He dried the dog and turned on the sauna. Leaving Benny to dry in the workroom, he went upstairs for his robe. The sauna relaxed him, sweated out his terrors, and the dry heat and wet cold that the shower provided left him mellow and relaxed. As he pa.s.sed the sun-room on the way back to the sauna he noted that the browning had increased on the orchids' petals and the stems had begun to bend. Looking closely, he inspected the plants, then dug his hands into the soil. The odor on his fingertips was vaguely familiar, like the foam that had spewed out of the fire extinguisher. It couldn't be. Another sniff confirmed his suspicion. Not Barbara, he thought. Hadn't she loved his orchids? Cimbidium was one of the few species that could be nourished indoors, and getting them to grow had been both a challenge and a ch.o.r.e. Not Barbara. Was she capable of that? Again he smelled his fingers. The odor was unmistakable. The confirmation removed his doubts. They were his orchids. His. His. For him to be the recipient of her wrath was one thing, but to vent one's frustration on a defenseless orchid was criminal. She's a murderess, he told himself. And a murderess must be punished. For him to be the recipient of her wrath was one thing, but to vent one's frustration on a defenseless orchid was criminal. She's a murderess, he told himself. And a murderess must be punished.

He stormed about the house, thirsting for revenge, seeking a fitting punishment for this hideous crime. He went into the kitchen. Her domain. Opening cabinets, he looked over the myriad arrays of cooking equipment and foods, searching for something, although nothing specific had occurred to him.

Then he saw the neat silver bricks in the refrigerator. Removing one, he unwrapped it and sniffed at the meat. Of course, he thought with antic.i.p.atory pleasure. He contemplated the labels on. the spice rack, removing containers of ginger, curry powder, and salt. Then he poured huge quant.i.ties over the loaf, kneaded them into the mix, and reshaped it to fit the tinfoil. He repeated the process with the other six bricks, using different spices, subst.i.tuting sugar for salt, relishing the impending confusion as Barbara's customers argued among themselves what it was that had polluted the taste.

In the sauna he mourned the orchids, but the manner of his revenge had more than a.s.suaged his sense of grief. He lay back on the redwood slats and felt the delicious heat sink into his flesh. For a moment the emptiness receded as he thought of the answer he had given to her message of death.

14.

Harry Thurmont bore the brunt of her rage. Barbara had hurried over to his office after a most debilitating conversation with the Greek amba.s.sador's wife.

'She said her guests were polite until two of them vomited, one directly on the table.'

'That must have put a damper on things,' Thurmont said, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile.

'You're not taking this seriously, Harry. It's sabotage.'

She was trying to control herself, to be cerebral rather than emotional. But her morning had been awful, absolutely awful. She had been summoned to the emba.s.sy at seven A.M A.M. The Amba.s.sador and Mrs. Petrakis met her in the dining room, which smelled unmistakably of vomit. Without a word, they led her into the kitchen to view the evidence.

'Taste,' the amba.s.sador ordered. Their faces were dead white, their eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Barbara sniffed at the loaves, from which emanated peculiar odors.

'Taste.' The amba.s.sador repeated his order. From his wife's face Barbara could draw no pity, and she dutifully put a lump of meat in her mouth, spitting it out immediately.

'A caterer. You call yourself a caterer. You poisoned my guests.'

She was too shocked to offer any explanation. Besides, her throat was paralyzed from humiliation.

'At first I thought the Turks had put you up to it.' 'The Turks?'

Then I decided I wouldn't dignify this sort of thing by putting it on the level of a diplomatic incident.' His anger was accelerating. 'It tastes like s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t s.h.i.t,' he began to shout as his wife tried to calm him. he began to shout as his wife tried to calm him.

Barbara had run from the house in tears.

'I really believe we have an actionable issue here,' she said calmly to Thurmont. 'It's what we've been waiting for. He deliberately ruined the food.' The memory made her stomach turn. 'Not to mention the damage to my business. The loss of a client.'

Thurmont stroked his chin.

'You have proof?'

'Who else could it be? I believe in Ann.' She found herself strangely hesitant as the memory of Ann on Christmas Eve floated into her memory. Something barely detectable had surfaced and her mind fished for it. She had, she remembered, sensed the presence of Oliver in the library, a fleeting sensation, just below the level of consciousness. She let the idea pa.s.s for the moment as Thurmont interrupted her thoughts.

'It won't hold up, Barbara. We could hara.s.s. But we won't win in a way that will satisfy you. It won't get him out of the house.'

'He'll admit it. He'll have to admit it under oath.'

'Barbara, do me a favor. Stop practicing law. Becoming an object of ridicule won't help your case.'

She felt the provocation and her anger erupted.'The orchids weren't a big deal. Not in comparison.''The orchids?'

She hadn't intended to tell him, but now her words overflowed. She had told about the Christmas-tree fire but had left out the matter of the orchids.

'Christmas was ruined. I was throwing out buckets of foam. I saw the orchids and they made me angry. I'm afraid it wasn't very rational. Besides, I didn't know the stuff would kill them. That is, I wasn't sure. I wanted them injured. Not dead.' He looked at her and shook his head in mock rebuke. She wondered when he would point a finger at her and say, Shame, shame.

'The name of the game is discipline, Barbara.'"It's easy for you to say.'"And I can't be available at every little crisis.'

'Little crisis.' She glared at him. 'Harry, I can't lock up my food. I intend to make this business my livelihood. Why should he interfere with that? It's .. . it's cruel, heartless.' crisis.' She glared at him. 'Harry, I can't lock up my food. I intend to make this business my livelihood. Why should he interfere with that? It's .. . it's cruel, heartless.'

'It's just that you need something more .. . more damaging. More bizarre.'

'You didn't do much with breaking and entering,' Barbara huffed. But what he said had triggered the errant thought again of Ann and Christmas Eve.

'Something with moral turpitude,' Thurmont continued. 'You need a real hook.'

'Like another woman?'

'Not necessarily.' He looked at her shrewdly. 'You need something that is damaging enough for a judge to say he'd better get out. It's a bad influence on the kids. A danger.'

Oliver was there. In the library on Christmas Eve. She was certain. She had sensed it, dismissed it. Little, innocent Ann.

'At least one good thing has come out of this,' Thurmont said. 'Oliver can be provoked. If only the provocation wasn't so obvious. The thing you must avoid is the appearance of t.i.t for tat. Judges don't appreciate that. It puts everything on a lower plane and the tendency is to compromise, which is exactly what we want to avoid.'

'All right, Harry,' she said smugly. 'I won't be obvious.'

What was obvious was that Harry Thurmont and the law could provide only the most limited of options. She was beginning to understand the process. He came around from his desk and stood before her.

'I have absolutely no objection to your driving him crazy, Barbara. But if he knows you're trying to drive him crazy, he won't go crazy. Do you understand that?'

'Perfectly.' She smiled demurely, thinking about her new idea. He studied her in silence for a long moment.

'You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.'

'Not swallowed, Harry. I've just discovered it chirping in its cage.'

She had never really thought of the conception of Eve as an act of deceit. Loving, she had believed once, was more than just being together. Loving needed something tangible to validate it. And family wasn't real family without children. It was difficult now to rea.s.sess her state of mind at the time. It was too foreign to the present, to the end of love.

What she concluded was that her deliberate conception of Eve had not been out of love but out of fear. Perhaps it was merely intuitive at the time. Perhaps too, subconsciously, she had been frightened that her marriage was all there was or would ever be, a long, endless plateau of sameness. Oliver, off to school each day. Soon he would be off to a job, with meeting people, colleagues and clients. She loved those words, so exotic, full of promise and adventure. He, doing marvellous, exciting things. She, off to work at some dead-end job, doing silly things like demonstrating kitchen gadgets or selling ladies' underwear. Then, off to home, to prepare their dinner, to wait for her sun to rise. Him Him. The world was him. At the time, she must have thought it was the most wonderful way to live a life. Yet something, she must have sensed, was missing. The world was him. At the time, she must have thought it was the most wonderful way to live a life. Yet something, she must have sensed, was missing. Something Something. She was so sure then that it was a child. What was a woman's life without a child? Nature had decreed it to happen, hadn't it? It became her most pressing ambition. To have his child. She was so sure then that it was a child. What was a woman's life without a child? Nature had decreed it to happen, hadn't it? It became her most pressing ambition. To have his child. His. His. That was why she had named the baby Eve. Joshua had come after that time had pa.s.sed, merely because it seemed indecent to have an only child, and it was carefully planned that he would arrive just when Eve started nursery school. It was a time to be practical. That was why she had named the baby Eve. Joshua had come after that time had pa.s.sed, merely because it seemed indecent to have an only child, and it was carefully planned that he would arrive just when Eve started nursery school. It was a time to be practical.

Looking at things in retrospect wasn't really fair, she decided, deriding the idea of 'fair.' Nothing was fair. Even the thought came to her in Harry Thurmont's voice, because he had said that to her and she had been immediately convinced.

'Fair is weather. Fair is not so good. Fair is a shindig. But fair is not life.'

'Do you think he has any ladyfriends?' she had asked Ann one day. Her back was turned as she labored over a huge colander in one of the sinks, laying out leaves of romaine lettuce for a batch of salade nicoise salade nicoise she was making for a luncheon later that day. It was morning. The kids had just been sent off to school and Ann was lingering over a second cup of coffee. she was making for a luncheon later that day. It was morning. The kids had just been sent off to school and Ann was lingering over a second cup of coffee.

Ann did not respond.

'Ladyfriends,' Barbara repeated. 'I mean it seems logical. What do you think he does every night? After all, a man is different from a woman.'

When Ann still hadn't responded, Barbara turned toward her. 'What do you think?' she pressed.

'I have no idea,' Ann answered avoiding Barbara's eyes. Clever b.i.t.c.h, Barbara thought.

'He's still a man.'*I haven't had much experience.'

Barbara sensed Ann's discomfort and proceeded cautiously.

'Do you suppose he's seeing prost.i.tutes?' she wondered aloud. 'I doubt that.'

The response was whispered, almost furtive.

'You do? Why so?' Barbara turned again to watch her cope with her confusion, sure now that Ann was responding to the bait.

'He just doesn't seem like that kind of person,' Ann said, her face flushing. Barbara pressed on.

'Men don't really care where they put it. They seem to have a very low threshold of pleasure compared to women. I never did understand it. That thing of his. Always saluting. How do they carry that around with them all the time? Like a popgun ready to go off.'

She had gotten up and brought the cup and saucer to the dishwasher, sliding the rack out and placing them on it. - 'I hope I'm not embarra.s.sing you, Ann,' Barbara said. 'I suppose he's unhappy as h.e.l.l. Probably thinks I put a detective on his trail. Not so. It doesn't really matter. He could even have an affair in this house and it wouldn't matter.' She held her breath.

'It's none of my business,' Ann protested, unable to hide her irritation.

'I know, Ann.' She paused. 'Actually, I wish it would happen. Another woman might solve things for us.'

'What about another man? For you?'Barbara laughed.'I'm not going to fall into that trap so easily again.' 'Trap?''It is a trap, Ann.'

'And love?' Ann asked. The question seemed reckless, involuntary.

'Love? What's your opinion?' Barbara turned in time to see Ann blush scarlet. Good, she thought, remembering love.

'I have no opinion.'

'Come now, Ann,' Barbara snapped. 'Surely you've had that I-can't-live-without-you feeling. That clutching of the heart, those palpitations of desire.'

'I don't think about it,' Ann replied nervously. 'I'm too busy with my studies.'

'Don't you?''It's not a priority. That's all.'

Perhaps she had gone too far. Certainly she had stirred things up. She retreated quickly, sure now of this newly discovered weapon. Yet she was fond of Ann, and using this tactic made Barbara uncomfortable.

'I'm sorry, Ann,' she said, half sincerely. 'It's beginning to get to me. All this strain. Perhaps if I went away. Maybe up to Boston to visit my parents. And took the kids.' She was being deliberately hypothetical, waiting for some reaction. But none came. Ann got up and started to move away.

'What do you think?' Barbara asked hurriedly.'About what?' Ann asked.'About me going away for a weekend with the kids.' 'I don't know, Barbara.'

You know exactly what to think, Ann, Barbara thought, laying the anchovies on the salad mound.

15.

The children's excitement at going to Boston masked Ann's own. She helped them pack and wrote down a great list of instructions that Barbara had given her, mostly about shopping and defrosting, so that Barbara would be able to meet her commitments when she came back Monday morning. Ann had also promised to feed Mercedes.

'I'll miss you all,' she cried, embracing each of them at the door, waving as they ran down the walk to the waiting taxi. She stood in the doorway for a long time, hoping they would see her lone figure.

But when they had gone, she wanted to shout for joy. Alone with Oliver. It was all she had thought about. She hoped she had successfully kept Barbara's suspicions at bay. But that was merely a detail now. All's fair in love and war, she thought gleefully. Not that he had ever given her the slightest encouragement, especially after his apology for the incident in the library on Christmas Eve.

'I'm sorry,' he had said, revealing both his vulnerability and his guilt.

She took a long, lingering bubble bath, perfumed and powdered herself, and put on a flimsy peignoir. She knew she was no physical match for Barbara. Ann's figure was spare but well proportioned, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and b.u.t.tocks small. Serviceable, she told herself, reflecting on her meagre experience. Nothing had moved her as much as that brief moment with Oliver. Nothing.

She hadn't told Oliver of her conversation with Barbara, which had agitated her. At the same time, it made her feel safer. Oliver, she was certain, believed that he was being watched and conducted himself accordingly. Perhaps now, possessed of the knowledge that Barbara had given her, she could allay his fears.

Nothing would have made her happier than to be the chatelaine of this lovely house. Was it a stroke of fate that Barbara had decided to divorce him so soon after she had arrived in the house? It was incomprehensible that Barbara could reject such a good and loving man. Impossible. Impossible.

Ann had lit a fire in the library, selected a book from the shelves, and, while the words swam before her concentrated on picking out his familiar step on the sidewalk and Benny's heralding bark. To calm herself, she opened the armoire and poured some vodka.

She hadn't long to wait. He appeared surprised when he saw her sitting in the library.

'I hadn't realized,' he began. 'I thought you might have gone away as well.'

'Here I am.'

He went to the armoire and poured himself a scotch, turning to look at her. He shook his head and smiled gendy.

'You drop a spark on dry kindling and you get fire,' he said, lifting his gla.s.s.

'Nature's way,' she said, smiling.

'You're taking advantage of a peculiar situation,' he warned with mock sarcasm.

'I know.'

'It won't do either of us any good. Certainly not yourself, Ann.'

'So I've been forewarned.' She was surprised at her boldness. He walked to the window and, parting the drapes, looked into the street. Then he turned to face her.

'I feel uncomfortable,' he confessed. 'That last episode nearly unnerved me.' He swallowed hard and his eyes roamed over the Staffordshire pieces on the mantelpiece. 'It took years to collect those pieces.' 'I know,' she said.

His hand swept the air. 'All those beautiful things. This house. I'm not going to let her have it, Ann. She doesn't deserve it.' His belligerence was tangible, aggressive.

He sat down opposite her. 'There's a lot of pain in this process. Some people might think it's self-inflicted. I could walk away-. Say good-bye. Kiss it off. And start all over again.' He looked up at her suddenly. 'I'll bet that's what you think. Walk away and start all over again.' She was shocked at the accusatory tone.