Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

  The maître d’s eyes flickered toward Ward, who was aiming a stream of club soda into a large glass, laughing with a customer. “Perhaps that would be another question to ask Leo when he returns.”

  “If he returns.” Emily left, knowing that Zoltan would help her no more.

  After Ardith’s funeral, fog had swollen into rain. Instead of going to the office, as he had announced to Emily and Philippa, Ross drove to the Academy of Art downtown. Rivulets leaking from its gutters followed ancient stains down its façade before finally becoming puddles on the stoop. The dean was thrilled to see Ross again. After the usual prolegomenous banter, Ross said, “I’ve been thinking about the possibility of teaching here, as you suggested.”

  “Excellent,” the dean responded, trying to appear calm. Had someone actually swallowed the line he had been throwing into barren waters for so many years? “Naturally, we couldn’t offer you too much in the way of remuneration.”

  “That was not my objective.”

  They talked about courses and students and the joy of exposing eager young minds to higher education. Ross asked a few questions about the faculty, living, before rounding to faculty, deceased. “I’ve just seen two sculptures by Slavomir Dubrinsky,” he said. “Quite remarkable female nudes. The same model.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Private collections. One of the owners expressed an interest in knowing more about the artist. So little is known.”

  “The less the better,” the dean said. “Dubrinsky went to prison for twenty years for statutory rape. You know what that means, of course. The girl was willing but her parents weren’t. Poor Dubrinsky didn’t stand a chance. He lost his best years. And the girl was married to someone else when he got out. No wonder he went to pieces.”

  Ross dolefully shook his head. “Who was that girl?”

  “I don’t remember the name. Dagmar something. A spoiled, scheming nymphomaniac, if I may be frank. She did everything simply to annoy her parents. It was a tragedy for Dubrinsky.”

  Ross stayed another ten minutes hearing about the misfortunes of other faculty members. When the dean started in on the tragedy of Guy Witten, beloved model, Ross glanced at his watch; how time had flown. He had an appointment and must leave at once. After a curt good-bye, he headed west, toward the monastery that Dana and Joe Pola had built. Befogged, traffic moved slowly past the many dead animals lining the turnpike; or maybe Ross just noticed them more today. Driving conditions were even worse in Hale, where the temperature hovered above freezing. Ross saw the sign for the monastery mere yards before having to swerve into the driveway. Halfway down the rough hill, his Saab began to slide in the mud. It clunked twice in a pothole before reaching level ground.

  Ross paused in the driver’s seat, looking at the mansion ahead of him: an admirable if peculiar work, a cross between Stanford White and the Comte de Sade. He counted twelve statues of angels tucked amid balconies and porticos; even one hundred years ago, a client’s ridiculous whims could dent an architect’s better judgment. Where was Dana’s chapel? As Ross got out of the car, a brown-robed monk appeared on the porch. The man was old but his eyes looked neither chaste nor serene. “I’m looking for Brother Augustine,” Ross said, wishing he had worn a coat. The heavier raindrops had become sloppy snowflakes. “My name’s Major.”

  “I’m Augustine. Won’t you come inside?” The man led Ross to the overheated room off the foyer. “Coffee? Brandy?”

  “Brandy.” Ross took a seat. Exquisite stone, wood, and plaster work here. Once upon a time it had been the sitting room; now Augustine probably used it to sock penitential sinners for donations. Ross did not like the way Augustine looked at him, obviously sizing him up as either Dana’s or Emily’s partner. So instead of chatting for a few minutes about the house, he said, “I understand you visited my office a few days ago. I’m not sure whether that was in connection with Dana’s chapel or the rather fantastic story you told my wife about her mother.”

  “Both, actually. One story grew out of the other.”

  “I would appreciate your starting at the beginning, then. And try not to leave too much out. I’m in no position to either judge or pass the story along. I trust you realize that my wife’s life is at stake.”

  That got no reaction whatever. The priest began telling him about growing up with Leo. “Your name was Moody then,” Ross interrupted. “Tell me about the connection between Joe, Dubrinsky, and Dagmar. I already know about Dagmar and statutory rape.”

  After a displeased silence, as if a naughty parishioner had interrupted his sermon, Augustine said, “What connection? Joe met Dagmar and married her.”

  “Dubrinsky must have really appreciated-that.”

  “Dubrinsky couldn’t have offered her anything and he knew it.”

  “Why did Joe marry Dagmar if he was in love with Emily’s mother? Money?”

  “It’s a powerful lure. So was Dagmar. No man could have resisted that combination.”

  “So Dubrinsky’s ruined, Emily’s mother is dead, Joe goes for the gold, and Dagmar becomes obsessed with illegitimate children- Great.”

  “Dagmar never knew about the twins.”

  “She knew there was at least one child, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. I arranged to have the twins’ birth certificates signed by a doctor in New York, not here. Their mother was adamant that Joe Pola never find them.”

  “Did he even try?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But his wife did. About twenty years ago, a woman came asking if a child had been born here at that particular time. I told her nothing.” Augustine swallowed some brandy. “When Joe was diagnosed with cancer, he called Leo and told him that he wanted to see his child before he died.”

  “Why call an old enemy?”

  “Because an old enemy is frequently one’s only hope for salvation. Leo sent Joe to me. The sick old man drove out and threw himself at my mercy. I could tell him nothing either. I had made certain promises to the mother. Then our chapel burned down. Joe gave us a large sum of money to build a new one. These gifts are not without certain strings attached.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Nothing but a picture. I went to New York and talked to the twins’ uncle about it. He gave me a photograph and said the man needed to rest in peace.”

  “I took that picture of Emily myself,” Ross growled. “What did Joe do with it?”

  “Nothing, as he had promised. Unfortunately, when he was near death, Dagmar discovered not only the picture, but paperwork concerning the chapel. She put two and two together and came out here again. I told her nothing.”

  “Nothing can be everything. Especially to Dagmar.”

  “The day before he died, Joe called me to Boston. He had only then noticed that the photograph was missing and that Dagmar had probably taken it. He was afraid of what she would do. He had rewritten his will and sent Leo after the girls.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t know. Leo didn’t ask me for directions.”

  “Why not? He must have known that you knew where they were.”

  “He respects my vows of silence.”

  A loud lie, but that was the priest’s problem. “What does the will say?” Ross asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In Leo’s pocket, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh Christ,” Ross swore. “Why is Leo doing all this for the man who virtually killed the girls’mother?”

  “As I said, he’s not doing this for Joe Pola.”

  “Thank you so much. That explains everything. Tell me, why did you come to my office?”

  “Because you’re the only man who can bring this to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  “Me?” Ross laughed harshly. “You think I’m some kind of knight in shining armor?”

  The priest’s old eyes looked into the fire. “Absolutely not.”

  “What do you suggest I do? Nothing’s going to stop Dagmar. I don’t
have much time.”

  “God will show you the way.”

  “I’m glad you’re so confident.” Ross quickly left the room. Hotter than hell in there.

  As rush hour was just getting under way a large truck flipped into a ditch aside the Massachusetts Turnpike. Trapped about a half mile back, Ross waited in the fog as police cars and ambulances screamed by; this had been a super day for fatalities. Famished and tense, he got home at eight o’clock. Philippa was nowhere in sight. Emily was dozing on the couch in the atrium, where she had slept so often these last few months. She looked serene and still... dead, almost. In a sudden frenzy, Ross threw himself at the couch. It bounced into the wall.

  She opened her eyes. “Ross! What are you doing?”

  “Sorry, I tripped.”

  “Where have you been? I called the office and no one knew where you were.”

  “I had to check on a project in Springfield,” he said. “Sorry I’m so late. The traffic was horrendous. Where’s Philippa?”

  “She’s gone to bed. Have you eaten?”

  “No.” Ross followed her to the kitchen, where he tiredly watched her take a casserole from the oven. Beef stew: ah, what a perfect wife. “Have a good day?”

  “So-so. Philippa glued herself to the tube. I went to Diavolina.”

  His fork paused in midair. “What for, darling?”

  “I wanted to see if Leo had been in touch. He hadn’t. No one’s heard anything.”

  Ross swallowed wine. “See all your old buddies?”

  “Some of them. Klepp’s running the kitchen. Ward looks great. By the way, you didn’t tell me that Diavolina had catered Dagmar’s party.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t really notice the food. Or the people serving it.” Ross halved a potato with his fork. “Did they offer you your old job back?”

  “No. I asked the maître d’if Slavomir Dubrinsky had known Dagmar. He said that was a question for me to ask Leo. I think he’s not telling me something. Everyone at that place seems to be covering for everyone else.”

  Ross shakily refilled his glass. “Emily, what do you remember about Dubrinsky?”

  “Nothing much. He was a complete derelict. He could hardly stand up, let alone wash dishes. He was another of Leo’s old friends.”

  “He died the same night as Dana?”

  “He drowned in the Fenway. I had to identify his body.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “It happened at a bad time. I didn’t want to bother you.” She sat opposite Ross and picked a few peas from his plate. “O’Keefe called me one day while Ward was out and said they had just fished Slavomir from the Fenway. So I went to the morgue. I recognized him and signed a paper. That was it.”

  “How did he die?” Ross asked.

  “Technically, he drowned. But he had been drinking pure grain alcohol. And that was after finishing off a half bottle of port at the restaurant. Poor bastard. Ward went to pieces for a while after he died. Claimed that someone had killed him. But he hadn’t been robbed or raped. He just had a little bump on his head.”

  “O’Keefe didn’t notice anything unusual?”

  “Just a little orange tassel in Slavomir’s pocket. The kind you see on a lampshade or a pillow. He could have picked that up from the sidewalk. An artist likes colorful things, right? I don’t know why Ward bugged O’Keefe so much about it.”

  “Violent people think violently.” Ross stabbed the mashed potatoes with his fork. “Please don’t go back there anymore, Emily. It’s not a nice place.”

  She kissed his hand. He looked so weary tonight. “I don’t want to go to any more funerals for a long, long time.”

  Ross could think of one more funeral he would be delighted to attend. “We won’t, darling.” He ate slowly, letting her voice waft him to better lands.

  As Ross had predicted, Detective O’Keefe called Emily around noon the next day, asking if he could stop by. He was wrapping up a few details on Ardith and needed to ask Philippa a question or two. Could they see him in ten minutes? Emily looked across the kitchen table at her sister, who had just vacated her bed and was mulling through the stack of mail that Aidan had forwarded to her. She only looked semiconscious, but perhaps that was an advantage. “Sure,” Emily said, hanging up. “O’Keefe’s coming over.”

  “Now? Before I even have my contact lenses in?”

  Emily began grinding coffee beans. “What are we going to tell him about switching places with each other?”

  “Nothing. Just play it by ear. Follow my lead.” Philippa ran a few fingers through her tangled hair. “How do I look?”

  “Ravishing.”

  Philippa managed to hobble to the bathroom, slather on a few ounces of makeup, change into her favorite white peignoir, and arrange herself becomingly on the couch before the door-bell rang. “Good morning, Detective,” she said, extending a perfumed hand as he walked into the den. “How nice to see you again.”

  O’Keefe took a seat as Emily brought coffee and a dozen packets of sugar substitute. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better! My doctors are astounded. They say I’ve got the recuperative powers of a twenty-year-old.”

  “That’s nice.” O’Keefe watched Emily’s long, slender fingers as she poured the coffee. “I’ve been doing some more checking on the movements of Ardith Forbes over the past few weeks. I believe that she was at your movie opening in New York. In your statements made the night Dana Forbes died at Diavolina, you said that vodka with four dried cherries was your favorite drink. I think it’s no coincidence that Byron Marlowe ingested a fatal amount of heroin with dried cherries at that party. Do you remember speaking with him at all that evening? Possibly giving him your drink?”

  “Of course I gave him my drink,” Philippa replied without hesitation. “He thought the cherries would bring him good luck.”

  “Who brought you the drinks?”

  “A waitress named Agatha. She’s an aspiring actress, currently sleeping with my manager in Los Angeles.”

  “Any last name?” O’Keefe asked.

  “Street,” Emily said after a ten-second silence. “Wasn’t that what you told me, Phil?”

  Philippa shot her sister a dire look. “I think so. Forgive me, I’m so bad with last names.”

  “Your manager was seriously ill recently,” O’Keefe continued. “You’ve told the Los Angeles police that you believe he received a poisoned manuscript. How was it delivered to you?”

  “We were eating breakfast at Luco’s, our favorite restaurant. Franco brought it to our table.”

  “Who’s Franco?”

  “A social-climbing waiter,” Philippa sniffed. “Not a very good one at that.”

  “Any last name?”

  “Panopoulos.”

  O’Keefe frowned, “Wasn’t that the man with you when you were shot?”

  “He was changing my tire, I wouldn’t waste my breath talking to him if I were you. He’ll only say that a woman with a turban and heavy glasses gave him two hundred bucks to take a script to my table,”

  “What color turban?”

  Once again, Philippa couldn’t answer so Emily piped in, “I think he said black.”

  “Will you stop interrupting,” Philippa snapped, “Let me handle this.”

  O’Keefe emptied a few packets of fake sugar into his coffee, “The morning after Byron’s sudden death in New York, the police met you at your hotel for questioning. The report mentions that you had severe facial bruises and several lacerations on your arms.”

  “I had slipped in the bathtub the prior evening. Champagne sometimes makes me dizzy.”

  “The officer writing the report thought the bruises were a day or two old. He’s seen enough injuries of this nature to know what he’s talking about.”

  “That’s ridiculous! What does this have to do with anything? So I had an accident! What’s the big deal?”

  “I’m just trying to determine that this was an accident and not another attempt on your life,�
� O’Keefe explained.

  “Calm down, Phil,” Emily said. “This is all confidential information. Detective O’Keefe’s just trying to help.”

  “All right, all right,” Philippa muttered. “I went out on a blind date with a dentist and fell in his bathtub.”

  “After the Choke Hold party?”

  Whoops. “Yes! When the hell else?”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t recall. Denton something or other. It was strictly a one-night stand. We went dancing then took a bath. I’m embarrassed by the whole episode.”

  “Do you think this man was in any way connected to Ardith Forbes?”

  “Christ! No! Of course not! That’s absurd!”

  “Phil, get ahold of yourself!” Emily turned to O’Keefe. “We appreciate your concern, Detective, but I think this night with the dentist was just a matter of poor judgment.”

  He nodded vaguely. “Were you badly hurt?”

  “A small black eye! No one even noticed!” Philippa rolled to her side. “I refuse to discuss this further. It’s a purely personal matter.”

  O’Keefe almost acceded but, hating liars to have the last word, asked, “Just for the record, where were you the night before the gala?”

  Perhaps Philippa was sleeping. Finally rousing herself with a yawn, she said, “In New York. I had had an exhausting day doing interviews and went to bed early. I was not feeling well. Ever since eating that wretched meal at Diavolina, my stomach had been bothering me.”

  “What do you mean, ’wretched’?” Emily interrupted. “You ate everything in sight.”

  “What else could I do, send it back? That chef was an abomination. Rolls in the shape of swans, moldy mushrooms, raw steak, pink peppercorns ... agh.”

  “No pink peppercorns, I told you, Phil. Sorry.”

  “Pink as those little envelopes there, damn it! All over my steak. Raw, by the way.”

  O’Keefe’s eyes bored into her. “Did you eat any?”

  “Hell, no! I gave it to Dana. He ate the whole thing.”

  “Who was their waitress?” O’Keefe asked Emily.

  “Lola.”