Social Crimes

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “Was that smart?”

  “Apparently not. But I wanted to get the job done. They approved everything I ordered. Look, they want a grand apartment. Grand apartments in New York cost money.”

  “I know, but they’re from Cincinnati.”

  “Trish, listen to me. I don’t think this is all about money. I think someone got to them. Influenced them. And what’s more, I think I know who that someone is.”

  Trish cocked her head to one side. “Who?”

  “Monique.”

  Trish’s eyes widened. “Monique? Nobody sees her. Nobody dares on account of you.”

  “I know, I know . . . Don’t ask me how, but I would bet you a million dollars that Agatha Dent and Monique de Passy have somehow gotten to know each other. For one thing, how did the newspapers get that story? I didn’t even know I was being sued.”

  “Agatha or Neil could have told them, couldn’t they?”

  “Trust me, tough they may be, savvy they are not . . . Somebody leaked that story, and then Page Six called Agatha . . . No, I believe there’s a far more nefarious hand at work here.”

  Trish looked at me sympathetically. “I keep score every day,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some days the good guys are winning, some days the bad guys are winning. It’s a bad guy day.”

  I couldn’t have agreed with her more.

  Chapter 15

  If Lucius’s death was an earthquake, this event was a terrible aftershock. My decorating business was something that I had created all on my own. I was proud of it, proud of the fact that I had not succumbed to maudlin self-pity after Lucius died and instead picked myself up and gotten on with my life. Now my new livelihood—and indeed, my whole reputation—was in jeopardy.

  On the financial front, I had made personal commitments to several of my suppliers regarding the Dent job. It’s the custom of decorators to send the client an invoice for a work order that the client then pays before work is commenced so the decorator will not be out of pocket. In order to save time, however, I went ahead and ordered some of the custom-made upholstery and curtains without waiting for the Dents to send me their money. The job was so big, I felt it was a reasonable risk. Because I’d commissioned these pieces, I owed about seventy-five thousand dollars to various fabric houses and workrooms. That amount, plus the five hundred thousand I still owed to the Muni, plus the lawyer’s fees I was going to have to shell out to defend myself against these cockamamie accusations meant that I was facing an even deeper monetary crisis.

  The worst aspect of the whole Dent debacle, however, was the way it distanced me from my very closest pals. Betty was furious at me because of what she felt was a personal betrayal, harking back years. We finally had a long, serious talk one afternoon where I told her the whole story of my relationship with Lucius, starting with our meeting at Burnham’s. I explained why he’d felt it necessary to cover up the truth about us, not just to avoid besmirching Ruth’s memory, but also for his son’s sake. Betty turned out to be a good enough friend to forgive me for having kept the truth from her all these years. True friendship always has to be bigger than the sum of its parts. We got back on a more or less even keel, but the seas were rough for a time.

  June was another story. I was the one who was miffed at her. Having had time to reflect on our conversation the morning the infamous article appeared on Page Six, I didn’t appreciate her blurting out—however innocently—that the way I had snared Lucius was through a “blow job in the men’s room at Tiffany’s.” I couldn’t help looking at June with a slightly jaundiced eye after that. Even though we eventually kissed and made up, I had to wonder if she really wished me well.

  Ethan had behaved beautifully. I was grateful to him for all his support until a scant ten days later when he called me up to tell me he’d been seated next to Agatha Dent at a dinner party. I was on edge already and when I heard this it was all I could do not to hit the ceiling.

  “Et tu, Ethan?” I said softly and hung up the phone.

  He called me back immediately and pleaded with me to meet him for a drink at the Carlyle that evening around six. I arrived first, wearing a black suit and dark sunglasses to hide my puffy eyes. I sank down on one of the plushy couches in the little drinks area and ordered a double vodka, warning the waiter to be on guard for a second round quite quickly. Ethan arrived a short time later looking like a disheveled professor, as usual. He sat down and said: “Sorry I’m late. God, Jo, you’re so thin.”

  “Right. I’m thin and not at all rich,” I said, belting back the dregs of the vodka.

  Ethan smiled. He ordered a Campari and soda from the waiter. I just handed the man my empty glass. He got the point.

  “Ethan, I can’t believe you sat next to Agatha Dent. That woman and her crazy husband have ruined my life. Do you have any idea what I’m going through?”

  “It was a seated dinner,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “You should have switched the place cards.”

  “Moi? Switch a place card? What would dear old Ward say?”

  The reference was to Ward McAllister, a nineteenth-century fuss-budget who was the first arbiter of New York Society who subscribed to the code of manners that says there is absolutely no excuse for switching place cards or for failing to show up at a dinner one has accepted—including death. “In case you die,” McAllister advised his social flock, “you must send your executor in your place.” His name was a private joke between Ethan and myself.

  “Look, I didn’t inform you of this to hurt your feelings,” Ethan went on. “I have a little gossip for you—not that you’re interested.”

  I sat back and folded my arms across my chest. “What?” I said petulantly.

  “First of all, did you know that Dieter Lucino is redoing the Dent apartment?”

  “I’d heard that, yes. I was told that it looks like Cleopatra goes to the Third Reich. So?”

  “Your pal Agatha and I spent half the dinner discussing real marble versus faux marble. Agatha prefers real.”

  “You’re telling me?” I sighed. “As Princess Arnofi once said, ‘It’ll take her a lifetime to understand wicker.’ ”

  “But here’s the deal,” Ethan went on. “Apparently, a certain person went around their apartment when you were decorating it and told her your work was tacky.”

  “Tacky—?”

  “Wait . . . And apparently, this person put a bee in dear Agatha’s bonnet, telling her it wasn’t nearly grand enough for all the money they’d shelled out, and that when people saw it, she, Agatha, would be a laughingstock in New York.”

  I suddenly twigged. As I opened my mouth, Ethan cut in, “You guessed it. ‘The Countess,’ as Mrs. Dent insists on referring to her. Dear Agatha’s obsessed with titles. Her dream in life is for Mr. Dent to be appointed ambassador to England.”

  “God save the Queen. Didn’t I tell you Monique was behind this whole thing?”

  “I fear you’re right. And here’s the capper,” he continued. “Guess who’s a heavy investor in two of Neil Dent’s deals?”

  That was the last straw. But I was beyond outrage. I just shook my head in despair. “I should have known. It’s all about money. What else is new?”

  Our drinks arrived. I chugged mine down quickly for anesthetizing purposes and handed the empty glass back to the waiter before he could escape.

  “Fill’er up,” I said.

  Ethan looked at me askance. “You taking drinking lessons from Betty?”

  I ignored the remark. “Here’s what I bet happened. Monique found out I was decorating their apartment. In fact, I recall there was a little blurb about it in Nous at the time. So she makes an appointment with Neil Dent and puts a big chunk of dough into his company. Then she somehow gets friendly with Agatha—which wouldn’t be difficult since Agatha’s about as discriminating as a puppy. I’m sure Agatha swooned when she found out Monique was a countess. She worships the ‘noblety,’ as she calls
it. She subscribes to Royalty magazine and Hola by the way,” I said, forgetting all about Ethan’s own incongruous penchant for those particular publications.

  “Please. I adore all those happy royal faces. Such a relief from real life,” he said.

  “Monique deliberately sabotaged me,” I mused. “Can’t you just picture Monique taking Agatha around the apartment trashing my work? ‘Oh look at ziss, Agassa . . . Ziss is not grand eenough for a great Tsarina such as yourself . . .’ ” I said in a mock French accent. “Christ, the Dents’ idea of grandeur is a footman behind every chair.”

  “They ain’t the only ones,” Ethan said. “Agatha has a ways to go before she understands Le Hameau. She still wants Versailles.”

  “Maybe she should just forget the paintings and frame the checks . . .” I sank back in the chair, suddenly feeling the effects of the vodka.

  “Anyway, I thought you’d be interested. Jo, are you there?”

  I was in despair. “Ethan, do you realize Monique’s ruined me? For the second time.”

  “She hasn’t ruined you.”

  “No? I have two jobs I’m working on. When they’re over, that’s it. I haven’t gotten a single new client since this whole thing happened.”

  Ethan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “I thought she was leaving New York,” he said.

  “Apparently not.”

  Sitting there with Ethan, I felt a change come over me. Monique’s image was somehow trapped in my mind’s eye. I tried to shake it off, but even when Ethan steered the conversation onto the more pleasant topic of the paintings coming up in the Old Master sale at Chapel’s, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I recognized the seed of obsession planting itself in my brain. I tried to prevent it from taking root, for my own sake even more than Monique’s. But long after Ethan and I had said good-bye to each other, long after I had turned out the lights and gone to bed, I lay awake in the darkness seeing Monique’s face.

  Reputation is everything in business—particularly in the decorating business because it literally hits people where they live. Word of mouth is crucial. A dissatisfied client can sully the most eminent and well-established firm, no less a fledging one like mine. If prominent clients spread the word they’ve been cheated or taken advantage of by a decorator, that decorator is cooked.

  After talking to the Dents’ lawyer, it was clear to me that they just wanted out of their contract. For some reason, Neil Dent felt the most expeditious way to terminate my services was to go on the offensive and threaten to sue me. I informed the lawyer that under the circumstances I’d happily bow out of the job, but that I did have outstanding commitments to several workrooms. The lawyer informed me that the Dents had no intention of paying me another cent and that, in effect, I would just have to lump it or face them in court. Rather than hire a lawyer and amass a pile of legal fees, I agreed to let them off the hook. The episode, however, had damaged both my finances and, far worse than that, my good name.

  If that weren’t enough, there was a mysterious barrage of bad press about me.

  Unlike many of my friends, I’d never actively sought publicity. On the contrary, I cherished my privacy and strongly believed in the elegance of silence. Having been known primarily to the readers of Nous, that nice, cozy, social periodical with a limited readership, I was horrified when the whole scandal involving Lucius’s will had made my life fodder for the tabloids. This latest fiasco set the media hounds on my trail again. There was a snide piece on me in Eve Mindy’s column in the Daily News. Mindy implied I was no more than a dilettante using my connections to shepherd aspiring climbers in gaining a foothold in what Mindy described as “The Golden Circle of New York’s Social Elite.”

  To compound this insult, the press were suddenly, mysteriously fascinated with Monique—or “The Countess de Passy,” as she was always referred to in print. Mindy depicted her as an alluring young foreigner who had somehow managed to snag the heart and fortune of one of the city’s richest men.

  Another particularly egregious puff piece appeared in Madison Magazine, a monthly giveaway distributed in the lobbies of all the upmarket New York apartment buildings. Accompanied by a wistful picture of Monique standing on Bethesda Terrace in Central Park, looking out at the “Angel of the Waters” fountain, it read:

  Countess de Passy, who declines all requests for interviews, spends her time going for long walks in Central Park, communing with nature, and frequenting museums. If she is aware of the rumors swirling around about her, she keeps silent, as if she were guarding some deep secret of her own. Although she is uninterested in playing the social game, she contributes heavily to charity and enjoys giving small dinners in her magnificent duplex overlooking Fifth Avenue.

  I had to hand it to Monique. She wisely kept her mouth shut, refusing to fall into the famous trap of telling her side of the story.

  Shortly after that piece appeared, I found out from June that Monique had hired a press agent. June discovered this little tidbit because the same firm she used to publicize her benefits also handled private clients, though they were very secretive about the fact. Gerry Harcourt, June’s public relations pal in the firm, told June in strictest confidence that Monique was now a client. Gerry, an attractive, straight-shooting divorcée, wasn’t at all enamored of the Countess, who affected an imperious air with the firm’s employees—including Gerry.

  “She’s a real C. U. Next Tuesday,” Gerry told June.

  What concerned me deeply was the fact that I’d confided so many secrets to Monique that summer when we were such great friends. I feared that some of those confidences—such as who I disliked in the social world and certain tales I knew about members of our little set—would, like my real relationship with Lucius in the beginning, eventually find their way into print. And some of them did. Eve Mindy reported that I had a long-standing dislike of Bootsie Baines, a prominent amie mondaine, known for having a sour, arrogant attitude and a sweet, long-suffering husband. When I ran into Bootsie at June’s Medea benefit for Children in Crisis, she cut me dead.

  Then something else happened—one of those little things that seem fairly inconsequential at the time, but which, in hindsight, are harbingers of doom. Betty called me, asking if I wanted her to swing by and pick me up for Marcy Lorenz’s annual Christmas season luncheon the following week, to which she obviously assumed I’d been invited. When I told her I didn’t know anything about it, she got all embarrassed and hung up. Five minutes later, Marcy called and said there’d been a ghastly mistake.

  “Some of the invitations went astray, Jo, and I’ve just been too busy to call everyone and reconfirm,” Marcy said nervously. “But of course you’re invited!”

  Seeing through that old ploy, I thanked her and declined, saying I was attending a funeral that day.

  Not only was I now being invited places only because my loyal friends were insisting I still be included, I sensed a real sea change in people’s attitudes toward me. Don’t get me wrong, I was still going to a lot of parties where everyone was very polite to my face. However, the effusiveness with which I had formerly been greeted by one and all was replaced by—how shall I describe it?—a kind of flippant camaraderie, the hurried, empty attention people give when they feel obliged to say hello for form’s sake but don’t wish to linger on for a conversation.

  The security of feeling that I automatically belonged started to evaporate. I felt the piranhas moving in on me fast, taking their first nips. All the people who had been secretly jealous of me now had their chance to whittle me down to size. I loathed being the main dish at the gossips’ banquet in New York, where Schadenfreude is a culinary art form. There I was, nonetheless, tender and juicy as a choice prime rib. And there was nothing I could do about it.

  I was a fashionable loser. Publicly feeling sorry for Jo Slater was the newest spectator sport.

  Chapter 16

  It had been nearly a year and a half since Lucius’s death and three months since the famous Dent d
ebacle. My decorating business was effectively over. I was finishing up the last job when my dear friend Eugenie Pourtant phoned from Paris, insisting I come stay with her.

  “Jo,” she said, “I have found someone you must meet.”

  When I asked Eugenie who it was, she refused to tell me. “Just come,” she urged me, refusing to take no for an answer.

  I was in need of a break from New York anyway, so I took her up on her offer, figuring I could do some shopping for the client as well as see a few old friends.

  I suspected the person she wanted me to meet had some connection with Monique. Eons ago, when Monique and I’d been friends, I casually asked Eugenie if she knew the Countess. She didn’t. Then, when the whole thing happened with Lucius and the will, Eugenie called me again and promised to find out everything she could about Monique.

  “It’s too late,” I told her. I had other things on my mind.

  Eugenie, like a terrier with a bone, wasn’t one to let things drop.

  I flew to Paris in economy class on a nonrefundable round-trip ticket. I mention this only because it was the first time in years I’d flown anything but first class, if you don’t count private jets. Quite frankly, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I had very nice seat companions, an affable young couple from Hartford who were taking their first trip to Europe. I told them I envied them seeing Paris for the first time and gave them tips on several out-of-the-way places to visit.

  I arrived at Charles de Gaulle on a rainy February morning. I took a taxi to Eugenie’s house on the Rue du Bac on the Left Bank. The damp Parisian winter chilled me to the bone and I looked forward to Eugenie’s apartment, which was always warm and welcoming.

  The taxi driver was unexpectedly obliging. He helped me carry my luggage into the hidden courtyard where a square of ancient cobblestones led to the slightly run-down eighteenth-century hotel particulier where Eugenie occupied the top two floors. Eugenie’s Algerian maid, Feli, came downstairs to help me with my bags. The short, pock-marked young woman showed me up to the small guest room on the top floor and informed me in shattered, almost unintelligible French that her mistress would be back in a short time. The apartment had Old World grandeur but few modern comforts. The bathrooms were small, the living quarters cramped. But the entertaining rooms were glorious, decorated in what I thought of as “bohemian chic.”