Devil's Food (48 page)

“Take it. And you can have the bust of Dana, if you like.”

“I don’t think so.” Their conversation over, Ward burrowed into her cape as Ross pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket.
“Be careful, Major. I don’t want to go to jail for nothing.”

“Nothing?” Ross smiled, too weary to generate even mild outrage. “Don’t worry, O’Keefe won’t be getting any hints from me.”

Ward took Ross’s arm as they meandered to the corner. She looked a little lost. “How fast did Dana die, you suppose?” she
asked as they waited for the light.

He thought a moment. “About as fast as your sister did.”

“Funny, that doesn’t make me feel any better.” Slowly disengaging from his arm, like a ship that had slipped its moorings,
Ward wandered a few steps away. “Know something, Major? In your own way, you’re worse than all of us.”

“Probably.” But he was the only one to have successfully avenged himself. The light changed and Ross walked quickly home.
He needed to hold his wife, his hard-won prize; inhaling her skin might make the specters go away. That lovely woman had no
idea how much murder and mayhem had transpired on her account, and he intended to keep her unaware forever. He had to, really.
His life depended on it.

Ross unlocked his front door and called into the empty house. “Emily? You home, babe?” No answer, and he didn’t smell dinner.
He trudged inside, anxious for any sound at all. Instead of his wife, Ross found a note on the kitchen counter:
Back to L.A. Will call
Goddamn it! What was she doing out there now? Incensed, Ross took a long walk along the river. He ate a miserable microwave
dinner. Finally, pouring himself a drink, he plummeted to the couch and turned on the news, only half listening to accounts
of the same old wars and hurricanes; one way or the other, he knew his taxes would end up paying for them. Then Philippa’s
picture came on the screen. Petrified, Ross watched as the newscaster informed him that his sister-in-law had been shot twice
by an unknown assailant. He winced: must have hurt. Must have bled a lot, too. Poetic justice there; he wondered if Philippa
had thought of Guy as she fell.

He called Philippa’s home; answering machine, of course. What the hell was her manager’s name? Simon something, one syllable
beginning with
S. Surf! Stir?
Damn! For years he had automatically clicked off whenever Emily started talking about her sister. Ross began phoning hospitals
in Los Angeles, dashing another inch of scotch into his glass after every few dead ends.
He finally located Philippa in Malibu. “Put me through,” he growled. “I’m family.”

“What’s your name, please?” the receptionist asked skeptically.

“Ross Major.”

“Another ex-husband?”

“No! Brother-in-law!”

“Miss Banks can’t speak to you right now. She’s in the recovery room.”

“Fine! Leave her there! I’m looking for her sister, Mrs. Major. My wife.” Ross heard the PA system summon Emily to a phone.
Finally a fatigued voice answered. “How’s everything out there, darling?” he croaked. “I just heard about Philippa on the
news. Should I come out?”

“No, we’re just sitting around. She’s all sewn up now. Both bullets went right through.”

“What the hell happened?”

“She was out for a drive when her car got a flat. While Franco was changing the tire on the side of the road, the woman in
the turban pulled up and shot her.”

Ross was impressed. “The woman from breakfast and the reception in New York?”

“Looks that way.”

“Who’s this Franco fellow? The chauffeur?”

“No. He doesn’t even know how to drive. He’s Philippa’s new boyfriend.”

“Aha. How’d the lady in the turban get away from him? They’re not a team, are they?”

“No, she knocked him out with a crowbar before she shot Phil.”

“Are you sure? He’s not just pretending, is he?”

“He’s got about forty stitches on the back of his head. They look pretty authentic.”

Ross thought a moment. “You mean this dame knocked out the boyfriend then walked to the driver’s seat, shot Philippa twice,
and disappeared? In the middle of Los Angeles?”

“This didn’t happen in L.A. Phil and Franco were driving
along the coast to some romantic lunch spot.” Actually, they were driving somewhere to elope, but Emily let that pass. “After
a while, Franco came to and flagged down a car to the hospital.”

“So he never got a license plate?”

“No. He was concentrating on the flat tire. Franco thought the lady drove a white Mercedes. But Philippa was ranting about
a white pickup truck when they wheeled her into the operating room.”

White pickup truck? Like the one that drove through the window of Cafe Presto? “Maybe she was delirious,” Ross said, feeling
his heart freeze. “What else did she say?”

“Mostly nonsense. Sounded like a nightmare about a thunderstorm.”

“The poor thing’s incoherent. How long will you be baby-sitting?”

“That depends on Philippa.”

“She’s got this new boyfriend to hold her hand, doesn’t she? Why should you have to stick around?”

“I’ve got to be here when she wakes up, Ross.”

He tried another angle. “What’s to prevent this dame in the turban from coming to the hospital and finishing the job?”

“The place is crawling with reporters and fans. There’s a cop standing outside the door. I’m perfectly safe.”

“Just be very, very careful, all right? I don’t want this lunatic shooting you by mistake. Where are you staying?”

“At a hotel across the street.”

“Maybe I should come out.”

“And do what? Stare at Philippa’s catheters?”

No, eavesdrop on Philippa’s ravings. “Never mind,” Ross sighed. “You’ve told the police everything?”

“Everything I could.”

Tired of half-truths, tepid lies, and his wife’s abiding secrets, Ross simply said, “I want you home again, Em.” Then he went
to the atrium and stared at the stars nestled in perfect silence against the night sky. Twice he fell asleep, only to be wakened
by Guy’s voice whimpering in the rain for Emily.

I
can just picture it now: Emily s going to be in the hospital room, holding her sister’s hand, when Philippa begins moaning
for Guy. Plenty of screwball screenplays to choose from: She can regurgitate that evening at Diavolina, when he first came
to her table and stroked her cheek; she can whimper some more about their tryst at Cafe Presto, when that white truck slammed
through the window; or she can relive that night at the cabin, when she left Guy out on my porch bleeding to death. None of
it’s going to make much sense to Emily unless Philippa blurts out all the details, which I doubt: Subconscious alarms will
cut through her delirium, chopping up her stories, mixing in a few red herrings ... Emily’s not going to know what to think.
If anything sane emerges, she’ll probably wait until her sister regains her senses, then ask a question or two. Philippa will
laugh and spout a plausible lie: case closed. I should be relieved. On the other hand, would it be so bad for Emily to know
what Philippa’s done? Taste a little treachery herself? Then she could join me in the Cuckold’s Club, distaff section, spend
the
rest of her life wondering whether Guy knew he was seducing her sister by mistake.... Interesting penance, that. Almost as
excruciating as mine.

I suppose the only thing I have to worry about is Philippa blabbing that Guy was murdered; then Emily’s conscience might override
sororal loyalty. What would she do, though? Call O’Keefe two weeks after the event and nail her sister for obstruction of
justice, just when Philippa s miserable career is making one last stand? And what could O’Keefe do that he hasn’t done already?
He’s already sifted through the crowd at Guy’s funeral, to no avail. He’s questioned all Guy’s friends and gotten nowhere.
He knows I was in the office with Marjorie the night Guy died. All he’s going to get is fresh evidence of a hunting accident.
Emily will have wasted her time.

Poor thing. What goes around, comes around, eh, darling? As for Philippa, mutter on: May your bushwacking tongue drive my
wife back to me. I miss her so.

Detective O’Keefe sat in a luncheonette in Dorchester, munching a heavy doughnut as he read about the attack yesterday on
Philippa Banks. So someone had finally shot her: no surprise. She was one of those women whose very existence produced trouble,
sort of the way a Lamborghini produced speeding tickets. Look at her effect on Dana Forbes and Byron Marlowe, both suddenly
dead. And look at
Choke Hold
, the stupidest movie he’d seen in years, now number two at the box office: pollution. O’Keefe still felt foolish about having
bought a ticket, but he had been in an escapist mood last weekend, needing a few hours’respite from real-life crime, where
the victims didn’t look at all like Philippa Banks and the perpetrators were rarely caught. The only thing he had liked about
Choke Hold
was the scene where the cop had taken Philippa swimming under a full moon, artfully combining interrogation, cavity search,
and breast stroke. Maybe someday he could try that on Emily. As he sipped his third cup of coffee, O’Keefe wondered who had
finally
shot Philippa. A woman, the article said; no surprise there, either. A jealous wife, a shafted actress ... the list of suspects
would be miles long. And Philippa had no idea who the assailant might be? Come on. Ten to one she was sleeping with the lady’s
husband.

As he drove to Diavolina, O’Keefe thought about Emily. No doubt she was at her sister’s bedside. That would make three trips
to Los Angeles in the last two weeks: Emily was certainly keeping herself occupied since leaving the restaurant. Maybe this
time she’d stay in California long enough to make her solid ass of a husband nervous. Fat chance, of course; nothing fazed
Ross Major. He was one of those rare men exuding total confidence in his position and his possessions, wife included. O’Keefe
itched to take him down a few hundred pegs, if not remove him completely. From Emily, anyway.

Pulling into the narrow driveway of Diavolina, the detective parked next to the Dumpster out back. Halfway up the steps to
the kitchen, he paused, listened: shouting within. If noises like that came from an apartment, the neighbors would be calling
911. O’Keefe charged inside. “Good morning!”

Various combatants armed with lard and dead chickens immediately fell silent. “Why, hello, Detective,” said Klepp pleasantly,
displaying teeth. The effect was less a smile than the carnivorous smirk of a weasel. “May I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m looking for Ms. Ward.”

“At seven in the morning? That’s rather inhuman.”

“She’s here, isn’t she? I’d like to ask her a few questions.”

Klepp tossed his service towel on the counter. “I’ll see what I can do.” He went to the office, returning after many minutes.
“I’m afraid she’s sound asleep.”

“When does she normally wake up?”

“When she has to. Maybe I can help you.”

The kitchen doors blew open and Ward stomped in, hot and heavy as a derailed locomotive. Her complexion looked like liverwurst.
Little
Os
of skin peeped through ruptured seams in her pants and top. Yellow morning light iridesced the purple tattoos
on her shoulders. “Whaddya want now, O’Keefe?“she barked, reeling toward the coffee machine.

The detective only stared: This was not the woman he had seen at Guy Witten’s funeral. Across two butcher blocks, he could
smell the scotch on Ward’s breath. “I’d like to ask a few questions about Guy Witten,” he said. “Maybe we could go into the
dining room.”

“Dining room’s closed.” Ward slid a cup under a boiling stream of coffee. “Ask your questions here.”

“He was a friend of yours?”

“We knew each other from the gym.”

“How good a friend was he?”

“We didn’t fuck, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

Titters seeped from various corners of the kitchen. Instead of concentrating on his questions, O’Keefe found himself staring
at the implements in each cook’s hand, wondering what his chances of survival would be if the whole crew turned on him with
their vegetable peelers and wire whisks. “How long had you known him?” he continued.

“Six, seven years.”

“What did you think of him?”

The little tendons in Ward’s neck emerged as she ground her jaws together. “Nothing much,” she replied at last.

“No? Why’d you go to his funeral then?”

“Professional courtesy.”

“I guess it was the least you could do after stealing his chef.” The kitchen became ominously quiet. O’Keefe glanced over
his shoulder, checking the distance between himself and Mustapha, the two-hundred-pound cook with the rolling pin.

Ward carefully drank some coffee. When she next spoke, her voice was calm. “I left my card at five restaurants. Witten’s chef
came here two hours later begging for the job. Ask her yourself.”

Not necessary; O’Keefe knew Ward was telling the truth. “Why’d you fire her after only a week?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”