Authors: Janice Weber
“You must be tired,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll drive you home.”
He got his car. On the way to Weston, where the Charles River ran quietly beneath a bridge, he pulled over. They both got
out and leaned over the rough cement ledge. After Ross dropped the empty bottle into the water, near a wavering reflection
of the moon, he said, “Leave the actress alone.”
Dagmar did not answer. He put her back in the car and drove into the blustery night.
O
nce Philippa awoke, her recovery was swift. She told Franco to go to hell since he had not only failed to take two bullets
in her stead, but he had not slept at the hospital, as Emily had. Philippa caused gridlock in the corridor when she went strolling
in her extravagant peignoirs. Fans outside kept trying to scale the walls to her room. Finally, two days after Ross left for
Boston, Philippa was told that if she was well enough to hurl vases at her business manager, she was well enough to go home.
The hospital lawn was wrecked and the surgeons were tired of pickup trucks from Arkansas in their reserved parking spaces.
Only the orderlies, who were making a fortune selling what they claimed to be Philippa s used hospital gowns, were sorry to
see her go. They arranged a confetti parade in the front hall for her departure that afternoon.
Emily was manicuring her sister s nails in preparation for her first Incredible Survivor interview when Detective Hobson came
to the room and announced that two boys, playing in a ravine near the accident, had discovered a .40-caliber gun. A
trace of the serial numbers would identify the owner within the hour.
“Fine,” Philippa huffed. “Just arrest her, please. Don’t interrupt my interview. Em, what time’s the plane?”
“Four-thirty.”
“Crap, I’m going to have to talk fast.” That afternoon the sisters would be flying to an undisclosed destination for two weeks,
after which Philippa would begin work on her vampire film in Paris. That nameless destination was, of course, Boston; Ross
had called yesterday with the shocking news that Ardith had committed suicide. Knowing that she must return home at once,
Emily had entreated Philippa to come with her. Boston was not only loaded with doctors but it was halfway to Paris. It would
be much better to recuperate there than at that flimflam holistic farm near the San Andreas Fault. Philippa finally agreed,
on condition that they stay in Beacon Hill and not that horrible little cabin in the woods.
Philippa’s interview ran late due to her eloquence upon the impact of bullet holes on her sex drive. Then Hobson knocked on
the door. “Miss Banks,” he interrupted, “may I speak with you, please?”
The journalist was reluctantly sent away and Emily summoned from her hotel across the street. “Well, what’s the good word?”
“Does the name Dana Forbes mean anything to you?”
After a second’s hesitation, Philippa clamped the back of her hand over her mouth. She had learned the gesture from old Joan
Crawford films. “My God! Don’t tell me that gun belonged to Dana!”
“It was registered in his name. You know the man?”
“I did at one time.”
“Where might Mr. Forbes be presently?”
“In Massachusetts. Now and forever.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s dead, darling. Six feet under.”
“Since when?”
“You’ll have to ask my sister. I’m terrible with dates. Sometime around Labor Day.”
“Was he a good friend of yours?”
“Absolutely not. He was a lover,” Philippa said. “There’s a huge difference.”
“Was he a lover at the time of his death?”
“No, he was eating dinner with me in a restaurant.” Philippa tried to look sad, but couldn’t: Dana had been out of the circuit
for too long. “I believe he mixed alcohol with some fancy barbiturates, poor dear.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In Boston.”
Then how the hell did the weapon get to California? “Did you ever see his gun?”
“Not the one with bullets, sweetheart. Em, did you ever see Dana with a gun?” Philippa called as her sister walked in.
“No.” Emily took a seat. “Why?”
“Someone shot me with it. What was his wife’s name again?”
“Ardith.”
“He had a wife?” the policeman asked. “Where?”
“Boston,” Emily replied. “She committed suicide yesterday. She had just gotten back from Europe, I think.”
“What did she look like?” the policeman asked. “Medium height? Fair? Thin lips? Tacky blouses? Did she know about your involvement
with her husband?”
“You’re not saying that Ardith shot Philippa,” Emily said after a silence.
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” he said. “The weapon in question definitely belonged to Dana Forbes. And a woman fired it.”
Philippa’s manager, nearly blinded by a massive spray of gladiolus, strode into the room. “Phil! Ready to roll?” Simon heaved
the flowers onto the bed and straightened his pale blue ascot. “Where’s that wheelchair? Aidan! Step on it, the entire U.S.
press corps is waiting! I’ve planned this operation to the microsecond!”
As Philippa, Simon, and Aidan fussed with a wheelchair, flowers, rhinestone sunglasses, and a gauze-swathed pith helmet,
Emily gave the detective her phone number in Boston and told him to contact O’Keefe, who would certainly know all about Ardith.
“You! Emma!” Simon interrupted, handing her a chauffeur’s jacket and cap. “Put this on and take the back stairs to the limousine.
Get in the front seat. Now! Go! I don’t want you and Phil running into each other out there! It’ll cause a riot!”
“Bye-bye, Officer,” Philippa called as she was wheeled into an Armageddon of flashbulbs. “Keep up the good work! I love you!”
The policeman shook Emily’s hand, wondering how an identical strand of DNA could have split so unevenly. “Good-bye, ma’am.
Good luck.”
Emily slipped to the limousine and, through heavily tinted windows, watched her sister’s departure from the hospital. After
a leave-taking rivaling that of Cleopatra and fifty thousand Egyptians, Philippa and her entourage tumbled into the backseat.
“What a fucking circus!” Simon cursed, tearing off his ascot. “They’re animals!”
“Animals buy movie tickets, dear,” Philippa replied serenely.
Choke Hold
was number one again this week. “Try to arrange a few decent interviews in Boston, would you? I’ll be out of my mind with
boredom.”
They drove to the airport, where the twins were whisked onto a jet belonging to the producer of the vampire movie. A steward,
a nurse, and a spare copy of the screenplay waited onboard. After glancing through the first few pages, Philippa tossed it
aside. “I think Ardith shot me,” she said to Emily. “Just gut instinct.”
“If she did, then you’re safe.”
Philippa guffawed and said no more. Soon she fell asleep, muttering repeatedly about the white truck, not opening her eyes
until the jet again touched ground. “Where am I?” she asked the nurse. Hearing “Boston,” Philippa swore: the last place on
earth she would ever want to be. In twenty years, this damn town hadn’t been able to scrape together the minimum bodies necessary
for an official branch of her fan club. The men here were either irresponsible libertines, like Dana, or immovable
hulks, like Guy. She should never have listened to Emily and come back. Boston was bad luck.
No fans awaited them except Ross, who only had eyes for his wife. “Hello ladies,” he said, commandeering Philippa’s wheelchair
from the steward. He rolled her roughly into the terminal. “How’s everyone feeling?”
“Just fine,” Philippa snapped.
“That’s terrific. Detective O’Keefe is anxious to speak with you immediately.”
“I’ve just had an exhausting trip! Is this necessary?”
“Let’s get it over with, Phil,” Emily said. “Where does he want to see us?”
“I told him to go to the office. He’ll meet us there in twenty minutes.”
Philippa bitched all the way to State Street, her foul mood exacerbated by the billing and cooing of Mr. and Mrs. Major, who
had obviously patched their marriage together since Emily’s last trip to California. Her stomach yowled with hunger. Her stitches
itched. The absolute worst thing about getting shot was that she couldn’t take a bath for another week. “Goddamn it,” she
exploded as Ross rumbled her into the elevator, “this is in-human!”
She was taken to Dana’s office, site of the largest couch at Major & Forbes. As Emily propped a few pillows behind her, Philippa
noticed that the bust of Dana, his crystal decanters of scotch, and his books were all gone. Suddenly she missed him; rarely
did brains, lust, and cash converge in such a delectable package. “Wouldn’t happen to have any scotch in the house, would
you, Ross?” she asked. He went to his office and returned with two stiff drinks. Emily got water. “What’s the matter, Em?
Ulcers?”
She saw her sister shoot Ross a mischievous look. “Much worse,” Emily said, eyes bright. “We’re pregnant.”
We?
With a twin’s immediate, infernal intuition, Philippa knew that the child was Guy’s. “My God, that’s fantastic,” she croaked
at last, half exultant that Ross had been cuckolded forever
and half stultified with jealousy of her sister’s glorious fate. “You little twit, not telling me,”
“We wanted to tell you together,” Emily said,
“You did, all right! When’s the blastoff?”
“Next May sometime,”
Philippa emptied her glass, “I’m speechless! Congratulations, Em, All that rot with the missionary position and three pillows
has finally paid off, Ross, be a dear and give me enough alcohol to make a proper toast.” Ross brought the bottle, Philippa
was on her third toast when O’Keefe arrived.
“Sorry to keep you up so late,” he said, “How are you feeling, Miss Banks?”
“Never better, thank you,” Philippa replied, rising to her elbows. O’Keefe was much handsomer than she remembered. Of course,
last time she had seen him, her vision had been impaired by Dana’s face in a bowl of whipped cream. “You had questions?” she
asked.
O’Keefe retired to a deep, cushiony chair. “Answers, actually,” he said, “All evidence is pointing to the fact that Ardith
Forbes tried to kill you. She was in Los Angeles the day you were shot. We’ve found hotel bills and rental-car receipts for
a white Mercedes.”
“She never went to Europe, then?” Emily asked.
“No.”
“How would she get Dana’s gun through airline security?”
“She drove to California with a friend named Rex. He seems to have been completely uninvolved in all this.” O’Keefe let that
sink in a moment before asking, “Was Ardith aware of your affair with her husband?”
“Afterward, yes,” Philippa said, “During, I’m not sure,”
“Would she have known that you and Mr. Forbes would be at Diavolina the evening he died?” O’Keefe felt three pairs of lungs
halt: bingo. “Who knew you’d be there, Miss Banks?”
“Emily knew, because she was cooking dinner. So did the secretary.”
“That’s all?”
Philippa once again tried to clarify a blur of orgasms and
boats and frilly hats. “There was someone sitting in the office when Dana announced we’d be at Diavolina.”
“A man? Woman?”
“Woman. Old. Plastered with pearls. She wore a black hat with two peacock feathers. Bally shoes and purse.”
Emily half opened her mouth to tell O’Keefe that that was probably Dagmar Pola, then noticed that Ross’s face had turned so
white that it almost looked blue. “Were you going to say something, Emily?” O’Keefe asked.
“All of Byron’s friends knew that Philippa would be eating at Diavolina,” she said quickly. “At least fifty of them showed
up.”
“It was more like a hundred, Em,” Philippa corrected. “And I almost forgot Ardith’s gymnastics instructor. He sent over vodka
with four dried cherries. It’s my favorite drink.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Beats me.”
O’Keefe looked very tired, as if he had just been asked to disinter an entire graveyard. “Thanks for your time, everyone,”
he said, rising. “Take care of yourself,” he told Emily, wrapping her hand in his own.
“Have you learned anything more about Guy Witten?” she asked.
Once again, O’Keefe felt the entire room stop breathing. Why was that? He looked at Ross, who imperceptibly shook his head.
“We now know that he died of internal bleeding, not from injuries sustained in a car accident. He had been shot with a crossbow.”
After a small silence, Emily said, “You mean an arrow?”
“About the size of a pencil. The shaft went right through him.”
“Where did this happen?”
“We don’t know. We’re working on it.”
Emily withdrew her hand from O’Keefe’s. “He was murdered?”
“No question. Unless he was wandering in the woods. Deer season just opened. No one hunts at night, of course.” O’Keefe
suddenly noticed that Philippa was shivering. Her lips looked a little blue. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Would you mind handing me that drink, please?” Philippa said. “My stomach always becomes upset after long plane trips.” She
tossed back the contents of the glass. “Thank you.”
O’Keefe thanked them and left. After a pensive silence, Philippa sighed. “Is that man married?”
“Is that all you can think about, Phil?”
“What else should I think about?” she snapped. “That bitch Ardith playing Annie Oakley?”
“I’ll tell you two what to think about,” Ross said. “Getting your stories straight. O’Keefe’s going to be back with more questions
about that party in New York and that little breakfast in L.A. He’s going to be digging like hell the next couple of days.”
“So what? We didn’t do anything,” Emily replied.
“Just wait until he hears that you both suspect someone was after Philippa and never clued him in when that chef got nailed.
He might have cracked this case weeks ago and been the hero of the police department. Not to mention preventing Philippa from
getting shot and poor Ardith from jumping off a balcony.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Philippa cried. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand better than you think.”
“We’ll just tell him about the dentist,” Emily said. “None of this would have started if Phil hadn’t been beaten up.”