The Devil's Interval

by Linda Peterson

  I struggled to focus. “It’s our turn for snack,” I offered feebly.

  “Got it,” he said. “Oranges already cut up and in the cooler.”

  With that, he disappeared, with Zach trailing behind him, giving me one last curious look. “And there they go,” I mumbled disconsolately. “Saint Michael and the sons who’ll grow up to hate me.” I pulled the afghan over my head and sighed. Maybe Michael was rendezvousing with the redhead. At the soccer game. Oh, I felt my stomach roil again. I roused myself, stumbled into the bathroom and stood under a hot, hot shower again until I’d turned bright pink.

  Coffee seemed an unthinkable addition to my fragile digestive system, so I made tea, and collapsed at the kitchen table to contemplate my sins. Why couldn’t I think of a single girlfriend to call to talk about all this? None of them would understand. They all thought Michael really was a saint, and I had a life-size version of explaining to them how I’d reacted at the Crimson Club. “Good riddance,” they’d say, every disloyal one of them. The doorbell rang so loudly and unexpectedly, I tried to put my hands to my ears and managed to slosh hot tea all over my robe and the table.

  “Can’t even suffer in privacy,” I grumbled and walked to the door, expecting my neighbor or the early-morning brigade of Girl Scouts out peddling their little chocolate-coated thin-mint fat pills.

  I opened the door to John Moon.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “It’s a miracle. You’re absolutely the only person I want to see this morning. And here you are!” I opened the screen door, grabbed his arm, and pulled him inside. Suddenly, I felt myself coming back to life.

  “Maggie, what’s wrong?” he said. “You look…”

  “Ravishing.” I said. “I know. Nothing like a combo plate of too much alcohol, guilt, and insane jealousy to make a girl look her very best. Come on in. I’ll give you coffee and you’ll…” I gestured to a chair, “sit down and give me advice.”

  He sat down gingerly on the edge of his chair. “Where’s Michael?”

  “Out being Father of the Year, where else? Leading his admirable, sainted, patient, kind, generous, self-righteous life,” I said. I think I was shouting. I shook the thermos. It was full. “Coffee, and it’s hot? Or, do you want tea?”

  He waved his hand. “Whatever you’re drinking, I guess.” He hesitated. “You seem like you’re on a roller coaster between manic and depressive, with a hangover holding the whole thing together.”

  “Right you are,” I said grimly.

  And the manic me sat down and ran through the whole story—going to the Crimson Club, finding out about the night Grace was there and the ensuing kerfuffle.

  “You could have just asked me about that, Maggie,” Moon said when I took a breath. “It’s all in the case file. We questioned several people who were at the club that night.”

  “And?” I asked, taking a last gulp of tea. It was only lukewarm and had no taste whatsoever. Oddly, just talking to Moon had settled my insides. My stomach now felt secure enough to think about coffee. I stood up and grabbed a new mug, and splashed dark brew from the thermos inside. It smelled divine.

  Moon shrugged. “And, not much. No one had seen the guy who caused the commotion before. He’d paid the cover charge in cash, so there was no record we could trace. And he’d disappeared with Grace’s friend. And,” he held up his hand, “no, we don’t know who that friend was.”

  “Ginger? Carol Ann?” I asked.

  “Ginger said no. And we didn’t think about Carol Ann ’til recently, but I asked her if she’d ever been to the Crimson Club as part of our follow-up. And she’d never even heard of it.”

  “Or so she says,” I suggested.

  “Maggie,” said Moon, with a sigh. “How dumb do you think the police are? We’ve now shown photos of both women to the people who work at the Crimson Club—and who were there a couple years ago as well—and no one’s recognized either of them as the woman who was dragged out that evening.”

  I felt my headache coming back. I put my head down on the table.

  “What are you so miserable about? You’d put all your investigative eggs in this basket?”

  “I have no investigative eggs,” I said miserably. “I’m just a mediocre editor of a silly, shallow city magazine.”

  “That’s useful to know,” said Moon, crisply. “I imagine there are many people in town who’d be happy to relieve you of your silly, shallow job.”

  “Oh, just shut up.”

  “I will,” said Moon, “in fact, I’ll leave you to your misery. It’s a beautiful Saturday and I’ve got a million or so errands to run. Tell Michael to call me, would you? Our hockey team has a chance to play in an invitational in Wisconsin.”

  I sat up. “Don’t go,” I begged. “I’m just in a horrible, terrible mood.”

  “Is this the aftermath of a festive night out at the Crimson Club? I thought people went there to have naughty fun, fun, fun.”

  “Well, I didn’t have any fun,” I said.

  Moon regarded me thoughtfully, and sat down again. “And from that statement, may I conclude that someone else had fun?”

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  “And might that someone be Michael?”

  So, I told him, the whole wretched story, from the moment I’d first seen Michael and the redhead, and felt just a little titillated and newly hot for my husband, to finding the two of them together, at the end of the evening, and feeling desperate and depressed.

  “You’ve never been jealous before?” asked Moon.

  I thought about it. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Michael’s such a straight arrow. I mean, I’ve seen other women—even men—be attracted to him, but he always seems so oblivious.”

  “Last night was different?”

  “I guess so. I mean, that’s the whole point of being in a place like the Crimson Club—exploring other options. And I just felt overcome by the whole thing. And,” I sat up straighter, “I had to go find him. He never came to find me.”

  Moon was silent for a moment. “I think you two were playing with fire,” he said. “And I can’t say I think it’s a very good idea.”

  “Hey,” I said, “it was Michael’s idea to come along.”

  Moon narrowed his eyes. “You were going to go alone?”

  “Well, with Puck, and Calvin and Andrea.”

  “An intriguing foursome,” observed Moon.

  “Okay, so now what? Give me some advice,” I demanded. “You usually have some ideas.”

  Moon shook his head. “I think this has stirred up some complicated stuff for you, Maggie. And that’s what therapists get paid to unsort. You and Michael are still seeing McQuist, aren’t you?”

  I sighed. “Yes, but I never feel as if she’s on my side.”

  “That’s a fine thing, isn’t it? Isn’t she supposed to be neutral? Or on the side of the two of you, not each of you as individuals?”

  “Oh who the hell knows?” I snapped. “You’re right, I’m sure this will come up. I just…” I faltered. “I just wanted advice from someone I trusted. Someone who’s been married longer. Who’s a friend.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” said Moon, standing up. He carried his mug over to the sink and rinsed it out. “You’re way out of my league. I can’t even imagine venturing out to the Crimson Club with my wife.” He laughed. “She’d worry too much about what to wear.”

  “As little as possible,” I said. “And something that’s easy to slip out of.”

  Moon stopped and put a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to your therapist,” he said.

  CHAPTER 32

  I showed up early at the Junior League fashion show, for the sponsors’ meet-and-greet cocktail party, and to drop by the backstage dressing room and wish Andrea luck. Navigating through the ballroom’s sea of tables, dressed within an inch of their crème caramel and white-organza-draped selves, and awash in hotel silver, white orchids, caramel and black-ribbon-wrapped goodie bags, and programs, I thought, “Oh, excess.” Th
at was followed shortly by a moment of jubilation when I realized that there would be really, really good dessert to make up for the predictable ladies’ lunch salad main course. Desserts, always motivational.

  The dressing room was actually another near-ballroom size hall. As soon as I opened the door, the noise assaulted me—thirty-five Junior League models, squadrons of dressers, makeup and hair artistes, photographers, and hangers-on. Discussing, exclaiming, laughing, all at larger-than-life sound levels. An emaciated woman with glasses dangling off a cord and bouncing on her nonexistent chest took my hand and pulled me through the door. She was dressed in a leopard-print jumpsuit and wide, black belt, which showcased two hipbones so prominent and sharp they looked like woolly mammoth tusks.

  I started to introduce myself, and she interrupted, “You are so shockingly late. All the other girls are just getting final touch-ups.” My heart leapt for a moment when I realized she had mistaken me for a model, but it was a momentary thrill. She grabbed her glasses, jammed them on her face, and consulted the clipboard she was clutching. “Name, name?” She looked up, and her face relaxed. “Sorry,” she said brusquely. “I thought you were a model, but obviously you’re not.”

  “Obviously,” I said, just hoping she wouldn’t expand on the how and why of that statement.

  “I’m Maggie Fiori,” I said. “Editor at Small Town. We’re sponsors, and one of our writers, Andrea Storch, is a model. I just came by to say hello.”

  She shook her head. “We don’t like to disturb the girls so soon before R-time.”

  “Our time?”

  “R, R, R! For runway, runway liftoff,” she said impatiently. “There’s a sponsor’s lounge right through there,” she pointed at a billowy curtain. “You can have a drink, but I have to ask you not to disturb the models right now.”

  “Of course,” I said meekly. “I’ll just cut through here and go right to the lounge.”

  She started to protest, but a tiny man, dressed all in surgical greens, was standing at her elbow, talking urgently about a tattoo emergency. “It shows, Alexandra, it shows! We didn’t know she had a fucking unicorn tattooed just above her ass. The designer is going to have a fit when he sees it.”

  I watched Alexandra and Dr. Tattoo take off across the room. I stood for a moment, scanning the room full of beautiful, privileged women dressed in expensive clothes. I knew that each one had a story—an errant spouse, a child with a frightening disease, an alcoholic parent, Conservatory training reduced to giving music lessons to the untalented and ungrateful, but for just that moment, they looked absolutely golden. Luminous, lit up from within. It was like being trapped inside a sorority for God’s fortunate—and not getting a bid. Or an invite, or whatever they call those things.

  I caught sight of Andrea, who was perched on a high stool, with people fussing around her. Looking over my shoulder to make sure that the leopard-skin gatekeeper and her pal weren’t watching, I wound my way to Andrea and her fluffers.

  Starchy Storch, of the tweeds and twinsets, and one string of pearls, had been transformed into someone else entirely. I couldn’t see what she was wearing on top, because she was swathed in a protective cape, while a tall guy with ropy arms, head-to-toe in black, leaned carefully in with a comb so tiny it could have been used to groom the cilia on paramecia. He gently tended to each eyelash.

  Underneath the cape, I caught sight of black leather pants, laced up the side with what appeared to be buckskin strings. The highest, spikiest, pointiest high heels I’d ever seen dangled from her toes. The eyelash groomer cast a quick look over his shoulder at me. “I don’t know who you are,” he hissed, “but do not speak to the model. She cannot move right now. Not one centimeter.”

  I nodded, intimidated by his intensity, and by the wicked-looking tools he wore in a handyman’s apron around his waist. A young woman, who was standing on a stepstool, slicking Andrea’s hair away from her face and cupped around the back of her head, rolled her eyes at me. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Victor gets jumpy just before liftoff. You can talk. Andrea just can’t open her eyes or talk back to you.”

  “Okay,” I whispered. I watched for a moment, fascinated by the tools, the concentration, the products arrayed around the table. “What’s she got on top?” I asked.

  The young woman, who wore a bowling shirt with the name Emerald embroidered on the pocket, giggled, “More—and less—than you think,” she said. At the same moment, she and Victor ceased their ministrations. They stepped back, looking exactly like the television ER teams when somebody shouts “Clear” and they put the paddles down.

  “Can I move?” whispered Andrea.

  “Open your eyes, honey,” said Victor, and whipped a mirror out so Andrea could look at herself.

  “Oh, my heavens,” she said. She stared into the mirror, and I stared at her.

  “What’s the look you’re going for?” I asked, surveying Andrea’s black-rimmed eyes, shadowed in three shades of purple, and lips lined with what appeared to be the burnt-umber crayon in the sixty-four pack of Crayolas.

  “We needed to slut her up,” said Victor, “so she could carry off the leather-and-lace look.”

  “Mission accomplished,” I murmured. Victor was tucking tools back into his belt. Somehow it didn’t seem like the kind of thing a guy could buy at Ace Hardware, but what did I know?

  “Another triumph,” said Victor, looking Andrea over with satisfaction. He reached out a hand to her. “Stand up, honey, we need to get the full effect, and we don’t want you falling on your ass in those shoes.”

  Andrea took his hand, and stepped down. Victor touched his Bluetooth. “Yes? What? I’m here.” He listened for a moment. “Okay, on my way. The little magazine writer is all tramped up and ready to go.”

  “Got to run,” he said, “emergency in Dolce & Gabbana evening wear.”

  Andrea looked stunned. “Okay. I guess, I’m fine.”

  Victor laughed, “Baby, you’re superfine.”

  As Andrea stood there, still a little teetery on the spikes, the young woman carefully undraped the smock covering her from neck to waist.

  I was anxious to see what was underneath, but my eyes were drawn to Andrea’s lips. “Hey,” I said, “did you get your lips shot up with something? They look swollen.”

  The young woman piped up, “We put Lip Venom on ’em, and they temporarily plump up.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said feebly.

  She looked at me over her shoulder. “It’s a commercial product. You can buy it.”

  I touched my fingers to my lips. “Do I need it?”

  “Everybody needs it,” she replied. She turned Andrea to face me, and I gave a little gasp. Topping those lace-up leather pants was a glittery, black sweater, cut in a vee so deep and wide, that only the very tips, okay, well, the nipples, on Andrea’s breasts weren’t showing.

  “Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Did they put venom on your boobs, too?”

  Andrea grimaced. “How bad do I look?” She looked down.

  “You don’t look bad at all,” I said. “You look sexy, and stacked.” I came a little closer. “Not to be nosy, but how did you do that?” I asked the makeup girl.

  “Lots of tape,” she said. She made a round-and-round gesture. “We taped her breasts closer together to create more cleavage, and then we used double-stick tape and body cement to make sure the sweater doesn’t fall off. Last thing we do is shadow the cleavage with bronzer and some blush.”

  “Well,” I said, “I can’t wait to hear what Calvin thinks and what your mother says. We’ll be together at the table, and I can’t remember looking forward to anything with quite this much anticipation.” Andrea narrowed her eyes at me. “Just a happy spectator, that’s me,” I said blandly.

  Andrea groaned. “This is a mistake, it’s a terrible mistake.”

  I reached out to touch her arm reassuringly, but Emerald snapped, “Don’t touch. Don’t touch her anywhere.”

  I nodded, chastened. “Hey,” I said.
“Besides cheering you on, I really came back here for the sponsors’ party. I wanted to put in an appearance.”

  Emerald waved at some curtains in back of rolling racks of clothes. “Through there.”

  I gave Andrea one last encouraging smile and a thumbs-up. “I can’t believe Gertie talked me into this,” she muttered, rocking gingerly back and forth on the heels. “Oh, Maggie, wait.” She gestured me to come closer, then leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Before I forget—at the models’ orientation, Ginger mentioned that her husband would be here for the show. Why don’t you cruise around the reception and bump into him? Find out about if the best friends did exchange house keys or whether or not he knew about Grace and Trav’s fondness for S&M.”

  “Perfect small talk subjects,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”

  I headed through the champagne-colored curtains, and emerged into an entirely different world. A small combo played Brazilian-style jazz in a corner, and a long bar, snakelike in shape, wrapped around the wall. I greeted a few people I knew from other media organizations and worked my way toward a bartender.

  “What can I get you?” he asked. “Champagne cocktail, chocolate-infused vodka, or a Scorpion?”

  “I’d recommend the Scorpion, Ms. Fiori,” a voice advised me, just to my right. And there he was, the object of my not-yet-begun search, delivered right into my hands. Bill Brand, sleek and gelled as ever, stood relaxed, ranking and rating the crowd as if he were assessing the strengths and vulnerabilities of a start-up’s management team. He held a martini glass filled with an amber liquid in his hand. He raised it to me in a mock toast. “To beauty, in all its forms.”

  “Tomato juice, no ice, lemon twist, please,” I said to the bartender.

  I smiled at Brand. “You must be here to cheer on your bride.”

  “I am,” he said, “and to admire the fine collection of femininity the Junior League has assembled on behalf of good works and overpriced fashion.” He took a sip. “Our firm’s a sponsor, and I’m hosting our table.”

  My tomato juice arrived, and I raised my glass to return his toast. “To fashion and good works,” I said.