by Janice Weber
He walked to the tall windows overlooking the river, wishing with all his might that Dana were alive: Dana would have helped him exterminate Dagmar. They could have taken her sailing, gotten out the fire ax, and used her for chum. Drowned her in wet cement. Something like that. Anything. Without Dana, he was reduced to begging. “Emily won’t touch you, I guarantee it. Neither will Philippa.”
“You can’t guarantee anything until we find Leo.”
“Then we’ll find Leo.”
“You might have to do more than find him,” Dagmar said.
Ah, there was the price tag: Leo for the twins. Ross didn’t know how he could pull off a murder. He was much better at suggesting it to other, braver, people. “Where is he?”
“That’s for you to discover. You have exactly three days.”
Ross returned to the divan and tried to drink some coffee. “And if I fail?”
“Then I proceed with my own plans.”
He dropped his cup. The coffee spilled over his trousers and the couch. “Effff! Sorry!” Dagmar went to the kitchen and brought back towels, watching as Ross vigorously swabbed the floor and Joe’s silk couch.
“I’ll get some soap,” she said.
Ross was wiping off a pillow when he noticed that a tiny orange tassel was missing. Odd, Emily had been talking about an orange tassel just yesterday, in connection with ... with something. Ross couldn’t recall. Something lousy. A thick thread hung in the gap, as if someone had torn the tassel out. Who who who: Aha, Slavomir, the drunk who drowned. He had had an orange tassel in his pocket when they fished him out of the Fenway. Hell! An iceberg snapped; Dana rolled in his grave. Ross seized his miracle and yanked off another tassel.
He was tucking the pillow back in place when Dagmar returned. “No soap. Never mind. That divan’s not staying anyway.” She resumed her seat. “I never knew you had such delicate nerves. Here, eat something. These rolls came from Cafe Presto. I understand your wife used to work there.”
So Dagmar had been studying her quarry. Enraged, burning to break her neck, Ross took a cinnamon bun. “You know,” he said, calmly taking a bite, “statutory rape is such a silly crime. Why should someone go to prison for letting nature take its course? That Dubrinsky fellow, for instance. He must have lost a good twenty years of his life for no reason at all. Then to top it off, his girl dumped him. No wonder he turned into a stinking drunk.”
“Who told you this?”
“Chefs, priests, deans ... it’s common knowledge.” Ross took another bite. “I figure he saw you the night you went to Diavolina. Even with the hat and glasses, he recognized you. After forty years, that’s some compliment. I guess you brought him up here, had a cozy chat about the good old days, showed him his statue, tried to get a fix on Leo....” Ross licked the sugar off his fingers. “How’d you get him to drown, though?”
“Grain alcohol. I threw my glasses into the water and asked him to fetch. Siavomir always was a perfect gentleman. You’ll never prove anything, Ross.”
“I wouldn’t even try.” He looked at his watch. “Guess I’d better start chasing Leo. I only have until nine o’clock—what is it—Friday morning before you come after my wife.” He took one last walk past Joe’s beautiful women. They really were best naked. Put clothes on them, let those brains fester over honor and soured love and issue, and they’d eat every man on the planet. “You’ll have to get me first, of course. Good-bye, Dagmar.”
Outside, a breeze ruffled the trees yellowing Commonwealth Avenue. Ross walked a few blocks to a pay phone and called Diavolina. “Ward, please.”
“You again?” Klepp said. “Hold on.”
Ward came on the line almost at once. “Can you meet me in fifteen minutes in the Fenway? Near the Victory Gardens. Last time, I promise.”
“This had better not ruin my day, mister,” she said.
“It will make your day.”
Ross continued up a bridge to the boggy Fenway. Tall reeds overran the park, providing cover for hedonists and stranglers. He waited only briefly before Ward appeared. She looked, literally, tremendous. With no effort, he thought, she could snap him in half. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. “No one followed you?” he asked.
“Please.” They headed toward the bulrushes. Like most sane citizens, Ross had always avoided the area. But going in there with Ward was like going in there with Superman. When they were surrounded by reeds and muck, she stopped. “What’s on your mind?”
“Slavomir Dubrinsky. Your dishwasher.” Ross handed her the little envelope he had taken from home that morning. “He gave this to Emily.”
Ward looked at the picture of Dagmar and the note. “I don’t get it,” she said.
“Neither did Emily. Dubrinsky had pinned it to her T-shirt. She didn’t find it until a week after she moved out of Diavolina.”
‘“Leo is looking for you? Be careful?’ Why didn’t she bring it right to me?”
“Why should she?” Ross pointed to the photograph. “That’s Dagmar Pola. Young, of course.”
Ward looked again. “What’s she got to do with this?”
“She was the cupcake who bagged Slavomir for statutory rape. That was before you were born. More recently, she was at Diavolina the night he drowned. At some point he must have looked into the dining room and recognized her.”
Ward’s face darkened as she remembered her dishwasher panicking for no apparent reason. “This is bullshit.”
“I don’t think so. When you saw O’Keefe at Guy Witten’s funeral, you asked how he was doing with Slavomir’s case. Obviously, you don’t think the man drowned all by himself. Open your hand.” Ross dropped the orange tassel into it. “Look familiar?”
“Jesus Christ! Where’d you get this?”
“Dagmar’s apartment. From a pillow on her couch. I reckon that once she knew Slavomir had seen her at Diavolina, she invited him up and served him a bit of grain alcohoL Tried to pry a little information out of him and got nowhere. So she took him for a stroll over here. It’s five minutes from her place, I just walked it. Dagmar tossed her eyeglasses into the water and asked her boy to fetch. He never made it back to shore.”
Ward sagged to the ground, as if she had been punched. “Why’d she do it?”
“To eliminate a witness. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Dagmar killed Dana. By mistake, of course. She was going for Philippa. A couple weeks later she set you up to kill Ardith.”
“What do you mean, ’set me up’?”
“You don’t think Ardith would risk her widow’s mite by killing a second-rate actress, do you? She was being blackmailed by Dagmar. When things got out of control, Dagmar played you like a violin with that story of your little sister and Dana.”
“That was no story. Ardith confirmed everything.”
That must have been a pleasant scene. “What did you do, corner her on the balcony?”
“I happened to find her out there staring at the moon. Introduced myself, told her about Rita and one red shoe ... she just stood there with her mouth open. I knew it was true.”
Dagmar was such a clever devil. “How did you get Ardith off the balcony without her screaming bloody murder?”
“Gave her a little chop in the back of the neck. After that, she never knew what hit her.”
Ross shut his eyes. “You do realize that Dagmar owns you forever now.” He suddenly squatted in the mud next to Ward. “We have got to get rid of her. Soon.”
“What’s in it for you this time?”
“When Dagmar gets done with Philippa, she’s coming after Emily. She thinks they’re her husband’s illegitimate daughters.”
Ward burst into that depraved laughter. “Are they?”
“I hope not. Leo’s got the paperwork. Incidentally, Dagmar made me a deal. If I get rid of Leo, she’ll lay off Emily. I’ve got until Friday morning.”
“What’s Leo got to do with this?”
“I’m not sure. Did he ever mention anything to you?”
“No. Leo’s a p
rivate man.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“No more than you, I’d say.” Ward put her head between her knees for such a long time that Ross thought she was ill. “Go away, Major,” she said finally. “I’m thinking.”
He left the Fens.
Deep in the night, Emily felt Ross slip from the bed. She knew he had gone to the atrium, there to stare at the sky, perhaps to drift into troubled dreams. She didn’t dare follow him; he might ask a few questions that she was not yet prepared to answer. Instead, she thought about Guy. Had he really replaced her so quickly with another woman, as Bert and Lois thought? If so, Emily didn’t feel quite so beatific about making him a posthumous father. In fact, she would rather have an abortion, rather have no children at all, than pass off his accidental child as her husband’s. The guilt of that would surpass anything she had known. Bastard! Who was the other woman? Was there one at all? Emily had to find out, and soon: The child’s survival depended on it.
After Ross had crept in at dawn and kissed her good-bye, she had gone to Cafe Presto. Bert was there alone, opening up. With the keys she had somehow never flung in Guy’s face, Emily unlocked the front door. “It’s me, Bert,” she called, walking in. “Lois told me this is your last day here.”
“You’re damn right. This place is hell now.” He stacked a few croissants in their baskets. “Who would have ever thought so a month ago?”
Emily made coffee, just like the old days. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Guy lately. Did he really have a girlfriend those last few days? That’s what Lois tells me.”
“Sure he did. She called him here all the time. He would take off like a dog in heat.”
Ouch. “What do you mean, ’all the time’? Every day?”
“Well, no. Only about five or so times in all, I’d say. I usually picked up the phone. She was an incredibly irritating slut.”
“Did she call the day the truck drove through the window?”
Bert was silent a few moments. “I think so. She definitely called the night he was killed. I was left here holding the bag. I’m sure Ross got the worst coffee of his life that day.”
“Ross was in?”
“Sure, he dropped by late in the afternoon. Good thing he did, too. I was bitching about how the woman sounded like you.”
“Planting ideas in his head?” Emily laughed feebly.
“He told me that was impossible since you were in California. We had a good chuckle over it.”
Sure. Ross never chuckled. “Did the lady go to Guy’s funeral?”
“I wouldn’t even know what she looked like. She never had the courtesy to introduce herself.”
The front door opened and Guy’s sister, Ursula, walked in. Obviously not a morning person, she somnambulated to the coffee machine as Emily watched, speechless, from behind the counter: The resemblance between Ursula and her deceased brother, while subtle, was enough to take her breath away.
As Ursula was taking her first sip of coffee, she noticed the extra body. “Emily,” she called in a gritty voice, “what brings you here?”
“I just got back from California and thought I’d stop by. See how you were doing.”
“I’m sure Bert’s told you all the gory details. Have a moment to chat?”
Steeling herself, Emily followed Ursula into Guy’s office. She sat on the nubby chair where, in simpler days, she used to spend hours talking to Guy about ovens and eggs. How many times had he shut the door and kissed her? Not enough. “Rough business, eh?” she said.
“I’m too old for this.” Ursula whisked a strand of gray hair out of her eyes. “I don’t know what will happen after Bert leaves. Maybe I’ll sell the place.” She swallowed another dose of coffee. “Guy told me why you left. I think I understand.”
What was Emily supposed to reply to that? He is Great? “Interested in coming back and salvaging it?” Ursula continued.
“It wouldn’t be the same without him.”
“No. But I’m sure he’d want you here.”
Emily sighed. “I couldn’t, Ursula. I’m pregnant.”
Ursula’s eyes gleamed, then clouded over as she realized that she could never ask and would probably never know whether her brother had left a child behind. “That’s wonderful.”
They sat wordless as two crones. Finally Emily said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t make the funeral.”
“It’s all right. Plenty of other people did. People I hadn’t seen in years. Previous wives, all wrinkled up now. Your new boss. That Ward woman.”
“Guy knew Ward?”
“Not really. He was close to her younger sister, an art student. It was before your time. A sad story. She jumped off a building. Guy always blamed himself.”
“Why? Was he her boyfriend?”
“Heavens, no. He was married at the time. He was just her friend. But friends of suicides always feel as if they’ve dropped the ball.” Ursula shrugged. “The big sister certainly looked as if she had recovered. I was quite touched that she came to the funeral. It meant that she had finally forgiven him.”
“For what?”
“For being involved at all. People are like that.” Out in the kitchen, Bert began shouting at someone. “Lina’s here,” Ursula said, getting up. “What a disaster she turned out to be.”
Emily cringed; all her fault, like so many other things. “Don’t throw in the towel just yet. I’ll think about coming back.”
“In your present condition?”
Emily smiled wanly; that could always change. She was about to ask if Guy had really found another woman when Ursula said, “Thank you for making my brother’s life happier. He was mad about you, you know. He was even able to laugh about the night the truck ran you both down. If that isn’t love, nothing is.”
Mistake here, Emily thought as she exited to the sidewalk. The magnitude of it didn’t register until she sat at her gynecologist’s office totaling all the weird phone calls, the photographs, the nightmares about trucks, dentists from hell ... her head began to ache as thoughts tumbled toward a steep, black ravine. Surely she was wrong: Philippa could not have done this. Not wittingly. Wit, Witten, witless: oh yes, she could. Guy was a man, after all.
After her checkup, Emily walked to the North End, to the park high above the harbor, and stared at the ships. They seemed motionless, aimless almost, until one closed the eyes for several minutes and looked again; then their slow paths and far-off destinations became apparent. One needed only patience and perspective. Slowly, distantly, Emily began reconstructing Philippa’s and Guy’s paths, following as if they were boats meandering toward foggy ports. Finally she stood up, shaken, needing Ross; he would believe her.
Emily remembered that he had gone to Dagmar Pola’s for a meeting. She looked at her watch. If she walked fast, she could get there before he left. It was a brilliant, blustery morning, conducive to speed. Emily concentrated on inhaling maximum oxygen, thinking minimum thought. She was just about at Dagmar’s apartment when, across the street, she saw Ross lunge to the sidewalk. Instead of turning left toward his office and her, he took a right toward Kenmore Square. Emily could see from his taut, fast walk that something had upset him. She began to walk even faster, to catch up. Then she saw him hunch at a pay phone and speak just a few words. To whom, Marjorie? Another woman? All of Emily’s blood-sucking demons returned. She followed her husband along the windy boulevard, up to the Fenway. When he stopped, she hid behind a tree; even from this distance, she could feel the sharp, black waves pulsating toward her.
Soon a stocky figure appeared: Wardl Ross said he had never met her in his life! When they disappeared into the reeds, Emily’s heart began pumping corrosive waste into her bloodstream. Her brain burned, her baby wailed. She sank to the ground, into the whirling leaves, gasping as a maelstrom sucked her into its gigantic funnel. It was too large, beyond her; yet without comprehending the particulars, Emily comprehended the whole, in the way a drenched animal understands a flood. She was still gasping when Ross emer
ged from the reeds and walked quickly away.
After a very long while, Ward shuffled out, took a look around, missed Emily completely, and headed in the direction of Diavolina. Emily returned to Beacon Hill and, without entering the house, got into her car. Upstairs, Philippa was probably just opening her eyes, wondering where her coffee and fan mail might be. Block that out: Emily drove north at great speed, as if Guy sat in the front seat with her.
The trees were bare up in New Hampshire. Behind the cabin she saw nothing but naked, prickly hills. It was cold. Suddenly losing her courage, Emily continued to the general store down the road. She needed a sandwich, hot tea, anything to keep the body from consuming itself.
“Why hello, Emily,” the storekeeper said, peering at her. “You are Emily, aren’t you?”
“The other one was my sister.”
“She looked a little bashed up.”
“She got hit by a truck. Could you make me a ham sandwich and a cup of tea, Marty?”
“Coming right up.” He took the cold cuts from the case to the slicing machine. “Sister, eh? She’s a real whippersnapper, that one. Came here one morning looking for champagne and oysters and something called shoot. Said she was expecting important company. Walked out in a huff when I couldn’t accommodate her.”
“She’s not a country girl,” Emily said, taking the sandwich.
“That’s for darn sure.” Marty related the local news as his listener ate mechanically as a cow. When she had cleaned her plate, he walked her to the car. “Will you be staying up a while?”
“No. I’m just changing the mousetraps.” Emily backed onto the road. She drove to her cabin and bounced into the drive way, skidding to a halt on a bed of lichen. Somewhere over the last half mile, Guy had abandoned her: She was all alone now. She walked to the porch, not sure of what she would find, what she should even be looking for. Outside the door, she paused, sniffing the air, smelling smoke and dead leaves. A loon yodeled over the lake. Afraid to go inside, Emily stared at the doorknob, wishing with all her might that it had a memory and a voice.