Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

  White as an egg, Ross embraced Ardith, again offered his assistance, and took Emily back to their car. As soon as he shut her door, she opened the glove compartment and lunged for a flask filled with gin, managing to swallow two good slugs before he reached the driver’s seat. “Let’s get out of here,” Ross muttered, throwing the Saab in gear. “Are you up for lobster?”

  “You bet.”

  Ross got jazz on the stereo and poked toward the highway. Once on Route 95, he shot north at ninety miles an hour. Then he glanced in the rearview mirror. “I don’t believe it.”

  “The police?”

  “No. Philippa.”

  Emily twisted in her seat. The white limousine was right behind them. “Pull over. I’ll take care of this.” Ross screeched into the next rest area. Emily slammed her door and stomped to the long white vehicle braking behind them. Seeing her approach, the chauffeur rolled up the bulletproof shield separating him from the passenger compartment. Emily flung open the door. “Get out,” she screamed. Nothing happened. “Philippa! Get out!”

  “I can’t,” a voice quavered. “I’m sick.”

  Emily peered inside. Philippa had removed her veils and gloves and was listing heavily toward the far door. She looked chartreuse; this was no act. “What’s the matter?” Emily cried.

  “I don’t know. It just hit me. Watch out!” Philippa lurched toward the door and vomited into the grass. “God, my stomach hurts.” She threw up again.

  “What have you been eating?”

  Philippa retched dryly. “Apple juice.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it since I left Boston. I ate too much at your restaurant.”

  Ten yards ahead of them, Ross waited in black silence. Emily sighed: caught in the middle again. “Here are my house keys,” she said, tossing them to her sister. “Try to make it back to Boston and lie down. Call Dr. Woo. He’s in the address book by the phone.” She took a few steps backward. “I’ve got to take care of Ross now.”

  “Where are you going? To the lake?”

  “No, Maine. He needs to drive. Why the hell did you go to the funeral?”

  Philippa replied with another gush of vomit. When that was over, she rasped. “It was the least I could do. When are you getting back?”

  “Around dinnertime. How long will you be staying?”

  “I have to be in New York tonight.” Actually, she was supposed to be there now, doing interviews for Choke Hold.

  “You can’t go on a plane in that condition.”

  “It’s just a bug. I’ll get it out of the system one end or the other.” Philippa retched again. “Go take care of Ross.”

  “Call Dr. Woo. He likes me. He’ll see you right away.” Emily returned to the Saab.

  Ross accelerated back onto the highway. “So why was she following us?”

  “Maybe to apologize. She’s pretty sick. Didn’t you see her throwing up?”

  “No, I was watching a raccoon raid the garbage cans.” Ross drifted into the fast lane. “Why’d she go to the funeral?”

  “Because she felt bad! Ross, she’s my sister! We just have to live with her.”

  He depressed the accelerator another inch. Other men had mothers-in-law. He had Philippa. Family, the surtax on marriage; you never knew the percentage until it was too late. Paying without complaint was the true test of a man’s nobility. At least a mother-in-law had the grace to die twenty years before you did. Philippa would be galling him the rest of his life. “She could have hired a black Mercedes,” was his final word on the topic.

  Emily dozed for a while. Then she awoke, horrified: symptoms of food poisoning could appear as long as eight days after ingestion; she remembered that from cooking school. Emily imagined Philippa going to a hospital and getting her stomach pumped. They’d discover evidence of botulism. Wyatt Pratt would find out and up Ardith’s ante another million bucks. The case would drag on for months and Diavolina would lose. Then Ward would sue Emily. Ross would go bankrupt trying to defend her. They’d both end up in prison forever.

  “Ross, could you please pull over?” she asked after a while. From a rest stop in New Hampshire, Emily called home. “Philippa? How do you feel?”

  “Worse. My gut’s killing me. I think I’m seeing double.”

  “Get Dr. Woo!” Emily nearly shouted. “He’ll make a house call!”

  “All right. I really don’t know what’s the matter.”

  “You might have food poisoning.”

  There was a slight pause. “From your restaurant?”

  “Please don’t get Diavolina into this, Phil. That’s all I ask. I’ll explain later.”

  Philippa hung up and hurried to the bathroom again, amazed at how much fecal sludge a body contained. She called Dr. Woo, who happened to be leaving downtown for his suburban office, and could stop by Beacon Hill in about fifteen minutes. Philippa returned to the bathroom and began sprucing herself up for the doctor’s visit. She was applying a bold streak of eyeliner when she realized that Woo was expecting to see Emily Major, not Philippa Banks, in distress. So she washed off all her makeup and began again, much more pudently this time. Then she took some tea to the atrium and dialed her agent in Los Angeles; perhaps business would take her mind off her gastrointestinal eruptions.

  “Hi, Simon, thought I’d check in. Any word on that new role?”

  “This is a bad time, baby. I’m on the horn with Paris. Lemme call you back. You’re at the Plaza?”

  “No, the hairdresser,” Philippa lied.

  “What? Aren’t you supposed to be doing interviews this afternoon?”

  “Don’t worry! Everything’s under control!” Philippa hung up, regretting the call. Simon would hit the roof if he ever found out she was in Boston instead of New York. She hadn’t meant to make a day of it, of course: jump on a shuttle, cruise to a funeral, make a desperate search for that man who had come to her table at Diavolina, return to Manhattan. She hadn’t planned to get violently ill. And the beast hadn’t even shown up!

  The doorbell: Dr. Woo. He was much handsomer than his name would imply. Thank God she was wearing Emily’s blue silk dressing gown! “Thanks for coming,” Philippa said, leading him to the den. “I’ve been throwing up and my head’s killing me. I can’t see straight, either.”

  Wondering whether or not to compliment Emily on her brassy new hair color, Woo put his bag on the coffee table. “Could this be a hangover?”

  “Of course not, you imbecile!” Philippa recovered herself. “Sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Is there diarrhea?”

  “Not anymore.”

  He looked into her mouth then checked her pulse, temperature, and pupils. “Have you been taking any drugs?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What have you been eating? Anything unusual?”

  Philippa had to think fast: What would Emily have had for breakfast that might have made her sick? “A couple raw eggs. And some steak tartare.” She saw Woo looking at her blankly. “We ran out of granola.”

  “Would you have any of this food left? Could I see it?”

  “I’m afraid I ate it all.”

  “The eggs too?”

  “Ross finished the eggs.”

  “And how does he feel?”

  “Fine! Fine! I scrambled his.”

  Woo nodded. “Could you get me a stool sample?”

  “Not anymore. They’re all in Boston Harbor.”

  “How about urine, then?”

  “Doc, I’ve been peeing, puking, and shitting all morning. There’s nothing left, believe me. Just give me some medicine and get me out of here!” Philippa realized that she was not acting in the least like her sister. Maybe crying would help. “Forgive me,” she sniffled. “I just don’t feel well at all.”

  “I understand.” He withdrew a hypodermic needle from his kit.

  “What’s that? You’re not going to knock me out, are you?”

  “Of course not. I would like to take a bl
ood sample.”

  “But you can’t! I’m terrified of needles!”

  “Since when?” Woo deftly pulled a rubber rope from his bag.

  Philippa backed up a few feet. “Touch me with that thing and I’ll kick your balls to Faneuil Hall.”

  Woo took a step forward but hesitated when he saw Philippa’s foot rise. He put the rubber rope away. “I’ll call in a prescription right away. They deliver. Stay in bed the rest of the afternoon. If you don’t feel better, call me tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “That will be one hundred fifty dollars, please.”

  Great! She had just given most of her cash to the chauffeur. Philippa had been intending to hit a money machine on the way back to the airport. “One moment,” she said pleasantly, going to the nearest desk. It contained nothing but architectural paraphernalia. Philippa tried to look confused. “Where could I have left my checkbook?”

  “Isn’t it usually in the kitchen drawer?” asked Woo.

  “Ah, of course! Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Philippa hurried to the kitchen. There were drawers all over the place. One by one, she tore them open, becoming more agitated with each wrong guess. Finally she reached a narrow drawer at the end of the counter, near the telephone. Inside was a slim leather checkbook. Philippa grabbed it and had almost shoved the drawer shut again when a flyer caught her eye. It was a publicity shot of the staff at Cafe Presto, with July’s menu underneath. As she lifted it out, her pulse began to skip. Yes, yes! There he was, the man who had come to her at Diavolina! He stood next to Emily in the back row, grinning impishly. Guy Witten, the caption said. Guy. What a perfect name. Smoky eyes; a face half Marlboro man, half Valentino; his mouth was only an eight-inch hyphen on the page, but Philippa extrapolated it to life-size, and quivered. He would be seismic in bed. She wondered how her sister’s affair had started, how long it had been going on, how often they—

  “Excuse me,” said Woo from the doorway. “I’m parked illegally outside.”

  Philippa slammed the drawer shut and quickly scribbled a check. “Thank you so much. I’m feeling better already.”

  “Lie down, Emily, you’re sicker than you think,” Woo instructed after a quick glance at the indecipherable handwriting. At least the numerals were sort of clear. “Drink plenty of fluids. Call immediately if your fever persists. And tell Ross he’s due for his annual checkup.” Woo hurried out, resolving never to make house calls again.

  As soon as he left, Philippa returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawer; maybe Emily had more flyers lying around. Philippa found nothing but Indian and Chinese takeout menus and a few old shopping lists. A sudden pain lashed her gut, forcing her back to the couch in the atrium. For a while she lay on her back, wondering how to proceed with this fellow named Guy: a bit tricky, as she didn’t know if he was still involved with Emily. From the few words he had said to her in the restaurant, Philippa inferred that he and Emily had recently had a fight. From the way he had touched her across the table, however, it was clear that Guy considered his affair with Emily far from over. Had they made up? Did Ross have any idea? No, Philippa was sure he didn’ t. Ross was a Samaritan in all matters but Emily. Over the years Philippa had seen his eyes following his wife across enough crowded rooms to know that he registered every iota of gravitational pull she exerted on the surrounding Tarzans. Ross rarely interrupted her; he just observed from afar, and never forgot. This man fooling around with Emily had no idea what Ross could do to him.

  The more Philippa thought about Ross, the less enthusiastic she felt about him finding her here this evening. Emily wouldn’t be too thrilled, either. Discovery of that picture had salvaged her trip; after her prescription was delivered, Philippa called a cab and hobbled to the airport. She was back in her Manhattan hotel a few hours later.

  After Dana’s funeral, Ross and Emily drove to Maine. They ate lobster and spent most of the day walking along the beach, holding hands as the surf chased their feet. For miles they hardly spoke. After fifteen years of marriage, conversation had acquired the rhythm, the inevitability, of a body function: When it happened, it happened. Finally Ross began talking about a year off, just traveling. He’d like to spend a few months in Tahiti studying the fish. Talking about fish led him to talk about boats, about harbors, about Singapore, then about his new project there, the old projects he still had to finish up. By the time they had circled back to their car, Ross was resigned to going back to the office tomorrow and picking up the pieces.

  Around midnight, they returned to an empty house on Beacon Hill. Since Emily had not mentioned the possibility of an overnight guest to Ross, she was relieved to see no sign of Philippa, not even a note of thanks next to the house keys. But Philippa was no idiot; after a lifetime of romantic entanglements, she had learned when to make a grand entrance, and when to utterly vanish. Emily resolved to call her first thing in the morning, ask how she was feeling; then she realized she had no idea where Philippa had gone. It was always like that.

  Early the next day, Emily returned to Diavolina. A new menu would be in effect and she thought the staff would be at work preparing for the debut. Instead, she found everyone at the coffee machine handing Klepp money.

  “Hello, Major,” he called. “Have a nice day off? You got a little sun, I see.”

  She walked over. “What’s going on here?”

  “Give me ten bucks, please. You have to guess how many people are going to order the Mixed Tofu Grill tonight. Winner take all.”

  Chess had fought viciously to get it on the menu. “What if no one orders it?” Emily asked.

  “Sorry, I already put my money on zero. You’ll have to pick another number.”

  “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “What? It’s a tradition. Leo always ran a pool when he changed the menu.”

  Emily put twenty bucks on fifty orders and told everyone to return to their stations. She met with the day’s suppliers and was about to leave the storeroom when Byron came in. “Maje,” he said in an undertone, “I have something for you. Well, not for you, for Phil. Why didn’t you just tell me she was your sister? I can understand you wanting to protect her privacy. But I wouldn’t have told anyone. Really. Anyway, could you give these to her, with love from Jimmy?” Byron drew a handful of photographs from his apron pocket. “Souvenirs of her evening at Diavolina.”

  “He took pictures?!”

  “It was totally discreet! Jimmy’s a pro. He has a special camera.”

  Emily grabbed the stack and began riffling through the uppermost snapshots: all Philippa and Dana, smiling, swallowing, toasting, preening, autographing, unaware of what was about to happen to them. Emily’s ribs began to fuse one to the other, squeezing her heart to a walnut.

  “Great, aren’t they?” Byron murmured after a long, transfixed moment.

  Her eyeballs burned. “I presume Jimmy only took pictures of the living.”

  “You mean did he take any of the body on the floor? Gad, no! He almost fainted himself! You will deliver these to Phil, won’t you, Maje? Maybe you could get an autographed head shot in return.”

  Ward loomed at the door. Her hair looked as if mice had nibbled away all the best parts. “You’ve got a monk asking for you, Emily.”

  Emily stuffed the pictures into her pants pocket. “Thanks.”

  Brother Augustine was waiting at the counter with another basket of mushrooms. As she approached, he studied her intently, quizzically, the way many people had over the years; Emily resisted an urge to ask if he had seen Philippa in Tropical Heat. Under the kitchen lights he looked wise but very old; then again, he had been hearing the same hackneyed plots in the confessional for half a century,

  “Hello, Emily,” Augustine showed her the contents of his basket, “We’ve had excellent luck in the woods lately. Were the grisettes I brought you last week a success?”

  “Howling,” answered Klepp.

  Augustine ignored him. “How’s your supply of honey holding out?”

  “Fin
e. What else can you offer me?”

  “Fruitcakes and Labrador retrievers. Not to eat, of course,”

  “Some monastery, Augie,” Byron called, “What’s its name again? Saint Wal-Mart?”

  Emily invited Augustine to her office, “Sorry about that,” she said when her door was shut. “They’re the worst eavesdroppers I’ve met in my life.”

  “You’ve never been in a monastery, my dear.” Augustine sat in the chair across from her, “So! What can I do for you?”

  “You haven’t sent me a bill,” Emily said,

  “I thought that Leo would have told you about our arrangement,”

  “I’ve never met Leo in my life.”

  The monk went very still. “Leo didn’t bring you here?” he asked quietly.

  “No, he skipped town. I’m not quite sure why. Is he some kind of lunatic?”

  Augustine took a deep breath. “I’ve known Leo Cullen since we were teenagers. He’s had a very difficult life. Beneath his frightening exterior, he’s a decent man. He’s been in the restaurant business almost as long as I’ ve been wearing a robe. Over the years, we’ve been able to help each other out in a number of ways.”

  That was a lot of free mushrooms. “What happens to the restaurant if Leo doesn’t come back?”

  “He always does,” Augustine said with a monk’s delphic smile.

  After changing the topic to fruitcakes and retrievers, Emily walked Augustine to his can “You’ll be back on Monday?”

  “Of course.” He got in. “Do you enjoy working here?”

  Again she felt that this was more than a simple inquiry, and was torn between a desire to confess all and an irritation that Augustine didn’t ask the real question on his mind. “It beats watching Fellini,” she replied after a moment.

  He nodded and drove away. Emily went to Ward’s office. “Got a minute?”

  “Sure.” Ward shoved a few papers aside. “How was lover boy’s funeral?”

  “Not fun.” Emily sat on the tattered couch. “How long have you been working here?”

  “Seventeen years. I started as a waitress. Waitron. Whatever. Then I was the weekend hostess, then bartender, then manager. Why?”