by Janice Weber
“That was Philippa, not me, you fool!”
Ross’s face sagged. He shut his eyes. “I don’t believe it.” Emily waited, but her husband did not apologize. Instead, he went to the window and stared into the backyard. “How did that happen?”
“Remember Dana’s job in Paris last month? They met there. Philippa came to Boston to spend the weekend with him on his boat. She wanted it kept quiet. They were at the restaurant tonight.” Her voice faltered; Ross still refused to turn around. Emily went to the window and saw why: He was crying. “Sit down, Ross,” she said as a fresh blast of guilt twisted through her. “I have some bad news.”
He only shook his head and stared at nothing.
“They were at Diavolina,” Emily continued, feeling her throat dry. “Just as they were about to eat dessert, Dana ... Dana ...”
Ross finally faced her. “Dana what?” he whispered.
“Collapsed.”
Ross grasped her arm. “You’re making this up!”
“I am not!” Her voice began to wobble. “It was horrible. Philippa went off the deep end. There was almost a stampede. The police came. The ambulance, the lights, oh God they made a mess! And Dana was just lying there with whipped cream all over his face. I’ll never forget that.”
Ross squeezed her arm. “Which hospital is he in? I have to see him.”
“Hospital? He’s dead! He was dead before he hit the floor!” She was becoming angry at having to explain things over and over.
“What do you mean, ’dead’? From what?” Ross shouted.
“I don’t know,” she shouted back. “Heart attack! Stroke! Indigestion!” This was a very bad finale to a very bad dream. Her husband should be comforting her, not shrieking as if this were all her fault. “Good of you to ask! Where the hell were you for three days? If you had been home, none of this would have happened!”
Ross stared at her a moment. Then he flung his glass against the far wall. The vicious crash dismayed them both: this room was no longer safe. In silence, they watched a dozen weak rivulets creep down the wallpaper, away from the point of impact. “You came that close, Emily,” Ross whispered, holding two fingers an inch apart. “That close.”
From the kitchen, where the light was cleaner, he phoned the police. Ascertaining from a reliable source that his business partner was indeed deceased, Ross hung up. “I’ve got to see Ardith,” he said. “I don’t suppose you want to come along.”
Ardith? Who gave a damn about Ardith! Emily guffawed bitterly. “I’m sure she’d rather see you alone.”
She was splashing her face with cold water as the downstairs door slammed.
4
Danas’ gone. I’ll never see him again: “Never” is too monstrous to even comprehend. And he was innocent, after all. Well, half innocent: If he had Philippa, he half had Emily. Damn him, he should have told me! It might have saved his life. Might have saved my marriage as well. But Dana was never one for confession. Hell, why confess if he didn’t believe he was erring in the first place? He was just having a little fun. Fun! I hope he died happy, with a gut full of wine, a riveted audience, maybe Philippa crying hot tears on his hand... bitch. She should have told me, too. Instead she told her sister, who chose to keep her mouth shut.
Emily said he died quickly: didn’t hurt for long, eh friend? What could have passed through his mind those last few seconds? Surprise. Panic. Wonder. Remorse, not for his misdeeds, but for their cessation. Perhaps he had time to telegraph a goodbye to Ardith, his high school sweetheart. That eleventh-hour whore Philippa couldn’t even have figured in the last, garbled flare inside his head. Did he think of me before the lights went out? He should have. I’ve loved him the longest and I’ll miss him the most. God! Why didn’t he just tell me he was sailing with Emily’s sister? In thirty years, he’s never hesitated to tell me about any of his women, great or small. What the hell was so different about Philippa?
Aha. He must have thought he was in love with her. Then the rules would change, the secrets expand ... and no safety net. Dana wasn’t used to that. Somehow she must have infiltrated the tiny closet that held the key to his existence. I can understand his delight, his dismay; happened to me years ago with Emily, and I told no one. I couldn’t. It was a private miracle, a fragile veil separating twilight from absolute darkness. As long as that veil remains, you cannot allow yourself to go down without a fight. Dana fought, I’m sure. But he had no chance: too much dissolution before he staggered into Philippa
Dana! What could you have been thinking of! Remember your family? Remember that little business of ours? Am I supposed to start designing kitschy carriage houses and shopping malls now? I’d rather eat my protractor! Who’s going to take care of building permits? What about your Fourth of July sailing party? What about half our skyscrapers? Major without Forbes; now that is truly a nightmare. I don’t know how I’m going to live through this. I’m not sure I want to.
I wish she hadn’t told me he died with his face full of whipped cream. Dana didn’t really deserve that. It haunts me.
Ardith was thoroughly drunk when Ross arrived at her home in Brookline. She was not alone, however; Rex, a man with muscles and a tan, answered the door. He took Ross to the living room and resumed his place on the couch next to the bereaved widow, who had evidently been crying into his khaki shorts. Each time Ardith said “bastard,” she broke into fresh tears, as if Dana’s death had forever besmirched her virtue. After half an hour, realizing that the woman was incapable of giving or accepting sympathy, Ross patted her shoulder and left.
When he got home, his wife was in bed but not quite asleep. She had been drinking too; unlike Ardith, however, alcohol on Emily smelled exotic and sensual, like a perfume she only wore on special occasions. Her skin was warm, hair wet: She had been in the bathtub. Filthy and acid, Ross crawled into bed. When she rolled over, wrapped her arms around him, he cried for a long time. At first he cried for Dana. Then he realized that his wife had forgiven him for his recent outbursts, and that she was all he had left now. He cried because she was still there, still his bulwark against that nameless monster borne of time and solitude, who ate all souls in the end. Finally Ross cried because he had no children. They would have made him braver, filled in some of the craters Dana had left, half answered some of the mysteries ... but it was not to be. He would have to find consolation elsewhere. Theology? Work? He didn’t know. Toward sunup he ran out of tears and slept with bleak, flitting dreams.
At seven o’clock, Emily brought his coffee to bed. She kissed his cheek. “How do you feel?” she whispered.
Then he remembered, and momentarily submerged beneath the cold waves. Daylight felt like a splash of peroxide in his eyes. “All right.” He saw she was already dressed.
“I have to go to Diavolina for a while,” she said. “The police are finishing up.” She waited as Ross wanly swallowed some coffee. “I guess you’re going to the office.”
“Someone’s got to tell them.”
“Want me to come along?”
“No thanks. You’ve got problems of your own, I expect.” Ross glanced at the alarm clock: morning already. Funny how hours, lives, just melted away. “Where’s Philippa?”
“She left last night for New York.”
He chuckled emptily. “She never was one for cleaning up her own mess. I wonder how I’m going to explain this to people.”
“ You don’t have to explain anything. Dana died with his clothes on.”
His wife still made excuses for Philippa. Ross couldn’t believe it. “Do me a favor, will you? Remind your sister that Dana had a wife and kids. I’d appreciate her resisting the temptation to get a few cheap headlines out of this.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Emily stood up. “Call you later.”
As she stepped outside, a light breeze lifted her hair. A yellow-white sun hovered above the Common; this would become one of those serene September days, tinged with autumn, that broke the heart. Emily put her sunglasses on; sunshine w
as a particularly cruel reminder that the gods never grieved over the death of a minuscule human. They just continued frolicking with the stars.
Entering Diavolina, Emily saw Ward and a man at a corner table. Even from a distance, Ward looked more wretched than usual. Her hair lay flat against one ear, caromed off the other, as if a demon had been vacuuming her head as she slept. A Milky Way of cooked oatmeal streaked the front of her sweatshirt. Emily had not seen her smoking before. “Hi Major,” Ward said in a gritty baritone voice, brushing ash from her enormous thighs. “Speak to Detective O’Keefe.” She went into the kitchen.
The man shook Emily’s hand, appraising her with a candor honed by forty years in morgues, courtrooms, and bars. He beckoned her to sit. On the table in front of him, a dozen ripped pink envelopes clustered a pot of coffee. “I’d like to ask a few questions about last night,” he said, reaching for a notepad. “You were in charge of the kitchen and I understand you were a friend of the deceased.”
“He was my husband’s business partner. I’ve known him for fifteen years.”
“Did he have any health problems that you were aware of? Allergies? Heart condition?”
“No. He was in good shape.”
“What did he eat last night?”
“Rolls, goat cheese, mushrooms in port, filet mignon with horseradish sauce, Swiss chard, potatoes, black currants and cream. I think he drank champagne.”
O’Keefe looked at his notepad. “Plus vodka and chianti. And dried cherries. Who made the dinner?”
“Byron Marlowe, the sous-chef.”
“Why didn’t you make it?”
“Byron wanted to. Dana’s date was—is—a famous actress. Byron’s a fan. I had more important things to do in the kitchen.”
O’Keefe thought about that a moment. “Was Byron acquainted with the deceased?”
“Not that I know.”
“Is he a good chef?”
“He knows his way around a stove.”
“I mean mentally, what’s he like? Delusional? Hysterical? Still going for his fifteen minutes of fame?”
Emily shrugged. “I’ve only been working here for four days. Byron was fairly normal until Dana dropped dead during his little speech. His nerves were already on edge from making dinner for Philippa Banks.” Emily paused; sooner or later she’d have to make the next statement. “She’s my sister.”
O’Keefe nodded as if he knew that already and had just been waiting for Emily to mention it. “Were Forbes and your sister old friends, then?”
“Is this relevant?”
The detective’s clear blue eyes suddenly met hers. “Insofar as it affected the dead man’s pulse rate, yes.”
“Then I would say that Dana’s pulse rate was somewhat higher than it would be had he been out to dinner with his wife.”
“Understood.” O’Keefe sipped his cold coffee before returning to his original line of questioning. “Did Forbes have any addictions?”
“Wine. Women. Work.”
“Any enemies?”
“What does that mean?”
“Just a routine question, Mrs. Major. A healthy man dropped dead over dinner. It doesn’t happen every day.”
“Why would Dana have any enemies? He hardly paid attention to his friends.”
“Was your husband his friend? Business aside?”
“They’ve known each other for forty years. They were like brothers.”
“No arguments? Business problems? Misunderstandings?”
“None that I’m aware of.” She marveled at her own cool mendacity: How easily one fibbed to protect a wounded husband.
O’Keefe waited a moment. “Where was your husband last night?”
“Working.”
“I see. Thanks for your help, Mrs. Major. The autopsy will probably explain everything.” O’Keefe stood up. “I’ll be in touch.”
The kitchen doors swung open, emitting Ward. “Can I get my kitchen back on track now, Detective?” she yelled, stalking to the table. “You’ve got evidence up the wazoo. I’ve got five cooks going apeshit back here.” She looked at Emily. “The cops are checking for food poisoning.”
No restaurant needed that kind of publicity. “Is this necessary?” Emily asked O’Keefe. “No one else got sick here last night. My sister ate everything Dana did. She was alive and kicking when we put her on the plane.”
“How is she now?” he asked.
“I would have heard if she burped wrong. You can call her and check if you like.”
“Not necessary. I already have her statement from last night.” O’Keefe seemed reluctant to talk in front of Ward. “You’ve both been very helpful. Thanks.”
They followed him to the kitchen, where O’Keefe’s assistant was finishing up with Byron. “I’ve told you again and again,” the sous-chef was explaining, “this was a special meal. I didn’t use recipes. I only made enough for two people. It tasted good. They ate everything. There were no leftovers. No doggie bags. Nothing.”
“Not even gravy?”
“Oh Christ, especially not gravy! Sauces are my specialty! Pump a few stomachs if you still need samples!”
“Okay, okay. Who handled the booze?” the assistant detective asked.
“Zoltan. You already grilled him.”
“And the waiter was ... Henry?”
“Eddy! Eddy! Don’t try to trick me!”
Klepp had been slouching in the doorway, smoking. “Just tell them about the arsenic in the mushrooms, Byron,” he called, spinning the cigarette into the driveway. “Then we can all get back to work.”
O’Keefe walked over to him. “Think we’re joking here, Shorty?”
“Watch your language, Officer,” Chess warned. “I’m about ready to file harassment and discrimination charges.”
“Oh. Pardon me. I forgot.” O’Keefe suddenly twisted Klepp’s shirt tightly at the throat and nearly lifted him off the floor. “Think we’re joking here, Mr. Altitudinally Challenged?” After a few seconds he let go. “One more crack and I’ll bust your runty little ass.” O’Keefe looked over the kitchen crew. “Does anyone have anything to add to the statements made this morning? No? Then we’ll let you get back to your business. Thank you kindly.” He and his assistant passed ominously close to Klepp on their way out the rear door.
“You should know better than to mess with cops,” Mustapha muttered after a moment. “Especially when they’re twice your size.”
Klepp angrily rattled his sauté pans. “Leo never would have let the cops in the kitchen in the first place.”
“Let them do their jobs,” Emily said, looking around. “Where’s Slavomir?”
Chess fluffed a few dandelion greens. “He hasn’t come in yet.”
“Ha!” Byron snapped out of his stupor. “He knows I’ll kill him for drinking all my port last night. Wrecked my recipe. I hope you’re going to take it out of his salary, Ward. Charge him for fifty broken dishes while you’re at it.”
“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’” quoted Mustapha. “Why are you so spiteful, Byron? They weren’t your dishes anyway.”
“That’s enough, children,” Ward interrupted. “Major, come with me. Everyone else, get to it. We’re serving lunch today.”
Emily followed her to the table in the dining room. Brushing aside O’Keefe’s mound of pink envelopes, Ward said, “I would have appreciated knowing that Philippa Banks was your sister. It would have explained the chaos in here yesterday.”
“I’m sorry. I try to keep it quiet.” Emily felt intensely stupid.
“You’re not proud of a sister like that? What’s the matter with you?” Ward flicked a lock of hair out of her eye. “Obviously I’m not too thrilled about a stiff in my dining room, either. What happened while I was away? I have five versions already. May as well hear yours.”
“You left around eight, I think. We were already jammed and the kitchen was a zoo. Philippa and Dana got here about nine-thirty. Eddy, the new waiter, served them. They ate and probably dran
k a lot. Byron wanted to make a little speech with dessert, so he came out after the berries. He was about to start when Dana collapsed. That’s my version.”
Ward lit another cigarette. Her voice was raw. “Then what.”
“My sister has a great set of lungs,” Emily said. “Byron’s aren’t bad, either. When I realized they weren’t screaming at each other, I rushed to the dining room. There were one hundred people, all staring at this body on the floor. Then they stared at me because I look like Philippa. They probably thought the whole thing was a practical joke. I remember a few people laughing. It was bizarre, a dream. Dana was dead.”
“You checked?”
“Any decent chef knows first aid.” Emily forced her voice down. “I announced that he had fainted and had Zoltan and Eddy lug him to the kitchen.”
“What did your sister do?”
“She managed to half-faint into Byron’s arms.” Emily guffawed. “Would have fainted entirely if she thought Byron was strong enough to carry her. Once we got Dana out of the dining room, things gradually returned to normal.”
“What about your sister? Did she realize Dana was dead?”
“Why the hell do you keep asking about my sister?” Emily snapped.
Ward looked surprised. “Sorry. What happened then?”
“Zoltan and Eddy carried the body to my office. Slavomir was in there sleeping. He went nuts when he saw Dana so I sent him home. I put Philippa and Byron in your office with a bottle of brandy and told them everything would be all right. Then I called the police. To answer your question, yes, Philippa knew he was dead.”
“How’d she know?”
“She saw my face as I was listening for a heartbeat.” It was the only time in her life that Emily had seen Philippa look helpless. “Then the police came and took statements. They were carrying Dana out when you got back.”
“Nothing like running into a body bag on the steps of your restaurant. I’ll have diarrhea for a week.” Ward poured herself a cup of cold coffee. “You’re a cool cucumber, lady. Not everyone could have handled a corpse with such aplomb.”