Infernal Affairs

by Jane Heller

  It was a funny thing about my relationship with Pete. When he first showed up at my door, we had zero chemistry between us. I felt awkward and uncomfortable around him, like a spinster aunt who’s suddenly been handed a baby to raise. Now, only a few weeks later, I couldn’t imagine a time when he wasn’t in my life. He was there when I woke up and there when I went to sleep, a constant presence during a turbulent period. No matter how bizarre his actions often seemed to me, I had a sense that he was on my side, protecting me, supporting me, shielding me from the fact that, in addition to being a darksider, I was a soon-to-be-divorcée, a woman without a man to care for her.

  Of course, I would have been a fool to think that Pete’s mysterious arrival at 666 Seacrest Way on the morning after my transformation was merely a coincidence; that it wasn’t related to my becoming a darksider in some way; that Pete, like David Bettinger, had not been placed in my path. But part of me didn’t want to know about any of that. Part of me rejected the idea that our bond was engineered by some supernatural force—a force that could take Pete away from me just as abruptly as it had delivered him to me. Once I’d gotten past the inconvenience of having a dog around—the mess, the smells, the barking—I had come to depend on Pete and vice versa. What I’m trying to say is, he loved me and I, who had never really loved anything or anyone, loved him, too.

  “What do you think of this dress?” I asked him as the two of us stood together in my bedroom. I wanted to look my best for the party and so, while Pete looked on, I modeled various outfits for him, all of which had been altered to accommodate my new figure. Mitchell had never been much help in the Which-outfit-should-I-wear? department. I’d ask for his opinion about this blouse or that skirt and he’d say, “Never mind what I think of it. What do you think of it? Take a stand on something, Barbara. Stop being so damn passive!” But Pete was another story. He included himself in almost every phase of my life and was delighted to offer his opinion, even on something as mundane as my clothing.

  Usually, if he liked what I was wearing, he barked. If he didn’t, he whined. His response to the red dress I had on was a whine.

  “Okay,” I said, pulling it over my head and tossing it onto the bed. “Let’s try another one.”

  I put on a hot pink number with a slit up the side. It elicited another whine from Pete.

  Next came a more conservative garment, a high-necked white dress with gold buttons. That one got not one bark but two!

  “So you like me in white,” I said, reaching out to pet him. Mitchell used to say that white washed me out. He even said it on our wedding day. There I was, walking down the aisle in my virginal white bridal gown, and when I got to the altar, Mitchell leaned over and whispered, “White isn’t your color, Barbara. It washes you out.”

  I ran a comb through my hair, put on some lipstick, and said good-bye to Pete. I could tell he didn’t want me to go because he was blocking the front door.

  “Come on, boy. Shove over,” I said, trying to push him aside, first with my foot, then with my body. For a dog who was so finicky about his food, he was a heavy load when he wanted to be. I couldn’t budge him.

  “Pete, please,” I said firmly. “This party is important to my career. Now move out of the way.” Pete’s devotion was heartwarming but I was in a hurry. “Come on, boy. Let’s go, huh?”

  Still, he refused to step aside.

  On an impulse, I decided to use my darksider power on him. I looked him in the eye, folded my arms across my chest and said out loud, “Pete, I wish you’d get so tired that you’d crawl over to the sofa and fall sound asleep.”

  I waited, knowing it usually took a second or two for the power to kick in. But nothing kicked in. Pete didn’t move a muscle. He stood his ground by that front door and wouldn’t budge.

  I repeated the wish. He remained by the door.

  That’s funny, I thought. Either I’ve lost my power or Pete is immune to it.

  I tried one more time. Again, Pete didn’t seem the least bit susceptible.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll go out through the back door.”

  Apparently, I had said the magic words because Pete suddenly abandoned his post by the door. He trotted over to the hall closet, wriggled his way through its partially open door until it was open all the way, and gripped the collapsible Totes umbrella that was resting on the floor of the closet between his teeth. Then he carried the umbrella over to me and dropped it at my feet.

  “Is that what all this is about?” I asked, amazed yet again by Pete’s actions.

  He barked.

  “Pete, look outside,” I said, pointing out the window. “It’s a gorgeous afternoon.”

  He nudged the umbrella with his nose and rolled it toward me.

  “I don’t need an umbrella, believe me,” I said.

  He barked a couple more times. Then, as if to emphasize his point, he repeated the routine, picking the umbrella up in his mouth and dropping it at my feet again.

  “All right. Be a Jewish mother if you want to,” I laughed, stooping over to pick up the umbrella. “If I take the damn thing, will you let me go to the party?”

  He opened his mouth very wide and yawned. I took that as a “yes.”

  The umbrella tucked under my arm, I blew Pete a kiss and rushed out of the house, totally unaware that I was hurrying toward disaster.

  The smell was the first thing I noticed when I stepped onto the patio of the River Princess. Not the smell of the hors d’oeuvres, which were sumptuously arrayed on silver platters. Not the smell of the brilliantly colored tropical flowers that made pretty centerpieces on the round, umbrellaed tables. Not the smell of the stylishly dressed female guests, who, collectively, were wearing enough perfume to choke an elephant. And not the smell of my own Brussels sprouts breath, which I had been successfully camouflaging with BreathAssure. No, the smell that assaulted me as I made my way through the crowd wasn’t a smell at all. It was a stench. A stink. A rancidness. It was hard not to gag.

  Moving to the beat of a steel drum (“Curtis the Jamaican” was the only musician we could get on such short notice), I found Suzanne standing with Deirdre, Althea, and Frances. She was busily surveying the guests, in search of eligible bachelors, I suspected.

  “What in the world is that smell?” I whispered to her.

  She shrugged. “We’re all trying to pretend it’s not there, but it’s overpowering, isn’t it?”

  I nodded and held my nose. “Do you think the construction guys left their Dumpsters around? Maybe the wind is blowing the scent our way.”

  “Nope. No Dumpsters. Someone is checking on the sewage system, but nobody really thinks that’s the problem.”

  “Then what is? Unless our customers have allergies and can’t smell anything, they’re not exactly going to be thrilled with the River Princess and this whole shindig will be for nothing.”

  “I know. Frances is tearing her hair out.”

  I glanced over at Frances, who was deep in conversation with one of the developers. Neither of them looked happy.

  I peered out over the crowd of nearly two hundred guests and tried to locate other people I knew.

  I spotted Charlotte Reed chatting animatedly with Anabel Littleton, the chairwoman of the Banyan Beach chapter of the Junior League.

  I spotted June Bellsey hanging onto her husband Lloyd, who, in turn, was hanging onto Gary Kineally, the mayor of Banyan Beach, who, in turn, was hanging onto Roberta Smith, the perky television reporter for Channel Eight, who, in turn, was hanging onto former football great and South Florida resident Joe Namath, the only bona fide celebrity to show up at the party.

  I spotted several of my customers sampling canapés and sipping champagne: Richard and Arlene Volk, the yuppy stockbrokers; Nancy Henken, the interior decorator; Dee Dee Holliman, the recipient of a large trust fund and a chronic purchaser of real estate. They had all expressed interest in buying in the River Princess. I hoped the rank odor that was filling the otherwise clear, dry air wouldn�
��t change their minds.

  I spotted David Bettinger standing all alone. He was holding a champagne glass in his right hand and gazing out at the river. Although he wore a pained expression, he was improbably handsome in his crisp khaki-colored slacks, blue-and-white-striped shirt and navy-blue blazer, his golden hair gleaming like a halo in the late afternoon sun. What a waste, I thought sadly, as I continued to watch him. Sure, he was a gorgeous creature. But “creature” was the operative word here. He was a manufactured man, a man whose physical beauty couldn’t begin to make up for the loneliness I know he felt, the loneliness of being a darksider whose only chance at happiness was to inseminate me and hold up his end of a despicable, diabolical plan.

  What’s he thinking? I asked myself as I stared at him. What must be going on inside his head? Is he wondering if I’ve confronted Jeremy yet? If I’ve gotten the devil to release me from the bargain? Or does he already know that I haven’t succeeded? Does David Bettinger always know more than he admits to? Was that why he’d made me pull it out of him that Jeremy was Satan’s cover in Banyan Beach?

  And speaking of Jeremy, I spotted him and his father walking up to the bar. I was more than a little surprised.

  What’s he doing here? I thought, as I watched the white uniformed waiter hand him a glass of champagne. He looked incredibly out of place in his blue jeans and sneakers, his wavy red hair clashing horribly with his purple T-shirt. He couldn’t have been on the guest list, seeing as he wasn’t exactly a mover or shaker, nor was he a Home Sweet Home customer or even a potential condo buyer. He must have gotten an invitation from one of the retailers in town, I decided, remembering that we’d distributed a hundred invitations to local businesses for their customers. The question was, why would he want to attend the grand opening of the River Princess, given the way he felt about the building?

  Maybe the devil made him come, I guessed. A regular party animal, that’s what Satan was.

  Of course, I still wasn’t convinced that Jeremy was the devil’s cover and his presence at the party made me uncomfortable. He had called me a couple of times since my visit to his house the week before, “to see if you’re feeling better,” he’d said on the messages he’d left on my machine. But I hadn’t returned his calls. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say to him. After talking to my brother and hearing about his selfless fishing trips with those kids, I didn’t know what to believe about him. Besides, he had asked if I was feeling better and how could I answer that question? I wouldn’t feel better until the devil was out of Banyan Beach.

  My eyes drifted away from Jeremy and Mike Cook and landed on another intrepid twosome: good old Mitchell Chessner and Chrissy Hemplewhite. Had we really put my asshole husband on the guest list? Or was Chrissy the one who’d been invited and Mitchell only there as her escort? And what about the Six O’Clock News? How could Chrissy give her nightly weather report if she was at a party instead of in the studio?

  It wasn’t until I noticed the Channel Five cameraman trailing behind her that I figured out what was going on—and it was all June’s fault. In her zeal to arrange for media coverage of the River Princess’s opening, she, or maybe it was Lloyd, must have talked Chrissy into doing the weather live, on remote, from the party. As a result, Miss Doppler Radar was evidently going to stand in our midst, point to the blue sky overhead, and tell her adoring television audience that it was going to be a beautiful evening. And people say real talent is hard to find.

  She looked thoroughly ridiculous with that long blond mop she called hair piled on top of her head in tight little curls.

  And Mitchell. Please. He was as twitchy and obsequious as ever, bowing and scraping and pumping the arms of people he barely knew.

  “Why didn’t you ever give me the same respect that you give perfect strangers?” I muttered. “I’d like to see you grovel at my feet.”

  Suddenly, I saw Mitchell spin around, look meaningfully in my direction, and then walk briskly toward me.

  Chrissy called out in her high-pitched, helium-balloon voice, “Hey, Mitchell honey? Where are you going? Mitchell? Come back here.”

  He ignored her and kept walking. I swallowed hard as he made a beeline for me. He was moving quickly, purposefully. For a second, I felt that old paralysis set in, that old panic that I would say or do something that would displease him, that he would criticize me for it, that I would hate myself for allowing it. And then, the panic vanished and when Mitchell parted his lips to speak, I felt strong, courageous, nasty.

  “Barbara? Is that really you?” he asked, assessing my “new look.”

  “No, it’s Vanna White,” I replied. I had never dared mouth off to Mitchell. Not in person anyway. But he was facing me now, standing only inches away. It was our first meeting since the night he left.

  He didn’t say anything for a second, and then he laughed much too loud and too long. The line wasn’t that funny. He was overdoing it.

  “Vanna White,” he chuckled. “I never realized what a terrific sense of humor you have.”

  “It’s not that terrific.”

  “Oh, but it is. I just never noticed it.”

  “You never noticed much of anything about me. Anything positive, that is.”

  He smiled. “Well, I’m noticing something now. You look fabulous, Barbara. Whatever you’ve done to yourself has only made you more beautiful.”

  “More beautiful than what?”

  He ignored my question. “The truth is, you’re the most beautiful woman at this party.”

  “Really? What about Chrissy?”

  “Chrissy who?”

  Boy, this darksider power sure is amazing, I thought. “How’s business? The restaurants doing okay?”

  “Fine. Great. Why don’t you have dinner at one of them some night this week. I’ll have the chef prepare something special for you.”

  Something special for me. I was enjoying this.

  “You know, there’s no reason why we can’t be friends,” he said. “I really admire you.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since…I’m not sure.” He stopped, appearing confused, then began again. “I have a lot of respect for you, Barbara. I think I only realized it a few minutes ago. Isn’t that strange?”

  “Very.” I could have listened to Mitchell suck up to me all night, but we were interrupted by the voice of Mayor Kineally, who was standing at the microphone and saying, “Testing 1-2-3. Testing.” The crowd applauded and the TV cameras—there were four; it must have been a slow news day—were poised to record every moment.

  “You’d better run along, Mitchell,” I said. “The ribbon-cutting ceremony is about to start.”

  “Is there anything I can get for you before I go?” he asked, bowing as if I were one of his customers at Risotto!. “An hors d’oeuvre? Champagne? Anything?”

  “Yes,” I said sweetly. “You can get lost.”

  I left Mitchell in his servile crouch and went to join David, with whom I had more in common.

  “Hi,” I said, tapping David on the back.

  He was glad to see me, but we couldn’t really talk because the mayor was bellowing into the microphone. He was saying something about our embarking on a new chapter in the history of Banyan Beach, about the River Princess representing the beginning of the town’s Golden Age. Blah blah blah. I looked around for Jeremy and his father, to try to catch their reaction, but couldn’t find them in the crowd.

  When the mayor had finished his speech, Ronald Dubin, one of the developers of the River Princess, stepped up to the microphone and said how proud he was that his building would offer the residents of Banyan Beach the ultimate in luxury. He assured us that no expense was spared in the construction and design of the condominiums, no detail overlooked.

  “No detail overlooked? They obviously forgot to take out the garbage,” I whispered to David, referring to the stench that was still permeating the air.

  The ribbon-cutting ceremony followed. Then Mr. Dubin introduced DeWitt Charney, the sc
ulptor responsible for the three mermaids that were about to be unveiled in their sparkling fountain habitats.

  “Before we take the tarpaulins off the fountains and show you Mr. Carney’s magnificent mermaids,” said Dubin, “I want to invite you all to tour the River Princess during the evening. The model units will be open until nine o’clock tonight, as will the card room, the gym, and the cabanas. There are brochures describing the various features and amenities of the building on the tables in the lobby. Feel free to pick one up on your way out. Any questions, speak to Frances Lutz or any of the other realtors at Home Sweet Home, all of whom are here tonight. And now, without further ado…” He paused, looked toward Curtis the Jamaican and requested—and got—a drumroll. A steel-drum roll.

  “Are we ready?” Dubin asked the workmen who were stationed at each of the three fountains, poised and waiting for the signal to remove the tarpaulins.

  “O-kay,” Dubin beamed, nodding at the men. “We have lift-off!”

  At the word “off,” the men removed the three tarpaulins with a dramatic flourish, like waiters lifting silver domes off dinner plates. Flashbulbs went off as the power in the fountains went on, sending the flow of water up through the mouths of the fabled mermaids.

  Suddenly, DeWitt Charney, who was still standing beside Ronald Dubin at the microphone, poised and ready to admire his creations, cried out in anguish.

  “My God! No!” he screamed, his voice echoing out over the patio.

  There was a collective gasp as many of the partygoers saw what DeWitt Charney saw.

  And then all hell broke loose. And I don’t mean hell as in “pandemonium.” I mean hell as in “the devil was not amused.”

  Chapter 19

  Someone had polluted the fountains.

  At the unveiling of the mermaids, we discovered that the culprit had apparently gotten into the building in advance of the party and, knowing the fountains would be covered until the festivities began, dumped rotting slime into all three of them. One was filled with dead fish, the second with thick, black oil, and the third with raw sewage. No wonder the place stank.