Devil's Food (15 page)

Feeling his wife’s anxiety, Ross patted her arm. Then he embraced Dana’s widow. “Hello, Ardith.” Emily repeated the embrace,
without the words; Ardith made the perfunctory response. They had never seen each other except on social occasions, and perhaps
this was just another social occasion. All things considered, Ardith looked outstanding today. She was dressed for afternoon
tea rather than her first days of widowhood. Her breath smelled like champagne.

Ross led Emily inside the sanctuary. He looked around a moment, then headed for a pew near the front. In it sat Marjorie,
staring at Dana’s shiny mauve coffin. At this proximity, it appeared tremendous, impenetrable as Fort Knox. Could Dana be
trapped forever inside? Finally noticing Ross and Emily, Marjorie moved over. Ross sat next to her; perhaps their shoulders
touched. Gradually the church filled and the service began. Observing that some people smirked when he referred to Dana as
a “faithful servant of the Lord,” the minister kept his sermon brief. The skies thickened as the mourners filed outside to
the graveyard, stepping quietly between the headstones: Beneath their feet rested many broken hearts. More and more people
began daubing their eyes with handkerchiefs. Dana was no saint, but he sinned with style. They would miss him terribly for
a while.

As the minister was reading about dust to dust, a long white limousine prowled up to the church. The sound of crunching pebbles
diverted the mourners’ thoughts from the eternal to the temporal: Dana had been upstaged. Please, God, no, Emily prayed as
the vehicle, molecule by molecule, came to a halt. Even the minister paused.

The chauffeur silently opened a rear door and helped a black-swathed figure to the curb. No one could make out face nor race:
too many filigree veils, gloves, and stockings. Gender obvious, however. A silk frock rustled around her calves as she walked
to a tree well away from the crowd and stood silently in its shade, as if she were too ethereal to get any closer to bestial
humanity.

Emily looked at Ross and imperceptibly shook her head.

After a moment’s inertia, Ross turned coolly toward the minister, who resumed his text and gradually regained everyone’s attention.
Except Ardith’ s, that is: With excruciating deliberation, Ardith glanced over, lingeringly, toward the black figure. Then
her gaze traveled slowly toward Emily, who knew in that moment that Diavolina’s lawsuit had just risen from the dead. Oh Christ,
what could Philippa have hoped to achieve by coming here? Had she brought a photographer along? Emily’s guts began to churn
as she imagined the cinematic possibilities. Philippa was not above throwing herself into the open grave in an orgasm of grief.

The minister finished with a few upbeat comments about resurrection and everyone said Amen; hell, it really would be great
to see Dana again. Then they all threw a little dirt on the shiny mauve coffin, about the color of Revlon Frosted Nail Polish
#42, that Ardith had picked out. The service was over. Dana’s colleagues bid their respects to his widow, whose eyes were
not only dry but positively caustic, and returned to their cars. The solitary figure in black remained under the tree as the
crowd rippled past; every man there thought about introducing himself, but she was so obviously one of Dana’s mistresses that
now was not really the time. Maybe they’d ask Ross about her in a week or two. Finally, when only a dozen die-hards remained
at the
graveside, she returned to her limousine. It rolled majestically away.

White as an egg, Ross embraced Ardith, again offered his assistance, and took Emily back to their car. As soon as he shut
her door, she opened the glove compartment and lunged for a flask filled with gin, managing to swallow two good slugs before
he reached the driver’s seat. “Let’s get out of here,” Ross muttered, throwing the Saab in gear. “Are you up for lobster?”

“You bet.”

Ross got jazz on the stereo and poked toward the highway. Once on Route 95, he shot north at ninety miles an hour. Then he
glanced in the rearview mirror. “I don’t believe it.”

“The police?”

“No. Philippa.”

Emily twisted in her seat. The white limousine was right behind them. “Pull over. I’ll take care of this.” Ross screeched
into the next rest area. Emily slammed her door and stomped to the long white vehicle braking behind them. Seeing her approach,
the chauffeur rolled up the bulletproof shield separating him from the passenger compartment. Emily flung open the door. “Get
out,” she screamed. Nothing happened. “Philippa! Get out!”

“I can’t,” a voice quavered. “I’m sick.”

Emily peered inside. Philippa had removed her veils and gloves and was listing heavily toward the far door. She looked chartreuse;
this was no act. “What’s the matter?” Emily cried.

“I don’t know. It just hit me. Watch out!” Philippa lurched toward the door and vomited into the grass. “God, my stomach hurts.”
She threw up again.

“What have you been eating?”

Philippa retched dryly. “Apple juice.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it since I left Boston. I ate too much at your restaurant.”

Ten yards ahead of them, Ross waited in black silence. Emily sighed: caught in the middle again. “Here are my house keys,”
she said, tossing them to her sister. “Try to make it back to
Boston and lie down. Call Dr. Woo. He’s in the address book by the phone.” She took a few steps backward. “I’ve got to take
care of Ross now.”

“Where are you going? To the lake?”

“No, Maine. He needs to drive. Why the hell did you go to the funeral?”

Philippa replied with another gush of vomit. When that was over, she rasped. “It was the least I could do. When are you getting
back?”

“Around dinnertime. How long will you be staying?”

“I have to be in New York tonight.” Actually, she was supposed to be there now, doing interviews for
Choke Hold.

“You can’t go on a plane in that condition.”

“It’s just a bug. I’ll get it out of the system one end or the other.” Philippa retched again. “Go take care of Ross.”

“Call Dr. Woo. He likes me. He’ll see you right away.” Emily returned to the Saab.

Ross accelerated back onto the highway. “So why was she following us?”

“Maybe to apologize. She’s pretty sick. Didn’t you see her throwing up?”

“No, I was watching a raccoon raid the garbage cans.” Ross drifted into the fast lane. “Why’d she go to the funeral?”

“Because she felt bad! Ross, she’s my sister! We just have to live with her.”

He depressed the accelerator another inch. Other men had mothers-in-law. He had Philippa. Family, the surtax on marriage;
you never knew the percentage until it was too late. Paying without complaint was the true test of a man’s nobility. At least
a mother-in-law had the grace to die twenty years before you did. Philippa would be galling him the rest of his life. “She
could have hired a black Mercedes,” was his final word on the topic.

Emily dozed for a while. Then she awoke, horrified: symptoms of food poisoning could appear as long as eight days after ingestion;
she remembered that from cooking school. Emily imagined Philippa going to a hospital and getting her stomach pumped.
They’d discover evidence of botulism. Wyatt Pratt would find out and up Ardith’s ante another million bucks. The case would
drag on for months and Diavolina would lose. Then Ward would sue Emily. Ross would go bankrupt trying to defend her. They’d
both end up in prison forever.

“Ross, could you please pull over?” she asked after a while. From a rest stop in New Hampshire, Emily called home. “Philippa?
How do you feel?”

“Worse. My gut’s killing me. I think I’m seeing double.”

“Get Dr. Woo!” Emily nearly shouted. “He’ll make a house call!”

“All right. I really don’t know what’s the matter.”

“You might have food poisoning.”

There was a slight pause. “From your restaurant?”

“Please don’t get Diavolina into this, Phil. That’s all I ask. I’ll explain later.”

Philippa hung up and hurried to the bathroom again, amazed at how much fecal sludge a body contained. She called Dr. Woo,
who happened to be leaving downtown for his suburban office, and could stop by Beacon Hill in about fifteen minutes. Philippa
returned to the bathroom and began sprucing herself up for the doctor’s visit. She was applying a bold streak of eyeliner
when she realized that Woo was expecting to see Emily Major, not Philippa Banks, in distress. So she washed off all her makeup
and began again, much more pudently this time. Then she took some tea to the atrium and dialed her agent in Los Angeles; perhaps
business would take her mind off her gastrointestinal eruptions.

“Hi, Simon, thought I’d check in. Any word on that new role?”

“This is a bad time, baby. I’m on the horn with Paris. Lemme call you back. You’re at the Plaza?”

“No, the hairdresser,” Philippa lied.

“What? Aren’t you supposed to be doing interviews this afternoon?”

“Don’t worry! Everything’s under control!” Philippa hung up,
regretting the call. Simon would hit the roof if he ever found out she was in Boston instead of New York. She hadn’t meant
to make a day of it, of course: jump on a shuttle, cruise to a funeral, make a desperate search for that man who had come
to her table at Diavolina, return to Manhattan. She hadn’t planned to get violently ill. And the beast hadn’t even shown up!

The doorbell: Dr. Woo. He was much handsomer than his name would imply. Thank God she was wearing Emily’s blue silk dressing
gown! “Thanks for coming,” Philippa said, leading him to the den. “I’ve been throwing up and my head’s killing me. I can’t
see straight, either.”

Wondering whether or not to compliment Emily on her brassy new hair color, Woo put his bag on the coffee table. “Could this
be a hangover?”

“Of course not, you imbecile!” Philippa recovered herself. “Sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

“Is there diarrhea?”

“Not anymore.”

He looked into her mouth then checked her pulse, temperature, and pupils. “Have you been taking any drugs?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What have you been eating? Anything unusual?”

Philippa had to think fast: What would Emily have had for breakfast that might have made her sick? “A couple raw eggs. And
some steak tartare.” She saw Woo looking at her blankly. “We ran out of granola.”

“Would you have any of this food left? Could I see it?”

“I’m afraid I ate it all.”

“The eggs too?”

“Ross finished the eggs.”

“And how does he feel?”

“Fine! Fine! I scrambled his.”

Woo nodded. “Could you get me a stool sample?”

“Not anymore. They’re all in Boston Harbor.”

“How about urine, then?”

“Doc, I’ve been peeing, puking, and shitting all morning. There’s nothing left, believe me. Just give me some medicine
and get me out of here!” Philippa realized that she was not acting in the least like her sister. Maybe crying would help.
“Forgive me,” she sniffled. “I just don’t feel well at all.”

“I understand.” He withdrew a hypodermic needle from his kit.

“What’s that? You’re not going to knock me out, are you?”

“Of course not. I would like to take a blood sample.”

“But you can’t! I’m terrified of needles!”

“Since when?” Woo deftly pulled a rubber rope from his bag.

Philippa backed up a few feet. “Touch me with that thing and I’ll kick your balls to Faneuil Hall.”

Woo took a step forward but hesitated when he saw Philippa’s foot rise. He put the rubber rope away. “I’ll call in a prescription
right away. They deliver. Stay in bed the rest of the afternoon. If you don’t feel better, call me tonight.” He glanced at
his watch. “That will be one hundred fifty dollars, please.”

Great! She had just given most of her cash to the chauffeur. Philippa had been intending to hit a money machine on the way
back to the airport. “One moment,” she said pleasantly, going to the nearest desk. It contained nothing but architectural
paraphernalia. Philippa tried to look confused. “Where could I have left my checkbook?”

“Isn’t it usually in the kitchen drawer?” asked Woo.

“Ah, of course! Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Philippa hurried to the kitchen. There were drawers all over the place. One
by one, she tore them open, becoming more agitated with each wrong guess. Finally she reached a narrow drawer at the end of
the counter, near the telephone. Inside was a slim leather checkbook. Philippa grabbed it and had almost shoved the drawer
shut again when a flyer caught her eye. It was a publicity shot of the staff at Cafe Presto, with July’s menu underneath.
As she lifted it out, her pulse began to skip. Yes, yes! There he was, the man who had come to her at Diavolina! He stood
next to Emily in the back row, grinning impishly. Guy Witten, the caption said. Guy. What a perfect name. Smoky eyes; a face
half Marlboro man, half Valentino; his mouth was only an eight-inch hyphen on the page, but Philippa extrapolated it to life-size,
and quivered. He would be seismic in bed. She wondered how her sister’s affair had started, how long it had been going on,
how often they—

“Excuse me,” said Woo from the doorway. “I’m parked illegally outside.”

Philippa slammed the drawer shut and quickly scribbled a check. “Thank you so much. I’m feeling better already.”

“Lie down, Emily, you’re sicker than you think,” Woo instructed after a quick glance at the indecipherable handwriting. At
least the numerals were sort of clear. “Drink plenty of fluids. Call immediately if your fever persists. And tell Ross he’s
due for his annual checkup.” Woo hurried out, resolving never to make house calls again.

As soon as he left, Philippa returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawer; maybe Emily had more flyers lying around.
Philippa found nothing but Indian and Chinese takeout menus and a few old shopping lists. A sudden pain lashed her gut, forcing
her back to the couch in the atrium. For a while she lay on her back, wondering how to proceed with this fellow named Guy:
a bit tricky, as she didn’t know if he was still involved with Emily. From the few words he had said to her in the restaurant,
Philippa inferred that he and Emily had recently had a fight. From the way he had touched her across the table, however, it
was clear that Guy considered his affair with Emily far from over. Had they made up? Did Ross have any idea? No, Philippa
was sure he didn’ t. Ross was a Samaritan in all matters but Emily. Over the years Philippa had seen his eyes following his
wife across enough crowded rooms to know that he registered every iota of gravitational pull she exerted on the surrounding
Tarzans. Ross rarely interrupted her; he just observed from afar, and never forgot. This man fooling around with Emily had
no idea what Ross could do to him.