murdered Guy and slept with Marjorie. A superthorough job as always—I’ve not only deprived my wife of her lover, but I’ve taken one of my own. Worm! How can I ever look Emily in the eye again? What about Marjorie? Oh God, she was so sweet, butter and roses in my arms ... and I truly wanted her that night. But the morning after was awful for both of us. She was embarrassed to be naked with me; by day, after all these years, I’m still Mr. Major the architect and she’s my organizer. You don’t sleep with the people who are supposed to organize you. It disorganizes them. I should never have stayed overnight, never. But I couldn’t face an empty bed at home; Guy would have been in the shadows, knifing my dreams, looking for Emily. I still can’t believe he’s dead. So he slept with my wife! In the big picture, what’s a couple inches of trespass? I forgive him now! If it was anything like my interlude with Marjorie, it was half innocent, a spontaneous detour, a sudden alignment of the planets.... How could I have been so paranoid? Was I that afraid of losing her? />
  Of course I was. I still am, in fact, much more than before. If she ever finds out what I did to Guy, she’ll leave me. Why the hell didn’t I think about that before handing Ward a road map to the cabin? All right, Major: You’ve dug the hole, poured the concrete, now get your feet out of it. First I’ll have to end it with Marjorie. She’ll probably quit. Agh, that hurts. Then I’ll have to get to Emily, somehow start over, treat each day with her as if it were my last. It could very well be. I’m sorry, Guy. Very sorry. I don’t know what I’ll ever do about you. Any man at all would confess and blow his brains out. But I lost my honor the minute I discovered that a small, sweet corner of my wife’s heart belonged to you. Funny thing is, it still does, it always will, even though you’re gone. I’ll never get it back now. I should never have tried; should have been content with my ninety percent and given my wife credit for the other ten. I should have taken a cue from Dana, who once walked in on Ardith in bed with her aerobics coach. Did he reach for his hunting rifle? Call his lawyer? Of course not. He left fifty bucks on the dresser and thanked the guy for working overtime on her rear end. Why couldn’t I have done something like that?

  Because I could never have pulled it off, that’s why. Not with Emily. She’s not into recreational sex; she’d only sleep with a man if she thought she loved him. There’s comfort in that if you’re the man she’s sleeping with; if you re not, the desolation is total. It’s the risk you take marrying a moral woman. Maybe I should never have presumed, trusted, so much. I should have kept a little cynicism in reserve, like Dana, who had a healthy respect for human frailty. He once told me that his greatest disappointment in life was having failed Ardith. At the time, I thought he was referring to his own screwing around. In retrospect, I think he was referring to her screwing around: A good wife wouldn’t do that unless her husband had somehow not made the grade. And that’s where I hit the wall: Guy was proof of my own inadequacy. It was a terrible shock to realize that, far from being my wife’s alpha and omega, I was just her roommate. So I retaliated and now Guy’s dead. But Emily still loves him. What was gained?