Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

  “Could you describe the shooting, Miss Banks?” the policeman asked. “Any detail would be helpful.”

  Philippa sighed, but not for long, because that hurt. Instead she shut her eyes. “I was reading a road map. My friend was changing a flat tire. Someone pulled up behind us, to help, I thought. A woman.”

  “What was she driving?”

  “A white Mercedes.”

  “Are you sure? It wasn’t a white truck?”

  Ross glanced quietly up from his newspaper as Philippa’s face turned pewter. “It was a white Mercedes,” she repeated.

  “What did the woman do?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t generally pay much attention to women. I thought she was chatting with Franco. Next thing I know, she’s leaning over the window with a gun.”

  “Describe her.”

  “She was about medium size. Her face was all covered up. She wore a wide straw hat with an attached scarf so it wouldn’t blow away. Big, dark sunglasses and atrocious orange lipstick. Middle-aged, I think. She had a thin mouth. And a white linen blouse of no particular distinction.”

  “Did you see the gun?” Hobson asked after a pause.

  “I guess so,” Philippa replied. “But a gun’s a gun. I could describe her ring a little better. It was a square-cut emerald surrounded by yellow diamonds. Set in platinum. Nice hunk of change.”

  Ross put down his newspaper. He remembered Dana coming into his office years ago with a ring exactly like that, whining that in his hand was the equivalent of a thirty-foot sloop. He would have had the boat had Ardith not discovered a bra in the glove compartment of his Jaguar a week before their anniversary.

  “Any other unusual items?” the policeman asked, marveling that a woman staring death in the face would remember little but her assailant’s baubles. “Earrings? Brooches?”

  “No. But her hands were shaking. Obviously she was a terrible shot.” Suddenly Philippa realized that no one had mentioned the man who had last been seen changing her tires. “My God! Did she kill Franco?”

  “No. He got beaned with a crowbar. He’s all right.”

  Philippa frowned. Where the hell was he, then? “I see.”

  As the detective began asking Philippa for possible suspects, Ross slipped into the hallway and found a phone. “Hi Marj,” he said, praising God for the greatest miracle in all creation, a steadfast female. “How’s everything?”

  “Fine.” She ran down a long list of business events, finally saying, “Dagmar’s throwing a party tonight at her apartment. Starts at eight.”

  Her secret nude apartment? “What’s the occasion?”

  “Maybe it’s her ninetieth birthday. Think you’ll be back?”

  “Tell her I’ll be there. But late.” Ross nodded across the hallway to Detective Hobson, who was leaving Philippa’s room in pursuit of a suspect wearing a ho-hum linen blouse and spectacular jewelry. “Say, do you think Ardith’s back from Europe yet? I was thinking I should stop in and see her.”

  “Funny you should mention it. She came by late yesterday with a beefcake named Rex. They went into Dana’s office and carted away that bust.”

  “What? Without asking me? You let her do that?”

  “Of course I did! It’s hers, isn’t it? She was stinko, Ross. I wasn’t about to make a scene in front of clients.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said, feeling his stomach twirl. “Any other good news?”

  “Someone named Brother Augustine called again. Wants to see you as soon as possible. Should I know him?”

  “It has to do with that monastery Dana built for Joe Pola,” Ross said so lightly that his voice shook. “The roof is probably leaking.”

  “Aha. I’ll book him in later in the week. How’s the actress?”

  “She’ll be back making mischief in no time.” Ross saw two men in foulards and goatees walk into Philippa’s room. “Getting herself shot was a great career move.”

  “Did they catch the guy yet?”

  “No.” Ross’s head ached with leaden premonitions. “I’ll try to get the next plane.”

  He returned to Philippa’s room as Simon, unaware that Philippa was only pretending to be in a coma, introduced Emily to the producer of the vampire movie. As Emily sat smiling from the bedside, Simon delivered a superb sales spiel, pointing out how much prettier Emily was than her sister, and how much more cooperative she would be on the set. Simon was well into the shooting schedule when Philippa finally opened her eyes. “You bag of shit,” she said. “I should sue you for fraud.”

  Ross beckoned his wife into the hallway as crude epithets began jagging among the three cineasts. “That was not nice,” he admonished.

  “Oh come on! We were just having a little fun.”

  Ross kissed her. “Listen, darling, I have to get back to Boston. There’s a catastrophe in the works. Will you be all right here by yourself for a day or two?”

  “Sure. Sounds like PhiPs recovering fast. What s the matter?”

  “I’m afraid a big job is going down the tubes.”

  Emily walked Ross back to the hotel. One hour later, he was in the air.

  A chill wind wracked Boston Common, nipping pedestrians. Ross walked quickly down Beacon Street, inhaling sharp, fresh oxygen and the moldering perfumes of autumn. His knees hurt from the airplane, from the cold, from spying and age. Now that the Red Sox had once again been eliminated from the pennant race, the sky no longer glowed over Fenway Park. No one seemed to be out but dogs, their scowling owners, and students majoring in beer. Garbage cans, raided by rodents and scavengers, creaked from black alleys. Around ten-thirty, Ross halted at Dagmar’s apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. Double-parked cars lined the street. He glanced up: Yellow lights blazed from the tenth floor. He felt uneasy, mildly betrayed.

  “Evening, Mr. Major,” greeted the doorman.

  “I understand there’s a party on.” He frowned, entering the small elevator.

  “Quite. I’ll let Madame Pola know you’re here.”

  The brass cage inched upward. When it finally petered to a halt, Dagmar was waiting outside the doors. She wore black silk and luminescent pearls matching her soft hair. Her eyes glittered, feral but composed; he knew that whatever might happen tonight, Dagmar had willed it.

  “Hello, Ross. I’m so glad you’re back.”

  “You look beautiful.” He kissed her cool, dry hand. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Utter amusement.”

  Ross smiled dubiously; Dagmar could have amused her friends at her home in Weston. “I’m sorry my wife couldn’t make it. She’s still in California.”

  Dagmar took his arm. “Would you mind being my chaperone, then?”

  “My pleasure.” Dagmar led him to Joe’s salon, where several dozen guests had already disposed of several dozen bottles of champagne. They all looked like people who would either buy art or ruin artists. A saxophonist, singer, and pianist crooned to each other in the corner, forming a salacious undercurrent to the conversations and laughter breaking giddily over the room. Ross recognized no one: This was Dana’s sort of crowd.

  A small, ferocious butler appeared, bearing champagne. Ross took a glass and accompanied Dagmar, watching and listening as she spoke with her guests. She seemed to enjoy confining everyone to scholarly discussions of specific artworks rather than answering questions about the impetus behind this vast cache of nudes. When a pair of inebriated curators expressed surprise that Dagmar had never mentioned the collection to them before, she replied that it had been Joseph’s harmless little hobby. She introduced Ross to everyone as an architect, without mentioning any plans for a museum. No problem; he was glad not to have to talk. Each time the little man came back with champagne, Ross took a glass.

  Dagmar approached a slim, expensively maintained woman who was studying a gouache. After she introduced Ross, the lady said, “Ah, you must be Ardith’s husband’s partner.”

  “That’s correct,” Ross replied, affixing his most wooden smile. “Y
ou’re a friend of hers?”

  “Yes, yes, for years. She’s here somewhere.”

  “Is that so? I’ll look for her.” Ross cast his eyes about the room and saw, across the hallway, a figure quietly emerge from Joe Pola’s bedroom. Ward? Impossible! What could she be doing here? What could Ardith be doing here? He looked, ashen, at Dagmar, who patted his arm and turned to her guest.

  “It’s so nice to see you, Caroline. We really must try to get on the same board again.” Caroline gushed about an upcoming benefit for a ballet corps, then asked who was responsible for such exquisite barbecued shrimp. “Diavolina,” Dagmar said. “That whimsical little restaurant in the South End.”

  “I should have known!” Caroline cried, relating her own fascinating horror story about caterers.

  Ross didn’t register a word. When the woman finally wandered off, he whispered, “What’s going on, Dagmar?”

  “Something perhaps beyond us,” she replied. “Don’t leave me, please.”

  As the evening wore on, her grip on his arm tightened; Dagmar’s guests, presuming she and Ross were lovers, invited them for weekends at Nantucket and Lenox. Too preoccupied to protest, Ross smiled and waited for the skies to open. He was exchanging an empty champagne flute for a full one when a black man in tails approached.

  “Excuse me, madam,” he whispered to Dagmar. “There is a gentleman at the door.”

  “Is that so? Invite him in,” Dagmar replied.

  “He seems to be a policeman.”

  Ross’s pulse faltered as Dagmar smiled girlishly at him; it was the same smile he had seen in Ward’s eyes as she announced that she had killed Guy Witten, the same smile he had seen in Emily’s eyes as she told him that she was pregnant. Funny that he should live for those intimate, orgasmic smiles that one day would be the death of him. Ross put his glass down: Time to take over, play Man. “Where is he? I’ll have a word with him.”

  He was somehow not surprised to see O’Keefe waiting in the corridor. The detective’s battered raincoat draped his body as if, from the neck down, he were a sculpture about to be unveiled. His eyes looked weary. “Dagmar Pola,” Ross introduced, “this is Detective O’Keefe. What can we do for you, sir?”

  “There’s been an accident. A woman has apparently fallen from a balcony to her death. Was Ardith Forbes a guest in this apartment tonight, Mrs. Pola?”

  “Oh dear,” sighed Dagmar after a stunned silence. “Yes.”

  “May I see the rooms out back?”

  Joe’s bedroom was dark and quite cool. The sliding door to the balcony had been left wide open and the gauze curtains fluttered delicately toward the statue of Joe’s departed mistress. On the balcony, an antique chair leaned against the railing.

  Ross peered down to the alley and saw sirens, spotlights, and a small body splayed on the cement below. Ardith, all right: Even in death, she managed to look as if she were shaking a fist at Dana. He thought he’d vomit. “Don’t look, Dagmar,” he said, nudging her away.

  “Don’t touch anything,” O’Keefe said sharply, picking up a small gold shoe lying beneath the chair. “How’d she get out here, Mrs. Pola?”

  “The apartment was open. My guests went from room to room, looking at the artwork.”

  “How many guests?”

  “About one hundred.”

  “What was the occasion?”

  “Simply a party. I’m resuming my social life following the death of my husband.”

  O’Keefe peered at Ross. “How do you know each other?”

  “Mr. Major is designing a gallery for me,” Dagmar answered.

  “When did you get here?”

  “Around ten-thirty,” Ross said.

  “You weren’t in the bedroom?”

  “No. I haven’t left Mrs. Pola’s side the entire evening.”

  “You didn’t see Ardith Forbes at all?”

  “No. I wasn’t even aware that she had been invited until another guest mentioned it.”

  When Dagmar corroborated Ross’s story, O’Keefe knew he was in for a long night. “I’m going to have to question everyone here, Mrs. Pola,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. My guests will be thrilled. How can I help?”

  “No one leaves. Could you put someone at the door while I get my assistant up here?”

  Posting her chauffeur at the door, Dagmar took O’Keefe to a small study where he began asking intoxicated, pseudo-horrified guests whether they had been in Joe’s bedroom. Most of them had, of course; none of them had seen anything unusual. Eventually they all went home, heady with alcohol, nudity, and violent death. “Send in the catering staff,” O’Keefe said, glancing at his watch: nearly two. So much for a nice, quiet evening with beer and the pennant race.

  As Dagmar went to the kitchen, O’Keefe cast a harsh eye on Ross. “What the hell’s going on here, Major?”

  Ross shook his head miserably. “I don’t know. I got back from California and came directly over. Dagmar’s a big client.”

  “You’ve known her how long?”

  “About a month.”

  O’Keefe scowled. “Who would want Ardith Forbes dead?”

  After a moment, Ross chuckled. “Only Dana.”

  The vicious little man who had been serving champagne entered the den and said, “Why, good evening, Detective O’Keefe. How nice to see you again.”

  “Sit down, Klepp,” O’Keefe snapped. “Did you see anyone go into the bedroom tonight?”

  “Everyone went everywhere. I just kept serving bubbly.”

  Realizing that Klepp would never tell him anything, O’Keefe waved him away. He next talked with a thickset black man, who said exactly what Klepp had, but more politely. The detective had a few words with a saucy waitress who perhaps remembered a woman in a white suit going into the bedroom. No one else from Diavolina could tell him anything. Finally O’Keefe capped his pen. Speaking to all these zombies from the restaurant reminded him of Emily. “Is that everyone?” he growled at Dagmar.

  “One more, I think,” she said.

  Ward swaggered into the den. “O’Keefe! How’s my dishwasher?”

  The detective gaped: Humpty Dumpty was back together again. After catering an affair for one hundred guests, Ward looked only slightly exercised, as if she had just completed the first leg of a triathlon. In no way did she resemble the wreck he had interviewed following the death of Guy Witten. “Ms. Ward,” he said. “You’re looking well. Have a seat.”

  Ward’s massive body filled an antique chair. “What’s up?”

  “There’s been an accident. A woman fell from the bedroom balcony. Her name was Ardith Forbes.”

  “Oy! Not that bitch who was trying to sue me!” Ward’s face turned an unwholesome brown. “She’s lucky I didn’t meet her. I would have given her something to sue me about.”

  “Did you go into the bedroom tonight?” O’Keefe asked.

  “Once. Klepp insisted that I see a statue. He thought it looked like one I used to have in my restaurant.”

  “Did you see a woman in a white suit in the bedroom or on the balcony?”

  “No, I looked at the statue and split. The kitchen was busy.”

  O’Keefe had to buy that. “What’s this about Mrs. Forbes suing you?”

  “Ten million bucks’ damages for serving her husband contaminated food. It was a joke.” Ward’s chair creaked as she crossed her immense legs. “She withdrew the case last week. Cost me ten million gray hairs worrying about it.”

  Perhaps that was why Ward had looked so bad recently. “Thank you,” O’Keefe said. After she left, he found Dagmar. “Why did you hire Diavolina to cater tonight?”

  “I had eaten there several times and enjoyed it. Their barbecued shrimp is outstanding.”

  “This was the first time you’ve used them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you pleased?”

  “Absolutely. So were my guests.”

  That was because they had no idea they had been served by a bunch of c
onvicts. “How well did you know Ardith Forbes?”

  “We met years ago at a fund-raiser for the Horticultural Society. Since then we’ve been on several charitable boards together.” Dagmar lit a cigarette. “We were cordial but not intimate friends. Ardith was a very unhappy woman. She had problems with chemical and alcohol addiction.”

  “Had you been in touch with her lately?”

  “Only once since the death of her husband. She seemed extremely depressed.”

  “Why? I thought you said she was unhappily married.”

  Dagmar eyed him coldly. “Why should the death of a hated husband suddenly make black white, Detective?”

  He retreated, ashamed. “Did you speak with Ardith tonight?”

  “Briefly. She had just gotten back from Europe.”

  “How did she seem? Still depressed?”

  “On the contrary. She appeared unusually gay. Giddy, in fact. I had never seen her like that before.”

  “What did you make of it?”

  Dagmar pulled heavily, almost salaciously, on her black cigarette. “I presumed that the poor woman had found romance and adventure on her trip.”

  Enough of acid, feminine presumptions. O’Keefe looked at Ross. “When did you last see Mrs. Forbes?”

  “She came to the office about two weeks ago, clearing out Dana’s belongings. She was just about to leave for her trip.”

  “How was she?”

  Ross tried to be charitable. “Agitated.”

  O’Keefe sighed; poor Ardith. No one would mourn her. Maybe that was why she had jumped. “Her husband left her financially secure, didn’t he?”

  “Very.”

  Ward and her co-workers thumped by. “We’ll be on our way, Mrs. Pola,” she called. “The leftovers are all in your refrigerator. Hope everything was to your satisfaction. Anything else we can do for you, Detective?”

  O’Keefe merely scowled. While Dagmar saw the caterers to the door, he collected his assistant from the balcony where Ardith had jumped. With a minimum of words, he left.

  Ross sent Dagmar’s chauffeur home then went to the kitchen. He made a pot of coffee and brought it to the den. Now that her guests were gone, her deeds accomplished, Dagmar looked a century old. Ross sat on the couch beside her and poured two cups of coffee. “Talk,” he said. “Everything.”