by Janice Weber
Fired: After Ward left her office, Emily took the picture of Ross off her desk and tucked it into her purse. She spent a few moments rooting around her drawers for other personal items that she had brought to Diavolina: a few recipe cards, fountain pen, spare T-shirt. ... She hadn’t been here long enough to accumulate much. Where the hell were those snapshots Jimmy had taken of Philippa and Dana last week? Not here; she must have brought them home. After stuffing everything into a tote bag, Emily glanced one last time around her office, memorizing it for her bad dreams. Since her arrival a week ago, three people had died. Guy and Ross, the only men she loved, were inexorably slipping away from her. Funny that all this dissolution no longer made the slightest dent on her emotions. What she really wanted to do was go home and watch television.
“Good-bye, gentlemen,” she called to Klepp and Mustapha, cruising through the kitchen and patting them both on the back. “It’s been a blast.”
Klepp stopped breaking eggs into a large bowl. “What’s this all about?”
“Ward will explain everything.” Emily pushed open the rear door.
Oof: Detective O’Keefe, standing outside, stumbled backward. Only by lunging for the rusty handrail did he prevent himself from toppling to the driveway. Emily caught up with him in the middle of the stairs. “I’m sorry! Are you all right?”
“Sure.” He inelegantly regained his feet and brushed a swath of red dust from his shirt. “Going somewhere?”
“Home. I just got fired.”
“You did? What for?”
“Ask Ward.” Emily walked hastily to Tremont Street, O’Keefe at her heels. “Let’s not be coy, Detective. I just spoke with my sister in New York. I’m aware that Byron died last night. If you know how, please tell me.”
O’Keefe pulled a fax from his pocket. “An inquiry from the NYPD. Looks like your friend Byron had a serious drug overdose.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Byron had been sober as an owl when he was trying to meet Simon. But Emily couldn’t tell that to O’Keefe, of course. She snatched the fax and read a postmortem fact sheet concise and mundane as a speeding ticket. “Byron didn’t do drugs,” she said finally, handing it back.
“Whatever you say. After all, you knew him for—what was it—nine whole days.” O’Keefe studied her face. “I guess he swallowed eighty cc’s of high-grade heroin by mistake.”
“Swallowed?”
“That’s what the report says. He seems to have ingested it with some kind of dried fruit. Cherries or cranberries or something. Couldn’t hack needles, apparently. What was Byron doing at that party?”
“I have no idea,” Emily croaked. Heroin in the cherries? “He was a fan of my sister’s. Used to be an actor himself.”
“So he drove two hundred miles to New York for a movie opening? That’s what I call real devotion. Did anyone from Diavolina know he was going to this bash?”
“Byron told everyone he was going to his grandmother’s ninetieth-birthday party.”
“Why would he keep something like that a secret? Especially from you?”
Because Byron knew better than to take sides between his boss and his idol. “I don’t know.” Emily stopped at Exeter Street. “Why did you come looking for me with such lousy news? I had nothing to do with Byron’s death.”
“No. Maybe your sister did, though. Did she and Byron go back a long way?”
“I think they went back one week. But I could be wrong. Why?”
“Your sister was at the scene of two—shall we say—sudden deaths. That’s rather unusual.”
Just fishing or was he circling like a buzzard overhead? Emily briefly considered telling O’Keefe all about the Choke Hold masquerade, then decided against it: too many deceptions involved. “Philippa has a flair for melodrama.”
O’Keefe took Emily s arm as they passed through a cluster of rowdy teenagers, not letting go until half a block later. When he did, he dropped the topic of Philippa as well. “How well did Byron get along with people at the restaurant?”
“Well enough to get food out of the kitchen.”
“Did he aggravate anyone in particular?”
“No, he aggravated everyone equally. Why?”
“I’ve been doing some research on the employees at Diavolina,” O’Keefe said. “Are you aware that Klepp, Mustapha, and Yip Chick have all been convicted of felonies? That little girl Francesca’s served ten years for armed robbery. Ward has a file of assault-and-battery charges about a mile long. Apparently she enjoys getting comments about her physique, then kicking the person’s head in. About thirty years ago, the maître d’was acquitted by a hair of murdering his wife. As for your friend Byron, before becoming a chef, he was a rather popular prostitute in the Combat Zone. Calling himself an actor would be stretching his CV, to say the least. That useless dishwasher served twenty years for statutory rape. Looks like a prison term is a prerequisite for working at Diavolina.”
Stunned by O’Keefe’s information, Emily remained silent. After another block, he asked, “How did you get your job there?”
“Ward hired me.”
“On what grounds?”
“She needed a chef, I needed a job. What are you trying to say?”
“I’m telling you that something’s odd and I’m glad you’re out of there. Promise me you won’t go back.”
“I won’t.” Should she tell him about the dried cherries she had given to Byron? Yes. Now. No. Later? Gad, lies were so confusing! Emily and O’Keefe walked in silence past the pristinely restored brownstones of the South End. Cars chugged by, hem-orrhaging rock and rap. It was another perfect autumn morning, when crinkly brown leaves on the sidewalk inspired thoughts of cider and chestnuts rather than of the drear winter ahead.
The detective’s beeper went off. He was needed at a break-in on Milk Street. “Stay in touch,” he said to Emily. “What are you going to do, look for another job?”
Try look for another life. “I might go on a little vacation first.”
O’Keefe noticed the I rather than the we and, having seen Ross Major at his black best, was not surprised that Emily might want to run away from it all for a while. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up. Meanwhile, be careful. Call me if anything seems unusual.” He cut off toward the Common.
Emily walked quickly on, shuddering. Death by cherries? Very clever, except the wrong person had swallowed them. How had they gotten into that last round of drinks? Think. Close bursts of laughter, clinking glasses, the smell of roses and chicken teriyaki came back to her, then the redhead Agatha, swooning over Simon, carrying a small tray with just their drinks on it. Emily remembered that her vodka had been oddly warm, almost room temperature; at the time, she had attributed it to bartender overload. With a bovine smile, Agatha had served them; two seconds later, she was gone, an inconsequential speck in a silly charade. An accident?
Emily wandered toward Chinatown, picking her way between stuporous, befouled bodies. Unnamed odors emanated from the Asian markets. Had Byron really been a hot number here, as O’Keefe had said? It wasn’t beyond belief. At last, a telephone: Emily called her sister in New York. “Philippa? Did you survive your interrogation?”
“Barely. Your friend swallowed about a pound of pure heroin.”
“So I hear. Detective O’Keefe just told me.”
Philippa didn’t react to Emily’s information, but listening had never interested her. “My nerves are shot,” she said. “Maybe we should just tell the police everything.”
That meant going to New York and trying to square three generations of fibs. For what? Byron would remain dead. “Does Simon know about our switch last night?”
“I didn’t get a chance to explain before the police woke him up. Now he’s a basket case. He called a minute ago, sobbing. He regrets not telling you that Byron was dead in the men’s room. Our stories didn’t match and now he thinks the police suspect him of murder.”
“Serves him right. Do you have to stick around, Phil? What’s your sche
dule for the week?”
Philippa’s schedule was fairly blank for the next month. She had some kind of denture endorsement in November, then nothing until January. “Simon set up a few interviews last night, didn’t he?” she asked hopefully.
“Not for you. Listen, I want you to get on the first plane to Boston. Pay cash and use a different name. I’ll pick you up at the airport. You’ve got to disappear for a while.”
Boston! Great! Then Philippa realized that Emily’s invitation probably had nothing to do with Guy Witten. “Why?” she asked warily.
“I think someone’s trying to kill you.”
After a short silence, Philippa cackled hysterically. “For Christ’s sake, Emily! Forget that dentist! He was harmless!”
“I wasn’t even thinking of the dentist. How’s your face, by the way.”
“A mess. So who’s trying to assassinate me?”
“This isn’t a joke, Philippa. Were you told how Byron took an overdose? In a couple of dried cherries. Guess where they came from.”
Philippa thought a moment. “Uh—Portugal?”
“Oh come on! They came from my drink! Your drink! Your stupid vodka with four dried cherries! Byron thought eating them would bring him luck so I gave him my glass before we went into the theater. Half an hour later he was dead. I think someone meant those cherries for you.”
Philippa was about to cry “Bosh!” when she suddenly recalled a pickup truck screaming through the front of Cafe Presto two nights ago. Had that not been an accident after all?
“Phil?” Emily said. “You there?”
“No. I’ll call you from the airport.” Philippa stuffed three suitcases with absolute necessities and fled without notifying Simon. Odd, now that she thought about it, him not telling Emily that Byron had kicked the bucket in the men’s room. The great joy of Simon’s life was passing along bad news.
Emily waited for her sister at Logan Airport. As usual, Philippa wasn’t hard to spot; she wore the same head-to-toe black veils and lace that she had worn to Dana’s funeral, plus a floor-length sable coat, perhaps unaware of the fundamental distinctions between herself and a Stealth bomber. “We really stepped into it, haven’t we?” she cried to Emily as they walked toward the baggage claim. “To think that I could have been dead this morning! Or you, if you had really played the part and swallowed those cherries! How horrifying!”
“That dentist saved your life. Maybe you should get beat up more often.” Emily noticed men staring at them as they passed. First they looked at Philippa, a specter in impenetrable black. Then they looked at Emily in jeans and sweater. Invariably, their eyes returned to Philippa: What they couldn’t see was obviously much more intriguing than what they could. Inwardly, Emily sighed; even in veils, Philippa outdid her. She stopped at the baggage carousel. “What color’s your suitcase?”
“Midnight blue. There are three.” Noticing Emily’s frown, Philippa added, “I wasn’t sure what the weather would be.”
“Cold. Where you’re going, anyway.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t we going to your house?”
“No. You’re going to the cabin in New Hampshire for a few days.” Emily pulled Philippa’s first suitcase off the carousel. “I hope you didn’t pack too many ball gowns.”
Philippa did not reply; her brain was already churning through ways to lure Guy Witten up to a remote cabin in the woods. There was a fireplace, she remembered. Fantastic. “I guess you can’t come up because you have to work,” she said, trying to sound disappointed.
“I got fired this morning,” Emily said, retrieving the second suitcase. “But that’s neither here nor there. I don’t think we should both be at the cabin. Your whereabouts should be a secret. I might not even tell Ross.” She got the last, heaviest suitcase. “You didn’t tell Simon what you were doing, I hope.”
“God no! I just left a note that I had to get away for a few days. He’ll presume it’s a man.”
“What about the police?”
“I’m done with the police. They don’t need any more statements from me. Here, let me take that bag.” Philippa grabbed the smallest one. They loaded the car and began driving north. “This is going to be fun,” Philippa said, removing her hat and heavy veil. “I haven’t been camping in years.”
Emily edged into the fast lane. “This is not a camping trip, Philippa. I’d be pretty worried if I were you. Who would want you dead?”
“I was thinking about that on the plane. I came up with about twenty names. People I’ve seriously offended over the last few years. Most of them are actresses I edged out of roles.”
“They’d kill you for that?”
“Hey, I’d do the same if I had the chance. Then there are eight other women.”
“Like who?”
“Mostly wives of men who have befriended me. Vicious bitches.”
Emily glanced at her sister’s purpling face. “Did you include Ardith in that list?”
“Who? Oh, Dana’s wife? Of course not. She doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
Philippa threw her hands into the air. “Because Dana didn’t count! Come on, Emily, you don’t think she’d put me on a hit list because I spent a few days fishing, do you?”
“You’re not entirely blameless in her husband’s death.”
“Get serious! She should be sending me a commission!”
Emily blew past a busload of leaf peepers. “What about this dentist? Is he a psychopath? He did a real job on your face, Phil.”
“How many times must I tell you to forget the dentist? Besides, he wasn’t even in New York the night of the party. I know that for a fact.”
“Yeah? Where did he tell you he was?”
“At his aunt’s funeral in Wyoming,” Philippa lied. “His favorite aunt. Auntie Annie.”
“All right, all right. So who else is on your enemies list?”
“A few talent agents. But they would never kill me. There’s no money in it.”
“Any of your ex-husbands, maybe? Looking to save a little alimony?”
“Emily, only one would have the panache for such a thing. And I pay him alimony.”
They drove in silence for quite a while. “Maybe I’m mistaken,” Emily said finally. “Maybe it wasn’t the cherries and Byron did OD on something else. He was pretty depressed after Simon got through with him. I really didn’t know him that well, as the detective reminded me this morning. Maybe some nutcase was tampering with food. Maybe you weren’t a target at all.”
Philippa wondered again about that truck crashing through the window of Cafe Presto. How could she have been the target? No one alive knew she had flown to Boston that evening to see Guy Witten. If anyone had been following her, it would have been much easier just to shoot her as she sat on that bench at Faneuil Hall. Why wait until she was inside Cafe Presto? Wreck an innocent man’s storefront? Aha, maybe the problem was on Guy’s end. Philippa tried to remember her phone conversation with him. It had been short but not sweet: They had agreed to meet at ten. Then he had slammed the phone down. Anyone eavesdropping with dire intent would have shown up after ten at Cafe Presto ... looking for Emily.
“Tell me, Em,” Philippa said innocently, “who knew you were going to New York?”
“Ross. Why?”
“I guess your husband would have no reason to kill you, right?”
“Of course not! Good Lord, Philippa! What a thought!”
“Well, you have to look at all the angles. I was just thinking that if someone wanted to knock you off, not me, the Choke Hold party would have been the perfect opportunity.” Philippa observed the scenery for several miles, waiting for her sister’s confession. Finally she became impatient. “Are you sure you haven’t ticked Ross off somehow?”
Emily went cold: Did Ross know about Guy? She didn’t think so. He would confront her with it, wouldn’t he? The way he had confronted her with Dana? “I can’t believe you would seriously think that my own husband would kill me, Philippa.”
“Well, maybe someone else,” Philippa replied. “Can you think of anyone who might want you out of the way?”
Guy Guy Guy. “Afraid not.”
Damn! Why wouldn’t Emily just spill the beans? Didn’t she realize that affairs were as respectable as prnuptial agreements? Both helped to focus husbands and wives on the permanence of marriage. “I guess we’re back where we started, then,” Philippa said testily. “On the face of it, looks like someone’s after me. What are you going to do?”
Emily wanted to throw everything into O’Keefe’s lap and run away. But then he’d wonder why she hadn’t told him about Philippa’s stomach ache, her bruised face, their little switch in New York, the cherries ... little details adding up to a suspicious whole. Eventually he’d discover her affair with Guy. No, better keep O’Keefe out of this. “First I’ll try to find the waitress who served Byron that drink,” Emily said. “Then I’m going to get the guest list from the lady who organized the AIDS benefit. Maybe you’ll recognize an enemy or two there. Then I think you should ask Simon for a list of everyone who’s called about you over the last few months.”
“I could answer that myself, dear,” Philippa said. “No one.”
“Come on, you don’t have a fan club? People don’t ask for your autographed picture? Maybe we’ll find some sort of correlation.”
Philippa grabbed her seat belt as the car swerved down the exit ramp. “How long is this going to take, Em? Am I supposed to stare at the lake until you find out?”
“Why not? The weather’s beautiful. You can’t be seen with a face like that. I thought you had nothing else to do anyway.” Emily pulled onto an uneven country road. “It won’t take more than a few days.”