Devil's Food (42 page)

“His name’s Zoltan. What did he say?”

“Something about not seeing Dana since the renovation. Then Dana asked what had happened to some statue behind the bar.”

Statue? “And?”

“I’m trying to think, Em. This happened a long time ago.” Philippa tried to shampoo her memory back. “Right! The feminists
took it down.” Philippa emerged from the shower and, as was her habit, studied her body in the mirror. “This goddamn potbelly!
You’d think I had six kids!” Philippa turned ninety degrees. “My nipples are beginning to point up. That means everything
else is starting to sag.” She began toweling herself off. “Have you noticed that your periods are getting shorter?”

“A little.”

“How about your cycle? Is that getting shorter too? Mine’s down to twenty-five days.”

Emily didn’t even remember when her last period had been. Sometime before Dana’s funeral. “You still keep track of that sort
of thing?”

“Of course! I don’t let Simon schedule any interviews the week before my period. It would be suicide. I’m really cranky if
I can’t fit into my leather pants.” Philippa slathered her face with
a heavy white cream. “You mean you don’t keep those little charts for your temperature anymore?”

“No. Ross got fed up with screwing on command.”

This time, Philippa did not make any wisecracks about other volunteers who might like to step into the breech. “So stop demanding,”
Philippa said, flipping on her hair dryer. “Go on a vacation together. Ross is still crazy about you. I bet if you picked
up the phone and asked him to take the next plane out, he would.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking him to do such a thing.”

“No, you probably wouldn’t. That’s how youVe managed to stay married for fifteen years.” Philippa began tissuing the white
slime from her face, finally aware that Emily would never tell her about Guy Witten. It was probably better that way. But
Emily still needed advice; her lover was gone. If Philippa had learned anything from her five marriages and twenty affairs,
it was that once they were over, they were over. Emily didn’t have the experience to know that brooding over the Dearly Departed
was about as productive as scolding a hurricane. “Look, I’m no Einstein, but I can see that you and Ross are having a rough
patch lately. I’m sure it’s my fault. I should never had laid a finger on Dana Forbes. But I did and I’m sorry.” Philippa
looked at her lovely, trusting sister. “No, I’m not sorry. I don’t regret one minute. You’ve just got to pick up and go on.”
Satisfied with her sermon, she sailed out of the bathroom. “What do you think I should wear today?”

Emily watched her dig through a tumble of lingerie. “Aidan recommends the orange pantsuit. He told me that
Choke Hold
is fourth on the charts and moving up fast.”

“Hot shit.” Whistling, Philippa got a pair of gold sandals from the closet. “God, it’s great to be alive!”

The phone rang. Emily picked it up. “Hello?”

“This is Franco. You spoke to me this morning at Luco’s.”

“What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you were free for dinner tonight.”

“Do you have something to tell me? We can do that over the phone.”

“No, we can’t. I want to see you again. I know I’m just a waiter. But don’t say no.”

Emily thought a moment. “Come to room four-sixteen at eight tonight.” She hung up. “Did you hear that?”

“Of course I did. More mystery witnesses?”

“No, your dinner date.” That sounded more romantic than bodyguard.

“What about you?”

“I’m going home,” Emily said. “Try not to make me fly out here in two days for your funeral, okay?”

I
f hell exists, I deserve to go there. In the space of three days, I’ve murdered Guy and slept with Marjorie. A superthorough
job as always
—
I’ve not only deprived my wife of her lover, but I’ve taken one of my own. Worm! How can I ever look Emily in the eye again?
What about Marjorie? Oh God, she was so sweet, butter and roses in my arms ... and I truly wanted her that night. But the
morning after was awful for both of us. She was embarrassed to be naked with me; by day, after all these years, I’m still
Mr. Major the architect and she’s my organizer. You don’t sleep with the people who are supposed to organize you. It disorganizes
them. I should never have stayed overnight, never. But I couldn’t face an empty bed at home; Guy would have been in the shadows,
knifing my dreams, looking for Emily. I still can’t believe he’s dead. So he slept with my wife! In the big picture, what’s
a couple inches of trespass? I forgive him now! If it was anything like my interlude with Marjorie, it was half innocent,
a spontaneous detour, a sudden alignment of the
planets.... How could I have been so paranoid? Was I that afraid of losing her?

Of course I was. I still am, in fact, much more than before. If she ever finds out what I did to Guy, she’ll leave me. Why
the hell didn’t I think about that before handing Ward a road map to the cabin? All right, Major: You’ve dug the hole, poured
the concrete, now get your feet out of it. First I’ll have to end it with Marjorie. She’ll probably quit. Agh, that hurts.
Then I’ll have to get to Emily, somehow start over, treat each day with her as if it were my last. It could very well be.
I’m sorry, Guy. Very sorry. I don’t know what I’ll ever do about you. Any man at all would confess and blow his brains out.
But I lost my honor the minute I discovered that a small, sweet corner of my wife’s heart belonged to you. Funny thing is,
it still does, it always will, even though you’re gone. I’ll never get it back now. I should never have tried; should have
been content with my ninety percent and given my wife credit for the other ten. I should have taken a cue from Dana, who once
walked in on Ardith in bed with her aerobics coach. Did he reach for his hunting rifle? Call his lawyer? Of course not. He
left fifty bucks on the dresser and thanked the guy for working overtime on her rear end. Why couldn’t I have done something
like that?

Because I could never have pulled it off, that’s why. Not with Emily. She’s not into recreational sex; she’d only sleep with
a man if she thought she loved him. There’s comfort in that if you’re the man she’s sleeping with; if you re not, the desolation
is total. It’s the risk you take marrying a moral woman. Maybe I should never have presumed, trusted, so much. I should have
kept a little cynicism in reserve, like Dana, who had a healthy respect for human frailty. He once told me that his greatest
disappointment in life was having failed Ardith. At the time, I thought he was referring to his own screwing around. In retrospect,
I think he was referring to her screwing around: A good wife wouldn’t do that unless her husband had somehow not made the
grade. And that’s where I hit the wall: Guy was proof of my own inadequacy. It was a terrible shock to realize that, far from
being my wife’s alpha and omega, I was just her roommate.
So I retaliated and now Guy’s dead. But Emily still loves him. What was gained?

Dagmar Pola awaited Ross with coffee and rolls at her Commonwealth Avenue apartment. It was a mild, sunny morning, perfect
for sitting on the veranda and inhaling early autumn. Today Ross would be showing her a few sketches of the new gallery. As
she brought silver and china to the outside table, Dagmar smiled; she was far more interested in the sketcher than in his
sketches. It had been many years since a man had intrigued her like Ross. Something dark lurked there, something insulated
and electric that had flashed more sharply with each meeting, tingling a responsive current. Dagmar needed to get her teeth
into that voltage; some alien life-form breathed there. A kindred spirit for her final years? She hardly dared hope for such
a miracle; were it not to be, the disappointment might kill her.

Ross arrived on time, but not quite in order. He looked a little rusty around the eyes and ever so slightly uncombed. Maybe
it was the wind. “Good morning,” Dagmar said, taking his hand. “Did you walk over?”

Had he been at the office, yes; but Ross had come directly from Marjorie’s place in Cambridge. “I should have,” he answered.
“How are you today?”

“Very well.” Dagmar brought him to her balcony. They ate under a canopy, talking about the weather and crew teams. Although
Ross kept up his end of the conversation, he did so without that easy intimacy she had detected the other day. Nevertheless,
she could barely take her eyes off him: Ross was also delicious cold.

He showed her the sketches he had brought, watching her face as she studied them. Once or twice, her mouth lifted into a smile.
Dagmar’s many pearls glimmered in the diffuse light. They were exactly the color of her hair. Ross admired her complex, wise
features; Dagmar was still a very handsome woman.
Forty years ago, she must have been exquisite. Why would Joe Pola screw around when he had such a wife? Ha, who was he to
ask?

“They’re good,” Dagmar said finally. She questioned him about several details. “Do you mind if I keep these for a while? Reconcile
myself to the idea of a gallery?”

“You’re having second thoughts?”

“I’ve been coming here every day, trying to be objective. But I finally realized that I wasn’t looking at an art collection.
I was reading Joseph’s love letters.”

Ross suddenly took her hand. “How did you survive it? Did you forgive and forget?”

“Are you joking? Never. Absolutely never.”

“But affairs can happen despite everyone’s best intentions.”

“I’m afraid I’m not the forgiving soul that you are, Ross.”

Heavy blood boiled to his face. “But Joe’s dead now.”

“Is he?”

Temporarily speechless as yet another pat answer was rammed back down his throat, Ross could only return to his coffee. “No,
I suppose not. I’m sorry, Dagmar.” He watched a boat drift beneath the Longfellow Bridge. “Take all the time you need with
the sketches.”

“If I sold everything, I could commission you to build me a palace.” A twinkle returned to her eye. “Or another chapel.”

“Dana built the chapel, not me,” Ross said, eyes following the boat. If his partner were alive today, he’d be out sailing
too. “I was going through Dana’s papers the other day and came across his Architect of the Year program. I noticed your name
on some organizing committee.”

“That was quite a few years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Almost ten. Were you at the banquet?”

She thought a moment. “Where was it?”

“The Darnell Building. Dana supposedly gave a funny acceptance speech.”

Dagmar smiled. “I was there. You’re right, it was a funny speech. Joseph laughed a lot.”

“Your husband was there?”

“Not willingly. But after Dana’s speech he walked right up and introduced himself I think he and Dana saw each other regularly
after that.” She noticed Ross staring at her. “You didn’t know?”

“I, eh—no. I didn’t.” He flushed again. “I was abroad at the time. Tell me something. Do you remember anything at all about
the food at that banquet?”

“Good heavens, no. It was banquet food.”

“Do you remember anything about a girl jumping off the balcony that night?”

“Something to that effect, yes.”

“You didn’t notice anything?”

“She didn’t scream ‘Geronimo’ as she jumped, if that’s what you mean. What brings this macabre subject up?”

What could he tell her? That he was second cousin to a suicide? “My secretary was reminiscing about the banquet. Funny how
one room can be full of people having a great time while right under their noses, a girl jumps to her death.”

After a few moments, Dagmar came to the balcony and stood with him watching the sailboats on the Charles. “I think we had
salmon with asparagus,” she said softly.

Abducted by the past, they watched the river and the sky. “Thanks very much for breakfast,” Ross said eventually, leaving
the railing. He closed his briefcase. “Take all the time you need to decide about this, Dagmar. I’ll call you tomorrow in
any event.”

“Just checking in?”

“Something like that.”

Dagmar watched him go. After the door had shut, she felt very old.

Instead of returning to his office, Ross walked a few blocks to the main library at Copley Square. He went to the media room
and began fanning through microfilm files of newspapers around the time of Dana’s banquet. Soon he found the articles he had
been looking for. Since this had been a rather mundane suicide, involving neither lawsuits, conspiracies, nor celebrities,
it received
only four inches of coverage, two inches on the first day to report that an unidentified woman had leaped off the Darnell
Building leaving a note behind, and two inches the next day to identify the deceased as Rita Ward, age nineteen, no foul play
suspected. A minuscule obituary a few pages hence mentioned that the victim had been a student at the Academy of Art, that
she was survived by parents and a sister, Drusilla, and that funeral arrangements would be private.

Ross walked to the art school, a decrepit building near the Combat Zone. Drunks vied with pigeons for the sunniest places
on its front steps, impeding the paths of students who, even for starving artists, replumbed the concept of grunge. The school’s
façade had probably not been washed since—Ross looked for the stone—1901. Once upon a time, this building had probably looked
like a place of higher learning. Now it looked like a halfway house for flies aspiring to be Kafkas. Ross went to the dean’s
office and, after a short exchange with a secretary, was taken to a dark office that smelled of very old dust. He introduced
himself to a middle-aged study in gray and yellow sitting behind a monolithic desk. “Ross Major, the architect?” the man asked,
shaking his hand. “What can I do for you?”