Authors: Janice Weber
Warmed by the sun, they ate lunch on the deck. As Philippa talked about hemlines and Paris, polishing off the half bottle
of
wine she had found in the refrigerator, she gradually noticed that her sister was not really listening. “Is something on your
mind, Em?” she asked finally.
Emily flushed. She had been imagining herself swimming in the lake with Guy. “I was just wondering what I’d do for a job now,”
she fibbed.
Philippa pounced on her speck of opportunity. “What happened to your old job?”
“Told you. I got fired.”
“No, the one before that. Did you get fired from that, too?”
“I quit.”
“Why’d you do that? You’re not a quitter.” Philippa nonchalantly chewed some spaghetti, unable to swallow, waiting: If Emily
confessed her affair with Guy Witten, it was probably over. If she said nothing, it was still smoldering. After a few seconds,
Philippa studied her sister’s face and was disheartened to see a rigid mask, the sort that women clamped on only when affairs
reached life-or-death altitudes.
“I left because I was bored,” Emily said at last, standing up. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here by yourself?”
“Of course! I’m a big girl!” Philippa slurped the last of her spaghetti and followed her sister into the kitchen. “I presume
I can use the phone.”
“To call me, yes. But no one else. You’ve disappeared, remember. The whole point of this exercise is that no one knows you’re
here. Could you go over your enemies list one more time? Maybe there are some people you’ve left out.”
“What a delightful thought. By the way, have you considered that someone was trying to knock off Byron, not me or you?”
“It’s possible. O’Keefe tells me he used to be a prostitute. And he didn’t get along with the people at Diavolina.” Emily
put her plate into the dishwasher. “But he swallowed those four cherries by accident. Let’s both think about it some more.”
Emily showed Philippa how to operate the microwave and the alarm system. “In case you finish all the books in the house, there’s
a general store a mile that way. I’ll call you tonight. Just stay put.”
“Where would I be going? You didn’t leave me any wheels.”
“My hiking shoes are in the closet,” Emily got into her can “Bye-bye.”
After she had driven away, Philippa helped herself to another bottle of wine and returned to the deck, sipping thoughtfully
as ducks honked over the lake. It felt strange to be so far away from cigarette smoke and sycophantic laughter and the omnipotent,
carnivorous media: Mother Nature was no substitute for thieving, conniving humanity. For a long while, Philippa considered
her enemies. She was halfway successful, so there were plenty. But which of them would risk killing her? It was a compliment
she knew she did not deserve. After carefully rehashing her last dozen movies, and all the people she had shafted thereby,
Philippa concluded that only two people on earth would have the guts to kill her: Emily, when she found out about Philippa
pursuing Guy Witten; and Guy Witten, when he found out about Philippa impersonating Emily.
The afternoon suddenly seemed eerily quiet and cold. Philippa shivered, sure that thousands of unseen animals were staring
at her from the bushes, getting angry about her fur coat. She thought about the horror movies she had made about women alone
in wooded cabins; now those ludicrous scripts seemed all too realistic. Hastening inside, she checked that the doors and windows
were locked. She activated the alarm system. Then she got the biggest carving knife from the kitchen and took a long shower,
thinking about her immediate future. Obviously, she would have to call Guy very soon and beg for his cooperation and silence.
It would be humiliating beyond words; however, confessing to Emily would be even worse. Unthinkable, in fact. Philippa flipped
on the television and stared zom-bielike at the screen as more complex scenarios played in her head.
Rush-hour traffic stalled on the Tobin Bridge as the police tried to clear the last splinters of a runaway boat/trailer from
the highway up ahead. Joining thousands of inbound commuters on the hoods of their cars, Emily passed the time watching ships
chug in and out of the harbor. When a gorgeous yacht floated
by, gleaming in the late afternoon sun, she thought of Dana. No more Fourth of July sailing parties; that would leave a big
hole in the summer. How would she and Ross watch the fireworks now? Emily wondered if Ardith had sold Dana’s boat yet. No
question it would be one of the first things she’d get rid of; for too many years, what had been recreation to Dana had been
nothing but a huge, bobbing slap in the face to Ardith. Why had she let him get away with it for so long? One affair, maybe,
a wife could swallow. Several hundred was a different story. Emily tried to imagine how she’d feel if Ross slept with a new
woman every week. The first betrayal would be horrendously upsetting, a taste of death. But the second betrayal would be the
last. No, she couldn’t imagine beyond two. But she had never related to Ardith.
Traffic way up front began squeezing past the tollbooths: obstruction removed. Emily went back to her car and slogged to Beacon
Hill. It was nearly six; Ross was still at the office sharpening pencils with Marjorie. God only knew when he would remember
to come home. Emily may as well play detective meanwhile. She found the business card that Millicent had given her as she
was leaving the
Choke Hold
gala last night. Park Avenue address, Emily saw, unimpressed: Nowadays, it meant only that the doorman carried an Uzi instead
of a handgun. After two rings, the housemaid answered.
“This is Philippa Banks,” Emily announced. “Is Millicent in, please?”
“Oh! Miss Banks! Yes! Certainly!”
Millicent picked up the phone next to the bathtub. “Philippa, darling. Thank you for last night. It was a tremendous success.
We collected over eight hundred thousand dollars. Your film was magnificent, your acting superb. And I must apologize for
that sickening accident. It cast a pall over my whole party. I understand the police had to ask you a few questions this morning.
I hope they were not rude.”
“Not at all. They visited you too?”
“Of course, darling. Heroin is such a sloppy drug! I wish people
would have the decency to overdose at home. Not at charitable functions.”
“I agree.” Emily delicately cleared her throat. “Millicent, I met several ... ah ... intriguing men at your gala. Would you
mind faxing me a copy of the guest list? Just to refresh my memory? I’m so bad with last names.”
“Certainly. But you ought to be aware that some of them would not be interested in women.”
“Only one way to find out.” Emily gave her Ross’s office fax number. “Thanks, darling. And don’t breathe a word of this to
anyone, particularly Simon. He’s so possessive.”
“My lips are sealed.” Millicent asked several salacious questions regarding three well-known actors. “Don’t be coy, Philippa,”
she said. “I know you’ve slept with them all.”
Emily made up silly answers then asked which caterer Millicent had used for the gala. “Ditzi’s, of course! Weren’t those canapés
stupendous?”
“Out of this world. Did Ditzi’s also supply the serving staff?”
“Everything. Don’t tell me you saw a cute waiter, now!”
Emily giggled ambiguously and soon got off the line. Then she called Major & Forbes. “Hi Marjorie. Do me a favor? You’re going
to get a fax soon. Nothing but a list of names. Could you put it in an envelope for Ross to take home?”
“Of course.”
Was that voice just a tad smug? Vaguely possessive? Emily stomped into the bedroom to change into running clothes; talking
just a few seconds with the competition had flooded her bile ducts. She’d have to jog all the way to Hopkinton to detox. Emily
ripped some shorts out of a drawer. Damn! No clean T-shirts! Remembering the spare that she had brought back from Diavolina
that morning, she went to the front hall. Her tote bag lay in a heap next to the umbrella stand, where she had left it before
rushing to the airport to fetch her sister. Emily pulled on the T-shirt and swore again: Something had scratched her.
She yanked it off. Someone had pinned a tiny envelope inside.
To Emily,
it said in irregular block letters,
A secret from Slavom.
The
m
in his name ended in a long streak.
She couldn’t have been more stunned had the dishwasher’s ghost appeared in the hallway. Emily tore the envelope open. A key:
USPS DO NOT DUPLICATE.
Why had Slavomir given her a postbox key? He hadn’t said three words to her in his life. She was surprised that he even knew
her name. Emily turned the key over: Below the serial number she saw 274 etched faintly, carefully, on the metal. She peered
again into the envelope, looking for an address, a ZIP code; instead she saw an old photograph of a young girl. It was tattered
and a little damp, as if Slavomir had carried it around in his pocket. Who was the girl? When had he put the key and picture
in her drawer at Diavolina? The only time she recalled him being in her office was the night he had tripped over the toolbox
and bashed his head. She had told him to go there and lie down awhile. That had been the night of Dana’s accident. It had
also been the night Slavomir had drowned. He had gone to a lot of trouble to pin the envelope inside her T-shirt, out of sight.
A secret? Had someone interrupted him as he was signing his name, before he got to an address? She upended the tote bag, hoping
to find more clues among her office scraps: nothing, of course. Cryptography required forethought and sobriety.
Now what, call O’Keefe? She’d have to think about that. Again. Emily tried to recall Slavomir’s address; she had looked it
up in Ward’s files the day she had identified the dishwasher’s body at the morgue. Although no street came to mind, a seedy
area behind South Station did. In the morning, when she got tired of figuring out who was trying to knock off Philippa, she’d
visit a few post offices in that area. Then, depending on what she found, she’d consider involving the detective, who was
obviously interested in anything having to do with the inmates of Diavolina. Of course he would wonder why Slavomir would
leave Emily, of all people, the key to a postbox and a picture of a girl. She could just see his eyes as she replied, “No
idea.” Ah, just what she needed: another man convinced she was a liar. Emily smeared on some sunscreen and jogged slowly toward
the Promenade. She missed Guy terribly.
T
he morning after the
Choke Hold
gala, Ross had pretended to be asleep as Emily quietly kissed his ear and left the bed. While she dressed, he lay motionless,
listening to the rustle of her clothing, wondering what she was wearing to work today. How did she even have the energy to
get up? Emily had only gone to bed at four o’clock, after returning to Boston from her glitzy party in New York. Poor dear:
last night a movie star, this morning a galley slave. Ross remembered a strained conversation before she had gone to bed.
Over what this time? Oh yes, his midnight strolls; Emily didn’t like them. Well, that was too bad. There would be more.
Feeling none too swift himself, having gone to bed as late as his wife, Ross dragged into the shower. Emily had left him about
seven minutes of hot water, barely enough to steam out the cricks in his neck. And she had used his razor again. Damn! Soaking,
Ross pawed around the medicine chest for a new blade. He found none, of course; that was why Emily had used his. Swearing,
he stepped back into the shower. When he
slammed the door, the shampoo fell to the floor. Ross ate breakfast alone, which dejected him further. He was used to starting
the day with coffee, the obituaries, and his wife across the table crunching toast. Instead of eating on the balcony, he stayed
inside, his back to the blinding sunshine. Ross paged absently through the newspaper, trying not to imagine himself facing
every morning like this. He put his dishes in the sink, then smiled bleakly: Were he divorced, they’d still be waiting for
him when he returned home tonight. Ross put on his coat and left for work, beginning to understand why grown men at the office
had been useless for years after their wives had left them.
He perked up as Marjorie smiled at him from her desk; she’d give him a lot of stupid little chores to keep him occupied all
day long. “Good morning,” Ross said, looking over her shoulder at his appointment calendar. “Leave me any time to blow my
nose?”
“Sure,” Marjorie replied, glancing up. “And I left time to shave. I suggest doing it now. Umberto’s coming in three minutes.”
The plasterer. “He wants to discuss the Glazer renovation. Apparently Mrs. Glazer is changing her mind again. Now she wants
to drop the cornices and add another curved wall.”
Ross had little patience with Dana’s clients, who viewed architecture not as frozen music but as petrified mammon. “I thought
I gave that project to Peters.”
“You did. Mrs. Glazer fired him.” Marjorie followed Ross to his executive washroom, ticking off two-sentence summaries of
his appointments as he hastily shaved. “Ardith’s coming in to pick up the rest of Dana’s things. We still have some clearing
out to do.”
Ross hadn’t seen Ardith since the funeral. Already he felt guilty about not taking better care of her; God knows if he had
died, Dana would be consoling Emily twenty-four hours a day. Bah. Ross splashed his face with cold water as Marjorie churned
through his agenda. “You’re meeting Dagmar Pola at ten to check out her art collection,” she said. “So you can get inspired
to design a space for it.”
“I’m already inspired. She tells me they’re all nudes.”
Blushing, Marjorie left to send a few faxes. As soon as she had gone, Ross phoned Billy Murphy, their contact at City HalL
Yesterday, requesting a small favor, he had given Billy the license number of the truck he had seen crashing through the window
of Cafe Presto. “Good morning,” Ross said. “Any luck with your friend at the Motor Vehicle Agency?”
“No problem. The vehicle’s registered to Peace Power Farm, Hale, Massachusetts. Whatever the hell that is.” Billy knew better
than to ask why Ross had needed the identification. Nine times out of ten it involved mistresses, paramours, or cuckolds.
“You didn’t tell me they were commercial plates.”