Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

  Dagmar Pola awaited Ross with coffee and rolls at her Commonwealth Avenue apartment. It was a mild, sunny morning, perfect for sitting on the veranda and inhaling early autumn. Today Ross would be showing her a few sketches of the new gallery. As she brought silver and china to the outside table, Dagmar smiled; she was far more interested in the sketcher than in his sketches. It had been many years since a man had intrigued her like Ross. Something dark lurked there, something insulated and electric that had flashed more sharply with each meeting, tingling a responsive current. Dagmar needed to get her teeth into that voltage; some alien life-form breathed there. A kindred spirit for her final years? She hardly dared hope for such a miracle; were it not to be, the disappointment might kill her.

  Ross arrived on time, but not quite in order. He looked a little rusty around the eyes and ever so slightly uncombed. Maybe it was the wind. “Good morning,” Dagmar said, taking his hand. “Did you walk over?”

  Had he been at the office, yes; but Ross had come directly from Marjorie’s place in Cambridge. “I should have,” he answered. “How are you today?”

  “Very well.” Dagmar brought him to her balcony. They ate under a canopy, talking about the weather and crew teams. Although Ross kept up his end of the conversation, he did so without that easy intimacy she had detected the other day. Nevertheless, she could barely take her eyes off him: Ross was also delicious cold.

  He showed her the sketches he had brought, watching her face as she studied them. Once or twice, her mouth lifted into a smile. Dagmar’s many pearls glimmered in the diffuse light. They were exactly the color of her hair. Ross admired her complex, wise features; Dagmar was still a very handsome woman. Forty years ago, she must have been exquisite. Why would Joe Pola screw around when he had such a wife? Ha, who was he to ask?

  “They’re good,” Dagmar said finally. She questioned him about several details. “Do you mind if I keep these for a while? Reconcile myself to the idea of a gallery?”

  “You’re having second thoughts?”

  “I’ve been coming here every day, trying to be objective. But I finally realized that I wasn’t looking at an art collection. I was reading Joseph’s love letters.”

  Ross suddenly took her hand. “How did you survive it? Did you forgive and forget?”

  “Are you joking? Never. Absolutely never.”

  “But affairs can happen despite everyone’s best intentions.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not the forgiving soul that you are, Ross.”

  Heavy blood boiled to his face. “But Joe’s dead now.”

  “Is he?”

  Temporarily speechless as yet another pat answer was rammed back down his throat, Ross could only return to his coffee. “No, I suppose not. I’m sorry, Dagmar.” He watched a boat drift beneath the Longfellow Bridge. “Take all the time you need with the sketches.”

  “If I sold everything, I could commission you to build me a palace.” A twinkle returned to her eye. “Or another chapel.”

  “Dana built the chapel, not me,” Ross said, eyes following the boat. If his partner were alive today, he’d be out sailing too. “I was going through Dana’s papers the other day and came across his Architect of the Year program. I noticed your name on some organizing committee.”

  “That was quite a few years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Almost ten. Were you at the banquet?”

  She thought a moment. “Where was it?”

  “The Darnell Building. Dana supposedly gave a funny acceptance speech.”

  Dagmar smiled. “I was there. You’re right, it was a funny speech. Joseph laughed a lot.”

  “Your husband was there?”

  “Not willingly. But after Dana’s speech he walked right up and introduced himself I think he and Dana saw each other regularly after that.” She noticed Ross staring at her. “You didn’t know?”

  “I, eh—no. I didn’t.” He flushed again. “I was abroad at the time. Tell me something. Do you remember anything at all about the food at that banquet?”

  “Good heavens, no. It was banquet food.”

  “Do you remember anything about a girl jumping off the balcony that night?”

  “Something to that effect, yes.”

  “You didn’t notice anything?”

  “She didn’t scream ‘Geronimo’ as she jumped, if that’s what you mean. What brings this macabre subject up?”

  What could he tell her? That he was second cousin to a suicide? “My secretary was reminiscing about the banquet. Funny how one room can be full of people having a great time while right under their noses, a girl jumps to her death.”

  After a few moments, Dagmar came to the balcony and stood with him watching the sailboats on the Charles. “I think we had salmon with asparagus,” she said softly.

  Abducted by the past, they watched the river and the sky. “Thanks very much for breakfast,” Ross said eventually, leaving the railing. He closed his briefcase. “Take all the time you need to decide about this, Dagmar. I’ll call you tomorrow in any event.”

  “Just checking in?”

  “Something like that.”

  Dagmar watched him go. After the door had shut, she felt very old.

  Instead of returning to his office, Ross walked a few blocks to the main library at Copley Square. He went to the media room and began fanning through microfilm files of newspapers around the time of Dana’s banquet. Soon he found the articles he had been looking for. Since this had been a rather mundane suicide, involving neither lawsuits, conspiracies, nor celebrities, it received only four inches of coverage, two inches on the first day to report that an unidentified woman had leaped off the Darnell Building leaving a note behind, and two inches the next day to identify the deceased as Rita Ward, age nineteen, no foul play suspected. A minuscule obituary a few pages hence mentioned that the victim had been a student at the Academy of Art, that she was survived by parents and a sister, Drusilla, and that funeral arrangements would be private.

  Ross walked to the art school, a decrepit building near the Combat Zone. Drunks vied with pigeons for the sunniest places on its front steps, impeding the paths of students who, even for starving artists, replumbed the concept of grunge. The school’s façade had probably not been washed since—Ross looked for the stone—1901. Once upon a time, this building had probably looked like a place of higher learning. Now it looked like a halfway house for flies aspiring to be Kafkas. Ross went to the dean’s office and, after a short exchange with a secretary, was taken to a dark office that smelled of very old dust. He introduced himself to a middle-aged study in gray and yellow sitting behind a monolithic desk. “Ross Major, the architect?” the man asked, shaking his hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry to drop in on you like this,” Ross said. “I’m interested in a student who attended classes here about ten years ago. Her name was Rita Ward.”

  “Ah, Rita. I remember her well. Very talented. Quite popular with the boys. Lovely girl. She committed suicide, you know.”

  “No!”

  “Just before graduation. Quite unexpected.”

  “Poor thing. Had she been depressed?”

  The dean shrugged. “Every artist goes through a period of depression. It’s part of the learning process.”

  “Maybe it was a man.”

  “As a matter of fact, she left a suicide note to that effect. But no one ever saw her with a boyfriend. Rita was a very private person. Only two people here really knew her. Guy Witten and her teacher.”

  “Guy Witten? The caterer?” Ross croaked.

  “Yes. He just died in a car accident.” The dean sighed. “He was a model here for years.”

  Ross blinked a few times, rolling with the punch. “He knew Rita well, you said?”

  “He was like a big brother to her. I doubt it was a romantic relationship. Guy had just married a beautiful actress. Didn’t last, of course.”

  That must have been Guy’s first wife; Emily would probably know all the anguished det
ails. “Perhaps I could speak with Rita’s teacher,” Ross said carefully. “I’m quite interested to know more about her work.”

  The dean’s smile plummeted. “I’m afraid her teacher would not be of much assistance. He retired the year Rita died and fell into extreme dissolution. I recently read his obituary. A very sad case indeed. His name was Dubrinsky.”

  A muffled bell tolled in Ross’s memory. Why was everyone dead? Rising, suddenly desperate to escape this shabby man and his shabbier stories, Ross put his business card on the dean’s desk. “I believe we have a sculpture of Rita’s in our office. I always like to know about the provenance of company artwork.”

  “One of her mobiles?”

  “No, a bust of my partner. Quite lifelike.”

  “I see. Have you ever thought about teaching architecture? We would be honored to have you on the faculty. Well. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Major.”

  Autumn had begun to leach all the heat out of the sun, and Ross had not worn a coat. He walked briskly toward his office, trying to stay warm. Strange things had happened at that Academy of Art, and the dean wasn’t going to be filling in any holes: more trivial secrets, no doubt. He was so damn tired of them. He missed Dana terribly. He missed his wife. They were his only sounding boards; without them, ideas didn’t bounce, they just rolled aimlessly around the inside of his head, too weak to hatch. And the longer they were trapped inside, the more of them were slowly eaten by viperous guilt. He had to snap out of this coma before it consumed his existence. It would have been easier twenty years ago, when he had more energy, less experience: Work would have been the answer. Now Ross didn’t need the money or the ego jolt that came with building skyscrapers. He had done so many of them that the trek from drawing board to real estate was no longer miraculous; it kind of happened, like the phone bill. Ross squinted at his haggard reflection in a storefront window. Burnout had intersected midlife crisis: wonderful. Were it not for the riddle of Guy’s death, he’d have nothing to get him out of bed in the morning.

  Downtown Crossing thronged with office workers on their lunch breaks and teenagers on leave from the pressures of single parenthood. As Ross cut through the crowd, he began to think about Marjorie. He was a little afraid to see her, to read in her eyes that last night had not been a dream after all. His heart sank when, getting off the elevator at State Street, he saw her sitting at her desk; he had been hoping that she would take the day off, give them both a chance to contemplate their sins. She looked quite normal and calm, however, just as she did yesterday. Maybe even a little brighter than yesterday. No one in the office would ever guess that she had been heaving naked with Ross all night long. When she looked at him, his stomach turned; he wanted her all over again.

  “Hi,” he said softly. No one was around. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” she answered equally softly. After a moment she remembered today’s play, today’s theater, and changed to speaking voice. “Care to hear your messages?”

  He watched her mouth and eyelashes as she recited them. No one important had called. There was nothing important to do this afternoon. Maybe they both could go to the lake. When Marjorie began asking him about a few faxes that had come in, he held up his hand. “Come to the office a minute.”

  In the hallway, they talked business. In the office, Ross sat on a chair rather than his couch, where Marjorie might sit beside him. “So,” he began officiously, then dwindled to silence. She was wearing another of her short skirts, maybe to torment him. He stared at her for a long moment. “I have no idea what to say to you, Marjorie.”

  “What’s to say? I’m a big girl. Would you do it again, now that your curiosity has been satisfied?”

  Yes. Immediately. He watched her cross her long legs. “Would you?”

  She didn’t answer at once. “It would be suicide, Ross. Both professional and personal. You know that.”

  “Does that mean no?”

  “I think so. I love my job. You know I love you.” She let that hang in the air a wondrous moment; he would not be hearing it again. “There’s no way I would be able to handle an affair with you. What do you say we quit while we’re ahead?”

  Ross suddenly shut his eyes. Christ! Had Emily posed the same question to Guy a few weeks ago? Of course she had! And Guy had answered incorrectly, because Emily had quit working for him. He must have said, “No, once was not enough.” Took guts, that; but Guy had guts. Ross sighed, fighting an insane desire to carry Marjorie to the couch. But she had asked a question to which there was only one sane answer. So he said, “That’s a good idea.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “As easy as that, eh?”

  “No, goddamn it! Not easy at all!” He went to the window and glowered at the millions of people out there who managed to lead uncomplicated, successful lives while everything he touched turned to shit. “I should be grateful to have had one night together with you. It was an island in a cold sea.”

  She came to the window and put a finger on his lips. “I know.” Then she left him to his work.

  Emily’s flight from L.A. landed in Boston around nine in the evening. Ross was waiting for her at the gate with a dozen roses. “Hello, darling,” he said, kissing her. “Case solved?”

  “We’re getting there.” Emily sniffed the roses; Ross was either welcoming her home or feeling guilty about Marjorie. “How sweet.”

  Ross had made late reservations at a restaurant overlooking the Common. It was one of those places where the chefs tried to compensate for puny portions by making the food look too pretty to eat. Ross liked the decor, a busy meld of Aztec and Third Reich, and the wine list. Over a great bottle of burgundy, he listened to the details of Emily’s interview with Agatha the waitress. “So you think the waitress was only the messenger?” he asked. “Another woman switched drinks at that party in New York?”

  “Yes. And the same woman sent Simon a poisoned script in L.A.”

  Ross listened quietly to his wife’s outlandish tale. It made perfect sense, as did voodoo and reincarnation, to those who believed it. “So who is this woman?” he asked finally.

  “No idea.”

  “How are you ever going to catch her?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “I wouldn’t wait for her to nail you first, Em. Maybe you and Philippa should set a trap. Grab this thing by the horns.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Ross thought a moment. “Get Simon to set up some kind of party like the one in New York. That wouldn’t be too difficult, would it?”

  “Actually, it might. Do you know that Choke Hold is the fourth most popular movie in the country? Philippa’s the hottest ticket in town.”

  Ross looked out the window for several moments before finishing his wine. “I take it she’s recovered from her fright in the woods, then.”

  “I think so. The bruises on her face are almost gone. She’s ready to beat the bushes again.”

  “She’s not afraid of this woman who’s after her?”

  “Philippa’s not going to let some lunatic cramp her style. Especially a woman.”

  Their food arrived. Suddenly very quiet, Ross concentrated on cutting his exquisite food with exquisite precision. Then, in midmouthful, he asked, “What about that fan letter warning that someone was trying to kill the two of you?”

  Emily had to answer this one carefully. Ross had gotten quite feisty when he first heard about Moody’s note; if he learned that the man was right here in Boston, he’d saddle her with a round-the-clock bodyguard. “Oh, that was a false alarm,” she said. “The note was meant for the Pointer Sisters and got sent to Philippa by mistake.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  Damn! “Because the Pointer Sisters got a letter about Choke Hold.” Noticing Ross’s frown, Emily quickly added, “The president of their fan club called the president of Philippa’s fan club. They all had a good chuckle once they figured out the guy had screwed up his word-processing program.”

  Ross
studied his wife’s face, trying to understand why she would lie to him about something as serious as a death threat. For the moment, he’d back off; tonight Emily looked frazzled, slightly insane. But he’d get to the bottom of this. At least she was home, safe with him. He was going to forbid any more excursions to Los Angeles. Ross took her hand.”I’m glad you’re back, darling.”

  “I am too.” She smiled. “What have you been doing with yourself? Business as usual?”

  “I went to Guy’s funeral yesterday.” Was that his imagination or were her fingers becoming cold?

  “Was everyone there?” Emily asked.

  “More or less.”

  “I just couldn’t face it.”

  “I know.”

  Her face softened a little. “You took time off from work.”

  “No problem. I just stayed later that night.” He took the office to bed with him, in fact. Dropping Emily’s icy hand, Ross returned to his dinner. “This morning I had a meeting with Dagmar Pola.”

  “The Pretzel Lady?”

  “Would you mind not calling her that? She’s actually quite wonderful. I’d like you to meet her one of these days.”

  “Sure. Invite her over. I’ll make lasagna. Easy on the dentures.” Suddenly Emily sat upright. “By the way, you never told me that Dana had done renovations at Diavolina.”

  His fork paused in midair. “What are you talking about?”

  “The night Philippa ate there, she said that Dana was talking with the maître d’, who said they hadn’t seen him at Diavolina since the renovations.”

  Hell! Now what mischief had happened while he was out of the office? “You got me,” Ross said. Maybe Marjorie knew. The thought of her filled him with equal doses of love and regret. “Em, let’s get away for a while. Forget the last month ever happened. What do you say?”

  So he had finally slept with his secretary. Emily recognized the postcoital guilt all too well. Anger flared and subsided: Ross and she were even now. Nothing would be gained by forcing this game into overtime. “Ready when you are,” she said.