by Janice Weber
Because she’s a fiend. Poor Guy, oh God, poor Guy. What a way to go. Dead of internal bleeding? And how.
Emily sobbed for a long time after Ross had left for work. Guy gone? Wrong, insanely wrong. She wasn’t half finished with him yet. As Guy’s voice vibrated in her ear, she thought of the unreturned phone calls, anguished silences, their peremptory parting: That was it? The book would stay closed at such an awful chapter? Then the loose ends would beget more guilt than their adulterous knots ever had! The newspapers must have made a mistake. Guy did not crash cars. He was a cautious driver. Emily reread the small article several times. What abdominal wounds? Old ones, from that hit-and-run at Cafe Presto? The night Guy died, she had been on a plane to L.A., watching a movie, dozing. She had heard no psychic howl at the moment of his death. Emily smiled bitterly: Perhaps he had not called her name.
Philippa phoned once, horrendously cheerful, wondering how the breakfast meeting had gone. Emily’s mouth, not her brain, maintained a shallow conversation. She waited until ten o’clock, when the morning rush was over, before going to Cafe Presto. Back in operation after the recent damages, the place smelled different: new chef, new spices. Lois, as always, sat behind the cash register, frowning at customers incapable of coming up with exact change. Bert rushed around the croissant racks, anxiously replenishing the baskets up front. The fullback behind the counter must be Lina, Emily’s replacement. From a distance the scene looked perfectly normal; Emily half expected Guy to stroll in at any moment.
The first sign of disaster was Lois’s coiffure, which had not received its diurnal shellacking with hair spray. Perhaps she had not combed it at all. Then Emily heard Bert calling the croissants cocksuckers, a word he had never used before. No one even noticed her until she stood in front of the muffins. “Hi guys,” Emily said.
Lois burst into tears and ran from the register. Emily followed her to the kitchen. “What happened to Guy?” Emily wailed.
“No one knows anything,” Lois wept. “Except he was in an accident.”
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“We didn’t think you cared.”
“That’s ridiculous! Where’d you get such a stupid idea?”
“Bert overheard you two fighting on the phone the other day.”
“That was someone else,” Emily rasped. “I haven’t talked to Guy in weeks.” Had he found a new woman already? Of course he would have; a swarm followed him everywhere.
“Bert said it sounded like you.”
“Bert needs a fucking hearing aid.” Emily was furiously pouring herself a cup of coffee as the culprit entered the kitchen. She was about to lash into Bert when she saw the Swedish chef, then Detective O’Keefe following a few paces behind. Emily froze as the detective’s eyes found hers. Her face burned, as if he had caught her filching scones from the cabinet.
O’Keefe regained his bearings first. “I’m Detective O’Keefe,” he announced. “I’d like to ask a few questions of you all regarding Guy Witten.”
Lina frowned at Emily. “Who is this woman?”
“The lady who made pistachio buns,” Lois answered.
O’Keefe took Emily’s elbow. “I’ll start with you, if you don’t mind.” He walked Emily into the dining room. “We really must stop meeting like this, Mrs. Major.”
By chance he took her to the same table Philippa had used the morning she had revealed her affair with Dana Forbes; since then, Emily’s life had been a dominoes of disasters. “I read about Guy’s accident in the paper this morning,” she explained miserably, eyes filling with tears. “I had to come here.”
Against his will, O’Keefe defrosted slightly, “You didn’t know?”
“I’ve been in California. Just got back last night. What happened to Guy?”
Her grief was no act; O’Keefe’s distrust fizzled. “Lost control of his car and ran into a ditch. But he appears to have been stabbed beforehand. He probably passed out at the wheel.”
“Who would do that to Guy?”
“I was hoping you might know the answer to that. You worked with him for six years. I presume you knew him better than you did Byron.”
Sensing mortal danger, Emily pulled herself together; O’Keefe noticed that. “Guy had no enemies that I know of,” she said. “Even his ex-wives liked him.”
“Did Guy have any favorite hangouts? Bars? Discos?”
“He went to Toto’s Gym every day.”
“What did he do at night?”
“Read books. Modeled for an art school. Went to the theater.”
“Alone? Did he have a girlfriend?”
Her rhythm bobbled. “None that he told me about.”
“Do you have any idea where he could have been the night he died?”
“No. After I stopped working here, we lost contact.”
“When was that?”
“Two days before I started working at Diavolina.” Emily tried to count. “About two weeks ago.” Seemed like two years.
O’Keefe watched a saucy lady walk by outside. “Why did you quit here?”
“I needed a change.”
“Were there any hard feelings?”
Emily went brain dead. After a moment she said, “Guy was very understanding.”
O’Keefe nodded, factoring in the tiny lines around Emily’s eyes. “Heard from your sister lately? She never got in touch with me, by the way. I’d still like to ask her a few questions about Forbes.”
“She’s been very busy with her new movie.”
“Aha.” O’Keefe’s fingers drummed the table. “How long were you in California?”
“About fifteen hours. I just flew out for breakfast.” Emily caught herself. “A job interview.”
“Going to take it?”
“No.” His questions were beginning to dizzy her; soon she would topple through the thin ice separating half-lies and half-truths. Emily almost didn’t care anymore.
“Did your husband know Guy Witten?” O’Keefe asked.
“Ross ate at Cafe Presto a lot. We all met socially now and then.”
She answered so simply, without the least stress, that O’Keefe momentarily doubted his triangular theories. “What was your husband doing the night Guy had his accident?”
He was schlepping a catatonic Philippa to the airport. “Working,” Emily said.
“You’re sure?”
She frowned; why all these questions about Ross? “That’s where he was picking up the phone. Since Dana’s death, he’s been putting in a lot of hours at the office.”
With his secretary, no doubt. “So you don’t think that Guy had any serious business or personal enemies?”
“No. Could he have been mugged?”
“Of course. There were a few new bumps and bruises in addition to injuries from the hit-and-run at his place last week. But he had his wallet with him, full of cash.”
Emily withered. “Guess I’m not much help,” she said, blowing her nose again. “Sorry.”
O’Keefe walked her to the door of Cafe Presto. Her silences maddened him. Emily was the type of woman who only revealed herself when she was inhabited by a man. Coincidentally, he wanted to inhabit her very badly, get beneath those heavy layers of rectitude to the molten core of her. He suspected that Guy Witten had been there; so had her husband. Lucky men. “It’ll be all right,” he said. Idiot, that wasn’t what he meant at all.
The wind lifted her hair as she walked away. O’Keefe returned to the kitchen, where Bert and the new chef were waving croissants at each other.
“That’s how they’re made here, Lina,” Bert admonished. “Little crescents. We can’t suddenly start making them into squares now. People won’t know how to dunk them in coffee. Guy would never approve. This isn’t Sweden, you know.” Fuming, Bert picked up the phone jangling at his elbow. “Cafe Presto.’ He listened a few seconds. “You would, eh? Well, that’s tough shit! He’s dead! Don’t call again!” He slammed down the phone.
“Who was that?” O’Keefe asked.<
br />
“The bitch who bothers him all the time.”
“Did she leave a name or number?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. ’I would like to speak with Guy Witten,’” Bert mimicked in a domineering drawl. “God forbid she says please. Who the hell does she think I am, the butler?”
O’Keefe invited Bert to the dining room. “How long has that woman been calling here? A long time?”
“No. Two weeks. She was Guy’s new girlfriend.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way he talked to her. Half angry, half gaga. And he usually took off after she called. She was probably married and telling him the coast was clear.”
“When was the last time she called?”
Bert thought a moment. “Two days ago, about four in the afternoon. Guy ran out of here like a dog in heat. I was left high and dry with all the late customers. Like Mr. Major.”
“Ross Major? Emily’s husband?”
“Sure, he drops in all the time. His office is right around the corner.”
“What did he want?”
“Decaf, what else? I told him his wife owed me an apology for being rude on the phone. I had mixed up her voice with that bitch’s. It was all a mistake.”
“What did Ross say to that?”
“He laughed and said Emily was in California. I felt like a real jerk.”
O’Keefe did not argue with that. “Mrs. Major left Cafe Presto rather suddenly, didn’t she.”
“You could say so.”
“Any idea why she left?”
“Said she had to help out a friend in an emergency. Emily’s like that. Then we got stuck with Lina. Things haven’t been the same around here since.” Bert’s lip twitched. “Now they’ll never be the same.”
“Did Guy have any enemies? Any recent blowups?”
“Only with that stupid bitch on the phone.”
“And thanks to you, she won’t be calling back.” O’Keefe could already read the handwriting on the wall: Case Unsolved Forever. Man with no obvious enemies takes a drive, maybe stops to help a disabled vehicle, gets knifed by some drug-crazed scum. Happened all the time now. “Thanks, Bert,” he said, rising. “You’ve been very helpful.”
After conferring with Ward the Archer, Ross walked agitatedly back to State Street. He didn’t want to go upstairs, where his appointment book awaited him, where he would have to order his thoughts and talk business with ambitious, focused professionals. Instead he wanted to walk down to the harbor and watch the boats, planes, and clouds. Avoid ceilings. He felt he should go home and comfort his wife, leap into the void he had unwittingly created. He wondered how everyone at Presto was coping with the sudden removal of the boss. They’d cope, all right; employees were the most resilient animals on earth. Look at his office: After a few days of respectful paralysis following Dana’s death, one and all had plunged back into their routines, with even more vigor than before since a new space now glistened at the top. Two weeks after his demise, Dana had become nothing more than a historical figure, like Christopher Columbus, the fellow who had discovered the New World for everyone else but no longer partook of it himself. Employees walked past Dana’s name on the door, his bronze bust in the office, and knew that he had somehow made their jobs possible. But they were no more grateful for the agonies involved in that than they were for sunrises: someone else’s creation, now public domain.
Maybe a little walk around the block would reconcile him to another day upstairs. Ross was almost out the revolving doors onto State Street when Marjorie spotted him across the lobby. “Ross!” she called. He steeled himself as her heels clicked over the marble floor. “Where were you off to?”
She was wearing a new houndstooth suit with another short skirt. The orange flecks in the wool almost matched her hair. Ross waited a second for her light, floral perfume, the same she had worn every day for the last fifteen years, to waft over to him: ah, there it was. Ross realized with a pang that, all things considered, he should have run away with Marjorie last month. “You’re early,” he observed curtly, pressing the elevator button.
“Today’s going to be a killer.” Inside the empty elevator, Mar-jorie opened a white paper bag. “Here’s some coffee. Want to hear about all the fun you’re going to have?”
No. Now that he could never leave his wife for Marjorie, Ross wanted to stop the elevator between floors and tear her clothes off, end the constant low-frequency coveting and step up to actual possession. After a long, difficult silence, Ross said, “Fire away.”
He stood in the pale light as his alternate wife reviewed familiar lines; his job was nothing but a long-running play wherein occasional players changed. Ross would have to concentrate on making this just another day at the office, with one small exception: He didn’t have to agonize about Emily screwing Guy Witten anymore. That was a serious gift, perhaps the gods’propitiation for robbing him of Dana. Was he safe again? Would his life return to normal now? When the elevator door whooshed open, Ross dreamily followed Marjorie to the office, devouring her legs as she ticked through this afternoon’s schedule, leaning toward her as she unlocked the door.
She suddenly stopped. “What is it?”
He hadn’t realized he was so close: Ross slowly ossified from Troubadour to Boss. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said, flicking on the office lights. “Marjorie, do you remember anything about that girl who jumped off the Darnell Building years ago? Someone mentioned it to me recently. It’s all rather hazy.”
She reverted to executive secretary and began speaking in codes. “You were in Korea when it happened. I’ll pull the Darnell file for you.”
Ross went to his drawing table. As the sun withdrew fog from the surrounding skyscrapers, he sketched with that rare fluency borne of an interlude with death. After an hour or two, feeling the office begin to throb, Ross put down his pen. He called Emily and got the machine. Damn it, where was she now? “Just checking in,” Ross said, cursing his own weakness, wondering if he would ever stop suspecting his wife of adultery every time he got his own answering machine. Probably not. Trust was like virginity: once breached, never recovered.
His intercom light blinked. “Ross, it’s Dagmar Pola,” Marjorie said. “She insists on speaking with you.”
“Hi, Dagmar.”
“Good morning. Would you be free for lunch today? I’d like to see you.”
He had originally planned to lunch with his grieving wife, but she was out doing God knew what. The hell with her. “That would be nice. How’s twelve o’clock?”
“I’ll pick you up downstairs.”
“Fine.” Already feeling better, he went to the coffee machine.
Philippa awoke in Orlando, Florida. Long after opening her eyes, she stared at the blasÉ pictures on the walls, the white veneer furniture, and the air conditioner huffing into the gray/pink draperies, computing only that she lay somewhere with room service. Was she doing interviews for Choke Hold here? Impossible: no floral arrangements in sight. Had a flight somewhere been bumped? No, that didn’t feel right. Had she checked into a clinic of some kind? Philippa was dying of hunger. What time was it? Rolling over, she squinted at the clock radio on the other side of the huge bed. Two-thirty? Cripes! She sat up. At the foot of her bed lay a pile of dark, heavy clothing. It wasn’t hers. Philippa panicked: Had she picked up a stranger last night? A dentist, maybe? Was someone in the bathroom? Then she looked down at her plaid flannel pajamas: Emily’s. Memory surrounded her like a mud slide.
Yesterday had been one of the worst days of her life. It had started off innocently enough: gorgeous New Hampshire morning, long walk, late lunch. Philippa should never have called Simon, never been told about some stupid breakfast date in California. She had cajoled her poor sister into taking her place; once Emily was fifty feet out the driveway, even more grandiose plans had seized Philippa’s fevered brain. Must have been Ross’s damn Cinzano; every time Philippa drank that, she did bizarre things, like marry or invest in Broadw
ay musicals. This time, she had called Guy Witten. True to form, he had shot right up to the cabin, knocked on the door ... here Philippa’s thoughts went black: She was about to enter an evil forest. With great care, wary as a mole, she inched into her memory, feeling rather than seeing details. She remembered him pounding on the door, shouting, “Open up, babe!“Philippa sighed, wounded: He had called her Emily. It was raining, thundering, as she unlocked the bolt. For a second or two, they had stared at each other. Guy hadn’t liked what he saw of her ruined face. Maybe he thought Ross had beaten her up. But then his eyes had widened from concern to surprise; he had jumped, skewing strangely to the side, grabbing his back. Then he had collapsed at her feet. In the gloom, Philippa thought she had seen blood oozing through his shirt. She had definitely heard a taut poing in the trees just before he fell.
Philippa cringed in shame, remembering how she had slammed the door: That had been the most subhuman act of her life. Why? Simple survival instinct: She hadn’t wanted to get bloodied next. Something had hit Guy in the back; she’d probably get it in the face. Philippa recalled rather calmly thinking, No more beach movies; in the space of a microsecond, deciding to sacrifice Guy, she had bolted the door and hidden under Emily’s bed. While that poor man lay out on the porch whimpering for her, eons bled by. She had heard light, quick footsteps in the rain, maybe some low laughing; then she heard stumbling on the porch. “Emily!” Guy had screamed once in a terrible voice, a sob really, “Goddamn you!” Then she had heard a car roar, rocks fly in the driveway: silence.
Philippa had crawled out from under the bed and, by some miracle, remembered Ross’s number on the speed dial. Hearing his calm voice, knowing that he was safe in his office while she was about to be pickaxed, she became hysterical. “Ross,” she had screeched, “Someone’s outside trying to kill me!”