Authors: Janice Weber
“She’s not nice! Don’t get taken in by that den-mother tone of voice!”
Philippa had delicately bitten into a corn dumpling. “I told you Dagmar had the eyes of a Gila monster. Nobody listens to
me around here.”
Ah, what a charming evening in the bosom of his family. Weren’t people supposed to huddle together, comfort one another, after
a funeral? Maybe that was only the case after burying someone they liked, in which case, Ardith’s funeral definitely didn’t
qualify. Still, the ghost of Dana should have cowed Emily and her sister into civil behavior. Another night like this and
Ross might have to move up to the cabin until Philippa left. He wasn’t used to a third body in his living space;
it upset the equilibrium. Then again, he was a cranky old man, set in his ways. For the first time, Ross wondered how he’d
fare with a baby in the house.
He’d be lucky if he ever got one in the house, of course. He dreaded his meeting with Dagmar tomorrow: Whatever she wanted,
he probably could not deliver. She had never disguised her overriding goal in this string of atrocities: to do away with her
husband’s
issue.
Too bad if that involved doing away with Ross’s wife as well. Dagmar could get away with it! Wherever they might hide, she
would eventually find them. Ross watched the moon, praying for black inspiration. Around six, when the moon sank and his brain
had become purest lead, he showered and kissed his wife good-bye. “Don’t get up,” he whispered. “I’ll call you later.”
He walked to the office and sketched as if this were a normal day. Marjorie arrived at seven in a knit dress that clung to
all swells and slopes. “Ross! When did you get here?”
“A little while ago. I couldn’t sleep.” His ragged voice confirmed that. “Dagmar called me at home last night. Wants me to
come to her place at nine. I have to go.”
Something was wrong. “Is there going to be trouble with her?”
“I hope not.” He put down his pencil. “I expect so.”
“Can’t you just drop the project? We haven’t billed her any-thing. She hasn’t offered to pay anything, either.”
“This goes back to Joe and Dana’s chapel. There’s bad blood. It’s personal.”
Marjorie put a hand on his shoulder. “What could she possibly do to you, Ross?”
“I don’t know. That’s what scares me.” He rubbed his cheek against her hand. “This is just between us, Marjie. It should blow
over in a few days.”
Sure!
“I’ll head off your appointments.” Marjorie returned to her desk. At eight-thirty, she found Ross staring out Dana’s window.
“Don’t let the old bag get you down,” she said, accompanying him to the elevator. “Remember, you can always throw her off
the balcony.” She winked as the doors closed.
Ross walked through the financial district as a hostile wind whipped between the skyscrapers, knifing pedestrians. Sunshine
singed his eyes. A hard frost crunched beneath his shoes as he cut across Boston Common. Promptly at nine, Ross nodded to
Dagmar’s doorman and caged himself in her small elevator. Before today, it had seemed to take hours to reach the top floor.
Now it rocketed upward. Dagmar stood behind the tenth door. She was wearing the pearls that so perfectly matched her hair.
“Good morning.” She smiled.
Ross smiled back. “How nice to see you again.”
She brought him to the little nook where they had first sat together. “I hope you don’t mind eating inside. It’s a bit windy
on the balcony.”
As she poured coffee, Ross looked at her jewelry. When she turned to serve him, he saw the little pearl brooch on her lapel.
“What a pretty pin, Dagmar,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”
“It’s an old family piece.” She settled back in her chair and got down to business. “I’m upset with you, Ross. You gave me
a nasty surprise yesterday.”
“What was nasty about it? The fact that you had no idea you were going to have to kill twins or that you only found out yesterday?”
Dagmar’s slender lips curled. “You know, after your eloquence the other night, I actually considered quitting ’while I was
ahead,’ as you put it. But now I see that your motivation was not concern for me, but concern for your wife.”
“It was for both of you.”
“I wish I could believe that. But I’m now a little worried that, in order to protect her, you might do something rash.”
“Like what? Tell the police? I don’t think so, Dagmar. We each have enough dirt to bury the other ten times over.”
“I was thinking of something a little more masculine than tattling to the police.”
“Oh, you thought I’d come up here and shoot you?” Ross stood up. “Go ahead. Frisk me.”
She did, slowly, lustfully. Ross thought he felt the floor rise when she dragged a hand between his legs. Finally Dagmar sat
down. “I don’t think you’re strong enough to throw me off a balcony.”
He walked to the tall windows overlooking the river, wishing with all his might that Dana were alive: Dana would have helped
him exterminate Dagmar. They could have taken her sailing, gotten out the fire ax, and used her for chum. Drowned her in wet
cement. Something like that. Anything. Without Dana, he was reduced to begging. “Emily won’t touch you, I guarantee it. Neither
will Philippa.”
“You can’t guarantee anything until we find Leo.”
“Then we’ll find Leo.”
“You might have to do more than find him,” Dagmar said.
Ah, there was the price tag: Leo for the twins. Ross didn’t know how he could pull off a murder. He was much better at suggesting
it to other, braver, people. “Where is he?”
“That’s for you to discover. You have exactly three days.”
Ross returned to the divan and tried to drink some coffee. “And if I fail?”
“Then I proceed with my own plans.”
He dropped his cup. The coffee spilled over his trousers and the couch. “Effff! Sorry!” Dagmar went to the kitchen and brought
back towels, watching as Ross vigorously swabbed the floor and Joe’s silk couch.
“I’ll get some soap,” she said.
Ross was wiping off a pillow when he noticed that a tiny orange tassel was missing. Odd, Emily had been talking about an orange
tassel just yesterday, in connection with ... with something. Ross couldn’t recall. Something lousy. A thick thread hung in
the gap, as if someone had torn the tassel out. Who who who: Aha, Slavomir, the drunk who drowned. He had had an orange tassel
in his pocket when they fished him out of the Fenway.
Hell!
An iceberg snapped; Dana rolled in his grave. Ross seized his miracle and yanked off another tassel.
He was tucking the pillow back in place when Dagmar returned. “No soap. Never mind. That divan’s not staying anyway.” She
resumed her seat. “I never knew you had such delicate
nerves. Here, eat something. These rolls came from Cafe Presto. I understand your wife used to work there.”
So Dagmar had been studying her quarry. Enraged, burning to break her neck, Ross took a cinnamon bun. “You know,” he said,
calmly taking a bite, “statutory rape is such a silly crime. Why should someone go to prison for letting nature take its course?
That Dubrinsky fellow, for instance. He must have lost a good twenty years of his life for no reason at all. Then to top it
off, his girl dumped him. No wonder he turned into a stinking drunk.”
“Who told you this?”
“Chefs, priests, deans ... it’s common knowledge.” Ross took another bite. “I figure he saw you the night you went to Diavolina.
Even with the hat and glasses, he recognized you. After forty years, that’s some compliment. I guess you brought him up here,
had a cozy chat about the good old days, showed him his statue, tried to get a fix on Leo....” Ross licked the sugar off his
fingers. “How’d you get him to drown, though?”
“Grain alcohol. I threw my glasses into the water and asked him to fetch. Siavomir always was a perfect gentleman. You’ll
never prove anything, Ross.”
“I wouldn’t even try.” He looked at his watch. “Guess I’d better start chasing Leo. I only have until nine o’clock—what is
it—Friday morning before you come after my wife.” He took one last walk past Joe’s beautiful women. They really were best
naked. Put clothes on them, let those brains fester over honor and soured love and
issue,
and they’d eat every man on the planet. “You’ll have to get me first, of course. Good-bye, Dagmar.”
Outside, a breeze ruffled the trees yellowing Commonwealth Avenue. Ross walked a few blocks to a pay phone and called Diavolina.
“Ward, please.”
“You again?” Klepp said. “Hold on.”
Ward came on the line almost at once. “Can you meet me in fifteen minutes in the Fenway? Near the Victory Gardens. Last time,
I promise.”
“This had better not ruin my day, mister,” she said.
“It will make your day.”
Ross continued up a bridge to the boggy Fenway. Tall reeds overran the park, providing cover for hedonists and stranglers.
He waited only briefly before Ward appeared. She looked, literally, tremendous. With no effort, he thought, she could snap
him in half. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. “No one followed you?” he asked.
“Please.” They headed toward the bulrushes. Like most sane citizens, Ross had always avoided the area. But going in there
with Ward was like going in there with Superman. When they were surrounded by reeds and muck, she stopped. “What’s on your
mind?”
“Slavomir Dubrinsky. Your dishwasher.” Ross handed her the little envelope he had taken from home that morning. “He gave this
to Emily.”
Ward looked at the picture of Dagmar and the note. “I don’t get it,” she said.
“Neither did Emily. Dubrinsky had pinned it to her T-shirt. She didn’t find it until a week after she moved out of Diavolina.”
‘“Leo is looking for you? Be careful?’ Why didn’t she bring it right to me?”
“Why should she?” Ross pointed to the photograph. “That’s Dagmar Pola. Young, of course.”
Ward looked again. “What’s she got to do with this?”
“She was the cupcake who bagged Slavomir for statutory rape. That was before you were born. More recently, she was at Diavolina
the night he drowned. At some point he must have looked into the dining room and recognized her.”
Ward’s face darkened as she remembered her dishwasher panicking for no apparent reason. “This is bullshit.”
“I don’t think so. When you saw O’Keefe at Guy Witten’s funeral, you asked how he was doing with Slavomir’s case. Obviously,
you don’t think the man drowned all by himself. Open your hand.” Ross dropped the orange tassel into it. “Look familiar?”
“Jesus Christ! Where’d you get this?”
“Dagmar’s apartment. From a pillow on her couch. I reckon that once she knew Slavomir had seen her at Diavolina, she invited
him up and served him a bit of grain alcohoL Tried to pry a little information out of him and got nowhere. So she took him
for a stroll over here. It’s five minutes from her place, I just walked it. Dagmar tossed her eyeglasses into the water and
asked her boy to fetch. He never made it back to shore.”
Ward sagged to the ground, as if she had been punched. “Why’d she do it?”
“To eliminate a witness. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Dagmar killed Dana. By mistake, of course. She was going for Philippa.
A couple weeks later she set you up to kill Ardith.”
“What do you mean, ’set me up’?”
“You don’t think Ardith would risk her widow’s mite by killing a second-rate actress, do you? She was being blackmailed by
Dagmar. When things got out of control, Dagmar played you like a violin with that story of your little sister and Dana.”
“That was no story. Ardith confirmed everything.”
That must have been a pleasant scene. “What did you do, corner her on the balcony?”
“I happened to find her out there staring at the moon. Introduced myself, told her about Rita and one red shoe ... she just
stood there with her mouth open. I knew it was true.”
Dagmar was such a clever devil. “How did you get Ardith off the balcony without her screaming bloody murder?”
“Gave her a little chop in the back of the neck. After that, she never knew what hit her.”
Ross shut his eyes. “You do realize that Dagmar owns you forever now.” He suddenly squatted in the mud next to Ward. “We have
got to get rid of her. Soon.”
“What’s in it for you this time?”
“When Dagmar gets done with Philippa, she’s coming after Emily. She thinks they’re her husband’s illegitimate daughters.”
Ward burst into that depraved laughter. “Are they?”
“I hope not. Leo’s got the paperwork. Incidentally, Dagmar made me a deal. If I get rid of Leo, she’ll lay off Emily. I’ve
got until Friday morning.”
“What’s Leo got to do with this?”
“I’m not sure. Did he ever mention anything to you?”
“No. Leo’s a private man.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“No more than you, I’d say.” Ward put her head between her knees for such a long time that Ross thought she was ill. “Go away,
Major,” she said finally. “I’m thinking.”
He left the Fens.
Deep in the night, Emily felt Ross slip from the bed. She knew he had gone to the atrium, there to stare at the sky, perhaps
to drift into troubled dreams. She didn’t dare follow him; he might ask a few questions that she was not yet prepared to answer.
Instead, she thought about Guy. Had he really replaced her so quickly with another woman, as Bert and Lois thought? If so,
Emily didn’t feel quite so beatific about making him a posthumous father. In fact, she would rather have an abortion, rather
have no children at all, than pass off his accidental child as her husband’s. The guilt of that would surpass anything she
had known. Bastard! Who was the other woman? Was there one at all? Emily had to find out, and soon: The child’s survival depended
on it.
After Ross had crept in at dawn and kissed her good-bye, she had gone to Cafe Presto. Bert was there alone, opening up. With
the keys she had somehow never flung in Guy’s face, Emily unlocked the front door. “It’s me, Bert,” she called, walking in.
“Lois told me this is your last day here.”
“You’re damn right. This place is hell now.” He stacked a few croissants in their baskets. “Who would have ever thought so
a month ago?”