Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

  Ward touched the place on Rita s shoe where her big toenail had begun to fray the satin. “I’m listening.”

  “They were discussing Dana Forbes. The woman objected to your sister’s affair with him, for obvious reasons. Forbes was her husband. He had invited your sister to the dinner and she had come out to the balcony expecting to see him, not his wife. Apparently the woman had intercepted some correspondence as well as some silk underwear that your sister had given to him. Worse, your sister had recently written a suicide note, which Mrs. Forbes read aloud to her.”

  “What did it say?”

  “That she was three months and five days pregnant and that Dana would lose them both if he didn’t make up his mind soon.” Dagmar knew those items had not made the newspapers. “I hope you believe me now.”

  As if in a trance, Ward slipped a hand inside her sister’s shoe and held it to her cheek. “Then what?”

  “Mrs. Forbes said that her husband would never leave his family for a whore. Furthermore, she had promised him a new boat if he ended the affair. When your sister said that Dana would certainly choose her over a boat, Mrs. Forbes produced what must have been a sales contract. The effect was devastating. She told your sister that she was out of her league and suggested jumping off the balcony.”

  “That must have been when you crashed through the trellises and tried to prevent anything rash from happening.”

  “No, I’m sorry to say, the indelicacy of the situation had paralyzed me. And, to tell the truth, I didn’t believe that anything more serious than a few verbal insults might occur.”

  “Guess you were wrong.”

  “Terribly so. Your sister told Mrs. Forbes and her husband to go to hell Mrs. Forbes laughed, then I heard nothing more. I waited for what seemed an eternity, then looked out. There was nothing on the balcony but that red shoe. I took it and went back inside.”

  “Why’d you take the shoe?”

  “Because I thought your sister, in making a grand exit, had somehow lost it. It’s a rather casual design and could easily have slipped off her foot. I had no idea that anyone had jumped from the balcony until I saw the ambulances in the street later that evening.”

  “You never went to the police?” Ward delicately replaced Rita’s shoe on her desk. “I should ram this down your throat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Dagmar lit a black cigarette. “What would have been the use of telling the police this sordid tale? Mrs. Forbes would have been subjected to even further humiliation and scandal. She acted cruelly, but predictably.”

  “Cruel isn’t the word. She incited Rita to jump.”

  “I would have to agree with you.”

  Ward went to the window. When she turned, her eyes were wide, white, and quite flat. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Since the death of Dana Forbes, this matter has been increasingly on my mind. I do not believe that Mrs. Forbes properly regrets what she has done. She has taken not one life, but two.”

  “Make that three. I punished someone by mistake.”

  Dagmar barely raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe in vengeance?”

  “A little less than I did a week ago.” Ward chuckled. “I take it you’ve got something on your mind besides the return of missing property.”

  “Listen to me,” Dagmar said, going to the window. “I want you to cater a reception at my home on Commonwealth Avenue next week. I live on the tenth floor. Mrs. Forbes will be there.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not well. Our husbands were involved in business together. I will arrange that you meet her alone, perhaps on a balcony. You can ask her yourself about the details of your sister’s suicide.”

  “Then what?”

  Dagmar shrugged. “She weighs one hundred ten pounds. You could probably lift her with one hand.”

  “And toss her overboard? I’d be behind bars ten minutes later.”

  “Absolutely not. Mrs. Forbes has compelling reasons to commit suicide. Grief at her husband’s death. Humiliation at his hundreds of affairs. She’s been taking medication for clinical depression for years.”

  “Sorry, that’s not enough.”

  Realizing that she would have to move all her eggs into one basket, Dagmar said, “She shot Philippa Banks in California last week. Mrs. Forbes was insanely jealous of her husband’s last affair. The police will find her very soon.”

  After a moment’s stupor, Ward burst out laughing. “You take the cake, madam. What’s your stake in this?”

  Dagmar extinguished her cigarette and looked Ward in the eye. “Everything.”

  Ward recognized a more cunning, more bitter, soul mate. “I’ll think about it.”

  After a brief culinary discussion, the women walked through the dining room to the front door. “I’ve eaten here before,” Dagmar said. “Didn’t there used to be a statue behind the bar?”

  “The owner took it down.”

  “Leo is his name, I believe. I knew him long ago. How’s he doing?”

  “Beats me. He’s been out of town for three weeks. I’m beginning to think he’s dead.”

  “What a morbid thought. If he returns by next Tuesday, make sure he comes to my party. I’d be delighted to see him again.” Dagmar shook Ward’s hand. “Take care of yourself.” She left.

  Ward walked back to the bar, where Zoltan stood polishing glasses. “Give me a hit of club soda, would you, dear,” she asked lightly. “I’m back in training.”

  He placed the drink in front of her. “Who was that woman?”

  “Some old tarantula who wants us to cater a party next week.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m going to charge her a fortune. Want to tend bar?”

  “I believe I should remain here. But thank you for asking.” When Ward had retreated to her office, there to lift weights with frightening vigor, Zoltan phoned Emily. Since she was in California, he got her machine. “Call Zoltan,” he said, and hung up.

  Philippa had been raving again when Ross arrived at the hospital in Los Angeles. He found Emily trying to initiate a conversation with her slumbrous sister, with no success: Philippa seemed to be shaking her head, almost physically evading Emily’s questions about a white truck. Going to the bed, Ross embraced his wife, inhaled her. She looked well. Terrific, in fact. He doubted she had missed him, let alone thought about him, at all. “Hi darling,” he whispered. “How’s everything?”

  “Much better. I think she’s getting over the hump.” Emily brought Ross up to speed on Philippa’s condition. “She’s pretty heavily sedated but I think she knows what’s going on. She just doesn’t have the strength to open her eyes yet.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Ross said. “You’ve been sleeping here?”

  “More or less. Phil’s been blurting out the strangest things in the middle of the night. She keeps talking about a white truck, a wig, and steaks.” And plums. “It’s odd.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be able to explain everything once she’s feeling better.” Ross glanced at Philippa’s face: Was she really floating in some nether world or was she just feigning sleep, listening, preparing a new set of fables to explain the last? He couldn’t tell; Philippa was an actress, after all. “Have you eaten, sweetheart? Can I bring you some dinner?”

  “No, let’s go out. She’ll be all right for a few hours.”

  They went to the hotel restaurant across the street. Ross would have preferred room service and torrid sex, but after fifteen years had learned that his wife rarely performed fellatio on an empty stomach. As they wended to their table, he noticed people staring at Emily: She was beginning to walk a little like Philippa now. If her clothes and hair were just a little bit different, people would begin calling him Mr. Banks. Shuddering, Ross slid next to her on a banquette and ordered their customary round of martinis.

  “Not for me,” Emily said. She didn’t want any wine, either. Carrot juice would do.

  Ross tried to smile. “You’re
becoming a real Californian.”

  To his surprise, Emily kissed him. “I have so much to tell you, Ross. You won’t believe it.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve agreed to star in Philippa’s next picture. Naked.”

  “No! Those days are over.” She kissed him again. Emily looked so happy; was he finally going to get some good news? “We’re pregnant, darling.”

  Words, thought, fled. Ross slowly apprehended what his wife had just said: They were together again, for life. “You’re right,” he whispered, voice breaking, “I don’t believe it.”

  “I just found out today. Ross, I’m so excited I can hardly sit down.”

  He swallowed his martini whole. The two of them kissed each other like two mooning adolescents. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve done the test three times already. But we can go upstairs and run it again if you want to see for yourself.”

  “No, no. That’s incredible, Emily. I’m flabbergasted. I’m thrilled. I—”he ran out of words. “Thank you so much.”

  “That’s not all the news.” Emily paused until the waiter had taken their order and left. “The afternoon I left Boston, I learned a few things about my past. Phil and I were born in a monastery.”

  Ross’s brain stalled once again. “What? Where’d you hear this?”

  “The monk who delivered us told me. I know it sounds crazy, Ross, but it’s true. Mother’s friend took her to the monastery. He was an old friend of Brother Augustine.”

  “Who’s Augustine? Who’s the friend? How’d you come in contact with him? I’m totally confused. Please start at the beginning.”

  “I learned all of this from Klepp at Diavolina,” Emily began.

  Christ! Why did that restaurant keep resurfacing like a dead fish? Ross’s head began to throb ever so slightly. “He called you?” he asked politely.

  “No. I visited him. Remember that weird fan mail that Philippa had been getting lately? I tracked it down to a postbox at South Station. From there I got an address in the North End. The name next to the doorbell said Leo Cullen. That’s the missing chef at Diavolina. So I visited Klepp and asked if he knew anything about Charles Moody. That was the name on all the fan mail. He told me that Charles Moody was actually Brother Augustine, the monk who delivered mushrooms to the restaurant on Mondays and Thursdays. Follow me?”

  “Perfectly,” Ross lied.

  “I drove out to the monastery in Hale.”

  Hale hell: The pounding in Ross’s temples cranked up a notch. “Sounds familiar.”

  “It should, I guess. Dana had built a chapel there several years ago. Anyway, I had a little chat with Brother Augustine. He told me that Leo and my mother had turned up one night, both half dead. She was in labor and Leo had just been in a fight.”

  “With whom?”

  “My father, it seems. Augustine delivered us. Mother died the next day. Uncle Jasper came and took us to New York. Leo went back to Boston. He never got in touch with us after that. But he’s looking for us now.”

  Ross passed a hand over his temple, as if to prevent his reason from vaporizing. “Why?”

  “He thought we were in danger. He was right, as it turned out. Philippa got shot.”

  “How’d he know?”

  “That’s a mystery. When Leo finds us, he can explain everything.”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “No. I’m sure Leo would have told them himself if he thought it would have helped. And I think I’ve caused Ward enough trouble with the police already. The last thing she needs is another investigation at her restaurant. I wanted to wait until Uncle Jasper got back from India before making a big deal of this.”

  “But this Leo fellow might know who tried to kill your sister.”

  “If he does, hell eventually show up and they’ll find her.”

  Ross shakily kissed his pregnant wife’s hand. “That s quite a story, darling.”

  “It doesn’t end there. After I got done at the monastery, I drove back and saw Zoltan, the maître d’ at Diavolina. He knew Leo well. He also knew my mother. They were both actors. Zoltan said that she had an affair with a man who abandoned her once she became pregnant. Leo and he had that fight that nearly killed them both.”

  “You’re making this up, Emily.”

  “No I’m not! Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Zoltan wasn’t the only person at Diavolina involved in this. There was the drunken dishwasher Slavomir Dubrinsky. About five days after I started working there, he drowned in the Fenway. Zoltan tells me that Slavomir recognized me the minute I walked into the kitchen.”

  For a second Ross’s system shut down. “What was his name?”

  “Slavomir Dubrinsky. He was a sculptor before he was a dishwasher. Leo and he had been in prison together. When Slavomir got out, my father commissioned him to make a statue of Mother. After she died, Slavomir made another one for Leo. I’d really be interested in seeing that someday.”

  Ross shut his eyes; the table had just levitated an inch from the floor. “What was your father’s name?”

  “Augustine won’t tell. Zoltan doesn’t know. Slavomir’s dead and Leo’s gone.” Emily shrugged. “What does it matter? He didn’t want me anyway.”

  Ross sat lifeless as the sculpture in Joe Pola’s bedroom. Then, slowly as a wounded animal, he placed a hand over Emily’s. “Forgive me, sweetheart. All this news at once is just overwhelming.”

  18

  I must see Dagmar or I’ll lose my mind. Is that statue in Joe’s bedroom really of Emily’s mother? Yes, of course it is. I should have figured that out the moment I saw it: same nose, mouth, breasts.... Paranoid little cuckold that I am, I thought the statue was of Emily. I even thought that she had been one of Joe’s mistresses. Fool!

  The story confuses me. Like all tales of adultery, it’s a dark confection, devil’s food. Joe gets Emily’s mother pregnant and bails out, but not before capturing her in marble. Leo tracks Joe down and they nearly beat each other to death. Why were the twins born in a monastery, for God’s sake? Was the mother trying to hide them from someone? She might have survived had she delivered them in a hospital. And what’s this about Brother Augustine writing letters to Philippa, signing them Charles Moody? He must know so much more than he’s letting on; priests always do. Then Joe builds that chapel for him: either a bribe or a payoff.

  Poor Dagmar. I keep seeing her hard eyes as she says she’sbarely able to look at that statue without wishing she had killed the woman. Just wait until she hears that my wife is Joe s illegitimate daughter! Wait a moment: Does she know that already? Does she know everything? Is she drawing me into some sort of trap? Dagmar is so cunning, so much smarter than I. Why invite me to that apartment, lead me to that statue in the bedroom? She didn’t bat an eyelash when I confessed about Guy Witten. And her advice was ruthless: Take better aim next time. God, I must think about this some more. I’ve known her for such a short time. Why did Dagmar pick me to build a gallery for her? There are plenty of other architects in town. Our friendship grew so fast, almost like a cancer. Wasn’t she the one calling me most of the time? And I was desperate to talk to someone. Now I’ve handed her my balls on a silver platter. I wonder what she’s going to do with them.

  Odd that her first request was to meet Emily. The object of my affection, she called her. Well, that’s not going to happen until I get to the bottom of this mess; there are too many bodies, dead and alive, floating in this river. I don’t completely believe anybody’s story anymore. Ever since Guy Witten, I’ve been unbalanced, suspicious of every other name in the phone book. Perhaps Dagmar’s ignorant of this whole affair; Joe may have been just a few points smarter than his wife. And perhaps not. If only Dana were here to tell me what Joe was really like! But he’s gone, Joe’s gone, and I’m not taking any chances with Dagmar. Emily is expecting a child. We’re going to start over again and make up for lost time. There’s a killer loose out there. Should I
tell my wife about Joe Pola? I don’t think so; not yet. I’ll let her digest the first gush of surprises before hitting her with her father’s identity. She’s got enough on her mind with her sister and our baby.

  Where, who, the hell is Leo?

  Eventually Philippa opened her eyes and saw Emily over by the window reading a magazine. The Wall Street Journal hid whoever was seated in the other chair. Bouquets crammed the room, not quite camouflaging an aroma of disinfectant and instant chicken gravy. Philippa turned her head, saw IV tubes, and realized that she had been involved in something a little more drastic than a nose job. “Say Em,” she said. “Would you mind bringing over a mirror?”

  Her sister rushed to the bed. “You’re awake! How do you feel, honey?”

  “Like shit.” The man behind the newspaper turned out to be Ross. “Where am I?”

  “In Malibu. You’ve been shot. Do you remember?”

  Philippa closed her eyes. “How bad?”

  “You’ve got three belly buttons. You’ll be all right.”

  “How’s my face?”

  “Looks great. Really. Your bruises have all gone away.”

  “Where’s Simon?”

  “He comes by twice a day, praying for you to wake up. You’re a very hot ticket now.”

  “How’s Choke Hold?”

  “It’s number one. That’s worth waking up for, isn’t it?”

  “Definitely.” Philippa smiled, aware that she had nearly died; Ross would never have come to her bedside otherwise. “How long have I been out?”

  “Three days.”

  The policeman on the case walked in. “Up and about, I see? My name is Detective Hobson.”

  Philippa appraised the attractive man at her bedside. “So who shot me, darling?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us that.”

  “You don’t know? Son of a bitch!”

  “Easy, Phil,” Emily said, patting her hand. “There weren’t many clues besides bullets.”