Getting dressed, he went downstairs, first taking a peek at his orchids. To his dismay, they seemed to be browning along the petal edges, an ominous sign, surprising, since only yesterday they had been in mint condition.
‘Don’t mock me,’ he told them, proud of their beauty, especially compared with Barbara’s more pedestrian plants. He watered them, offering whispered encouragement, then went down to his workroom, lifting a shaking Benny into the big cast-iron sink, which he filled with lukewarm water.
‘You and me, kid. Merry Christmas,’ he told the frightened dog, whose brown eyes begged relief. As he scrubbed the stinking dog he remembered inexplicably their Gift of the Magi Christmas.
They had vowed to give each other something non-material. He was senior at Harvard Law then and they were tight for cash, barely able to survive on her job demonstrating kitchen gadgets at Macy’s. By a stroke of providence – he used those terms then – he had gotten word about the job offer with the Federal Trade Commission in Washington, providing, of course, that he passed the bar exam. He kept the news from her for nearly a week so that it would coincide with Christmas. He had been curious, of course, about what she had gotten him, certain that, whatever she offered, his would be the topper.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she told him after he had made his announcement.
It was, in a way, a total deception on her part. Fair warning unheeded. He had hidden his confusion and displeasure, wondering why she had complicated their lives without consultation. The object is to control our lives, not let our lives control us, he told her, and she had agreed.
‘But kids bring luck,’ she had said. ‘They’re incentive.’
She had sat on his lap, smothering his face with kisses.
‘I was worried sick you’d scold me. But here you’ve come up with that fabulous job. Perfect timing.’
‘The Gift of the Magi,’ he had said, hugging her. ‘A little love child.’
The feeling of uncertainty quickly passed and he remembered how by the end of that Christmas Day they had become incredibly happy. Their future had begun.
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 passed 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 chore. 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. 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 anticipatory pleasure. He contemplated the labels on. the spice rack, removing containers of ginger, curry powder, and salt. Then he poured huge quantities 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, substituting 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 assuaged 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 ambassador’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 embassy at seven a.m. The Ambassador 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 ambassador 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 ambassador 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 shit. Shit,’ 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 pass for the moment as Thurmont interrupted her thoughts.
‘It won’t hold up, Barbara. We could harass. 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.