Authors: Janice Weber
“It’s overwhelming,” Ross said, desperate for the liquor. “I don’t know whether I’m in Disneyland or hell. Typical male response.
Sorry, Dagmar.”
“Don’t apologize. I expect you’ll be inspired to design an appropriate building for it all now.” Dagmar lit another black
cigarette. “Try to do a little better than that chapel your partner built for Joseph. That is truly a monstrosity.”
Ross’s head began to throb; so Dagmar knew about that. He wondered if she had found out about the chapel the same way she
had found out about this place. “I’ll do my best,” he said. Ross glanced at his watch and nearly choked: one o’clock. He had
missed five appointments. “Dagmar, I must be going.”
She reached for a straw hat. “My driver is waiting downstairs. We can drop you off.”
They left the apartment. Neither spoke for a while after Dagmar’s car had pulled into the street. “Who else has seen that
apartment?” Ross asked finally.
“Just you. Who might have seen it with Joseph, of course, I would not know.”
The car stopped at State Street. Ross lingered a moment, dreading the prospect of an office full of women with blouses and
shoes and crossed legs. “Thank you for letting me see it.”
She shrugged, shifting pearls. “I try not to go there alone.”
Ross kissed Dagmar’s gloved hand. “I’ll get to work on the gallery right away.” Troubled, he watched her car roll away. How
was it possible that someone as smart as Dagmar had known
nothing of her husband’s apartment or his art collection? Hadn’t she signed joint tax returns, talked to their bankers, lawyers,
and accountants? Where had Joe found all that stuff anyway? Acquiring such a collection involved research as well as money;
did Dagmar really believe her husband had been making pretzels all day and all night? What had they talked about at dinner?
And he thought his marriage was in bad shape!
In the lobby of his office building, Ross bought a dozen roses, “I couldn’t get away,” he blubbered the second he saw Marjorie.
“Dagmar went on and on.”
Marjorie’s smile exuded honey and acid. “Here are your messages.”
“I’m sorry. Really. Did you have to cancel everyone?”
“By no means. I shifted them all after five. You weren’t planning on an early dinner, were you?” She halfheartedly sniffed
the roses.
Ross accepted his punishment. For the rest of the afternoon, he toiled obediently at his desk, bothering Marjorie only once
for coffee. When she brought it, he stared doggedly out the window, trying to gaze at anything but the warm female at his
elbow. If Marjorie came one inch closer, he might have to convert her into one of Joe Pola’s canvases. “Could you do a little
research for me, Marjie? Dana built a chapel for Joe Pola a while ago. Find out what it cost, what it looks like, why Joe
built it, everything you can. I’m curious. Thanks.”
When she had left, he called Diavolina to tell his wife he’d be working late. “Emily Major, please. This is her husband.”
Either a high-pitched man or a low-pitched woman laughed at him. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Is that so? Since when?”
“Since nine o’clock this morning.” She finally quit, Ross thought. Then the voice said, “She got fired.”
Ross immediately called the front desk. “Marjorie! Did Emily call while I was out?”
“I would have told you, Ross.”
He dialed home and got the answering machine. Goddamn
it! What had his wife been doing since nine o’clock this morning? Furious, Ross redialed Marjorie. “I’m leaving,” he growled.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr. Levin just arrived. I’ve been thanking him for coming in twice today. Follow me, sir.”
No way out: A few seconds later, Ross’s secretary ushered Levin in. “Hello, Irving,” Ross said, extending a hand. “Very sorry
about this morning.” Marjorie he ignored completely; maybe she’d go home. Fat chance! She stuck him with four more meetings,
each time opening his door with a smile prissy and goo-goo as the Avon Lady’s. Finally, around eight o’clock, Ross’s last
client left. After the doorknob had clicked, he stood a moment listening to the drone of the overhead fluorescents. The office
was eerily still; even the divorced employees had gone home. All that remained of Marjorie was a note to turn out the lights
and a sealed envelope marked
Fax for Emily.
What the hell was this? Ross held it up: opaque as cardboard. She had sealed it on purpose. Throwing it in his briefcase,
he locked up and walked home.
“Emily?” he called, tossing his coat over a chair in the kitchen. No answer: Ross’s heart constricted a little. Then he smelled
mesquite. He went to the balcony, looked down, and saw his wife in the backyard grilling lamb chops.
“Hi, darling,” she said. “Have a good day?”
No, but the sound of her voice had salvaged it. “I’ll be right there,” he replied, backing into the kitchen for a major dose
of wine. Looked like she had already polished off the upper half of the bottle: excellent. He lost his tie. Ross went to the
backyard and put his arms around her, not letting go for a long time. “I missed you today,” he said, kissing her neck.
Emily gently broke away to turn over the lamb chops. “I got fired this morning.”
“Thank God. That place was beneath your dignity. What was the reason?”
“Byron, the sous-chef, died unexpectedly. Ward holds me responsible.”
“How so? You didn’t boil him in oil, did you?”
Emily felt a familiar tension cramp her heart: mention cherries
or
Choke Hold
or Philippa and Ross’s good mood would cinderize. “He overdosed on heroin.”
“Another real winner. That place was full of them. How does Byron’s OD get you fired?”
“Ward’s superstitious. Said I was killing off her kitchen crew.”
Ross chuckled. “You bought that?”
Sort of, yes. “I didn’t care enough to argue.”
“Good.” He swallowed a slug of wine. “So what did you do the rest of the day?”
“Cleaned the house. Baked a pie. Thought about you.”
Her voice always went a little white when she was lying, and this time was no exception. Ross played with her apron strings,
sifting through tonight’s priorities. First and absolutely foremost, he was going to fuck her. Nothing was going to get in
the way of that. Then maybe he would ask her again what she did all day. The truth could wait a few hours; other necessities
could not. “Really? What kind of pie?”
“Blueberry.” Emily took the chops off the grill. “Hungry?”
With her, always. Ross watched the soft sloshing of her buttocks as she preceded him up the steps to the balcony. As they
ate, he told her about his day, touching on all appointments but Dagmar’s; he wasn’t ready to share her humiliation, or all
those naked women, with Emily yet. Instead Ross told her about Ardith’s vicious little visit, but not about Dana’s purple
silk bikini. Neither mentioned Marjorie or Philippa; that might prick this precious, convivial bubble. Emily seemed slightly
elsewhere tonight: temporary unemployment benefits? After dessert, Ross took her hand. He had just embarked on some serious
foreplay when the phone rang. Sighing, he followed his wife to the counter, continuing to unbutton her shirt as she answered.
“Em? I think there’s a bear outside,” Philippa whispered.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Emily replied cautiously, not wanting Ross to overhear too many details.
“I’m scared shitless! What if it breaks in and tries to eat me?”
“That sort of thing just doesn’t happen.”
“Easy for you to say! You’re in downtown Boston! And it’s so
damn dark up here! What a stupid idea this was. I should never have listened to you. Forget someone trying to murder me. The
animals are going to finish me off first.”
“Philippa, have a hot toddy and go to sleep. You’re perfectly safe.”
“Did you get hold of Millicent? Did she send you a list of names?”
“I’m working on it. Look, I’ve got to run,” Emily said. Ross had several vagrant fingers in her pants. “I’ll call you first
thing in the morning.” She hung up.
“What was that all about?”
“Philippa’s up at the cabin for a few days.” That was the truth. “She needed someplace to hang out until her face returns
to normal.” That was part of the truth.
Ross’s insinuating fingers paused. “You took her up there? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to get you upset.”
“I’m not in the least upset.” On the contrary, he was delighted: If Emily had been driving back and forth to New Hampshire
all day, she hadn’t had time to get into mischief with Guy Witten. “How long is she going to stay up there? Until all my booze
is gone?”
“Very funny. You mustn’t tell anyone. Not even Simon knows about this.”
His fingers resumed their delicious invasions. “She called just now because she couldn’t sleep?”
“Thought she heard a bear.”
Ross turned out the kitchen lights. “Come with me,” he whispered, seeing Dagmar’s canvases.
As daylight was just beginning to iridesce the windows, Ross opened his eyes and listened: Something was not right. Then he
heard Emily swallow. “You awake, honey?” he asked, slithering over to her.
“Yes.”
“Something on your mind?”
Guy, Slavomir, Byron, O’Keefe, Philippa, Marjorie, marriage, murder, and postbox keys. “No.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks.” For a time Emily lay warm and taut beneath his caresses. Then she asked, “Did you get a fax for me at the office
yesterday?”
“Marjorie got something,” Ross answered drowsily. “What was it?”
“A list of people who went to an AIDS benefit.”
Ross dreamily connected that with the restaurant business. “It’s in my briefcase.”
Emily went to the hallway and opened Ross’s briefcase. Marjorie’s envelope for her lay on top. As Emily took it, she noticed
a small white box. She lifted it out, separated the tissue paper: a purple bikini? From whom? To whom? No note, of course:
Marjorie was more clever than that. How dare Ross just leave it out like that, the stupid bastard! With shaking hands, Emily
took the box to the bedroom.
“Going running, honey?” he asked sleepily.
She winged the box at his head. “What the hells this?”
He stared at the object on the adjacent pillow, trying to link it with anything in the real world. Finally making a very bad
connection, Ross said, “Where did you find that?”
“In your briefcase.” Emily began furiously yanking on jogging clothes. “How’d it get there?”
“Marjorie must have put it there.”
Of course Marjorie put it there! “You do know what’s inside, don’t you?”
“Men’s purple underwear,” Ross said. “Belonging to Dana.”
Emily laughed harshly. “Oh, right.”
“Marjorie and I were cleaning out his closet before Ardith arrived.”
“Saving poor Ardith again, eh? Why didn’t you just throw them out? Why did Marjorie put them in your case?”
“I have no idea. I certainly didn’t tell her to. Maybe she was just trying to help out.”
“Help out what?”
Ross realized that further answers, any answers, would only suck him deeper into a potentially fatal quicksand. “I really
don’t know, Emily. I’ll ask when I get to the office.”
“You do that.” Pulling her second shoelace tight, she left the bedroom.
The rising sun bedazzled the mirrored buildings along the Charles River, creating wide bands of light that illuminated trees
on the opposite bank. Emily ran along the Esplanade, where the sanitation crews were lethargically spearing rubbish from last
night’s rock concert, and crossed the bridge to Cambridge. Traffic was already mucked up at the end of Storrow Drive. She
ran past Dana’s marina, noticing his boat still tethered to the dock: so Ardith hadn’t sunk it yet. She was probably too busy
counting her money. Emily looped to Back Bay at Mass Ave, threading through clumps of MIT students on foot, bike, and rollerskate.
A heavy mix of carbon monoxide and ocean filled her lungs.
She returned home only after Ross had departed for another long day with Marjorie, taking that little box with him. Emily
showered and dressed. Brutally hungry, she went to the kitchen. Ross had eaten the last English muffin. He had saved her a
half inch of orange juice. Instead of a note of apology on the kitchen table, he had left his dirty breakfast dishes in the
sink. Christ! Men! She picked up the phone and called Philippa.
“What time is it?” her sister groaned.
“Eight-thirty. Did I wake you?”
“I only got to sleep an hour ago. It was the worst night of my life. All kinds of animals were scratching the windows. I swear
a few mice ran over the pillow inches from my face.”
“Look, I have that guest list from Millicent. Got a minute? I’ll read off the people who bought tickets to the party.” Emily
recited two hundred names. Philippa recognized about ten, but couldn’t connect any with homicidal passions.
“Isn’t this rather pointless, Em? If you were going to kill me, wouldn’t you use an alias?”
“No. That would look suspicious.” Emily threw an orange rind into the disposal. “I want the name of everyone who’s written
to
your fan club in the last six months. Maybe we’ll find a match with Millicent’s list or see some other name we recognize.”
“And where’s this list supposed to be sent? To my hideout in New Hampshire? What is the matter with you this morning? You’re
an absolute maniac.”
Nothing like a few ounces of silk in your husband’s briefcase to rev up the biosystem. Emily glanced impatiently at her watch;
she had places to go, people to see. “I need that list right away, Phil. Think about how we’re going to get it.”
“Sure. Are you coming up this afternoon? Staying overnight?”
“I’ll try. Why don’t you go for a walk? Enjoy the scenery.”
“I’ll enjoy going back to sleep.”
If Philippa didn’t care who murdered her, why should Emily? Fed up with her sister’s problems, unwilling to sit home and contemplate
her own, Emily went to the post office at South Station. Astir with businessmen and vagrants, it was the perfect setting for
an anonymous box; here was as good a place as any to begin testing the key that Slavomir had bequeathed her. Emily saw a long
wall lined with tiny cubicles; inside them lay letters that could salvage, inspire, or destroy lives. She took Slavomir’s
key from her pocket and double-checked the number etched on it. Then she went to the matching box, tried the lock: Inside
was a large envelope with her name on it. Emily went to a side table and tore it open.