Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

“No, he was eating dinner with me in a restaurant.” Philippa tried to look sad, but couldn’t: Dana had been out of the circuit for too long. “I believe he mixed alcohol with some fancy barbiturates, poor dear.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “In Boston.”

  Then how the hell did the weapon get to California? “Did you ever see his gun?”

  “Not the one with bullets, sweetheart. Em, did you ever see Dana with a gun?” Philippa called as her sister walked in.

  “No.” Emily took a seat. “Why?”

  “Someone shot me with it. What was his wife’s name again?”

  “Ardith.”

  “He had a wife?” the policeman asked. “Where?”

  “Boston,” Emily replied. “She committed suicide yesterday. She had just gotten back from Europe, I think.”

  “What did she look like?” the policeman asked. “Medium height? Fair? Thin lips? Tacky blouses? Did she know about your involvement with her husband?”

  “You’re not saying that Ardith shot Philippa,” Emily said after a silence.

  “I wouldn’t rule it out,” he said. “The weapon in question definitely belonged to Dana Forbes. And a woman fired it.”

  Philippa’s manager, nearly blinded by a massive spray of gladiolus, strode into the room. “Phil! Ready to roll?” Simon heaved the flowers onto the bed and straightened his pale blue ascot. “Where’s that wheelchair? Aidan! Step on it, the entire U.S. press corps is waiting! I’ve planned this operation to the microsecond!”

  As Philippa, Simon, and Aidan fussed with a wheelchair, flowers, rhinestone sunglasses, and a gauze-swathed pith helmet, Emily gave the detective her phone number in Boston and told him to contact O’Keefe, who would certainly know all about Ardith. “You! Emma!” Simon interrupted, handing her a chauffeur’s jacket and cap. “Put this on and take the back stairs to the limousine. Get in the front seat. Now! Go! I don’t want you and Phil running into each other out there! It’ll cause a riot!”

  “Bye-bye, Officer,” Philippa called as she was wheeled into an Armageddon of flashbulbs. “Keep up the good work! I love you!”

  The policeman shook Emily’s hand, wondering how an identical strand of DNA could have split so unevenly. “Good-bye, ma’am. Good luck.”

  Emily slipped to the limousine and, through heavily tinted windows, watched her sister’s departure from the hospital. After a leave-taking rivaling that of Cleopatra and fifty thousand Egyptians, Philippa and her entourage tumbled into the backseat. “What a fucking circus!” Simon cursed, tearing off his ascot. “They’re animals!”

  “Animals buy movie tickets, dear,” Philippa replied serenely. Choke Hold was number one again this week. “Try to arrange a few decent interviews in Boston, would you? I’ll be out of my mind with boredom.”

  They drove to the airport, where the twins were whisked onto a jet belonging to the producer of the vampire movie. A steward, a nurse, and a spare copy of the screenplay waited onboard. After glancing through the first few pages, Philippa tossed it aside. “I think Ardith shot me,” she said to Emily. “Just gut instinct.”

  “If she did, then you’re safe.”

  Philippa guffawed and said no more. Soon she fell asleep, muttering repeatedly about the white truck, not opening her eyes until the jet again touched ground. “Where am I?” she asked the nurse. Hearing “Boston,” Philippa swore: the last place on earth she would ever want to be. In twenty years, this damn town hadn’t been able to scrape together the minimum bodies necessary for an official branch of her fan club. The men here were either irresponsible libertines, like Dana, or immovable hulks, like Guy. She should never have listened to Emily and come back. Boston was bad luck.

  No fans awaited them except Ross, who only had eyes for his wife. “Hello ladies,” he said, commandeering Philippa’s wheelchair from the steward. He rolled her roughly into the terminal. “How’s everyone feeling?”

  “Just fine,” Philippa snapped.

  “That’s terrific. Detective O’Keefe is anxious to speak with you immediately.”

  “I’ve just had an exhausting trip! Is this necessary?”

  “Let’s get it over with, Phil,” Emily said. “Where does he want to see us?”

  “I told him to go to the office. He’ll meet us there in twenty minutes.”

  Philippa bitched all the way to State Street, her foul mood exacerbated by the billing and cooing of Mr. and Mrs. Major, who had obviously patched their marriage together since Emily’s last trip to California. Her stomach yowled with hunger. Her stitches itched. The absolute worst thing about getting shot was that she couldn’t take a bath for another week. “Goddamn it,” she exploded as Ross rumbled her into the elevator, “this is in-human!”

  She was taken to Dana’s office, site of the largest couch at Major & Forbes. As Emily propped a few pillows behind her, Philippa noticed that the bust of Dana, his crystal decanters of scotch, and his books were all gone. Suddenly she missed him; rarely did brains, lust, and cash converge in such a delectable package. “Wouldn’t happen to have any scotch in the house, would you, Ross?” she asked. He went to his office and returned with two stiff drinks. Emily got water. “What’s the matter, Em? Ulcers?”

  She saw her sister shoot Ross a mischievous look. “Much worse,” Emily said, eyes bright. “We’re pregnant.”

  We? With a twin’s immediate, infernal intuition, Philippa knew that the child was Guy’s. “My God, that’s fantastic,” she croaked at last, half exultant that Ross had been cuckolded forever and half stultified with jealousy of her sister’s glorious fate. “You little twit, not telling me,”

  “We wanted to tell you together,” Emily said,

  “You did, all right! When’s the blastoff?”

  “Next May sometime,”

  Philippa emptied her glass, “I’m speechless! Congratulations, Em, All that rot with the missionary position and three pillows has finally paid off, Ross, be a dear and give me enough alcohol to make a proper toast.” Ross brought the bottle, Philippa was on her third toast when O’Keefe arrived.

  “Sorry to keep you up so late,” he said, “How are you feeling, Miss Banks?”

  “Never better, thank you,” Philippa replied, rising to her elbows. O’Keefe was much handsomer than she remembered. Of course, last time she had seen him, her vision had been impaired by Dana’s face in a bowl of whipped cream. “You had questions?” she asked.

  O’Keefe retired to a deep, cushiony chair. “Answers, actually,” he said, “All evidence is pointing to the fact that Ardith Forbes tried to kill you. She was in Los Angeles the day you were shot. We’ve found hotel bills and rental-car receipts for a white Mercedes.”

  “She never went to Europe, then?” Emily asked.

  “No.”

  “How would she get Dana’s gun through airline security?”

  “She drove to California with a friend named Rex. He seems to have been completely uninvolved in all this.” O’Keefe let that sink in a moment before asking, “Was Ardith aware of your affair with her husband?”

  “Afterward, yes,” Philippa said, “During, I’m not sure,”

  “Would she have known that you and Mr. Forbes would be at Diavolina the evening he died?” O’Keefe felt three pairs of lungs halt: bingo. “Who knew you’d be there, Miss Banks?”

  “Emily knew, because she was cooking dinner. So did the secretary.”

  “That’s all?”

  Philippa once again tried to clarify a blur of orgasms and boats and frilly hats. “There was someone sitting in the office when Dana announced we’d be at Diavolina.”

  “A man? Woman?”

  “Woman. Old. Plastered with pearls. She wore a black hat with two peacock feathers. Bally shoes and purse.”

  Emily half opened her mouth to tell O’Keefe that that was probably Dagmar Pola, then noticed that Ross’s face had turned so white that it almost looked blue. “Were you going to say something, Emily?” O’Keefe asked.

  “All o
f Byron’s friends knew that Philippa would be eating at Diavolina,” she said quickly. “At least fifty of them showed up.”

  “It was more like a hundred, Em,” Philippa corrected. “And I almost forgot Ardith’s gymnastics instructor. He sent over vodka with four dried cherries. It’s my favorite drink.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Beats me.”

  O’Keefe looked very tired, as if he had just been asked to disinter an entire graveyard. “Thanks for your time, everyone,” he said, rising. “Take care of yourself,” he told Emily, wrapping her hand in his own.

  “Have you learned anything more about Guy Witten?” she asked.

  Once again, O’Keefe felt the entire room stop breathing. Why was that? He looked at Ross, who imperceptibly shook his head. “We now know that he died of internal bleeding, not from injuries sustained in a car accident. He had been shot with a crossbow.”

  After a small silence, Emily said, “You mean an arrow?”

  “About the size of a pencil. The shaft went right through him.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “We don’t know. We’re working on it.”

  Emily withdrew her hand from O’Keefe’s. “He was murdered?”

  “No question. Unless he was wandering in the woods. Deer season just opened. No one hunts at night, of course.” O’Keefe suddenly noticed that Philippa was shivering. Her lips looked a little blue. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Would you mind handing me that drink, please?” Philippa said. “My stomach always becomes upset after long plane trips.” She tossed back the contents of the glass. “Thank you.”

  O’Keefe thanked them and left. After a pensive silence, Philippa sighed. “Is that man married?”

  “Is that all you can think about, Phil?”

  “What else should I think about?” she snapped. “That bitch Ardith playing Annie Oakley?”

  “I’ll tell you two what to think about,” Ross said. “Getting your stories straight. O’Keefe’s going to be back with more questions about that party in New York and that little breakfast in L.A. He’s going to be digging like hell the next couple of days.”

  “So what? We didn’t do anything,” Emily replied.

  “Just wait until he hears that you both suspect someone was after Philippa and never clued him in when that chef got nailed. He might have cracked this case weeks ago and been the hero of the police department. Not to mention preventing Philippa from getting shot and poor Ardith from jumping off a balcony.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Philippa cried. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I understand better than you think.”

  “We’ll just tell him about the dentist,” Emily said. “None of this would have started if Phil hadn’t been beaten up.”

  “No way! Leave the dentist out of this!” Philippa screeched.

  Ross stood up. “It’s late, girls. We’ve got a funeral in the morning.”

  They returned to Beacon Hill. In bed, Emily asked Ross to describe a crossbow. No one really slept.

  Detective O’Keefe arrived early at Ardith’s funeral, not that seating would be tight, but he wanted to speak with several mourners before they went inside the little church that, just a few weeks ago, had given Ardith’s husband such a rousing send-off. It was a chill, brumous morning, clouding the abyss between the quick and the dead: perfect burial weather. O’Keefe waited, smoking, under the same tree that had sheltered Philippa during Dana’s obsequies. Not too far away he saw a mound of dirt and the deep hole that would soon swallow Ardith. He found it hard to believe that a woman who had taken such pains during her life to look good—nay, perfect—would allow herself to expire looking like roadkill. An overdose of sleeping pills would have been more Ardith’s style. But who was he to know, or judge, what had overtaken her on that balcony? Perhaps nothing more than a few glasses of champagne, enough to inflame guilt and rage and, worse, the specter of imminent discovery of her crime. Spend the rest of her life in prison? For Ardith, who lived to shop, the pavement was the easiest way out.

  A blue car pulled up to the curb and Marjorie stepped out. Today she was wearing a black cashmere coat and black stockings over those fabulous legs. Tossing his cigarette on the lawn, O’Keefe walked over. “Good morning.”

  “Hello.” Marjorie looked around for Ross. “I suppose I’m early.”

  “Very. You’re the first one here. Don’t go in yet.” O’Keefe steered her toward a garden opposite the graveyard. “It’s a shame about Mrs. Forbes.”

  “In what regard? That she killed herself or that she tried to kill Philippa? Ross told me about it this morning. Don’t worry, I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “Ardith must have been insanely jealous.”

  “She was. What for, I don’t know. Dana was no prize.” Marjorie sidestepped a mound of leaves. “Neither was Philippa.”

  “You’ve met?” O’Keefe asked innocently.

  “Only once. I walked in on her and Dana in his office. It was extremely embarrassing. I mistook Philippa for her sister. Dana never explained the situation. I think he wanted me to think he was kissing Emily. That was his idea of a big joke.”

  Funny only because he knew that Marjorie was hopelessly infatuated with Emily’s husband. “You called Ardith afterward, didn’t you?” O’Keefe asked. “Rex told me about it. Don’t worry, I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “I—I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Marjorie stammered. “It was a big mistake.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I suggested that she might be interested in going to Diavolina that evening.”

  Ardith had sent Rex instead. “Did you tell anyone else? Ross, for instance?”

  “Good God, no.”

  “Why not?”

  Because that would have been too blatant; much better that Ross discover his wife’s infidelity from an outraged third party, like Ardith. “Because it wasn’t any of my business,” Marjorie lied.

  O’Keefe walked her around a birdbath. “What was Ross doing the night Dana died?”

  “Working with me. He had been out of the office for several days. We were catching up.”

  On what, business or pleasure? “How late?”

  “I don’t remember. Ten, eleven.”

  “There was an old woman in that day. Plastered with pearls. She wore a black hat with peacock feathers.”

  “That was Dagmar Pola. She had come to see Ross.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “He’s building her an art gallery.”

  Shucks, that was what Ross had said. “Since when?”

  “About a month ago. It’s a big project.” Marjorie laughed sourly. “Since Ross wasn’t in the office, Dana had to ditch the tart and entertain Dagmar. She wasn’t too pleased.”

  “Who? The tart or Dagmar?”

  “Both.”

  “Did Dagmar overhear that Dana and Philippa would be at Diavolina that evening?”

  Marjorie thought a moment. “It’s possible. Dana made a big fuss about it at my desk. I don’t remember. I was pretty burnt up at the time.” In the distance she saw four people from the office get out of a car. “Would you excuse me, please?”

  O’Keefe watched her mesmerizing legs recede into the fog. He ached to run his hands over them, toes to pelvis. Perhaps, once she realized that Ross was forever beyond her, once this case was closed, or abandoned, Marjorie might meet him for a drink somewhere. Standing behind a hedge, he watched a few more cars pull up to the church. The people getting out looked like architects in pursuit of promotions and women who had swatted a lot of tennis balls at Ardith. A maroon Lincoln crunched to a halt and Dagmar Pola stepped to the street.

  She looked regal, omnipotent in deep black. Two peacock feathers adorned her hat. O’Keefe walked quickly over. “Good morning.”

  Dagmar nodded. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  Seeing that she wasn’t about to take a stroll into the garde
n, O’Keefe skipped the mournful preambles. “You were a friend of Ardith’s. Did you know Dana as well?”

  “My acquaintance with him was strictly professional.”

  “You were in his office the day he died, I understand.” “Yes, I had wanted to see Ross.”

  “Did you happen to see Dana there with Philippa Banks?”

  “I saw Dana there with a woman. They made quite a spectacle of themselves with that poor secretary.”

  “Did you hear that they were going to eat at Diavolina that evening?”

  Dagmar’s obelisk stare shamed him. “I am not in the habit of eavesdropping, Detective O’Keefe.”

  Screw dignity; one more try: “Where were you that evening?”

  “At home. Since my husband’s death, I do not go out much.”

  O’Keefe pulled a rumpled paper from his pocket. “This is a bill from the hotel in Los Angeles where Mrs. Forbes was staying. She called your apartment on Commonwealth Avenue four days ago. You spoke for one minute. You were the only person she called.”

  Did Dagmar’s face go as white as her hair, or was that a trick of the mist? “Mrs. Forbes called to say that she would be coming to my party, “Dagmar replied. “Our conversation was brief because she was late for a hairdresser’s appointment. I’m afraid I can’t tell you why she made no other calls, I was under the impression that she was phoning from Europe.”

  O’Keefe sagged as another torch, poked into another murky catacomb, sputtered out. “Were you at Dana’s funeral?”

  “No. Ardith was not that close a friend. I had been to quite enough funerals lately.”

  If Ardith weren’t such a close friend, what was Dagmar doing here now? O’Keefe had his answer as a Saab crawled by and Dagmar said, in a voice fifty years younger, “I think that’s Ross.”

  She watched him park the car quite a ways off. Her ebullient gaze slowly turned to stone as first one, then a second, woman emerged. As they got closer, she asked O’Keefe, “Would you know who that is with him?”

  “The lady next to him is his wife Emily. The other one is Philippa Banks, Emily’s twin sister.” What was she doing here? She ought to be in bed. “He never told you?”

  Dagmar made a strange little purring sound. “I never asked.” As they got closer, she leaned on O’Keefe’s arm. “Would you mind introducing us?”