Devil's Food (56 page)

“No way! Leave the dentist out of this!” Philippa screeched.

Ross stood up. “It’s late, girls. We’ve got a funeral in the morning.”

They returned to Beacon Hill. In bed, Emily asked Ross to describe a crossbow. No one really slept.

Detective O’Keefe arrived early at Ardith’s funeral, not that seating would be tight, but he wanted to speak with several
mourners before they went inside the little church that, just a few weeks ago, had given Ardith’s husband such a rousing send-off.
It was a chill, brumous morning, clouding the abyss between the quick and the dead: perfect burial weather. O’Keefe waited,
smoking, under the same tree that had sheltered Philippa during Dana’s obsequies. Not too far away he saw a mound of dirt
and the deep hole that would soon swallow Ardith. He found it hard to believe that a woman who had taken such pains during
her life to look good—nay, perfect—would allow herself to expire looking like roadkill. An overdose of sleeping pills would
have been more Ardith’s style. But who was he to know, or judge, what had overtaken her on that balcony? Perhaps nothing more
than a few glasses of champagne, enough to inflame guilt and rage and, worse, the specter of imminent discovery of her crime.
Spend the rest of her life in prison? For Ardith, who lived to shop, the pavement was the easiest way out.

A blue car pulled up to the curb and Marjorie stepped out. Today she was wearing a black cashmere coat and black stockings
over those fabulous legs. Tossing his cigarette on the lawn, O’Keefe walked over. “Good morning.”

“Hello.” Marjorie looked around for Ross. “I suppose I’m early.”

“Very. You’re the first one here. Don’t go in yet.” O’Keefe steered her toward a garden opposite the graveyard. “It’s a shame
about Mrs. Forbes.”

“In what regard? That she killed herself or that she tried to kill Philippa? Ross told me about it this morning. Don’t worry,
I can keep my mouth shut.”

“Ardith must have been insanely jealous.”

“She was. What for, I don’t know. Dana was no prize.” Marjorie sidestepped a mound of leaves. “Neither was Philippa.”

“You’ve met?” O’Keefe asked innocently.

“Only once. I walked in on her and Dana in his office. It was extremely embarrassing. I mistook Philippa for her sister. Dana
never explained the situation. I think he wanted me to think he was kissing Emily. That was his idea of a big joke.”

Funny only because he knew that Marjorie was hopelessly infatuated with Emily’s husband. “You called Ardith afterward, didn’t
you?” O’Keefe asked. “Rex told me about it. Don’t worry, I can keep my mouth shut.”

“I—I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Marjorie stammered. “It was a big mistake.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I suggested that she might be interested in going to Diavolina that evening.”

Ardith had sent Rex instead. “Did you tell anyone else? Ross, for instance?”

“Good God, no.”

“Why not?”

Because that would have been too blatant; much better that Ross discover his wife’s infidelity from an outraged third party,
like Ardith. “Because it wasn’t any of my business,” Marjorie lied.

O’Keefe walked her around a birdbath. “What was Ross doing the night Dana died?”

“Working with me. He had been out of the office for several days. We were catching up.”

On what, business or pleasure? “How late?”

“I don’t remember. Ten, eleven.”

“There was an old woman in that day. Plastered with pearls. She wore a black hat with peacock feathers.”

“That was Dagmar Pola. She had come to see Ross.”

“Concerning what?”

“He’s building her an art gallery.”

Shucks, that was what Ross had said. “Since when?”

“About a month ago. It’s a big project.” Marjorie laughed sourly. “Since Ross wasn’t in the office, Dana had to ditch the
tart and entertain Dagmar. She wasn’t too pleased.”

“Who? The tart or Dagmar?”

“Both.”

“Did Dagmar overhear that Dana and Philippa would be at Diavolina that evening?”

Marjorie thought a moment. “It’s possible. Dana made a big fuss about it at my desk. I don’t remember. I was pretty burnt
up at the time.” In the distance she saw four people from the office get out of a car. “Would you excuse me, please?”

O’Keefe watched her mesmerizing legs recede into the fog.
He ached to run his hands over them, toes to pelvis. Perhaps, once she realized that Ross was forever beyond her, once this
case was closed, or abandoned, Marjorie might meet him for a drink somewhere. Standing behind a hedge, he watched a few more
cars pull up to the church. The people getting out looked like architects in pursuit of promotions and women who had swatted
a lot of tennis balls at Ardith. A maroon Lincoln crunched to a halt and Dagmar Pola stepped to the street.

She looked regal, omnipotent in deep black. Two peacock feathers adorned her hat. O’Keefe walked quickly over. “Good morning.”

Dagmar nodded. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

Seeing that she wasn’t about to take a stroll into the garden, O’Keefe skipped the mournful preambles. “You were a friend
of Ardith’s. Did you know Dana as well?”

“My acquaintance with him was strictly professional.”

“You were in his office the day he died, I understand.” “Yes, I had wanted to see Ross.”

“Did you happen to see Dana there with Philippa Banks?”

“I saw Dana there with a woman. They made quite a spectacle of themselves with that poor secretary.”

“Did you hear that they were going to eat at Diavolina that evening?”

Dagmar’s obelisk stare shamed him. “I am not in the habit of eavesdropping, Detective O’Keefe.”

Screw dignity; one more try: “Where were you that evening?”

“At home. Since my husband’s death, I do not go out much.”

O’Keefe pulled a rumpled paper from his pocket. “This is a bill from the hotel in Los Angeles where Mrs. Forbes was staying.
She called your apartment on Commonwealth Avenue four days ago. You spoke for one minute. You were the only person she called.”

Did Dagmar’s face go as white as her hair, or was that a trick of the mist? “Mrs. Forbes called to say that she would be coming
to my party, “Dagmar replied. “Our conversation was brief because she was late for a hairdresser’s appointment. I’m afraid
I
can’t tell you why she made no other calls, I was under the impression that she was phoning from Europe.”

O’Keefe sagged as another torch, poked into another murky catacomb, sputtered out. “Were you at Dana’s funeral?”

“No. Ardith was not that close a friend. I had been to quite enough funerals lately.”

If Ardith weren’t such a close friend, what was Dagmar doing here now? O’Keefe had his answer as a Saab crawled by and Dagmar
said, in a voice fifty years younger, “I think that’s Ross.”

She watched him park the car quite a ways off. Her ebullient gaze slowly turned to stone as first one, then a second, woman
emerged. As they got closer, she asked O’Keefe, “Would you know who that is with him?”

“The lady next to him is his wife Emily. The other one is Philippa Banks, Emily’s twin sister.” What was she doing here? She
ought to be in bed. “He never told you?”

Dagmar made a strange little purring sound. “I never asked.” As they got closer, she leaned on O’Keefe’s arm. “Would you mind
introducing us?”

Ross and his two women, walking at a bride’s pace to accommodate Philippa’s war wounds, finally reached O’Keefe and Dagmar.
The three of them looked as if they had been sticking leeches on each other all night.

After a curt nod, Ross took over the introductions. “Dagmar, I’d like you to meet my wife, Emily, and her sister, Philippa.”

Dagmar’s eyes finally left his. She studied the twins before extending a tiny, gloved hand. “I’ve heard so much about you
both.”

“I’ve seen you before,” Philippa replied. “Dana’s office. I’d remember that hat anywhere.”

“Quite.” Dagmar turned to Emily. “I understand you’ve been in California.”

“We got back last night.”

Conversation, illusions, died. Ross suddenly said, “Philippa, you must be wanting to sit down. Why don’t you go inside with
Emily. I’ll be right there.”

When the twins were out of earshot, Ross said, “Philippa insisted
on coming. I’m sure her agent’s got a photographer stashed in the trees somewhere. Anything new, O’Keefe?”

“Not since last night.” The detective watched the two women edge away. “Looks like Philippa could use a little help getting
up those stairs. Would you excuse me?”

Ross walked with Dagmar into the garden. They sat on a stone bench near the birdbath, where people were supposed to think
pure, or at least poetical, thoughts. “I never once guessed that there might be two of them,” Dagmar said finally.

That was because she had been dealing with a cagey husband and an even cagier monk. “My wife is pregnant,” Ross said. “We’ve
been trying for fifteen years. Don’t take this child away from me, Dagmar. I’m begging you.”

“My God, you ask a lot.”

“I’m asking you for everything.”

“There’s no point in only getting rid of one of them, you realize.”

“Think! Quit while you’re ahead! O’Keefe’s so suspicious already. Did anyone see you at Diavolina the night Dana died?”

“I’m sure everyone did. But I was wearing a turban and rather heavy glasses. The same costume as I gave Ardith a week later.
If he’s anything worth his salt, Detective O’Keefe has already found it at her home.”

Always one step ahead of him. Ross shivered, but not in appreciation. “We should go. The service is about to start.”

Halfway to the church she said, “Are you sorry you met me, Ross?”

Was Prometheus sorry he stole fire? Pandora sorry she opened that box? If he hadn’t met Dagmar, Emily would have died a sudden
death, and he never would have known why. Ross shut his eyes; if he didn’t find Leo, she might still die a sudden death. “It
never entered my mind,” he replied. They went inside to bid Ardith good riddance.

H
ere I am, staring at that unfathomable hole in the ground again. Dana’s down there beneath my feet, inert as the deep, brown
dirt. In fact I’m standing on him: sorry, friend. I wonder what he looks like now. Better than Ardith, that’s for sure; she
was such a mess they had to keep the coffin bolted. At least she’s getting herself planted in the same color box she chose
for Dana. Ardith was always big on matched sets. Agh, I don’t want to think about them both down there forever. I can’t look
anymore.

I’ll look at my wife instead. The poor girl’s crying. Aside from Ardith’s interior decorator, I bet she’s the only one here
who feels any grief at all. Emily is so beautiful in the fog. She’s standing at the grave, head bowed, murmuring prayers with
the preacher. Her hair is tumbling over her face. If we were in bed, I could push it to the side with one finger, study her
eyes, lips, skin.... Has this woman really been sleeping beside me for fifteen years? They’ve gone so quickly by and it seems
I’m just getting to know her. I’ll probably never know her completely; that’s
because in the bottom of my heart, I know I’m not the love of her life. Oh, I’m her friend, her confidant, protector, provider,
but I’m not the mirror of her soul. I fall short there, always will; the most I can hope for is that the next time she meets
another Guy, I’ll have racked up enough Brownie points to retain possession. I’m the father of her child, after all. If nothing
else, that should buy me a little breathing space: She’ll be so busy with the baby for the next few years that she’ll have
no energy to get into mischief. And I’ll be such a good father, the best on the planet. Boy or girl? Twins? God, give me quintuplets!
We’re going to be a family: unbelievable. Miraculous.

Dagmar wouldn’t destroy that, would she? She’s standing on the opposite side of the chasm, staring at me. No prayers coming
out of her mouth, and this whole damn funeral is her doing. At least I had the conscience to get good and drunk for Guy’s.
She’s sober as a rattlesnake. I’m afraid of her: She’s a woman scorned. She’s murdered before and gotten away with it. What’s
to stop her now? If Leo gets to Emily or Philippa before I get to him, Dagmar’s got nothing to lose. I can see her killing
my wife as a matter of honor. She doesn’t make empty threats and she didn’t promise me anything. She doesn’t trust me anymore,
I’m sure, not after that double whammy I laid on her an hour ago. And when there’s no trust, there are no longer any rules.
I wonder how much time I have before Dagmar makes her move. Should I go to the police? I don’t dare: I tattle on Dagmar, she’ll
tattle on me. Emily would pack up and leave. Should I find Leo? Christ, I’d have better luck locating a new planet with the
naked eye! Agh, what a nightmare. I’m going to have to start praying for another favor, from God or the devil. At this point,
I’ll bargain with either.

After the funeral, Philippa was feeling faint, so Ross and Emily took her back to Beacon Hill. From the rear seat, Philippa
discoursed upon the stupidity of recent events as she frowned at adipose tourists along Joy Street. “This whole thing makes
no
sense,” she kept repeating. “Why did Ardith have to shoot me? It’s not as if I were Dana’s first girlfriend.”