Social Crimes

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  June, obviously thrilled with her timing plus having the satisfaction of her worst gossip confirmed, refrained from saying, “I told you so.”

  “Well, you believe it now, don’t you?” Betty said.

  “I guess so. It’s hard. Very hard.”

  “God, Jo, don’t you wonder how long it had been going on, or when it started?” June asked.

  I pushed away my plate, folded my napkin, and stood up from the table.

  “No. It’s time to move on. Let’s go have coffee.” I saw no point dwelling on the matter.

  June and Betty followed me into the sunroom.

  “I guess I should have known it was all too good to be true,” I said, pouring the coffee.

  “And too true to be good,” Betty added.

  Ten days after that, in late September, I was back in New York, sitting by the window in the library of my apartment overlooking Fifth Avenue, watching the midmorning traffic below, waiting for Nate Nathaniel to arrive. Nate, along with the National Trust Bank, was the executor of Lucius’s will. Nate said he had something he needed to discuss with me concerning the estate.

  I was dressed all in black to proclaim a bereavement that, in truth, was now sullied by anger. I’d had ample opportunity to reflect on the sordid circumstances of Lucius’s death. The images of my husband’s fatal last moments played over in my mind more like film clips than actual memories. Piecing them together and imagining what had gone on under my nose all summer and, indeed, just prior to my unexpected entrance into the changing room made me hark back again and again to June’s famous last words to me at tea: “There are none so blind as those who will not see.” My anger now was focused far more on Monique than Lucius. I felt she had led him down an evil path and that he, frightened by his brush with death, had been too weak or too vain to resist her wiles.

  My apartment, on the fifteenth floor of one of the most sought-after co-op buildings in the city, afforded me a spectacular view of Fifth Avenue and of Central Park. I stared down at the trees, spread out like a mottled cloak stretching to the horizon. The days would be growing noticeably shorter soon. Summer was ending in more ways than one, I thought to myself, as I contemplated the mighty chapter of my own life that was coming to a close. Fall was my favorite time in New York. I always looked forward to the opening of the opera, the ballet, the concerts at Carnegie Hall, and all the festivities commencing the new season. I wondered how well I would cope with widowhood.

  I was playing with the idea of taking a short trip to clear my head—to some out-of-the-way place I’d always wanted to go to, like Angkor Wat or Petra—when Mrs. Mathilde came in and announced the arrival of Mr. Nathaniel.

  Nate followed close behind her carrying a briefcase. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit and an even darker expression. He put the briefcase down, glided across the room, took both my hands in his, and planted a kiss on my cheek. It was a warmer greeting than he had ever given me. He looked somberly into my eyes and said: “Jo, you’re so brave. We need to talk.”

  His maudlin and overly solicitous manner irritated me. For one thing, now that Lucius was dead, we would soon be rid of each other. From everything I had intuited over the past twenty years, our parting of the ways would suit Nate as handily as it suited me. What use was there in keeping up the charade for a ghost, I wondered?

  “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” I said, motioning him to the pair of red velvet chairs flanking the fireplace. He sat down on one, I on the other. He propped his elbows on the armrests and folded his hands in an ersatz prayer position in front of him, touching the tip of his nose with his fingers. He stared down at the floor for a long moment, apparently lost in thought.

  “Where to begin . . . Where to begin,” he said.

  I was just anxious to conclude our business as I had a lunch date with an old friend from Europe.

  “Can you give me a rough idea of when things will be settled?” I said, ignoring his dramatic behavior. “I’m thinking of taking a trip. God knows I need a change of scene.”

  “Yes . . . Yes . . . I can understand that.” He looked up suddenly and pinned me with his gaze. “Jo . . . How strong a person are you?”

  The question startled me. “Given the last two weeks? Call me Atlas. Why?”

  “Because you need to prepare yourself for a shock.”

  “Another one? Gee, thanks.”

  “This one may be worse.”

  “Don’t tell me I’ve been disinherited,” I said lightly.

  Nate winced with surprise. I looked at him harder.

  “Nate . . . Don’t joke with me.”

  He continued staring at me, shaking his head slightly from side to side. I felt my insides slowly crumbling before I realized I couldn’t catch my breath.

  “What? No. Come on. You’re not serious.”

  I saw his head bobbing up and down and from that point on, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I sat stunned. Nate rose from his chair, walked to the corner where he’d put his briefcase, picked it up, and returned to his seat. He rested the case on his knees, flicked open the locks with marked precision, lifted the cover, pulled out a pale blue folder, and handed it to me. On the front in black letters was typed: LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF LUCIUS SLATER. I took the folder from his hand and opened it. Inside was a typewritten, two-page will, with the signatures of Lucius and three witnesses at the bottom.

  “This is it? This is the will? This is not the will, Nate. I’ve seen Lucius’s will. It looks likes a novel, for Christ’s sake, it’s so thick! Clearly, there’s been a mistake,” I said, fairly tossing the document back at him.

  He made a nimble catch, then proffered it to me once more. I refused to touch it.

  “No mistake, Jo,” he said, continuing to hold it out. “Lucius typed the will out himself at home and went to Kevin Sullivan a couple of days before he died. Kevin’s an excellent lawyer. I’ve used his office out there many times to notarize things. It’s a short document but it’s typed and properly witnessed and, unfortunately for you, absolutely legal. Don’t think I haven’t checked.”

  I finally took the folder back and opened it. But when I attempted to read what was written, the print blurred in front of my eyes. I couldn’t concentrate. I felt lightheaded. The whole world was turning a hazy silver color.

  “I . . . I can’t . . . just tell me what it says.”

  Nate stared at me with a deeply chagrined expression on his face.

  “Basically, it divides the estate between his son, Lucius Slater, Jr., and . . .” He hesitated.

  “Charity?” I said, thinking back to the conversation I had with Lucius about my pledge to the Muni and his wish to donate his money to other causes.

  “No.”

  “Oh my God. Who? . . . Who, Nate, who?”

  Nate exhaled fiercely. “Countess Monique de Passy,” he said softly.

  I was too dumbfounded to utter a sound. Nate shook his head slowly from side to side, saying over and over: “I’m so sorry, Jo. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m just so sorry . . .”

  I continued to stare at him, uncomprehending. What does this mean? How can this be?

  The scene in the changing room suddenly burst into my mind more vividly than ever. She killed him. Monique killed him. She got him to change his will and then she killed him. The lovemaking was all a setup to make him die.

  I rose from my chair, and the second I was on my feet I was seized by a terrible nauseating dizziness. My knees buckled. Everything went black. I fainted.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, I was awakened by a sound of soft insistent knocking on my door. I opened my eyes. I was in bed in my nightgown. The curtains were drawn. My head felt like a ball of lead. I vaguely remembered that a doctor had come and given me a sedative. I must have slept all night. Mrs. Mathilde entered the room, bringing me breakfast on a tray as usual. She informed me in her lilting Caribbean accent that “Mr. Natan-E-Ell,” as she pronounced his name, had
just arrived. I didn’t even bother to get dressed. I leapt up, threw on a robe, and raced downstairs.

  Nate was strolling around the living room. It was a bright sunny morning, unfortunately. I was in no mood for light. I felt like a vampire eager to return to my coffin and close the lid. Even the gilt on the furniture hurt my eyes. I called to him and asked him to come into the darker “fumoire,” as I jokingly referred to the smoking room. He followed me into the room that housed Lucius’s cigars in a giant temperature-controlled humidor in the closet. Though the room hadn’t been used all summer, it still held a faint aroma of cigar smoke. The brown hand-tooled Moroccan leather walls gave the space a nice cavelike atmosphere even in the daytime—which perfectly suited my mood. Nate and I made ourselves comfortable on two cushy leather chairs.

  “How are you, Jo?” Nate said in a cloying tone of voice.

  “Just great, Nate, and you?”

  “Silly question. I’m sorry.”

  I picked obsessively at a worn patch of leather on the arm of the chair. Nate cleared his throat.

  “I came here today to fill you in on a few things,” he said. “First of all, the will stipulates that you have six months from Lucius’s death to vacate these premises and the house in Southampton . . .”

  “You don’t think I have a case?”

  “I don’t.”

  I raked my hands through my hair. “Jesus, Nate . . . There must be something I can do. I was married to the man for twenty years, for Christ’s sake! They can’t just throw me out on the street, can they?”

  “Well, in fact, they can. Because in the prenup, as you well know, you waived your right to elect against the estate.”

  “That was twenty years ago, Nate. Twenty years.”

  “I know, Jo, but a contract is a contract.”

  “Yes, but you and I both know that Lucius promised to take care of me in his will. I mean, if I’d had any inkling something like this would happen—” My voice trailed off as I reflected on my own stupidity.

  “What can I say, Jo? He broke his promise . . . Let me go on so you understand all the facts. Under the prenup, you’re entitled to a million dollars.”

  “That’s gone,” I said with a dismissive little wave of my hand. “I’ve already pledged it to the Muni.”

  Nate leaned toward me. “Jo, you’ve given a fortune to that museum over the years. I’m sure they’ll understand if you have to postpone your gift for the moment, or indeed, indefinitely.”

  “I can’t renege on a pledge.”

  “But under the circumstances—”

  I interrupted him. “It’s not even a question, Nate. That museum is my life. I’ve pledged the money. Commitments have already been made . . . No . . . I can’t go back on my word. I won’t go back on my word.”

  “Well, that’s your business,” he said. “The will says nothing about jewelry, so you can keep that.”

  “At least I get to keep my necklace,” I said with relief.

  “Yes. You get to keep your necklace. Any work of art or piece of furniture worth over twenty thousand dollars belongs to the estate. We have to get the appraisers in. My coexecutor is the National Trust Bank, as you know. The estate is very large, Jo, the administration is very complex, and, frankly, it could take quite a while before the executors are in a position to satisfy your claim for the one million dollars you’re entitled to under the prenup.”

  “When do I have to leave my apartment again?”

  “Six months from September fourth, the day Lucius died.”

  “Why six months? Who says?”

  “The will says.”

  “Even if it’s not settled?”

  “Jo, the clock started the day of his death. You have to clear out in March.”

  I got up and walked over to the window. “I’m going to fight this, Nate. I am. This is not right. If he’d left it to charity or to his son that’s one thing, but . . .” I didn’t even bother to finish the sentence. I was too exhausted. I stared down at the toy traffic on Fifth Avenue.

  “I’m happy to give you the names of some excellent attorneys. But I know they’re all going to tell you the same thing. You won’t win. And you’ll spend a fortune to lose.”

  I slumped against the windowsill, utterly defeated. “I never tried to change that prenuptial agreement on account of you, you know.”

  “I know . . . Jo, if it’s any consolation to you, I’m appalled Lucius did this to you. I really am.”

  Barely hearing what he said, I went on talking in a monotone, mainly to myself.

  “It was important to me that you both understood how much I loved him. I really did love him, you know. We were passionate about each other. I wanted to prove I didn’t marry him for his money. I didn’t marry him for his money. I really didn’t. And so in the end it turns out I got just exactly what I’d bargained for. I didn’t marry him for his money and he didn’t leave it to me. But you know something, Nate? Now that he’s cut me out of everything in favor of her, it feels different. I mean, it hurts. It’s not just the money, it’s the hurt . . . the betrayal.”

  I don’t know precisely what prevented me from mentioning my suspicions about Monique to Nate at that time. Perhaps it was because I didn’t fully trust him, or didn’t fully trust myself. Who knows? But whatever the reason, I kept those dark thoughts to myself as I watched him prepare to leave.

  “What can I say, Jo?” he said, standing at the door, briefcase in hand. “Except that I’m so, so sorry this happened to you of all people.”

  “Thank you, Nate. That makes two of us.”

  Chapter 9

  There was, of course, a hailstorm of publicity about the scandal. All the gossip columns were thrilled with the story since it proved how deeply dysfunctional the very rich were and once again reassured everyone that having money clearly isn’t all it is cracked up to be.

  Needless to say, le tout New York was on my side. I was assured both publicly and privately that Monique would be persona non grata wherever she went—even though she still hadn’t surfaced. Given the circumstances, I honestly didn’t expect it to be any other way. Even in these days of absurdly relaxed social standards, I was fairly confident that people would balk at the idea of having the scarlet Countess to dine, especially in light of the fact that I’d been so recently widowed. I decided to keep my hunch that she was a murderess to myself for the moment, sensing that such a wild accusation by me could backfire, both diluting my credibility and injuring my reputation.

  On the will front, Nate referred me to a pit-bull lady lawyer by the name of Patricia McCluskey who had a summer house in Sagaponack. I called her up. She had a husky, cigarette-stained voice with a slight Brooklyn accent. She punctuated my abbreviated account of my predicament with “uh-huhs” and “yeahs,” as if she were taking notes.

  I was spending as much time as I could in Southampton, fearing everything was soon to be taken from me. McCluskey asked me if it would be convenient to meet her in the country. One Saturday afternoon in late October, I drove to her house near Bridge Lane. I brought all the documents Nate Nathaniel had left me.

  McCluskey’s house, a charming saltbox with weathered shingles and white trim, stood on a small patch of flat land that had once been part of a potato field. A few thin trees dotted the property. When I pulled into the square white gravel driveway, I saw a woman potting plants on the front porch. She looked up and waved, wiping her hands with a checked towel. She rose to greet me as I walked up the porch steps. “Patricia McCluskey,” she said, shaking my hand.

  She was shorter and frailer looking than I’d expected from her tough telephone voice. Wearing a flowered muumuu with a bandanna tied around her head, she looked more like a hausfrau than a slick attorney. But she had a hearty handshake and a sharp, shiny look in her eye.

  “C’mon in,” McCluskey said, ushering me into a light, airy living room with wooden floors, colorful area rugs, and serviceable modern furniture. A large pair of oil paintings depicting the local landsc
ape hung on opposite walls. Opera music was playing on the stereo.

  “Don Giovanni, one of my favorites,” I said.

  “I play it to remind myself what shits men are,” McCluskey replied, turning down the volume.

  She motioned me to sit down. She poured us two mugs of coffee from a stainless steel thermos.

  “So now,” she said, settling in, “let’s see what’s cooking.”

  I handed her the will and the prenuptial agreement. Her face hardened into full concentration as she examined the documents.

  “Mind if I smoke?” I asked after a few minutes. I had taken up the habit again after years of abstinence.

  “Blow it my way.” Without looking up, she pushed a ceramic dish on the coffee table my way. I lit my cigarette and studied her as she read.

  When she finished, she leaned back in her chair with a pensive expression, fashioning a little cathedral with her fingers.

  “I’d have to study all this more closely, but for what it’s worth, here’s my initial reaction. The prenuptial agreement is well drafted. You were represented by competent counsel. There were no ambiguities and there was full disclosure. You voluntarily waived your rights of election against your husband’s estate pursuant to statute, which, as you’re well aware, means you get zip unless he makes you a beneficiary in his will.”

  “But he did! I was the principal beneficiary practically up until the day of his death when he changed it.”

  “People can change their wills, Mrs. Slater. And frequently do.”

  “But that’s not fair! Look at that will, for God’s sake. It’s two pages long. Two miserable pages. His original will was thicker than War and Peace.”

  “It’s flimsy, but legal . . . Less is more in this case . . . Look, when you signed this agreement, you understood the extent of your husband’s wealth and the rights you waived, did you not?”