Devil's Food (23 page)

“Your fans ate it up. Listen, have you been in touch with Byron, my sous-chef at Diavolina?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. He wanted to meet Simon.”

“Then he wasted his time.”

“What can I tell you? Si’s an A-one schmuck. Did you meet anyone else interesting? Men?”

“No. Sorry. What should I do with your clothes?”

“Tell the chauffeur to drop them off at the hotel.”

“What about the diamonds?”

Philippa thought a moment. “Maybe I should come to Boston and pick them up.”

“Again? Do you realize youVe made more trips to Boston in the last two weeks than you’ve made in the last five years?”

Philippa laughed lightly. “Strange, isn’t it?”

The limo thudded through a lunar-sized crater on the Van Wyck Expressway. On the other side of the partition, the chauffeur
shouted that he was going to sue the city. That reminded Emily of something. “Phil, Simon told me that Wyatt Pratt, that awful
lawyer, is trying to reach you.”

“Again? I’ve told her three times to shove it.”

“Tell her again, would you? What do you think she wants?”

“Money, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”

“But she’s such a shark.”

“She’s a piece of cake compared to Simon. Speaking of whom, he’s going to call in the morning. Give me a quick rundown of
what happened tonight. I don’t want to make too big a fool of myself tomorrow.”

Emily reconstructed the evening as accurately as possible, glossing over details concerning Byron: Philippa needn’t know
she had spent half the night pacing outside the men’s room instead of watching
Choke Hold.
“And what about your story, Phil? You’re supposed to be falling in the bathtub now?”

“As we speak. Ouch! My face!”

Pulling off the expressway, the limousine entered an unlit, barbwired area: the DMZ between Kennedy Airport and the terrorists
of Jamaica, New York. At the terminal, Emily gave the chauffeur Philippa’s bag, instructing him to return it to the hotel
at once. “Should I wait for you, Miss Banks?” the confused driver asked. No one had said boo about driving way the hell out
here. The lady was not carrying any luggage, so she wasn’t flying anywhere. When had she changed clothes? Why? Aha, she was
meeting an illicit boyfriend. At least she had the decency to fornicate elsewhere than the back of his limousine, like everyone
else.

Emily took a hundred-dollar bill from her purse. “No need to wait. Would you mind dropping these clothes off at the hotel?”

“My pleasure. Thank you very much, Miss Banks.”

Emily entered the deserted terminal. The arrivals/departures board was blank. No Muzak: Emily’s shoes clicked like castanets
as she went to the check-in counter, there to deal with someone nameplated Malunka whose bilingualism consisted of the words
hello
and
go there.
She had no idea what to do with Emily’s frequent-flyer card. Emily walked to the rear of the terminal, passing a janitor
who looked like Klepp, but fifty times more malignant. His scowl, so unlike the adoring glances she had received all evening,
jolted her: This terminal, unfortunately, was the real world. Emily hurried to a rest room and removed all of Philippa’s diamonds.
She felt observed, perhaps hunted.

In the far corner of the terminal, Emily saw four people waiting on dull vinyl cushions. “Is this the flight to Boston?” she
asked the white man.

“I hope so.” He returned to his laptop.

Eventually Malunka commuted to the counter, collected five ticket stubs, and said, “Bozz-tone.” The group followed her down
a flight of steps and into a twelve-seat propeller airplane. Yawing and buzzing, the aircraft took off. Inexplicably demoralized,
like Cinderella, Emily got to Beacon Hill around one-fifteen. This had been a long, trying day, accomplishing little, complicating
much. Emily had some scotch, glanced through a magazine, then tiptoed to her dark bedroom, grateful that a warm, lumpy husband
slumbered therein.

The bed was empty. Emily stared at the flat sheets, trying to re-create her breakfast conversation with Ross. He knew she
was coming back to Boston tonight, didn’t he? Emily couldn’t remember; it hadn’t been a pleasant chat. Was he still working?
Lying near death in a hospital? He wasn’t out drinking with Dana. Sleeping with Marjorie? Emily called the office; no answer,
of course. So she called Marjorie, hanging up after the hello. Marjorie didn’t sound at all sleepy. A bad sign. Two o’clock!
Bastard!

Emily was dozing on the couch when the lock downstairs clicked. Obviously alive: Ross had better have one hell of an alibi.
She glared at him as he came into the living room. Maybe he glared back.

“Still up, darling?” Ross asked. “How was New York?”

“It’s past three. Where have you been?”

“Out walking. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Ever hear of sleeping pills and a warm bath?”

“I needed to walk.”

“Again? Where’d you go this time?”

“Watertown.” That was miles up the Charles River. But he had needed a lot of time to think about trucks driving through windows,
dead partners, antidepressant pills, errant wives, and unerrant secretaries.

“Were you alone?”

“That’s a pretty stupid question, Emily.”

“So answer it.”

“Of course I was alone. Who else would be with me?”

She shrugged. “Marjorie.”

“I spent the whole day with the woman. I wasn’t about to spend the whole night with her as well. You don’t think there’s anything
between us, do you?”

An infuriating question, one that accused the accuser. Emily
despised Ross for even asking it; a real man would have either confirmed or denied the original allegation. She decided to
change the topic. Were Ross innocent, he would not leave the issue of Marjorie unresolved. “Why couldn’t you sleep?” she asked.

Her heart sank as he said, “Digging out from Dana is much more complicated than I thought. He hadn’t told me much about his
projects this past year. We were more or less doing our own thing on opposite sides of the office. Just like an old married
couple.”

For a moment, Emily gave up on Marjorie; the subject, like low tide, would always return. “Did he ever tell you about a chapel
he built for the Benedictines? I saw it today.”

Ross rubbed his sore feet. “Vaguely. It was a job for Joe Pola. Dana probably gave the project to an apprentice then tacked
on a few finishing touches. Looked like a spaceship with a steeple, right? How’d you come across it?”

“I was visiting the monastery that supplies Diavolina with mushrooms. There it was on the side of a hill. Why would anyone
commission Dana to build a church?”

“Why? He was a great architect, Em. One of the best.” Ross sighed, reminded of the fall of an empire, and of the woman who
had destroyed it. His voice soured. “How is your dear sister?”

“Awful. You were right. She was making up that story about falling in a bathtub.”

“Oh? What really happened?”

“She got beaten up by a dentist. Her face looks like a blueberry.”

Ross burst into metallic laughter. “First a bathtub, then a dentist!” After a while, sensing his wife’s fury, he quieted down.
“How was your little escapade in New York?”

Emily told her tale, omitting Byron, whose connection to Dana still smoldered. So Ross heard mostly about Simon, a man he
would never meet, and
Choke Hold,
a movie he would never see. Damn! She yearned to tell him about the poor sous-chef, about the marauding lawyer Wyatt Pratt,
Philippa’s battered
face, that chapel in the middle of nowhere, the Peace Power Farm, hell, even about Marjorie. But all current events seemed
to spring from Dana dying in her restaurant, on her watch. It was a no-win situation and would remain so for a long time.
Perhaps she should move out for a while, get away from her husband and this garroting guilt. She was no longer sure that he
loved her, or she him. They were old, true friends, maybe more. But they were weary.

Emily stood up. “Oy, I have to be back at work in three hours.”

“Why don’t you quit that job?” Ross asked suddenly.

She studied Ross’s small, stockinged feet. Years ago, she used to play with his toes. “Because I have nothing else to do,
my dear.” Emily went to bed.

A
fter two hundred minutes of unfulfilling sleep, Emily rolled slowly out of bed. The
Choke Hold
gala was over; time to return to Diavolina. Her body felt like cement and her thoughts clung gooily to the inside of her
forehead, like silt after a flood. On the other side of the bed, Ross didn’t budge, so Emily reset the alarm for seven, dressed,
and left the house. Although the brisk morning air and painfully brilliant sunshine revived her, she knew that the system
would crash around noon; at her age, pulling an all-nighter was about as invigorative as inhaling from an exhaust pipe.

As she walked into the kitchen at Diavolina, Klepp was finishing his toast. “Good morning, Major. Glad I’ve got some company
today.”

“No one else is here?”

“We are alone,
madame.
Shipwrecked. Have some coffee.”

Emily poured a cup. “Where’s Byron? He usually opens the place.”

“You got me. Maybe he’s still at his grandmother’s ninetieth-birthday party. A fine story. I don’t think he remembers that
day he took off last winter to attend his grandmother’s funeral. Obviously, she rose from the dead.”

“He took a personal day,” Emily said. “Why don’t you leave it at that. How did it go here yesterday?”

“Super. Except for Ward. She went on a small drinking spree. That lady’s reminding me more and more of our dear departed dishwasher.”
As Klepp was bringing his cup to the sink, Mustapha came in. “
Bonjour,
Dwight! You’re late. Should have had your apple pies in the oven by now. Don’t tell me your sunrise service went overtime
again.”

Mustapha neatly tied his apron. “It did. Three whole minutes, I think. Where’s the sous-chef?”

“Staring at you,” Klepp replied. “All right, let’s get to work here. I have some terrific ideas for lunch, Major. Listen.”

Two more prep cooks arrived as Klepp was detailing a masterpiece involving beets, turnips, and tongue. Finally Emily stood
up. “Sounds great,” she said, waving as a supplier arrived. “Do it.”

As she was meeting with the old woman who made
biscotti,
the phone rang. Klepp answered. “It’s your sexbomb sister, Major. Sounds highly agitated.”

Emily went to her office and picked up the phone. “What’s up, Phil?”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me,” her sister almost screamed. “I made a complete ass of myself!”

Philippa’s agitation was contagious. “What are you talking about?” Emily screamed back.

“Oh Christ, you are thick! The police just left! They wanted to know all about your wannabe actor friend who dropped dead
last night! That guy Byron! The story I made up had more holes than my fishnet stockings!”

“Byron’s dead?”

“Would you mind telling me what happened? In detail? The police are coming back in half an hour to grill the shit out of me!”

Emily slumped onto a chair, fear swelling into panic. “What did they tell you?”

“Nothing except that Byron died in the men’s room. They’re expecting me to fill in the details. Rather impossible, of course.
Crap! I knew it was too good to be true!”

“Listen,” Emily said. “Simon and I were in the lobby before the show. I was signing autographs and he was schmoozing the sponsors.
Byron and his friend Jimmy came up to me expecting to be introduced to Simon. You know all about that, of course,” she added
sarcastically. “Anyway, Byron stood with a thumb up his nose while Simon tried his best to ignore him. We had a drink, the
lights went off, then we all had to go into the theater. The movie started and next thing I know, Byron is being carried out.
He happened to be sitting right under my balcony so I had a good look. I left—”

“You left my movie? How could you do that?”

“Don’t get me started, Philippa! He wouldn’t have been there at all if you hadn’t egged him on!” Emily resumed after a moment
of hypercharged silence. “Two ushers carried him to the men’s room. Jimmy went in with them. I waited outside. After a while,
Simon came down to get me. Before we returned to the balcony, he checked out the situation and told me that Byron was all
right. Liar.”

“He was just trying to protect you. Me.”

“Very touching. I’ll never forgive him.”

“Emily, be fair! Lying’s his job! Anyway, you were supposed to be concentrating on other things. What happened then?”

“Nothing. We watched the rest of the movie. I never saw Byron or Jimmy again. After the raffle and a few dances, I went home.
End of story.”

“Hmmm, I guess things aren’t as bad as they seem,” Philippa commented relievedly. “The story I gave the police was pretty
much the same as the one you just gave me.”

“Not bad? What about Byron? He’s dead?”

“Em, that’s water over the dam. What I have to do now is sic the cops on Simon. He knows more about this than I had thought.”

“Did you at least ask what Byron died from?”

“No, I forgot. The interrogation caught me totally unprepared. Quite cheeky, now that I think of it. I should lodge a formal
complaint.”

“You do that, Philippa. Then everyone in the world will know you got beaten up by a dentist.” Emily hung up as Philippa began
sputtering indignantly.

She was sitting motionless, hand still resting on the phone, as Ward came into her office. The manager wore sunglasses, a
bad sign, and sweatpants, a worse sign. Six feet away, Emily smelled beer, cigarettes, and Listerine. The bright pink lipstick
added a nice professional touch, though.

“Where the hell’s Byron?” Ward fumed. “This is the last time he gets a personal day from me. Somehow it always expands into
a hangover day as well.”

“Can’t Klepp run the show?”

Ward squinted keenly at Emily. “What are you trying to tell me, Major? Ah, let me guess! That last phone call! Byron fell
ten thousand feet out of a birthday balloon! He’s not coming back.” When Emily did not reply, Ward rushed to the desk. Now
the odor of soiled clothing mingled with her other aromas. “You haven’t killed off another one of my crew, have you?”