by Janice Weber
“Good morning,” he answered. “World headquarters of the Philippa Banks International Fan Club. This is Aidan speaking.”
“Just checking up on you, shithead.”
“Hey! Phil! What are you doing up so early?”
“I’m calling about that printout you gave me the other day.”
“Don’t tell me you found your next husband already!”
“Well, I’ve come up with a name. I get strong vibrations with Charles Moody.”
A long pause. “Are you sure about that, sweetheart? He wrote a very rocky letter the other day. Very rocky.”
“No kidding! Could you read it to me?”
“It’s still in the Out bin. Hold on. Okay. Here goes: ’Dear Miss Banks, I must warn you that you are in danger. I feel there are people about who would greatly harm you. Would it be possible to hire a bodyguard? Please be very, very careful, and warn your sister as well. Sincerely yours, Charles Moody.’ No wonder you got strong vibes about this guy, Phil. I was considering taking the letter to the police, but it’s not really threatening. It’s just a warning. But you never know how these psychos work. He could be warning you about himself. And what’s this about a sister? I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“No one does,” Emily replied, trying to laugh. “So what did you do?”
“I sent him a polite pooh-pooh back with a picture. If he writes again, I won’t be as nice.”
“He’s written before?”
“Off and on. Christmas cards, birthday cards.”
“He knows my birthday?” Emily cried.
“Of course, Phil, it’s a matter of public record. All the astrologers have it. The day’s right, but the year is fudged. Moody’s been paying fan-club dues since day one. He’s a charter member. That’s why I can’t figure out this dire-warning bullshit. Maybe he’s having a midlife crisis. All those years fantasizing about you have finally put him over the edge. Want me to fax the letter to you? You’re home, aren’t you?”
“No! No!” Emily almost shouted. “Maybe I’ll drop by in a few days and check it out myself. Don’t discuss this with anyone, all right?”
“You’re not going to call the guy, are you, Phil? Consult Zilda the Gypsy a few more times before making your next move, promise? There are lots of nuts out there. By the way, Choke Hold just got another great review. Want to hear it?”
“Later. I’m going to bed now. Aidan, thanks for everything. I wouldn’t be where I am without you.”
“Do you realize this is the first time you’ve ever thanked me for anything?”
“I’m a beast! I know it! Forgive me! I love you! I mean it! Bye-bye, darling!” Breathless, Emily hung up. So many eyes in the terminal; surely a pair of them observed her now. Who was Charles Moody? How did he know of her existence? Why write such an urgent note to Philippa? Why not just go to her movie openings, her parades and local appearances, go to Simon’s office for cripe’s sake, and deliver his message in person? Obeying her feet rather than her brain, Emily boarded a train about to leave for New York. She took a window seat and stared out the window for most of the journey. The earth was so beautiful today, yet Guy would see it no more; she couldn’t understand that. The more she tried, the more illusory the union of flesh and time seemed. Her spirit, alone on a stark promontory, howled for him: There was the reality. The rest was just poor transubstantiation.
Emily half awoke in New York, where time was God. She cabbed from Penn Station to Ditzi’s, a popular cafe on the East Side. The place reminded her of an overpriced, pretentious Cafe Presto. The counter help was young and snotty, averse to handling anything less than one-hundred-dollar bills. Emily waited at the counter as the people ahead of her bought teensy lamb chops and overcomplicated salads. “I’m interested in some catering,” she said when one of the girls finally deigned to assist her.
She was led to a small, bright office. A fiftyish woman, dressed with the extravagant, lupine authority of an Upper East Side realtor, stood up. She stared a moment at Emily, nearly recognizing her face. “I’m Florence.” She smiled, beckoning to a chair on the other side of her desk. “How may I help you?”
“Mrs. Charles Moody,” Emily replied. “I understand Ditzi’s catered the AIDS benefit at the Remus Theater recently.”
The woman’s smile vanished. Emily knew at once that the police had been here asking many questions about her menu, particularly in the area of dried fruits. “That is correct.”
“I was there and thought it was absolutely superb,” Emily gushed. “So much so that I am considering having you cater my husband’s birthday party next month.”
Florence’s metallic smile returned. “Let’s talk about it, Mrs. Moody. When is the date?”
“October fifteenth.”
“How many people will be invited?”
“Two or three hundred. I haven’t decided about the in-laws yet.”
“Where will this be?”
“Either on our yacht or at the Museum of Natural History. It all depends on the weather.” Emily looked around Florence’s small office: tight as a submarine. It would be difficult to dig any information out of here. “My husband is very fond of pheasant, cockles, and black raspberries. Could you organize a menu around those items?”
“Certainly,” Florence said, writing a few four-digit numbers on a pad.
“I’d like a cocktail hour beforehand, exactly the way you did at that reception.”
“Fine.” Florence’s pen continued hemorrhaging zeros.
“Do you supply the serving staff as well?”
“Of course. We use only our own people for these occasions.”
Emily tantalized Florence with the most esoteric menu imaginable, insisting upon things like olives from a special grove in Greece and stupendously expensive champagne from a tiny French vineyard. “You certainly know a lot about food, Mrs. Moody,” Florence said at one point, awed less by Emily’s erudition than by the bill she was running up.
“My husband and I are very particular,” Emily replied, then ordered a birthday cake involving one hundred pounds of Belgian chocolate. They spent another half hour discussing flower arrangements down to the last stamen. “All right,” Emily said at last, glancing at her watch. “On to the serving staff. I would like thirty tall women with red hair.” She smiled at Florence. “They must all be able to sing ’Happy Birthday’ and dance a small routine that I have choreographed.”
By this time, Florence didn’t think that was a strange request at all; it would just cost a little more. Pulling a folder from her file, she began to study a list of names, putting little checks besides a few of them. “I have only six tall redheads on my staff at the moment.”
“Six?” Emily snatched the list away and ripped down the names with checks beside them. There was one Agatha, last name Street. She lived on the other side of Central Park. “You’ll have to find twenty-four more, then. And I don’t want any wigs or henna rinses. My husband detests dyed hair.” Emily returned the list to Florence and made a few ridiculous closing requests. She gave her a bogus address and phone number.
“This is going to be a terrific party,” Florence said, beaming, as she walked Emily to the curb. “How old is your husband going to be, Mrs. Moody?”
“Ninety-three. Thanks for everything! Bye-bye!” Emily walked quickly away. After several blocks, she stopped at a phone booth and got Information. Then she dialed Agatha.
“Sorry, she’s out of town,” drawled a roommate.
“Any idea when she’ll be back?”
“A week or so. It depends on her boyfriend.”
“Aha. I’ll try again. Thank you.” So much for impulse investigations. Emily glanced at her watch: five-thirty. Sunlight was fading and a mass of cold air had begun to slither between the skyscrapers. The warmest way back to Boston would be a cab to the airport. After a long wait, she finally got one to pull to the curb.
“You an actress?” the driver asked, observing Emily in his rearview mirror.
&n
bsp; “No.”
They said no more. Emily got to Beacon Hill around eight-thirty and found Ross at the kitchen table with four cartons of Chinese food. “Hi,” she said, sniffing them. “What are you doing home so early?”
Ross noticed that Emily’s eyes still looked pretty terrible. She had been crying. He kissed her and poured some wine. “Making dinner. How are you feeling?”
“All right,” she lied, sitting at the table. “I went to Cafe Presto this morning.”
“That must have been tough.”
She only shrugged. “I ran into Detective O’Keefe.”
“Really? What was he doing there?”
“Asking questions. He said Guy had been stabbed. He probably passed out and his car ran into a ditch.”
“Who would stab Guy?”
“That’s exactly what O’Keefe asked.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Guy had no enemies I knew of. He asked what I had been doing the night Guy died. I told him I was in California at a job interview. Then he asked what you were doing.”
“Me?” Ross laughed thinly. “What do I have to do with this?”
“Nothing. I think O’Keefe was either trying to undermine my story or get a witness.” Emily twirled some noodles around her chopsticks. “I said you were working late at the office. Hope you don’t mind if I didn’t mention your driving to the cabin. I didn’t want Philippa brought into this.”
“Fine with me.” Ross petted his wife’s hand. “It could have been a random mugging, honey. Happens all the time.”
“But O’Keefe said that Guy had a wallet full of cash in his pocket.”
Damn! Ward had slipped up on that one! “Maybe he fought back hard enough to scare an attacker off.” Ross slowly chewed a shrimp. “When’s the funeral?”
“Don’t know. I’m don’t think I’m going.” Emily finished her wine. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
Here it comes. She’s going to confess about Guy then she’s going to divorce me. “What’s that, darling?” Ross’s voice capsized halfway through the last word.
An awful eon passed. “I think someone’s trying to kill Philippa,” Emily said.
Eh? Was he spared? “Whatever would make you think that?”
“This goes back to the Choke Hold party in New York. You know that Philippa’s favorite drink is iced vodka with four dried cherries. Well, I ordered one but gave the cherries to Byron. He died of a heroin overdose shortly afterward. It was in the dried cherries.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not entirely. Apparently Byron was drinking lots of vodka with cherries. But it’s my gut instinct.”
“Who else knows this?”
“Only Philippa. That’s why I stashed her in the cabin for a few days.”
“So Philippa was alone in the woods convinced that someone was trying to kill her? No wonder she went crazy.” Ross grinned in delight. “Did you discover anything to back you up?”
“Yes and no. I went to New York today to try and find the waitress who served those drinks to us at the party.” Emily told him about her little skit at Ditzi’s. “But she’s run off with a boyfriend.”
“You suspect the waitress of trying to poison Philippa? Wouldn’t the New York police have nailed her already?”
“Maybe she talked her way through an interrogation. She seemed to be an actress. Don’t laugh, Ross. They try to kill each other off all the time. Philippa told me.”
“My little Sherlock. ” Ross returned to his butterflied shrimp. “Why didn’t you just tell the police right away?”
“Maybe I should have. Now it seems a little late.”
“It’s a wild story,” Ross agreed. “Heroin in the cherries? Why not just whack Philippa over the head with a crowbar?”
Emily scowled. “Last week Philippa got a letter warning that someone was trying to kill her.”
“Not surprising. Her fans must be deranged people to begin with.”
“This letter told Philippa to warn me as well.”
Ross stopped chewing. “How did this person know Philippa had a sister?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s the letter? I’m taking it to the police.”
“Ross, don’t be silly. Everything’s under control. I’m going out to California tomorrow to do a little more investigating.”
“Are you out of your mind? I forbid it. You’re not going anywhere near your sister.” He fished in a carton for another shrimp, couldn’t find one, and finally threw the chopsticks aside. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”
“I didn’t want to get you upset.”
“What? You’d rather get yourself killed first? Christ, Emily! Think these things through to their logical conclusion!”
“I’ll be perfectly safe,” Emily said. “Philippa’s hiding out in a hotel in Santa Monica. No one will find us there.”
“Did you hear me? I said you’re not going.”
Thank God she hadn’t mentioned Moody’s postbox at South Station; Ross would chain her to the bed. “I can’t just abandon my sister like a sitting duck.”
“Why not? She’s always preferred to be the center of attention.” Ross shoved an enormous load of noodles into his mouth, damming the temptation to tell Emily all about Philippa and Guy: That would put an end to this bail-out-Philippa nonsense. “Why don’t you tell her to hire a private investigator?”
“Because I’d rather do it myself.”
“Em, it’s too dangerous! Don’t you care if you get yourself killed?”
She became very quiet. After a moment, he heard her swallow. “No, not really.”
Ross sighed: Guy again. He wondered if his wife would ever get over him now. Probably not; the affair had not died a natural death. He took Emily’s hand. “Well, I care.”
“Let me go to California,” she pleaded. “I need to get away for a little while.”
Torn with guilt and anxiety, Ross could only stroke her hand. Finally he said, “All right. But promise me you’ll be careful. Take no chances. I’d be completely lost without you.”
She smiled wanly. “That’s nice to know.”
The next morning, against his better judgment, Ross took Emily to the airport. He had not slept all night worrying about her. At breakfast he had almost begged to come along to California, but caught himself just in time: better to let her grieve in private for her lover and perhaps miss her husband a little. About the Philippa-related aspects of this trip Ross had everything and nothing to say; as a result, he said nothing. Fifteen years of marriage had taught him that Emily would not be listening anyway. At the terminal, he took her hand and tried to appear cheerful. “You have a battle plan, I take it?”
She half rose from a profound silence that had overtaken her after reading Guy’s obituary at breakfast. “I’m going to grill Philippa and try to sort out that strange fan letter.”
Then what, invite the guy to a pajama party? “How long will you be gone?”
“Just a couple of days. What will you be doing?”
“The usual. Maybe I’ll go up to the cabin this weekend if you’re not back. Plant a few bulbs.”
A nearby policeman pointed to the car and shouted, “You! Move!”
Ross kissed the shell of his wife, wondering if she’d ever return. “I love you. Please be careful.”
Emily nodded obediently, then got her suitcase from the backseat. “Bye, darling.” She faded into the terminal.
Ross slugged through tunnel traffic back to State Street. About a block before reaching the underground garage, he suddenly picked up the car phone. “Hi, Marjorie,” he said. “I won’t be in for a while. I’ve got to go to a funeral at ten. Where’s McAllister and Sons in Winchester?”
She flipped through a phone book. “Right on the main street. Should I send flowers?”
“Don’t bother. Anything of interest happening over there?” Not that Ross cared to know; he just needed to hear a female v
oice to stoke his courage. Marjorie kept talking, distracting, until he got to the funeral home, a large Victorian residence with a gigantic porch. Guy was probably lying in the front parlor. Quite a number of cars already filled the lot; to his relief, Ross did not see a white pickup truck among them. Desperately needing a drink, he opened the glove compartment. Hallelujah, Emily had left her flask from Dana’s funeral! He finished off the last two inches of gin and took a deep breath. “Okay Marj, I’d better head in.”
His head began to ache as he walked up the steps. What was he doing here, representing his wife or gloating over his work? Ross unsteadily signed the guest book and entered the crowded parlor. Guy was lying, sort of really asleep, among the ferns. He looked terribly young and very handsome; who could blame Emily for wanting him? After a moment’s fascinated horror, Ross turned away, glad that his wife had not come along.
“Hi Ross,” said Bert, the pastry chef, appearing at his side. “Where’s Emily?”
“She had a family emergency in California.”
“You mean she’s going to miss the funeral? Sheesh! Would Guy be pissed!” Bert looked softly at his former employer. “He doesn’t look too bad, you think?”
He looked grotesque. Ross nodded toward a tall woman with eyes like Guy’s. “Is that his sister?”
“Yep. Ursula. There are his parents sitting near the back. His poor mother.”
Steeling himself, Ross walked over and waited for Ursula to finish talking with a few friends. “I’m Ross Major,” he said, offering his hand. “Emily’s husband. I’m sorry she was unable to come. I would like to convey our sincere condolences.”
Ursula looked a long moment at him. Did she know that her brother had been in love with Emily? Of course she did. Everyone in the room knew. Everyone in the room probably knew that Ross had killed him, too. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers,” she said. “Guy loved roses.”
Emily must have sent them yesterday. “We’ll miss him very much,” Ross said.
Ursula brought Ross to her parents. “Mother, this is Emily’s husband, Ross.”