Devil's Food (24 page)

Emily returned Ward’s even stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Would you like to hear about my visits to our
suppliers yesterday? Or would you rather go home and take a shower?”

“Neither.” Ward grabbed the phone and punched in a number. “I keep getting Byron’s answering machine. Something’s wrong. I
can smell it.”

Emily did not have the courage to confirm Ward’s suspicions. “Give him another hour,” she said. Then the phone rang. Emily
cringed as Ward picked it up.

“Hi, Jimmy,” Ward said. “Where’s your boyfriend?” She listened a moment, then cried. “How is that possible? When? Where? How
did he get to New York? What for? Who?” Awful silences interspersed the questions. Finally the squawking on the other end
of the phone ended. “Thank you for telling me,”
Ward said rather calmly, “Let me know if I can help in any way.” After hanging up, she turned to Emily. “You know what that
was all about, don’t you.”

“Not really.”

Ward considered that a moment. “Well, I’ll tell you. My souschef is dead.” She walked toward the door, then paused. “And you’re
fired. Get out of my restaurant. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

She left.

Tossing dirt on my husband’s coffin was the greatest triumph of my life. The soft spritz of earth against steel was like a
slap in the face, waking me from a long sleep; at that moment, I knew I had finally won. Free at last! I had not felt so ecstatic,
so alive, since
—
since the day I married him. But that was many years, many women ago, and I was an innocent bursting with love and dreams.
And he was so handsome.... May you rot in hell, my dear. I will not mourn you at all. I’ll keep your money, of course: I earned
it, cent by cent, every time you crawled into bed at two in the morning smelling of another woman’s soap, and I pretended
to be asleep. I earned it when you stopped bothering with even that courtesy and came home reeking like a goat, then had the
gall to pat my bottom before you turned out the light, oh so grateful the sleepy little woman was there warming your bed,
keeping your house, depending on your talent and largesse. Made you feel like a hero, didn’t I? You would need to feel noble,
of course; every louse does. And you would need to believe that you were cleverer than I, that I suspected nothing because
you eventually came home every night, so tired from work, poor fellow. It all comes out in the end, you see; I finally did
collect a dime for every time I bit my tongue, smiled, and allowed you to continue your pathetic little charade. Now that
you’re dead, I lie awake at night wondering why I let you get away with it for so long. Pure laziness, perhaps. I didn’t want
to leave my house. You were hardly in it anyway. And, after the first couple
dozen of your whores, I truly didn’t care how clever or noble you thought you were. I didn’t care whether you smiled or cried,
bumped your head or met the President, as long as you left me alone. An intelligent woman can always find ways to keep herself
busy as she waits and hopes for her husband to die. In the beginning, every time you came to bed tinged with another woman
s perfume, I bought myself a nice piece of jewelry. Soon I realized that I had no place to wear it all, so I joined arts councils
and hospital boards, where I noticed many other women with clever husbands and heavy jewelry. I saw how artfully they used
their worthless spouses1 names to get what they wanted: money for a new dialysis machine, support for an exhibition ... and
I saw how they kept themselves terrifically fit for their lovers. I learned, and kept my own secret garden. You never had
a clue, of course. The possibility of your own inadequacy never crossed your mind.

My house feels so different now that I know you’ll never be intruding again. You won’t be clunking around the bathroom at
two in the morning, just when I’ve fallen asleep. Your girlfriends won’t be hanging up when I answer the phone. Best of all,
I’ll never have to hear you call me darling or love as you make excuses for missing dinner. Good riddance, dear. The only
thing about you I’m going to miss is my birthday present, or should I say, your annual gesture of atonement. But now I can
buy my own. This year I might throw myself a party instead, invite all my friends. Or I might go to Europe. I’m certainly
going to redecorate my house. I’ve been waiting for years to get rid of your awful den and that billiard table. I might even
get rid of your dog.

Just one thing puzzles me: Now that our farce of a marriage is history, I don’t understand why I’m not sleeping better. Somehow,
I still feel robbed. And I keep seeing Philippa Banks every time I shut my eyes. You loved her much more than you ever loved
me, didn’t you? How could you help it? She’s a beautiful woman, really, so confident, almost godlike. But she should never
have gone out to dinner with Dandy Dana. I caught that slut fair and square. Removing her would amuse, perhaps heal,
me; I dont want anything you cherished to remain. A widow’s bitterness burns forever; and I’ve always had a terrible need
for revenge. Now I’ve finally got the money to support the appetite. “Don’t you dare touch her!” I can almost hear you scream
from the grave. Ah, how you make me laugh, my dear. Go feed the worms.

Fired: After Ward left her office, Emily took the picture of Ross off her desk and tucked it into her purse. She spent a few
moments rooting around her drawers for other personal items that she had brought to Diavolina: a few recipe cards, fountain
pen, spare T-shirt. ... She hadn’t been here long enough to accumulate much. Where the hell were those snapshots Jimmy had
taken of Philippa and Dana last week? Not here; she must have brought them home. After stuffing everything into a tote bag,
Emily glanced one last time around her office, memorizing it for her bad dreams. Since her arrival a week ago, three people
had died. Guy and Ross, the only men she loved, were inexorably slipping away from her. Funny that all this dissolution no
longer made the slightest dent on her emotions. What she really wanted to do was go home and watch television.

“Good-bye, gentlemen,” she called to Klepp and Mustapha, cruising through the kitchen and patting them both on the back. “It’s
been a blast.”

Klepp stopped breaking eggs into a large bowl. “What’s this all about?”

“Ward will explain everything.” Emily pushed open the rear door.

Oof: Detective O’Keefe, standing outside, stumbled backward. Only by lunging for the rusty handrail did he prevent himself
from toppling to the driveway. Emily caught up with him in the middle of the stairs. “I’m sorry! Are you all right?”

“Sure.” He inelegantly regained his feet and brushed a swath of red dust from his shirt. “Going somewhere?”

“Home. I just got fired.”

“You did? What for?”

“Ask Ward.” Emily walked hastily to Tremont Street, O’Keefe at her heels. “Let’s not be coy, Detective. I just spoke with
my sister in New York. I’m aware that Byron died last night. If you know how, please tell me.”

O’Keefe pulled a fax from his pocket. “An inquiry from the NYPD. Looks like your friend Byron had a serious drug overdose.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Byron had been sober as an owl when he was trying to meet Simon. But Emily couldn’t tell that to O’Keefe,
of course. She snatched the fax and read a postmortem fact sheet concise and mundane as a speeding ticket. “Byron didn’t do
drugs,” she said finally, handing it back.

“Whatever you say. After all, you knew him for—what was it—nine whole days.” O’Keefe studied her face. “I guess he swallowed
eighty cc’s of high-grade heroin by mistake.”

“Swallowed?”

“That’s what the report says. He seems to have ingested it with some kind of dried fruit. Cherries or cranberries or something.
Couldn’t hack needles, apparently. What was Byron doing at that party?”

“I have no idea,” Emily croaked. Heroin in the cherries? “He was a fan of my sister’s. Used to be an actor himself.”

“So he drove two hundred miles to New York for a movie opening? That’s what I call real devotion. Did anyone from Diavolina
know he was going to this bash?”

“Byron told everyone he was going to his grandmother’s ninetieth-birthday party.”

“Why would he keep something like that a secret? Especially from you?”

Because Byron knew better than to take sides between his boss and his idol. “I don’t know.” Emily stopped at Exeter Street.
“Why did you come looking for me with such lousy news? I had nothing to do with Byron’s death.”

“No. Maybe your sister did, though. Did she and Byron go back a long way?”

“I think they went back one week. But I could be wrong. Why?”

“Your sister was at the scene of two—shall we say—sudden deaths. That’s rather unusual.”

Just fishing or was he circling like a buzzard overhead? Emily briefly considered telling O’Keefe all about the
Choke Hold
masquerade, then decided against it: too many deceptions involved. “Philippa has a flair for melodrama.”

O’Keefe took Emily s arm as they passed through a cluster of rowdy teenagers, not letting go until half a block later. When
he did, he dropped the topic of Philippa as well. “How well did Byron get along with people at the restaurant?”

“Well enough to get food out of the kitchen.”

“Did he aggravate anyone in particular?”

“No, he aggravated everyone equally. Why?”

“I’ve been doing some research on the employees at Diavolina,” O’Keefe said. “Are you aware that Klepp, Mustapha, and Yip
Chick have all been convicted of felonies? That little girl Francesca’s served ten years for armed robbery. Ward has a file
of assault-and-battery charges about a mile long. Apparently she enjoys getting comments about her physique, then kicking
the person’s head in. About thirty years ago, the maître d’was acquitted by a hair of murdering his wife. As for your friend
Byron, before becoming a chef, he was a rather popular prostitute in the Combat Zone. Calling himself an actor would be stretching
his CV, to say the least. That useless dishwasher served twenty years for statutory rape. Looks like a prison term is a prerequisite
for working at Diavolina.”

Stunned by O’Keefe’s information, Emily remained silent. After another block, he asked, “How did you get your job there?”

“Ward hired me.”

“On what grounds?”

“She needed a chef, I needed a job. What are you trying to say?”

“I’m telling you that something’s odd and I’m glad you’re out of there. Promise me you won’t go back.”

“I won’t.” Should she tell him about the dried cherries she had given to Byron? Yes. Now. No. Later? Gad, lies were so confusing!
Emily and O’Keefe walked in silence past the pristinely restored brownstones of the South End. Cars chugged by, hem-orrhaging
rock and rap. It was another perfect autumn morning, when crinkly brown leaves on the sidewalk inspired thoughts of cider
and chestnuts rather than of the drear winter ahead.

The detective’s beeper went off. He was needed at a break-in on Milk Street. “Stay in touch,” he said to Emily. “What are
you going to do, look for another job?”

Try look for another life. “I might go on a little vacation first.”

O’Keefe noticed the
I
rather than the
we
and, having seen Ross Major at his black best, was not surprised that Emily might want to run away from it all for a while.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes up. Meanwhile, be careful. Call me if anything seems unusual.” He cut off toward the
Common.

Emily walked quickly on, shuddering. Death by cherries? Very clever, except the wrong person had swallowed them. How had they
gotten into that last round of drinks?
Think.
Close bursts of laughter, clinking glasses, the smell of roses and chicken teriyaki came back to her, then the redhead Agatha,
swooning over Simon, carrying a small tray with just their drinks on it. Emily remembered that her vodka had been oddly warm,
almost room temperature; at the time, she had attributed it to bartender overload. With a bovine smile, Agatha had served
them; two seconds later, she was gone, an inconsequential speck in a silly charade. An accident?