Authors: Janice Weber
“Not particularly.”
Shit. Simon blew a ragged trail of smoke out the window. “But you must be terribly proud of your sister. She’s worked very
hard to get where she is.”
“I appreciate that.”
“It would be such a shame, so goddamn—
unfair
—for her career to suffer just because some lunatic shot her. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Not if you could prevent
it?”
“You want me to pretend I’m Philippa, don’t you.”
Simon threw the cigarette out the window. “I could have an acting coach here in one hour. In a week, you’d be as good an actress
as your sister. I feel that in my bones.”
“And how do you think Philippa would feel in her bones?”
“She’d be thrilled and grateful, darling. And you’d have the time of your life.” Taking Emily by the shoulders, Simon turned
her slowly around, studying her body. “A little work on the hair and you’d be the spitting image of the star of
Choke Hold.
In my opinion, there could be no greater act of sisterly love.”
Philippa struggled with her sheets. “Damn you, I’m not your plum.”
Simon looked tetchily over. “What is she raving about now? Who’s a plum?”
Again Emily’s thoughts suspended over a canyon named Guy. After a moment she said, “She’ll tell us when she wakes up.”
“She’s got a little more color today,” Simon observed. “I predict she’ll be out of here by the weekend. That woman’s got the
constitution of a horse. Wish I were built half as well. That last siege at the hospital nearly killed me.”
“Whatever happened to Mr. Vitzkewicz, by the way?”
“Who the fuck knows? I find him, I’ll sue him.” Simon looked at his watch and squeaked. “Places to go, people to see, Emma.
Think about what I said.” At the door, he paused. “Remember, opportunity knocks but once. You can split the proceeds with
your sister.”
After he left, the policeman investigating the case came by to see if Philippa were in a talkative mood. No new suspects had
been found, although nine people had now turned themselves in, volunteering to have been violent criminals. When Franco and
his photographer appeared for another bedside tableau, Emily went for a walk. Deprived of sleep, her body was beginning to
run in a fuzzy overdrive; events seemed to register in slow motion and the gap between thought and action had widened to several
seconds. Passing a pharmacy, she floated in and bought a pregnancy testing kit. It was right next to the ovulation kits she
had been buying to no avail for years. She returned to her hotel and took a long, hot shower before running the old experiment
with urine, tiny vials, and second hands on watches.
God! Pink: pregnant. Guy was not dead after all. New blood,
wonderful strength, immediately began to warm her veins. The life force, perhaps? Emily called her husband’s office. “Hi,
Marjorie. Is Ross in?”
He came on the line. “How’s everything, darling?”
“Great. Would you be able to come out here? I have so much to tell you.”
Communicating again? That gave him hope, like the first crocuses in spring. “How’s Philippa?”
“Talking in her sleep. The doctor says she’s working things out.”
“Have the police made any progress?”
“No. They’re looking through the computer records for owners of forty-caliber pistols.”
“They’re somewhat unusual. That should help.” Dana had been the proud owner of a .40-caliber Smith & Wesson, which he had
bought through a friend on the police force. The pistol had more knockdown power than a .357 but wouldn’t obliterate the target
like a .45. Dana had kept it on his boat, supposedly to shoot predatory fish. “Any other news?”
“I got an offer from Philippa’s manager this morning. He wants me to act in her next film.”
“You’d do that?”
Not anymore. Still, just to keep her husband on his toes, Emily said, “It sounds like fun.”
After a small silence, Ross said, “What the hell, if it amuses you, go ahead. I’ll catch the next plane out.”
“Really?”
“I’ve just been waiting for the invitation, sweetheart.”
Inert as a slug, Ward remained in her office for several days following Detective O’Keefe’s visit to Diavolina. One afternoon
Klepp walked in with a lunch tray, as if he were a nurse and Ward a patient in a mental institution. “Someone on the phone
for you, ma’am.”
“Whoozit?”
“She doesn’t want to leave her name. Says it’s important.” He
waited a few moments; Ward didn’t budge. “Go ahead, talk to her. You could use a little diversion.”
Grunting, Ward lifted the receiver. “Yez?”
“This is Dagmar Pola. I’d like to speak with you. Could we meet at your restaurant?”
“Whad you want?”
“I’d like to give you a red satin shoe, size seven, with a little black bow.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“I believe I can help you.”
Another good Samaritan? Like hell. “Bring me that shoe.” Ward hung up. “Fuckin’ termites are coming outta the woodwork.”
“You’ve got to be ready for them, ma’am. It’s the secret of survival.”
“Whatr you, my mother?”
“Your friend,” Klepp replied, opening a window. “Go and freshen up. You want to present a solid first impression, even to
termites.”
“Wha for?”
“Because you never know when the tables might turn again.”
Cursing, Ward dragged downstairs to the shower. She put on a gigantic T-shirt and white chef’s overalls. She combed her hair
for the first time in a week. Returning to the kitchen, she invigorated her system with a megaload of coffee and mashed potatoes.
Meanwhile, Klepp straightened up her office. When he showed Dagmar in, Ward almost looked as if she were in charge of the
place again. As the two women surveyed each other’s overlays of pearl and muscle, Klepp retreated, feeling that he had just
introduced a small, smoking fuse to a ton of dynamite.
Dagmar took a red shoe from her handbag and laid it on Ward’s desk. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you for a long time,”
she said.
Ward stared, shocked, at her sister Rita’s missing shoe. “Where’d you get this?”
“Ten years ago, I attended an architect’s dinner in honor of Dana Forbes. It was a long evening with many boring speeches.
After the third or fourth, I stepped out to the balcony for some fresh air. It had been decorated for the occasion with trees
and trellises. From the fortieth floor, one had a magnificent view of the harbor. I was quite alone behind a trellis, watching
the ships, when I heard two women’s voices. Both were unaware of me. Once I overheard the nature of their discussion, I thought
it best to remain out of sight.”
Ward touched the place on Rita s shoe where her big toenail had begun to fray the satin. “I’m listening.”
“They were discussing Dana Forbes. The woman objected to your sister’s affair with him, for obvious reasons. Forbes was her
husband. He had invited your sister to the dinner and she had come out to the balcony expecting to see him, not his wife.
Apparently the woman had intercepted some correspondence as well as some silk underwear that your sister had given to him.
Worse, your sister had recently written a suicide note, which Mrs. Forbes read aloud to her.”
“What did it say?”
“That she was three months and five days pregnant and that Dana would lose them both if he didn’t make up his mind soon.”
Dagmar knew those items had not made the newspapers. “I hope you believe me now.”
As if in a trance, Ward slipped a hand inside her sister’s shoe and held it to her cheek. “Then what?”
“Mrs. Forbes said that her husband would never leave his family for a whore. Furthermore, she had promised him a new boat
if he ended the affair. When your sister said that Dana would certainly choose her over a boat, Mrs. Forbes produced what
must have been a sales contract. The effect was devastating. She told your sister that she was out of her league and suggested
jumping off the balcony.”
“That must have been when you crashed through the trellises and tried to prevent anything rash from happening.”
“No, I’m sorry to say, the indelicacy of the situation had paralyzed me. And, to tell the truth, I didn’t believe that anything
more serious than a few verbal insults might occur.”
“Guess you were wrong.”
“Terribly so. Your sister told Mrs. Forbes and her husband to go to hell Mrs. Forbes laughed, then I heard nothing more. I
waited for what seemed an eternity, then looked out. There was nothing on the balcony but that red shoe. I took it and went
back inside.”
“Why’d you take the shoe?”
“Because I thought your sister, in making a grand exit, had somehow lost it. It’s a rather casual design and could easily
have slipped off her foot. I had no idea that anyone had jumped from the balcony until I saw the ambulances in the street
later that evening.”
“You never went to the police?” Ward delicately replaced Rita’s shoe on her desk. “I should ram this down your throat.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dagmar lit a black cigarette. “What would have been the use of telling the police this sordid tale?
Mrs. Forbes would have been subjected to even further humiliation and scandal. She acted cruelly, but predictably.”
“Cruel isn’t the word. She incited Rita to jump.”
“I would have to agree with you.”
Ward went to the window. When she turned, her eyes were wide, white, and quite flat. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Since the death of Dana Forbes, this matter has been increasingly on my mind. I do not believe that Mrs. Forbes properly
regrets what she has done. She has taken not one life, but two.”
“Make that three. I punished someone by mistake.”
Dagmar barely raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe in vengeance?”
“A little less than I did a week ago.” Ward chuckled. “I take it you’ve got something on your mind besides the return of missing
property.”
“Listen to me,” Dagmar said, going to the window. “I want you to cater a reception at my home on Commonwealth Avenue next
week. I live on the tenth floor. Mrs. Forbes will be there.”
“You know her?”
“Not well. Our husbands were involved in business together. I
will arrange that you meet her alone, perhaps on a balcony. You can ask her yourself about the details of your sister’s suicide.”
“Then what?”
Dagmar shrugged. “She weighs one hundred ten pounds. You could probably lift her with one hand.”
“And toss her overboard? I’d be behind bars ten minutes later.”
“Absolutely not. Mrs. Forbes has compelling reasons to commit suicide. Grief at her husband’s death. Humiliation at his hundreds
of affairs. She’s been taking medication for clinical depression for years.”
“Sorry, that’s not enough.”
Realizing that she would have to move all her eggs into one basket, Dagmar said, “She shot Philippa Banks in California last
week. Mrs. Forbes was insanely jealous of her husband’s last affair. The police will find her very soon.”
After a moment’s stupor, Ward burst out laughing. “You take the cake, madam. What’s your stake in this?”
Dagmar extinguished her cigarette and looked Ward in the eye. “Everything.”
Ward recognized a more cunning, more bitter, soul mate. “I’ll think about it.”
After a brief culinary discussion, the women walked through the dining room to the front door. “I’ve eaten here before,” Dagmar
said. “Didn’t there used to be a statue behind the bar?”
“The owner took it down.”
“Leo is his name, I believe. I knew him long ago. How’s he doing?”
“Beats me. He’s been out of town for three weeks. I’m beginning to think he’s dead.”
“What a morbid thought. If he returns by next Tuesday, make sure he comes to my party. I’d be delighted to see him again.”
Dagmar shook Ward’s hand. “Take care of yourself.” She left.
Ward walked back to the bar, where Zoltan stood polishing glasses. “Give me a hit of club soda, would you, dear,” she asked
lightly. “I’m back in training.”
He placed the drink in front of her. “Who was that woman?”
“Some old tarantula who wants us to cater a party next week.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Yes, of course. I’m going to charge her a fortune. Want to tend bar?”
“I believe I should remain here. But thank you for asking.” When Ward had retreated to her office, there to lift weights with
frightening vigor, Zoltan phoned Emily. Since she was in California, he got her machine. “Call Zoltan,” he said, and hung
up.
Philippa had been raving again when Ross arrived at the hospital in Los Angeles. He found Emily trying to initiate a conversation
with her slumbrous sister, with no success: Philippa seemed to be shaking her head, almost physically evading Emily’s questions
about a white truck. Going to the bed, Ross embraced his wife, inhaled her. She looked well. Terrific, in fact. He doubted
she had missed him, let alone thought about him, at all. “Hi darling,” he whispered. “How’s everything?”
“Much better. I think she’s getting over the hump.” Emily brought Ross up to speed on Philippa’s condition. “She’s pretty
heavily sedated but I think she knows what’s going on. She just doesn’t have the strength to open her eyes yet.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Ross said. “You’ve been sleeping here?”
“More or less. Phil’s been blurting out the strangest things in the middle of the night. She keeps talking about a white truck,
a wig, and steaks.” And plums. “It’s odd.”
“I’m sure she’ll be able to explain everything once she’s feeling better.” Ross glanced at Philippa’s face: Was she really
floating in some nether world or was she just feigning sleep, listening, preparing a new set of fables to explain the last?
He couldn’t tell; Philippa was an actress, after all. “Have you eaten, sweetheart? Can I bring you some dinner?”
“No, let’s go out. She’ll be all right for a few hours.”
They went to the hotel restaurant across the street. Ross would have preferred room service and torrid sex, but after fifteen
years had learned that his wife rarely performed fellatio on an empty stomach. As they wended to their table, he noticed
people staring at Emily: She was beginning to walk a little like Philippa now. If her clothes and hair were just a little
bit different, people would begin calling him Mr. Banks. Shuddering, Ross slid next to her on a banquette and ordered their
customary round of martinis.