Palm Beach Bedlam
Page 25
That was thirty years ago and, surprisingly, a few of the big Philadelphia white-shoe, establishment firms pursued him despite his low-born Italian heritage and somewhat unsavory reputation. Because—unsavory or not—Ned Carlino was a winner. Along the way, in the great tradition of all American success stories, Carlino decided he needed to burnish his image and erase all hints of his past. He first became a prodigious collector of modern art, outbidding a Connecticut hedge fund owner on a Jim Dine and several Jasper Johns. Then, in addition to his townhouse in Rittenhouse Square and his Nantucket beach house, he bought a third house on the Intracoastal in Palm Beach and a fourth on Sullivan’s Island, outside of Charleston. Three years after that, he sprang for the five-thousand-acre Pinckney Hall plantation, forty minutes south of Charleston. Lastly, he became a philanthropist and sat on the boards of a hospital and a library in Philadelphia, to which he had just donated nine million dollars for a twenty-thousand-square-foot wing. The Edward G. Carlino Research Library was etched elegantly into the building’s limestone facade.
“Jeter, grab my bag in the trunk and take it upstairs,” Carlino said. “I’m going over to the guest house.”
Jeter smiled wide, and his teeth looked like a freshly painted picket fence. “William is waitin’ on you there, sir.”
Carlino walked across the driveway then down the antique-brick path to the guest house, where he pushed open the massive mahogany door, which he’d shipped over from a tumbled-down manor house in England. He walked into the vast living room, painstakingly decorated piece by piece by Madeline Littleworth Mortimer herself. He waved at William across the room and gestured that he needed a drink. William nodded eagerly and reached for the Myers’s rum bottle.
The first girl he saw was Ashley. Twenty-three, give or take, she was wearing black-and-silver spandex tights, a gypsy top, and red jellies—teen dream, circa 1994. She was shoving quarters into an antique slot machine, which was lined up next to a collector’s item Gottlieb pinball machine on the far wall. She looked up and gave him a Marilyn Monroe pop of the lips and a fluttery smile.
Justine was sitting in a pudgy leather couch facing a huge fireplace with a mantelpiece from a Normandy castle. She was wearing a miniskirt with pin-striped tights, a white silk top, and Tory Burch flats. Under the tights was one of the best pairs of legs in South Carolina. The look was girl-who’ll-do-anything-to-get-ahead, circa 2019.
“Hey, Mr. C,” she said, her hoop earrings jiggling beneath her Jennifer Aniston haircut. She came up to him and gave him a prodigious kiss on the lips. “So glad you’re back, lover boy…I missed you desperately.” She knew exactly what he wanted to hear.
He kissed her back then reached down and cupped her remarkably perfect breasts. She smiled up at him and pretended to like getting pawed.
“Missed you too, honey,” he said, marveling at how tight her stomach was, “but I told you, lose the Mr. C, it makes me feel old.”
“Sorry…Ned,” Justine said with a wink. “I got the sheets all turned down.”
“Hold on, girl, I haven’t even had my first drink yet.”
Martha was sitting on a barstool as Carlino approached. She turned to face him. William, behind her, was adding a lime wedge to his drink. Martha, twenty-five and runway-model striking, was dressed in a short tartan skirt. Her legs were spread, a few inches beyond discreet, revealing a black thong and light coffee-colored thighs. Bad girl cheerleader, circa... hard to tell.
“Welcome home,” she purred.
Carlino walked over and kissed her on the lips.
“Oh, baby, can’t wait for you to rip my clothes off,” she whispered and winked at William, who pretended not to be listening, “and do all those naughty things you do.” She was the one who talked dirty, but in such a refined way.
William was a six-eight former basketball player from Clemson who blushed easily. He set a drink down in front of Carlino. “Good to see you again, sir,” William said. “Hope you enjoy the drink.”
Carlino took a long sip and wiped his lips. “I always do, William.” Looking back at Martha, he said, “You know something? I’m thinking about changing your name. You’re way too hot for Martha.”
“What’s wrong with Martha?” she asked, ratcheting up the smile.
“It’s just not sexy. I mean, Martha Washington, Martha Stewart... Martha Wiggins.”
“Who’s Martha Wiggins?”
Carlino chuckled. “My old neighbor growing up. Two hundred pounds, three chins, five-day growth. I’m thinking of—I don’t know—Willow or Miranda, or maybe Vruska.”
Martha laughed. “What? I’m Russian now?”
He nodded.
“Of course,” she said. “Whatever you want me to be.”
Ned’s cell phone rang. He punched the green button. “Hello, Rutledge,” he said, smiling at Martha. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to seeing you and Henry down here tonight. Got a couple of girls just dying to meet you.”
He looked away from Martha and listened. “Yeah, I know, terrible thing that was.” He chuckled. “People just gotta be more careful how they drive in Charleston. But, hey, the good news is I got the perfect guy lined up to fill his shoes.”
END OF EXCERPT
Killing Time in Charleston comes out in 2019. To be the first to know when it’s available, be sure to sign up for my free newsletter at tomturnerbooks.com/news.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to new members of my “street team”—Kirsten McDonough and Marie Parker—for your help in whipping Bedlam into shape. You did a thorough, imaginative and creative job, not to mention picked up a few misplaced modifiers and slapdash punctuation. And again to Gordon McCoun and Ted Manno. You guys are the best and I can’t tell you how critical your input always is.
My thanks, also, to Nick Johansen and Rebecca Sterling for the spectacular jobs you both do.
My love to Serena and Georgie, the most incredible daughters a father could have.
About the Author
A native New Englander, Tom dropped out of college and ran a bar in Vermont…into the ground. Limping back to get his sheepskin, he then landed in New York where he spent time as an award-winning copywriter at several Manhattan advertising agencies. After years of post-Mad Men life, he made a radical change and got a job in commercial real estate. A few years later he ended up in Palm Beach, buying, renovating and selling houses while getting material for his novels. On the side, he wrote Palm Beach Nasty, its sequel, Palm Beach Poison, and a screenplay, Underwater.
While at a wedding, he fell for the charm of Charleston, South Carolina. He spent six years there and completed a yet-to-be-published series set in Charleston. A year ago, Tom headed down the road to Savannah, where he just finished a novel about lust and murder among his neighbors.
Learn more about Tom’s books at:
www.tomturnerbooks.com
Also by Tom Turner
CHARLIE CRAWFORD MYSTERIES
Palm Beach Nasty
Palm Beach Poison
Palm Beach Deadly
Palm Beach Bones
Palm Beach Pretenders
Palm Beach Predator
Palm Beach Broke
Palm Beach Bedlam
STANDALONES
Broken House