Social Crimes

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Social Crimes Page 29

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock


  “And if she asks you how you hurt it?”

  “I’m vague. I say it was a stupid little accident.”

  “Right. Now, if I read her correctly, she’s going to offer to supervise the signing for you right there. She wants your business so she’ll want to show you how efficient she is.”

  “You’re sure I don’t have to sign the damn thing myself?”

  “Positive. Trust me. Under no circumstances do you sign that will yourself. Understand? And if they ask you for I.D., forget about it. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “Charming but distant. That’s how you want to be. Now if all goes well and you get the will signed, after you sign it, ask her to keep the original copy. Tell her you’re pressed for time now but you want her to represent you in the prenup. Make sure she understands the meeting is confidential.”

  “You really think she’s gonna go for this?” Oliva asked.

  “If you play the part right, she’ll go for it. Look, I’m sure she’s seen your picture in the paper. You’re engaged to her friend. You’re worth a couple of hundred million. Remember, she wants you as a client. She’ll go for it.”

  Oliva bridled. “How much am I worth?”

  “A lot,” I said uneasily.

  She leaned back, appraising me with a cool eye.

  “Know what you are, sugar?”

  “No, what am I?”

  “A whale.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In Vegas, we call the high, high rollers ‘whales.’ And you’re rollin’ mighty high, sugar.”

  “If it all turns out, I’ll make it worth your while. I promise.”

  “Oh, you can bet on that.” She laughed.

  What have I gotten myself into? I thought. It wasn’t too late to back out, but it was a measure of how much I hated Monique that I was ready to get into bed with this shark.

  I took one last precaution. I put clear plastic tape over the tips of Oliva’s fingers, so when she handled the will she wouldn’t leave any prints.

  “Can they get prints from paper?” she asked me.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances. I wore gloves when I typed it.”

  I could tell she was impressed with the amount of planning I’d done. There was no point in pretending this was merely a joke anymore. She and I both knew the score. I was taking a huge gamble in trusting her, but I figured it was better than spending the rest of my life obsessed with what might have been.

  As the time drew near for her to leave, I watched Oliva get into character. I reminded her not to lay on the French accent too thick, and I played Monique’s voice back to her on the answering machine once more just to make sure she understood.

  She practiced a few phrases as she walked around the living room in a languid way. Finally, she turned and faced me, resting her hand on her hip and striking one of those insouciant poses I’d shown her that were so reminiscent of Monique. In the black suit I had loaned her, Oliva embodied the careless elegance and underlying evil of her double.

  “Is this—zis—what you have in mind, cherie?” she said.

  It was uncanny. She really was Monique.

  At the door, I handed Oliva the envelope containing the two-page, typewritten will.

  “Make sure you don’t touch it. And whatever you do, do not sign that will yourself. Got that?” I said.

  “I got it the first five hundred times you told me,” Oliva said.

  She put the envelope in her purse and held her palm up, showing off the invisible plastic tape protecting her fingertips.

  “This is a damn good idea . . . Au revoir, sugar.” She winked at me as she went out the door.

  Chapter 31

  I carefully dressed for my lunch with Monique. I wore my work suit, which was dark and drab and cheaply made, but not badly cut. I grabbed my fake Chanel bag and put on clunky, comfortable shoes—not Hush Puppies, but not far short. Monique was sure to notice such details. Hard luck had taken its toll on my figure and my skin. I was slightly overweight again and my complexion was blotchy. My nails were short, unmanicured. My hair, which I dyed myself to cover the gray, looked flat, like a wig. I was perfectly presentable if you hadn’t known me before, but I knew my old friends would be moved by the changes in my appearance. All this would work in my favor. Part of Monique’s pathology was the need to outshine others.

  Paranoid about being robbed, I kept the Marie Antoinette necklace in the freezer in an empty Stouffer’s TV dinner box. I opened the box, took out the red leather case sealed in tinfoil and a plastic bag, unwrapped it, and took one last loving look at my beloved talisman, gleaming in its little nest of gray velvet. I hated to part with it, even for a short time. Instead of putting it in my purse, I wrapped it up again and stuck it back in the freezer.

  I fluffed up the pillows in the living room, turned out all the lights, and started to leave the apartment when I suddenly remembered something crucial: the ice pick. It was lying on the hall table. I’d put it out there on purpose, so as not to forget it. I wrapped it in some newspaper and shoved it down deep into my purse and zipped it closed. Now I had everything. I just needed a little luck.

  I took the subway downtown as usual and arrived at the showroom at ten-thirty. Thank God it was a busy morning. I was nervous. I took several phone orders, including a very large one: five complete bedroom suites of cherry wood colonial furniture that was going to an inn in New Hampshire.

  On my way out for lunch, I dropped off a self-addressed envelope at the front desk. The envelope contained nothing but a few sheets of blank paper.

  “A man will be by to pick this up,” I told the receptionist, a bottle blonde with an IQ below the national speed limit who was busy pasting tiny flower decals on her nails. “Please give it to him when he comes.”

  The young woman looked up at me and snapped a wad of purple chewing gum in my face. “A man?”

  “Yes, dear, a man. He’ll probably be in a chauffeur’s cap and uniform. He’ll come and ask you for an envelope addressed to me. This is the envelope right here. See my name written right on the front: Mrs. Jo Slater? Just be sure to give it to him when he comes, okay?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “By the way, don’t ever go to Singapore.”

  “Huh?”

  “Chewing gum is a crime in Singapore. I plan to retire there.”

  I was outside on the street at exactly 11:55. And there, right on time, was good old Caspar in a spiffy black uniform, standing in front of a black Mercedes sedan. He looked the same, blunt and brick-wallish. I shook hands with him and gave him a warm smile.

  “Hello, Caspar, it’s so good to see you again.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Slater,” he said, opening the rear door of the car for me.

  I climbed into the coffee-colored interior, which smelled like new leather. Caspar slid into the driver’s seat. I opened my purse, making sure the ice pick was still there. My timing had to be just right.

  “How have you been, Caspar?” I asked, as we pulled away from the curb.

  “Fine, thank you, Mrs. Slater.”

  Was it my imagination or did I sense a trace of nostalgia in his voice? Did he have some guilt about going to work for Monique? I wondered.

  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am . . .”

  “And you’ve been well?”

  “Well enough.”

  We were almost at the corner.

  “Stop the car, Caspar! I forgot something. Make a left here and pull over, please.”

  Caspar did as he was told. He was used to taking orders from me. I made a show of rummaging through my bag.

  “Oh dear, I feel so stupid. I left a very important envelope with the receptionist. Would you mind just running back in and getting it for me?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Slater. But—uh—what about the car? Maybe I oughta go around the block.”

  “That’ll take so much time. I’ll be right here. They won’t bother
us on a side street. Just tell the girl at the reception desk you’ve come to pick up the envelope for Mrs. Slater. Mrs. Jo Slater. It won’t take you a minute. Don’t worry. I’ll hold off the police if they come.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Back in a jiffy, ma’am.” Caspar hadn’t changed. He could so easily be persuaded. He did seem rather happy to be doing me a favor, however, as if it made up for his disloyalty in going to work for Monique.

  The minute Caspar walked around the corner out of sight, I took the ice pick out of my purse and partially unwrapped it, carefully leaving the newspaper around the handle to prevent any fingerprints. I got out of the car, looked around to make sure that no one was watching, then knelt down and stealthily punctured a deep hole in each of the rear tires. The whole operation took less than twenty seconds. I tossed the ice pick into the trash can on the corner, feeling it was important to get rid of the evidence. Then I climbed back into the car and composed myself, waiting for Caspar to come back.

  He showed up in less than five minutes, carrying the envelope.

  “Thank you, Caspar. You’re a lifesaver.” I stuffed the envelope filled with blank paper in my purse, acting as though it were important.

  As we pulled away from the curb, the car felt different.

  “Uh-oh,” Caspar said. “I think we got a flat.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, glancing at my watch for effect. “Dear me. We’re late.”

  Caspar pulled over to the curb again, stopped the car, and got out. He walked around to the back of the automobile. I rolled down my window and watched him as he stooped over to examine the rear tires.

  “What’s the problem?” I said.

  He straightened up, took off his cap, and scratched his head—a veritable cartoon of puzzlement.

  “We got two flat tires,” he said glumly.

  “Oh dear.”

  “Now how in the heck did that happen?”

  “Maybe we rolled over some broken glass?” I said.

  He searched the distance in several directions. “You see anyone hanging around the car?”

  “I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m sorry.”

  “One I could fix. But two—forget it. I gotta call a tow truck. This is gonna take all day.”

  Exactly.

  “Oh, dear. Well, I guess I better take a taxi.”

  Caspar opened the door for me and I got out of the car.

  “Sorry about this, Mrs. S.”

  Mrs. S. . . . I hadn’t heard that in ages.

  “Never mind, Caspar. That’s life, isn’t it? So unpredictable.” I paused for a moment. “You remember that time we got a flat on the Long Island Expressway going out to Southampton and I helped you change the tire?”

  “Sure I do, ma’am.”

  “Those were the good old days, weren’t they?”

  Caspar lowered his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It was nice to see you again, Caspar, however briefly.” I touched the sleeve of his uniform.

  “You, too, Mrs. Slater. I’m real sorry about, you know . . . everything.”

  From his morose tone of voice, I sensed he meant the cosmic Everything, not just the flat tires.

  “Thank you, Caspar . . . Oh—would you please call the Countess and tell her I’m on my way to pick her up in a cab?”

  “Sure thing, ma’am,” Caspar said.

  I hailed a taxi on Third Avenue knowing that Caspar wouldn’t be showing up for the rest of the afternoon. Which meant he wouldn’t be able to swear that Monique hadn’t gone to a lawyer’s office to make a new will. He’d have to say he didn’t know where she was.

  First equation done. Second equation coming up.

  I waited in the lobby of my old apartment building for Monique to come downstairs. I chatted with dear Pat, the burly, white-haired Irish doorman who had lent an Old World air to the surroundings for years. I hadn’t seen him since the night I’d gone to Monique’s party and thrown champagne in her face. His white gloves and gold-braided uniform seemed as anachronistic as his attitude: Pat was genuinely proud of being a doorman.

  “It’s good to see you, Pat. How have you been?” I asked.

  “Can’t complain. And yourself?” He asked this question so soulfully I figured I looked like hell.

  “Well, thank you,” I said.

  “God works in mysterious ways, don’t you know?” I knew that Pat was a diligent Catholic. “We miss you here, Mrs. Slater. Things aren’t what they used to be. Nobody bothers to know our names anymore. Sure, the stories I could tell you . . .” he said in a lilting Irish brogue.

  “Lots of changes in the building, eh?”

  “We got a whole raft of new tenants I can live without, don’t you know? Mutton dressed as lamb, they are . . . Uh-oh,” he said suddenly, “that’ll be her high and mightiness the Countess comin’ down now.”

  “How do you know?”

  He pointed behind me to a small room. I peered inside. It was filled with electronic equipment. There was a bank of six security cameras on the left wall showing grainy black and white images of the service entrance and the long back halls of the building. In front of the door was a panel with rows of switches and lights. One light was blinking.

  “We had a robbery in 9F a year ago and they put in this whole system,” Pat said. “It’s a pain in the you-know-what. You can’t just take the elevator up anymore. You got to be programmed. I can tell what floor’s comin’ down by the lights . . . But, sure, you can’t blame them with all the muckety-mucks who live here.”

  This was most unwelcome news to me, for it meant there was no sneaking in or out of the building.

  In the distance, I saw the elevator door open and Monique step out wearing a black suit. I was glad I’d chosen a black suit for Oliva to wear that day. The Countess had a glittery look about her, like a dark sequin glinting in the dim lobby light. As she walked purposefully toward me, her high heels clicking on the marble floor, I wondered if I could really kill this woman.

  Pat and I were standing in the bright front entrance hall. When Monique reached me, she kissed me once on each cheek, European style. I returned her greeting cordially, strictly for Pat’s benefit. My mind had leapt ahead to the day when he might have to testify at my trial.

  “Such a bore about the car, no?” Monique said. She turned to Pat and said, “Get us a taxi, please.”

  Pat flung me a beleaguered look that told me exactly what he thought of Monique.

  As we settled into the backseat of a cab, Monique turned to me and said, “Well, here we are, Jo. Just like old times.”

  “Not quite,” I said with a wan smile. “Life must be agreeing with you, though. You look very well.”

  “Do I?” she said as if she knew she did. “I’m a bit tired. I went to a rather boring dinner last night.”

  “Oh? Whose?” I couldn’t restrain my curiosity.

  “The Lowrys.”

  “Ah, yes. Are you enjoying being on the board?”

  “Yes, it’s fabulous. Boring but fabulous.”

  “Boring? Really? You find the meetings boring, do you? I’m surprised.”

  She patted my knee and changed the subject. “I’m very sorry to hear about your troubles, Jo,” she said in a cloying voice. “I feel awful for you. I really do. Have the doctors told you anything more?”

  “No. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.” I’d nearly forgotten all about my imaginary illness.

  We rode the rest of the way in silence.

  Chapter 32

  A little before one, Monique and I walked into Pug’s. I loved the cozy atmosphere of the place with its dog pictures, waiters in long white aprons, and brown leather banquettes. The maître d’ hadn’t forgotten me. He seated us at the round table in front of the window, the best table in the house, if one cared about such things. Not only was it gratifying to be treated well in one of my old haunts, I knew that in that highly visible location we were bound to be spotted by at least one person with a big mouth.

&
nbsp; I ordered a glass of white wine. Monique ordered a Perrier—a sure sign she was on a heavy social schedule. Women with a full social calendar who know they’re going to be photographed a lot stop drinking altogether. Alcohol, even in moderate amounts, takes its toll. I didn’t drink for years when Lucius and I were constantly going to parties. Now I drank all the time.

  “I’m making up for lost wine,” I joked when our drinks arrived.

  Monique didn’t laugh. I’d forgotten that humor was not her strong suit. We both ordered the “Designer meatloaf,” a specialty of the house. Monique took a little time to settle down. As she sipped her Perrier water, her eyes darted around the restaurant to see who was there and who was coming in.

  That lunch was interesting for me on a number of levels. In the early days of our friendship, Monique had a secret she was keeping from me. Her charm was all calculated, tainted by cunning and manipulation I never suspected at the time. Now the tables had turned: I had a secret I was keeping from her. This knowledge allowed me to be compliant and malleable in a way that would have been repugnant to me otherwise. Just as she had learned style from me, I had learned guile from her. I made a big effort to be convivial. I was on a mission.

  Anyone listening in on the conversation would have thought we were two women who didn’t know each other very well. We picked our way through the meatloaf, talking mainly about Monique’s social life—whom she was seeing, where she was going, what she was up to. We talked about mutual acquaintances in the broadest terms—Monique having apparently learned the wisdom of not repeating gossip to anyone who knew less than she did. I was so out of the loop, I knew very little about what was going on—only that Dick Bromire had supposedly settled his problems with the government and was apparently out of danger.

  Later in the lunch, I steered the conversation around to the problems of running two households, a topic Monique seemed only too happy to discuss. Not only did this give her an opportunity to tell me all about her staff problems (her chef had quit and so had my old caretaker in Southampton), it was an irresistible opportunity for her to show off while pretending to complain—the “good help is impossible to find” syndrome.

 

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