by Janice Weber
“You decide where and for how long. Then let’s do it.”
Ross signaled for the check. Back home, as Emily dawdled through a world atlas, suggesting destinations, Ross dawdled a finger in her hair. It was like old times, but older. They went to bed early, clinging to each other like two half-drowned passengers who, through no cleverness of their own, had managed to survive the Titanic.
Early the next morning, after his usual communion with the editorials and the obituaries, Ross left for work. Emily went to the North End, where the mad fan Charles Moody had once lived. Narrow, cobbled Sheafe Street was behind the park where she and Guy had frequently watched the ships in the harbor. A battery of old Italian women, leaning over their ground-floor windowsills, observed Emily as she walked by. She was not familiar so they did not smile. Emily poised a finger above the four doorbells on Moody’s apartment building. She was about to press the second bell, roust the new occupant of Moody’s apartment, when she read the name next to the little black nipple: LEO CULLEN.
Emily blinked in dismay. Leo from Diavolina? After a moment’s hesitation, she rang the doorbell. Futile, of course: If Leo were in town, he would be at work. But she had to do something in front of all those staring old ladies. Emily rang twice, waited, then walked to the nearest crone. “Hello.” She smiled, to no avail.
“You are an actress.”
Emily kept smiling. “I’m looking for Leo Cullen.”
“Away.”
“Have you lived here for a long time?” Shrug. “Do you remember someone named Charles Moody? He lived here before Leo.” Another shrug, more emphatic. Emily gave up. “Thank you.”
She went to the park. Surrounded by sailboats, a big cruise ship floated across the harbor. Maybe the passengers were throwing gold doubloons overboard. What the hell did Leo have to do with Charles Moody? Taking over his apartment couldn’t be just another coincidence like Slavomir taking over Moody’s post-office box. The three of them were connected and Emily had only one option now: return to Diavolina. Oy! Ward again? That would be like revisiting a lion’s den. Maybe she could ask someone else. Emily looked at her watch: Klepp would be taking his cigarette break out back in half an hour. She’d try him.
Emily walked to the South End. Except for the meter maids and a few floral deliveries, Tremont Street slept. Little red neon loops still spelled DIAVOUNA in the restaurant’s front window. Still in business: Emily stared a moment, just an iota disappointed that they had managed to survive without her. She stepped into the driveway and waited behind a Dumpster for Klepp to emerge.
Precisely at ten, as was his habit, Klepp slapped open the door and sat on the rear steps of the restaurant. When Emily heard the click of his lighter, she peeped around the Dumpster. “Psst! Klepp!”
His face broke into a leer. “Playing hide-and-seek today, Major?”
He obviously wasn’t going to come to her, so Emily took a few steps closer to the landing. “How’s it going?”
“Great. No one’s kicked the bucket here in over a week. And you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really? You look like hell.”
“A friend of mine just died.”
“Another one? I’m impressed.” He pulled on his cigarette. “So what brings you back to the scene of the crime? Looking for a letter of recommendation?”
“I was wondering if Leo’s turned up.”
“Nope. I’m running the kitchen. It’s going well. No tantrums, no prima donnas.”
Maybe everyone else had quit. “How’s Ward?”
“Something happened to her about a week ago. She suddenly snapped out of her funk. Quit the booze and started taking showers again. I figure she must be getting laid.”
“That’s nice.” Enough small talk. “Has anyone named Charles Moody ever worked here?”
Klepp’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Why do you ask?”
Why lie? The truth was ridiculous enough. “He wrote a bizarre fan letter to my sister. Philippa asked me to look into it. I found out that he used to live where Leo lives now.”
“Must have been some fan letter,” Klepp said. “Hope she doesn’t want to marry him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s off limits, Major. You remember Brother Augustine, the mushroom man?”
“That’s Charles Moody?”
“Was, was. They change their names when they mend their ways.”
Emily remembered O’Keefe telling her that everyone who worked at Diavolina had spent time either in jail or in criminal court. “Mend what ways?”
“Can’t help you there, sweetheart. Only Leo knows that. And the mushroom man himself, of course. Why don’t you ask him why he’s writing fan letters to bimbos instead of illuminating manuscripts like a good boy?”
“My sister’s not a bimbo,” Emily snapped. “Hasn’t Augustine been a priest for a long time?”
“As long as I’ve known him. That would be about fifteen years.”
“Then how do you know his name was Charles Moody?”
“Aha. You do remember our poor dead dishwasher? Every time Augustine walked in here with a basket of mushrooms or fruitcakes or whatever, Dubrinsky would start mumbling. In Russian, of course. I was the only one who understood what he was saying. It was mostly gibberish about statues and jail and Leo and some kind of fight. I think that once upon a time our little Augie beat someone to death.” Klepp tossed away his exhausted cigarette. “Since it was none of my business, and I was really eavesdropping on the drunk s Russian, I never asked. Leo’s a good man.”
Emily watched Klepp’s cigarette smolder helplessly in the dirt. “The night my sister ate here, Slavomir hit his head.”
“Par for the course, Major. Besides dishes, his favorite thing to crack was his skull.”
“As you were taking him to my office to lie down, he looked into the dining room and shouted something. Do you remember what that was?”
“Something like ‘She’s here. The devil’s here.’ Dubrinsky thought most women were devils.”
Emily scowled. “Why would he call my sister one?”
“I have no idea, Major. My mind was on other things. You might recall we were flat out thanks to that stupid faggot getting everyone all steamed up about his special dinner.” Klepp stood up. “I’d better get back to work. Give those morons five minutes alone and they’ll burn the place down.”
“Thanks, Klepp. Nice to see you again.”
“Yo.” He paused on the landing. “By the way, thanks for the job. I love being chef.” He went inside.
Emily stepped on Klepp’s cigarette, putting it out of its misery. She retreated to Tremont Street and began walking home, looking constantly over her shoulder for a cab. None, of course; all hacks were down in the financial district. After passing the little park where Ross learned that Ward had shot Guy Witten, Emily cut over toward Copley Square. It was that peaceful time of morning when the commuter rush was over but the stores were not yet open. No one was out but tourists and meter maids. Emily finally found a cab to Beacon Hill. Five minutes later, she was backing her car onto Joy Street.
Twenty miles west of Boston, the trees were totally bare. Frost had withered the fields. After an hour, Emily got to Hale. Two foxes darted into the brush as she bumped down the driveway to Augustine’s monastery. It had turned cloudy and quite raw; as she stepped out of her car, bits of rain fell here and there, as if the heavens were taking careful aim at her and just missing. In the distance, faintly, she heard barking from the kennels. Emily opened the massive front door of the main building, rather surprised that it was unlocked, and entered the foyer. It felt even colder in here than outside; the silence was intimidating. She felt like an intruder.
Emily tiptoed to the side room where Augustine had once served her coffee. Today no one had stoked the fireplaces. “Hello?” she called at the back door. An old nun answered. “I’m looking for Brother Augustine. He’s not expecting me.” No? Maybe he was. “I’ll wait out in the grape arbo
r.”
After a long time, Augustine appeared at the hedge. His robe fluttered at his heels as he walked toward her. “Hello, Emily,” he said, taking her cold hands, scanning her face. “I’m happy to see you.”
“But not surprised.”
After a moment he said, “No. Come inside. You’re cold.”
This time they went to a tiny side office that, once upon a time, could have been a linen closet. The walls were lined with books with gold lettering. They sat on a leather sofa that just about obliterated all walking space. Instead of coffee, Augustine offered her sherry from a decanter on the shelf. “Have you had lunch?”
“This is fine, thank you.” Emily took a long sip, wondering where to begin. Augustine sat on the opposite end of the couch, waiting. “Charles Moody,” she said finally.
He exhaled slowly, perhaps sighed. “Go on.”
“Box two seventy-four, South Station.” She finished her sherry. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
Augustine got up and refilled both their glasses. His hands were shaking a little. “How much do you know about your mother?”
He could have flung a bucket of ice water in her face with equal effect. “In what way,” Emily whispered.
“Did your uncle ever talk about the circumstances of your birth?”
“He said our mother died shortly after we were born.” She felt her heart thumping slowly, laboriously, pumping slag instead of blood. “That’s all.”
“You were born in this room,” Augustine said. “I delivered you.”
Emily leaped off the couch. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s not really important in the big picture.”
“How did my mother get here?”
“Leo brought her.”
“Is he my father?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me that would violate the sanctity of the confessional.”
“Something like that, yes.”
Emily left the room and walked in large, noisy circles around the foyer. When she returned to the little room, Augustine was still on his end of the couch. She sat down again. “Just tell me whatever you can. I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ve known Leo since we were five years old,” Augustine began. “We were rough boys growing up in a rough neighborhood, spending more time at the police station than we did at home. Not surprisingly, we ended up in prison. That’s where we met Slavomir Dubrinsky.”
“Statutory rape. I know.”
“He was an artist, she was a young model. Her parents didn’t approve and successfully pressed charges.” Augustine lapsed into a brief silence. “Slavomir had already had quite an eventful life. He was a fascinating, if somewhat unstable, man. Leo and I became very attached to him. He turned the two of us around. When we got out of prison, I became a divinity student and Leo started working in a restaurant.”
“What happened to Slavomir?”
“He served another five years. During this time, he learned that his young lady had married someone else. When he came out, he was a broken man.” Once again, Augustine fell into a melancholy reverie. “I went away to school. Leo stayed in Boston. He fell in love with your mother.”
“Did you know her?”
“Only from what Leo told me. He kept her all to himself, or tried to. I think every man in town was after her. She was studying to be an actress, as you know.”
“Only too well.” That’s where Philippa had gotten the idea for her lunatic career.
“After I became a novitiate at this monastery, Leo and I were out of touch for almost two years. One night in the middle of winter, he turned up with your mother. She was in labor and not doing well at all. Leo was nearly dead himself. I thought at first that they had been in a car crash.”
“Why didn’t they go to a hospital?”
“They didn’t want the police involved.” Augustine would not tell her more. “The rest you know. Your mother died the next day. Leo was lucky to escape with the loss of an eye.”
The sherry was finally beginning to anesthetize her. Emily ran a hand along the sturdy brown couch: some delivery table. “Why didn’t Leo adopt us?”
“A convicted felon? Not possible. Your uncle Jasper came for you and your sister.” Augustine poured himself another dose of sherry. “Once you two left here, Leo did not pursue you.”
“And you never told him where we were?”
“To what end, Emily? So that he could torment himself? And the two of you? From what I understand, your uncle treated you both well.”
Jasper had spoiled them rotten. But he had had help from a few thousand girlfriends who had hoped to win the bachelor’s heart through his adoptive daughters. Philippa could not have had better, or worse, acting teachers. “Well, Leo’s looking for me now. I presume he knew better than to ask you for directions.”
Going to the bookshelf, the monk pulled an envelope from the missal. “I got this a few weeks ago.”
“‘Charles,’” Emily read, “‘I must find the girls first. Leo.’ What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.” This time the monk was telling the truth. “When I first saw you at Diavolina, I thought that Leo had found you and explained everything. But that was obviously not the case. You had ended up there totally by chance.”
“What does ‘first’ mean? Is someone else involved in this scavenger hunt?”
Augustine shook his head. “I can’t help you, Emily. It would be pure conjecture and probably mistaken at that. I can only warn and pray.”
“How about point? Could you manage that?”
He smiled; she had sounded just like her mother. “I’d stay where you are. Leo’s bound to find you fairly soon.”
“What about Philippa? Is he going to find her before this maniac does? Someone’s been trying to kill her, you know.” Emily briefly told the monk about the problem Philippa had had lately keeping her dinner dates alive. “You have no idea who’s doing this?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Damn clerics, always outsmarting you with their exactly truthful words with opposite meanings. She shouldn’t be mad at him; forty years ago poor Augustine had been minding his own business when two, then four, uninvited guests had popped in at the monastery. Emily got up from her delivery table and put her empty glass on a bookshelf. “Thank you for taking care of my mother.”
“Thank Leo, not me.”
He walked Emily to her car. The rain wasn’t falling any faster, but the drops were bigger. One hit Emily on the cheek as she said to Augustine, “If I hadn’t come here, would you ever have told me?”
“I try to keep my promises.”
The hell with them, and him. Emily drove back to the main road with one hand on the wheel, one hand on the mobile phone. She screwed up Philippa’s number three times before finally getting a ring on the other end. The voice on the phone was so deep and groggy that Emily thought she had misdialed. “Philippa? Is that you?”
“One moment,” said a man.
A lighter, although no less dopey, voice said, “Hello. Em? You’re calling so early.”
“Come on, it’s almost ten o’clock in the morning. You should have put five miles on your treadmill by now. I have some incredible news.”
“Well, so do I. Franco and I are getting married. Did you hear that? Emily!”
“You just met the man two days ago, Phil. Remember? I introduced you.”
“What do you want, a thank-you note?”
“I wasn’t asking for thanks. I was referring to the brief number of hours you’ve actually known each other.”
“How long do you need? A four-year engagement, like you and Ross? And still look what happened!”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing! Just a little joke! I’m hardly awake!” Philippa’s voice suddenly became fifty shades sweeter. “Darling, could you squeeze me a little fresh grapefruit juice? Don’t worry, it’s just my sist
er. Thank you so much. I love you, too.” After a long moment terminated with gluey smacking noises and a door slam, Philippa said, “So what’s on your mind, Em?”
“I just learned that we were born in a monastery in Hale, Massachusetts.”
This news engendered a long silence. “I thought you were working on death threats, not birth certificates,” Philippa replied at last.
“Aren’t you excited? Doesn’t this fill in a hole or something?”
“Sure, sure.” According to Philippa’s résumé, she had been born in an exclusive hospital on the East Side of New York, not in some medieval cloister in the middle of the woods. “I hope our father’s not a priest.”
“I think he’s a chef. His name is Leo.”
“For Christ’s sake, Emily,” Philippa finally exploded. “Keep this to yourself, will you?”
“I don’t believe this! You mean you don’t care who your father is?”
“Jasper’s my father! He was a great father! I don’t give a shit about someone called Leo!”
“Maybe you’d be interested in your mother, then. She and Leo turned up at the monastery in the middle of the night. A priest delivered you on a couch. She died the next day.” Emily couldn’t go on: end of information. “I’ll know more once I find Leo,” she faltered.
Philippa sighed. Although the tale contained some juicy elements of scandal, she still preferred the East Side hospital version. “Why don’t you just wait until Uncle Jasper gets back from his trip? He’ll tell you the whole story again. Forget this Leo character. What a terrible name. He’s probably fat as a goose.”
“But Uncle Jasper’s not getting back for another month.” Every decade or so, their adoptive father investigated a new religion. This time he was trekking across India with a few ladies who either claimed to be disciples of Hinduism or tolerated the concept of harems.
“Do what you have to do,” Philippa sighed at last. Maybe Leo would take her sister’s mind off of Guy Witten. “Say! Choke Hold is number three and still going strong!”
For the moment, Emily abandoned genealogy. “You haven’t gotten any phone threats or oddball deliveries or anything?”
“Nothing. Franco’s protecting me ’round the clock. Here he comes. He’s balancing a tray on one hand, just like a waiter. Except he’s naked. Aren’t you, darling?”
