Authors: Janice Weber
“Just curious.”
“Curious my ass. Your tongue’s hanging down to your fly.”
After the kitchen staff had quit laughing, Ward said, “Major didn’t fit in here and everyone knew it.”
O’Keefe accepted that. “What were you doing the night Witten died?”
“No idea. What night was that?”
“Wednesday, September twenty-first.”
“Wednesdays I’m here tending bar.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Yo,” Klepp said, raising his hand. “Wednesday nights are always busy after the Enablers Anonymous across the street lets
out.”
“She was working, man,” said the pastry cook with the rolling pin. “I remember because it was my friend’s birthday and he
got a double margarita on the house.”
Knowing he was defeated, O’Keefe bowed to Ward. “Appreciate your time. I’m sure you’ll let me know if anything else comes
to mind.”
Ward bent over the sink, as if she were about to throw up. “What about those fucking orange tassels in my dishwasher’s pocket?”
“Sorry, no new leads. Did anyone else here know Guy Witten?” No answer, not even a grunt. “Thank you all, then.” O’Keefe quietly
closed the door and left.
Ward stood motionless until her nausea had passed. “Much obliged,” she said to the crew.
“Don’t mention it, ma’am,” Klepp replied, hammering a few veal cutlets. “Why don’t you go lie down until you feel better.”
As Ward was shuffling back to her office, O’Keefe was driving across town, wondering what had happened to her. She had looked
so sturdy at Guy’s funeral. One week later, she was a liquescent King Kong. Gambling debts? Tax evasion? AIDS? Whatever it
was, Ward had hit the dirt. Probably wasn’t the first time, either; women who packed on muscles like that did so at the behest
of an inner demon, and Ward’s was now trying to reclaim her. That missing guy Leo who had hired her to run Diavolina, actually
manage people, had to be out of his mind. But that restaurant was a nuthouse; O’Keefe wouldn’t be surprised to
learn that the kitchen staff had roasted Leo alive several weeks ago. They had probably been plotting to dice Emily into shish
kabob when Ward had fired her in a drunken, probably jealous, pique. Why did she keep bugging O’Keefe about that sot of a
dishwasher? The man had drowned with a paycheck from Diavolina in his pocket and his pants still on: Not even the homosexuals
cruising the bulrushes had been tempted to lay a finger on him. Odd that Ward should keep needling O’Keefe about the matter
each time she saw him. Perhaps one day, when his spare time outsized his homicide file, he’d ask her about it. O’Keefe knew
he’d get nowhere asking the kitchen staff at Diavolina.
He drifted through the commuter rush to State Street and took the elevator to Ross’s office. Marjorie remembered him, of course.
“Detective O’Keefe,” she said with a mannequin’s smile, rising from her desk. “Was Ross expecting you?”
“No. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.” O’Keefe belatedly realized that this was the same line he had fed
Marjorie last time he had barged in. “Is he free for a moment?”
“He’s drawing.” Marjorie pressed a button on her phone. “Ross? Would you have a moment to see Detective O’Keefe? He happened
to be in the neighborhood again.” She listened to a few imprecations then hung up. “This way, please.”
As her pretty legs preceded him down the hallway, O’Keefe wondered how long he’d be able to hold out if Marjorie paraded them
in front of him forty hours a week. Even after two minutes, the dichotomy between her austere business suits and those voluptuous
calves just about fried his libido; which would she be like in bed, the business suit or the legs? Half in a trance, he followed
her into Ross’s office. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, shaking Ross’s hand.
Ross gestured to his couch, where he had just been napping. He hadn’t slept at all last night, waiting for a call from Emily:
silence. That could only mean that either Philippa, or his marriage, had taken a sharp turn for the worse. “What can I do
for you, Detective?”
“It’s about Guy Witten.”
“How’s your investigation going?”
“We’re making progress,” O’Keefe lied as Marjorie went to get coffee. “I was down at the Academy of Art the other day. The
dean told me that Witten had studied there.”
Ross felt his hair stand on end: O’Keefe knew he had seen the dean. His heart began flooding his brain with fresh blood. “I
had no idea Witten was an artist,” Ross replied calmly. “Unless you call volume cooking an art form.”
“Witten also modeled for the students.”
“An exhibitionist, eh? I never would have guessed. Maybe my wife would be able to help you there. But she’s in California
at the moment.”
“I read about her sister in the paper. How’s she doing?”
“So-so. She’s got a couple of nasty bullet holes.” Ross cast an intimate look at Marjorie as she brought in two cups of coffee.
His eyes lingered on her legs as she left. “They have no idea who did it. But I guess that’s typical in this day and age.”
“You’d be surprised what the cops already know from just a couple of bullet holes. Ballistics has become an amazing science.”
O’Keefe sprinkled fake sugar into his coffee. “Take the case of Guy Witten. Do you know what killed him?”
“Car crash, right?”
“Wrong. He was shot by a crossbow. The arrow went clear through him.”
Ross placed his mug on the desk. “Pardon my ignorance, but didn’t crossbows go out with Robin Hood?”
“Apparently not. In the right hands, they’re extremely lethal weapons.”
“Are there a lot of them floating around?”
“Not compared to handguns, no. They take a lot of strength to operate.”
“Do you need a license to own one?”
“In some states, yes.”
Ross shook his head in dismay. “How barbaric. Emily will be horrified.”
O’Keefe could just imagine Ross blithely announcing the details to his wife. “When do you expect her back?”
“That depends on her sister.”
“Would you mind keeping this under your hat for the moment? Its not public knowledge.”
“I won’t breathe a word. The poor woman’s upset enough about Philippa.”
The intercom on Ross’s desk beeped. “Coco Pflaume’s here, Ross.”
“I’ll be right there, Marjie.” Ross looked steadily at the detective. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?”
O’Keefe hesitated: Ross had not in the least risen to his bait about the art school or crossbows. Obviously the man was much
more interested in putting an arrow into his secretary’s quiver. “I thought you might know a little about Witten’s past.”
“You’d be much better off asking my wife. I hardly knew the man. I’ll have her call as soon as she returns.” As they walked
past Dana’s office, Ross said, “I was down at the Academy of Art myself this week.”
“Oh?”
“Dana owned some artwork by a student there. Quite good. I was thinking of donating it back to the school. Ardith apparently
has no interest in it.”
O’Keefe almost laughed at his own stupidity; so much for Ross’s suspicious visit to the dean. “How’s Mrs. Forbes doing?”
“She’s been in Europe. Coming back soon, I hear.”
At the door O’Keefe threw out one more desperate line. “Nude modeling. What would you think of a grown man who did that?”
Ross smiled condescendingly. “More power to him. I’ll let Emily know you’re looking for her.” He turned smoothly from the
detective to his next client, a spoiled heiress who was constantly building houses with gold-plated bidets. “Be with you in
a moment, Coco.”
After O’Keefe left, Ross went to his lavatory and threw up. Christ! He’d never get out of this alive!
Marjorie knocked. “Are you all right, Ross?”
He staggered to his feet. “Must have been something I ate.”
She knew better. “What did that awful man want?”
“He’s just digging.”
“Into Dana? And that girl?”
“Something like that.”
She followed Ross to his desk. “Can I help?”
“You’re sweet. But I’m afraid I’ve brought this all upon myself.” Ross kissed her scented hand. “Go get Coco,” he whispered.
He passed the morning with more of Dana’s clients and their pushy wives who had yet to comprehend that it was a century too
late for their residences to upstage The Breakers. To make matters worse, a thick fog had puffed in from the ocean, cornering
him in his office with nothing to look at but a succession of women who talked, dressed, and thought like Ardith.
When the last of them had left, Marjorie buzzed. “The tooth fairy’s on line three.”
He picked up. “Ross? Would you have a few moments later today?” asked Dagmar.
“How’s five o’clock?”
“At my place? Good.”
On the way to meet Billy Murphy, he stopped by Marjorie’s desk. “Dagmar is not the tooth fairy,” he said.
“Surrogate mother, then?”
Marjorie would never have dared ask such a question had she not slept with him last week. “A client with a project,” he replied
wearily. “And a widow.”
That bought about a half dram of sympathy. Ross met Murphy at their favorite bar and spent a few hours discussing current
Boston pharaohs and their pyramids. Buoyed on a lake of single malt scotch, he walked to Dagmar’s apartment. The air was cold,
the shadows already long: Death and discovery stalked him tonight. He bought a dozen roses for Dagmar to sniff if his words
became too malodorous.
“Flowers. How kind,” she greeted him, stepping back from the door. Her mohair suit precisely matched the red petals. Diamonds,
not pearls, sparkled in the soft light; was this an occasion?
Ross followed her into the large room overlooking the
Charles. “You really must throw a Fourth of July party here,” he said, dropping onto the sofa, losing himself in the pillows.
“Think of the fireworks.”
“I might.” Dagmar proffered a tray of shrimp sandwiches. “You probably don’t want any more scotch right away.”
No condemnation there, only a tacit nod to reality and a dash of maternal sympathy: Ross wondered how much that would degenerate
if he ever slept with her. “It’s brutal trying to keep up with the building inspector. Dana could do it much better than I.”
Their eyes met for a long moment. “I’ve been thinking about you, Ross.”
Cripes! Another vamp? He smiled emptily, waiting for the ax to fall.
“You asked me about the statue in Joseph’s bedroom last time you were here. Could you explain why you need to know about Rita
Ward?”
“It’s not a pretty story.”
“I expect not. But I would like to hear it.” She lit a slim black cigarette. “I assure you I’ve heard worse, darling.”
The
darling
put him over the edge. Ross wanted to climb onto her lap, cling to her neck, hear a few lullabies, confess, be forgiven.
“A few weeks ago, I learned that my wife was having an affair. I was distraught, to say the least. Destroyed is more like
it.”
“It must have been the first time.” Dagmar clucked. “The first time you found out, that is. Poor man.”
“My wife’s a chef, I told you. The fellow in question was her boss at Cafe Presto. I came across some pictures.”
“Of what? The two of them in bed together?”
No, of Guy stroking Philippa’s cheek in a crowded restaurant. Big fucking deal. “Not quite. But almost.”
“Do you love your wife?”
“I adore her.” He felt hollow as a cathedral. “I’m not the confrontational type.”
“Is she continuing to see the man, then?”
“No. The man’s dead.”
Dagmar deftly tapped her cigarette above a crystal ashtray. “Did you kill him?”
Smart, smart lady. She understood him perfectly. “Quite by chance, I ran into a woman who wanted Witten dead. I knew where
he’d be on a certain night and told her. She killed him. So I would say the answer is yes.”
“Lucky man,” Dagmar murmured. “I envy you.”
He stared. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m in hell.”
“Why? Because the man’s dead or because you think you’ll be caught?” When Ross didn’t answer, she said, “May I ask what this
has to do with the statue in Joseph’s bedroom?”
“It gets rather complicated. The woman who wanted Guy dead was avenging her sister’s suicide,” Ross began.
“You must be talking about the sister of Rita Ward.”
Young women survived on looks, old women on wit; Ross suddenly perceived that Dagmar might outlive them all. “Yes. She was
under the impression that Witten had been having an affair with Rita. But after Dana died, I began clearing out his office.
He had a bronze bust of himself that no one knew much about. He also had a personal gift in his closet that had not come from
his wife. I did a little research and found that the gift had come from Rita. She had made the bust of Dana while she was
a student at the Academy of Art. They met while he was doing renovations at Diavolina.”
“So you’re saying that Rita killed herself over Dana, not this Witten fellow.”
“That’s correct.”
“And her sister took her revenge on the wrong man. My, my. Did Witten have a family?”
“No. He was probably trying to start one with my wife.”
“What does she know of all this?”
“Nothing. I don’t ever want her to know, either.”
“You mean to say that you’ve forgiven her?”
“I’ve punished her enough.” Wasn’t that the purest form of forgiveness?
Dagmar delicately chewed a shrimp sandwich. “And what does Rita’s sister think?”
“She’s upset that she didn’t have a chance to kill Dana. She’s not sorry about Witten.”
“But you are.”
“Yes.” Ross desperately needed another scotch. “Very sorry. I should have let things take their natural course. I think my
wife would have come to her senses eventually.”
“Dropped her lover, you mean? You’re such an optimist, Ross. I used to think the way you did. Joseph never came back to me.
Never.”
“At least you didn’t run out and murder the competition.”
“If I had, I would have damn sure done it solo.” Dagmar eyed him with a mother’s profound calm. “What’s your weak link here?
Witnesses? Evidence?”
Ross swore he felt the sofa rise a few inches above the floor as he replied, “The sister shot Guy with a crossbow. He made
it to his car but passed out at the wheel and crashed on the expressway. The police have identified the murder weapon.”