Devil's Food (18 page)

“Oh yes. But not recently. He’s been hiking in India for the last three months.”

The woman finally left. Philippa still couldn’t remember which rag she wrote for. Probably one of those magazines that cranked
out slop about movie stars, fudge-sundae diets, and Better Sex with Your Husband month after month. Maybe Simon
had set up that last interview as a warning. She called him in Hollywood. “I’m done, dear.”

“You saw everyone? Great.”

“Any progress with the head nurse?”

“Still working on it, babe. Give me a little time. It’s been total anarchy here today. Hey, your sister called a few hours
ago. Wanted your number. I didn’t give it to her.”

“ Why not?”

“How do I know that’s not some crazy going to rape you?”

“Give me a break, Simon. You know Emily’s voice. It sounds just like mine.” A little less strident, perhaps. “Did she say
what she wanted?”

“She was wondering how you were feeling. Were you sick or something?”

“Of course not! You know I’ve got the constitution of a mule.” Damned if she was going to tell Simon about any health problem
above a hangnail. He’d stop trying to get her work altogether.

Philippa heard him flick his platinum cigarette lighter and inhale deeply. “I’m taking the red-eye to New York tonight,” Simon
said. “That way I’ll have all afternoon to put the finishing touches on the opening.” Hoping for kinder press, Simon had organized
the premiere of
Choke Hold
into a gala AIDS benefit. Most of Philippa’s fans were gay, after all. “Go to bed early tonight. I want you looking twenty-one
years old tomorrow.”

Sure, pal. Bring your time machine. Philippa hung up and uncorked a small bottle of champagne, nature’s own Alka-Seltzer.
When her stomach unwound a bit, she called Diavolina. “Emily Major, please,” she commanded. “This is her sister.”

“Hi Phil,” Ward replied. “You don’t know me but I run the joint. Thanks for coming in the other night. Sorry about the boyfriend.
I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to cause a major disturbance in my restaurant. Anyway, business has been up ever since. We
finally moved our last four cases of blush wine. Your fans drink it like fish. Come up for another dinner sometime. Choose
your company carefully, though.” Hearing no response,
Ward said, “Hold on, I think Emily’s breaking up a fight in the kitchen.” She dropped the phone.

After a while, Emily came on the line. “Philippa?”

“Who was that?” her sister demanded. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”

“Ward. She’s been under some stress lately. How do you feel?”

“Much better. Simon says you called.”

“I did. Why’d you play that trick on Dr. Woo?”

Having expected further solicitations upon her health, not an accusatory question, Philippa needed a moment to answer. “Because
you said not to involve your restaurant!”

“So you pretended to be me instead? That was pretty stupid. If you got sick from Diavolina, we’re in big trouble.”

“Why? I’m not going to report you. Neither is Dana.”

“Think, Philippa. Do you remember anything tasting funny on Dana’s boat?”

“No. We stuck to champagne, smoked salmon, and sex organs.”

“How about at Diavolina then? Could you give me a rundown of the dinner?”

There was a short silence as Philippa desperately tried to remember what she had eaten. When surrounded by adoring fans, she
paid less attention to food than to the visual effect of delicately chewing it. “We started off with rolls, I think. Then
we had—eh ...” What the hell was that dark, syrupy appetizer? Snails? Beans? Aha! “Mushrooms in port. They tasted a little
like mildew.”

Emily frowned. So much for Byron’s sorcery as
saucier.
“Then what?”

“A friend of Dana’s sent drinks from the bar. The four dried cherries tasted awfully sour.”

Great, just great. “Who was the friend?”

“I think it was Ardith’s aerobics instructor. Dana was not pleased to be seen.”

“Wait a moment, how did Ardith know he’d be at Diavolina with you?”

“ No idea, I sure didn’t tell hen I doubt Dana did. Maybe the guy just hung out there.”

Emily sighed. “Then you had the main course?”

“Yes. Steak. There were potatoes and spinach, I think.”

“Swiss chard. And how did that taste? More mildew?”

“No! It was great. Delicious. Perfect.” Philippa didn’t mention that that idiot in the kitchen had given her a nearly raw
steak; Emily sounded upset enough already. “We ate everything.”

“Then what?”

Then Dana left and Guy Witten had come to Philippa’s table. Philippa decided to skip that detail as well. “We had dessert.
Berries and whipped cream. Superb.”

“Did you drink anything else?”

“We drank a lot. I don’t remember exactly what. Nothing unusual, though.”

“And you haven’t eaten anything since?”

“No. I’ve been fasting.”

“Why was Dr. Woo asking me about raw eggs and steak tartare, then?”

“I made it up. He had me over a barrel, Em. Then the stupid twit tried to give me a shot.”

Emily could just imagine that tender scene. “Over the weekend, did you see Dana take any antidepressant pills?”

“Nothing. Never. Why?”

“He apparently died from mixing them with wine and cheese.”

“How absurd. Send that pathologist back to med school. Dana didn’t take any pills.”

“You mean you didn’t see him take any,” Emily corrected. “How’s your stomach feeling?”

“This champagne seems to be staying down.”

Emily heard a howl; time to return to the kitchen. “What’s your schedule for the next few days?”

“Tomorrow’s the opening of
Choke Hold.
Interested in coming to New York? Simon’s organized a bash.”

“I’ll ask Ross. He could use a little comic relief.”

“I’m at the Plaza. Let me know.”

Emily returned to the kitchen. The howl had come from Byron, who had burned himself at the stove while casting lingering glances
at the new dishwasher’s gluteus maximus. Emily waited until his hand was submerged in ice water before approaching. “Byron,
I’d like you to take over for a few mornings. I’m going to visit all our suppliers.”

He inspected two red fingertips. “What for? They all come here.”

“I’d like to see their operations.”

“No problem. Stay as long as you like.” Byron glanced toward Slavomir’s replacement, hoping he had impressed him.

Emily located Ward at the bar. “I understand you had a few words with my sister.”

Ward looked wearily up from her highball. “Bitchy little number, isn’t she?”

“Not really. Sounds like she’s had food poisoning.”

“From here?”

“I’m not sure. I’d like to check out our sources.”

“What do you think you’re going to find?”

“Nothing, I hope.”

“Who’s going to run the kitchen?”

“Byron.”

“Oy.” Ward chewed on a maraschino cherry for several moments. “Is this really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“All right. You have two days. Beginning tomorrow.” Ward returned to her bourbon and barbells.

After speaking with Emily, Philippa ate four pieces of toast and waited an hour. When no intestinal repercussions occurred,
she picked up the phone and dialed the number at the bottom of the flyer she had found in Emily’s kitchen drawer. “Guy Witten,
please.”

“Is that you, Emily?” asked the voice at the other end. “Maybe you should hold off. Guy’s been on a rampage ever since you
left.”

“That’s asinine,” Philippa snapped. “Go put him on.”

The phone cracked against a hard surface. “Guy! Phone!”

Footsteps. Then he roughly said, “Yes?”

“I have to see you,” Philippa whispered. “Tonight.”

Complete silence. “For what purpose?” Guy asked finally.

“You’ll see. Ten o’ clock. Tell me where.” Again that long, black silence: Philippa knew he was debating whether or not to
slam down the phone. “Please,” she said.

“Here.” Then he slammed down the phone.

Whew, Emily had latched on to a real meteor. Philippa briefly wondered if she should postpone introducing herself to Guy until
he had given up on her sister. But that might take years, perhaps forever, and she no longer had the time, or the confidence,
to wait. Better to make a quick foray tonight, assess her chances of acquiring the gentleman, and withdraw so she could plan
her next move. Philippa went to the closet and tried on half a dozen outfits that might pass her off as Emily. She finally
settled on a red scarf, heavy tortoiseshell glasses, a black cape, and high leather boots, the most subdued items on hand.
Her disguise was so effective that, although many stared, not one passenger on the shuttle from La Guardia to Logan asked
for her autograph. Bolstering her courage with a few glasses of champagne on the flight, Philippa took a cab to Quincy Market.
As she sat under a gas lamp, waiting for ten o’clock, Philippa watched several couples walk by. How was it possible that so
many plain-looking women had managed to find partners? Did the men in this town really prefer brains to beauty? With increasing
melancholy, Philippa observed young couples jabbering oblivously by. Older couples, not quite as talkative, smiled genially
in her direction. Not a soul tried to pick her up. Finally, when she heard the tower clock strike ten, Philippa snapped out
of her reverie. Normally, she’d keep a man waiting fifteen minutes, half an hour. But Emily would definitely be on time.

Mummifying herself with her black cape, Philippa maneuvered over the cobblestones toward a narrow street behind Quincy Market.
Whenever the wind let up, she could see her breath. Suddenly she felt nervous. What had possessed her to
come to Boston tonight? Besides marrying her second, third, fourth and fifth husbands, this was the rashest thing she had
done in thirty years. What would she say to Guy once she had him in a dark corner? What if he wasn’t quite flattered at her
attention? What if he was the Accept No Substitutes type? One kiss, one whiff of her perfume, and he’d know she was an impostor.
A fresh wave of nausea overturned Philippa’s stomach. She should find a cab, get the hell out of here; there were still two
more flights to New York tonight. No one need ever know she had been mewling shamelessly at her sister’s boyfriend.

“Lost?” inquired a nearby voice.

Philippa jumped. A man stood at her side, smiling warmly. “Not at all,” she huffed, marching forward.

He not only kept up, but took her arm. “Need an escort? These streets get mighty deserted this time of night.”

Philippa hit him square in the face with her Gucci handbag, a deceptively heavy receptacle thanks to the makeup, keys, and
coins crammed therein. Its buckle snagged briefly on the man’s ear before tearing free. “Go away,” she screamed, digging in
her pocket. “I have a gun.”

“Easy now,” he croaked, covering his ear. “I thought you were someone else.”

The man took off. Philippa reeled into the entryway of Cafe Presto and pounded on the door. Where the hell was Guy? She rapped
harder, nearly punching her knuckles through the glass. Finally she saw a figure hurry out from the recesses of the restaurant.

Guy swiftly unlocked the door. “Lose your key, dear?”

“Shut up! I nearly got mugged!” Philippa tumbled inside. “Christ, this town is full of perverts! Can’t a lady go for a fucking
walk anymore?”

Guy looked at her oddly. “Are you all right, Emily?”

“Yes, yes,” Philippa replied impatiently, dropping into a chair near the window. Shit! The harshest word in Emily’s vocabulary
was probably
darn!
Philippa slipped off her red scarf, shaking her head so that her heavy wig obscured her face, and shifted her
chair so that she was perfectly situated in the shadow of a street-lamp. “Well, sit down.”

“Here?” Guy asked. Emily had always preferred his office. “Don’t tell me you’re going public.”

Philippa snorted. “I don’t see many witnesses, do you?”

Wondering whether he should have skipped that third vodka gimlet, Guy did as he was told. From the other side of the small
table, he studied her handsome, shadowed face. Emily had never ordered him around before. Her manner vaguely confused him;
by ten o’clock, Emily was usually tired, a little blue, very soft. Tonight she was all porcupine. And that silly cape! She
had nearly tripped over it twice already with those mile-high heels. Obviously she was still fooling around with a new image.
He studied her bemusedly for a few moments. Then Guy remembered how Emily had dressed the other night in Diavolina, and with
whom she had been dining. His smile faded. “I’m surprised you’re not home consoling your husband,” he said finally.

“Why weren’t you at the funeral?” Philippa shot back. “I could have used some moral support.”

“Surely you jest. You never wanted me within ten miles of Ross. Did the ground rules change when you started screwing his
partner?”

“My, my, you are a jealous boy. I never touched Dana. He called me on the spur of the moment. I simply joined him for a bite
of dinner.”

“In that incredibly slutty outfit? Give me a break.”

Philippa smiled wanly; Guy knew nothing about her existence. Obviously, he hadn’t spoken to Emily in the last few days. And
he knew how to fight back. She wondered if he had ever been divorced. “Sorry you didn’t like my outfit. Everyone else did.
Why were you spying on me?”

“Think again, dear. I called you that afternoon and said I had to see you.”

Philippa laughed lightly, groping for an appropriate reply. “It slipped my mind.”

“Obviously,” Guy growled. He hadn’t come here to be
taunted and abused. Quite the opposite, in fact. “I just loved seeing you smeared all over the biggest schmuck in Boston.”

“Dana had a number of redeeming qualities,” Philippa said airily. “Only a woman would appreciate them, of course.”

“Really? Tell that to the women he’s trashed.”

Realizing that this conversation was not taking on the cuddly overtones she had anticipated, Philippa started to cry. Throughout
her life, tears had extricated her from more sticky situations than a pair of wings would have. “How can you be so cruel,”
she wept. “Dana was one of my oldest, dearest friends. These past few days have been horrible.”