Social Crimes

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “So how did it go?”

  “Fine.”

  She sat down on the couch. I perched on the edge of my chair in anticipation.

  “Tell me.”

  Oliva sipped her drink at her own leisurely pace. She lit a cigarette.

  “That little McClusky gal’s a real pistol,” she said. “I like her.”

  “So?”

  “So I did exactly what we said. You ever been to her office?”

  “No.”

  “She’s got bonsai trees all over. You know, those freaky little trees that look exactly like big ones? They all look just like her. And she’s got this cool collection of southwest Indian art. She goes to Taos every winter. And on her desk, there’s this huge scorpion in lucite. She caught him in her house. Calls him ‘Fred.’ Says he’s her alter ego. And she’s got one autographed photo. Know who it’s of?”

  I shook my head. I really didn’t care.

  “That opera singer guy. What’s his name? She told me. The cute one. I forget.”

  “What happened?”

  “Hold your horses, sugar. I’m supposed to be an actress. So I’m settin’ the scene. Know how you said you wanted me to be charming? I was so fuckin’ charming I thought she was gonna ask me out on a date. She’s a dyke, by the way.”

  I sighed in exasperation. Oliva got to the point.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “First thing she asked me is what happened to my hand.”

  “And you said?”

  “I was vague, like you said. ‘A little—leetle—accident,’ I told her. “Nothing—nussing—to worry about.’ So then we sat down and talked about everything under the sun. She asked me all these questions about Nate.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I was cool. I said he was very cute but that he had this really mean side and I just wanted to be protected. I was real general, like a horoscope. She offered me coffee. I said no. I didn’t smoke. Didn’t want to leave any DNA in the office, particularly since I was wearing those little patches on my fingers.”

  “Did she mention me at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Then she gave me a rundown on prenups. That gal really knows her stuff. She doesn’t believe in tying the knot. She believes in tying the noose. Anyway, so then I looked at my watch. I said, ‘Oh, dear, I’m rather—rah-zere—late.’ Then, kinda like an afterthought, as I was getting up to leave, I said I had this will I wanted to get signed, and that I didn’t know where to go. And she said why didn’t I bring it in and have her look at it. And I said, ‘Oh, but I have eet right heeere.’ You know, purring. I said obviously I couldn’t sign it today on account of my hand, but just like you said, she said that I could direct one of her associates to sign it for me in front of witnesses. So that wasn’t a problem if I really wanted to do it. I told her I’d really like to get it over with if she didn’t mind. Bingo. She obliged.”

  “She didn’t ask you for any I.D.?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did she read it?”

  “She glanced at it. I pointed out the part about the lawyer, her friend, being the executor. And I also told her that he definitely wouldn’t approve of the will, which was another reason I didn’t want him to know I’d seen her. Anyway, then she asked three of her associates to come into the office. We all sat down at a little conference table. She asked me if I was Monique de Passy, residing at 815 Fifth Avenue. I said, ‘Oui, oui, Madame.’ ”

  “Please don’t joke,” I said.

  “Lighten up, sugar. It was all a formality at that point. I had snowed her, trust me. She asked me if I’d read the will. I said yes, I wrote it. Then she asked me to direct her paralegal to sign it for me. I did. He signed it. The two associates witnessed it. They left. She asked me if I wanted her to keep the signed will in her vault for safekeeping. I said yes. She made me a copy. She asked me if I wanted to have her draw up a more comprehensive document. I said yes. We talked a little more about prenups. She asked if I wanted her to prepare something. I said I had to go but I’d be in touch. Then I left.”

  “What time?”

  “About three-forty.”

  “Good . . . Perfect.”

  “I aim to please . . . Oh, and you’re gonna love this. As I was leaving, she said she’d seen me at a cocktail party a few months ago. I was apparently with your buddy, Mr. Nathaniel.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. She said it was a great pleasure to meet me at last . . . So, sugar, where’s my money?”

  “Where’s the copy of the will?”

  “Money first.”

  I handed her a manila envelope with five thousand dollars inside it in hundred-dollar bills. Oliva extracted the money, wet her right index finger, and counted it quickly, expertly, like she was used to handling large sums.

  “Did you ever work in a bank?” I asked, impressed with her dexterity.

  “Casino,” she said flatly.

  She finished counting. She made two fat packets of bills, securing each with a rubber band. She wedged the packets under the waistband of her skirt in the front, side by side.

  “Worried about your bag getting snatched?” I said.

  “No, sugar. I just like the feel of money next to my skin.” She drew back a step and planted her weight on one of her long legs. “So that’s ten thousand total you’ve given me . . . And one million you still owe me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying you have to pay it right away, sugar. I’m assuming your friend the Countess is gonna make one or two more stopovers on the way to her final destination. But when she finally does get there, I will come back for my money. You can count on it, sugar.”

  I swallowed hard. “Look, you mustn’t contact me again. I mean, we can never let on we know each other. I just assumed you understood that.”

  Oliva smiled and patted my cheek. “Sugar, I understand everything.” She walked to the door and opened it to let herself out. “I’m keeping the copy of that will—just in case you go getting any ideas.”

  “It’s mine.”

  “I know. And you can have it. It’ll cost you one million dollars . . . Boyfriend of mine once told me I was like that old show Candid Camera? You know, ‘When you least expect it . . . it’s your lucky day’?”

  I really didn’t know what to say. She had me over a barrel and we both knew it.

  “Oh, one more little thing?” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “McClusky said she’d send me a bill for her time. So you might want to think about that.”

  I watched from the window as Oliva walked out onto the street in the fading light. Whoever she was and wherever she came from was irrelevant now. When she showed up again, I would deal with her.

  Later that night, I cut up the suit and hat Oliva had worn and threw the pieces into three separate garbage cans many blocks away. I hated to ruin a beautiful suit, but I figured getting rid of evidence was, in this one case, more important than style.

  Basically, I looked at the situation this way: The minute Monique got that bill from Patricia McCluskey, the jig was up. I had to act fast now if I was going to act at all.

  I had already decided that the drug overdose was the best way to dispose of her. My brush with even slight physical violence left me in no doubt I would be unable to push her off the balcony. I got out the Rotinal tablets Anne-Marie de Passy had given me in the vial with Monique’s name on it. I ground up five tablets into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle. I put the powder into an envelope.

  The next day, I called Monique up again.

  “Hello, Jo,” she said curtly.

  I could tell from Monique’s put-upon voice that she was loath to take my call. And why not? She had what she wanted: the necklace.

  There was no point in my trying to act on her sympathy. The key, as always, was to act on her greed.

  “How’s your hand?” I said, a polite way of easing into
the conversation.

  “It will be fine. What do you want, Jo?”

  “I have something I’d like to give you.”

  “Jo, whatever it is, it’s not necessary.”

  “They’re the earrings that match the necklace? The original ones.”

  There was a slight pause. “Really?”

  “They were part of the parure. I never wore them because they’re too big.”

  “Why didn’t you sell them along with the necklace? It would have made a better set.”

  “I wanted to keep something from my old life. The necklace is grand enough without them. But with them, it’s quite dazzling.”

  “How much do you want for them?”

  “Nothing. Accept them as a present from me.”

  “Really?”

  “Please. I have no use for them. Let me make this one last grand gesture. I don’t get to make grand gestures anymore.”

  “I’m touched.”

  I figured now was the time to embellish my argument a little.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said to me at lunch, how I lorded my position over you that summer. Perhaps I did without realizing it. There was a time when I thought having great wealth and great possessions made me better than other people. It was basically a form of insecurity. Anyway, they don’t much matter to me anymore. There isn’t a diamond in the world that can cure me.”

  “I applaud your spirit,” Monique said unconvincingly.

  There was a long pause.

  “I can’t come to you again,” she said. “You must come to me.”

  “Fine. When?”

  “You’re the working woman.”

  “I’ll come tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “Morning. I’ll stop by your apartment on my way to work. We can have a coffee together, like old times.”

  “Come at nine.”

  “I’ll be there. Oh, and would you mind calling me in the morning just to confirm?”

  I wanted a telephone record of Monique having called me so that if there were an investigation, I could tell the police that she was the one who had wanted to see me.

  Chapter 34

  Monique telephoned me at eight the next morning to confirm our appointment. I dressed with the calm of a hit man. I arrived at Monique’s at eight forty-five with both the Rotinal vial and the ground-up powder in an envelope in my purse. I had rubbed the label on the prescription vial to make it look as if wear and tear had taken off the date and part of the doctor’s name. Monique’s name was still legible.

  Another doorman was on duty, one I didn’t recognize.

  “Countess de Passy is expecting me,” I said, hurrying past him.

  “Mrs. Slater?” he called after me. She had obviously left my name.

  “Yes.” I waved without looking back.

  I got into the self-service elevator. The button for fifteen was already lit. The doors closed. The elevator whooshed upward. I took long deep breaths to steady my nerves.

  A thin young woman with dark almond-shaped eyes and jet black hair was waiting for me at the door when I stepped out of the car. She was wearing a starched gray and white uniform that was slightly too big for her diminutive frame. She greeted me with a shy smile, immediately averting her eyes. She partially hid behind the door as she opened it further to let me in. Closing the door behind me, she said, “Por favor, Señora,” in a timid voice. She led the way through the apartment I knew so well, yet which seemed so different now with its new decor.

  We reached the master bedroom. The maid inclined her head toward the door, knocking softly with her small fist.

  “Condesa? Condesa . . . ?”

  “Pase,” replied the voice from within.

  Stepping aside for me to enter, the maid followed me into the bedroom. The pearly light of a cloudy April morning suffused the room, which, unlike the rest of the house, seemed at first glance exactly the way I had left it. The yellow silk taffeta curtains, the canopied bed, the bergère chairs, the Jacob commode, the Aubusson carpet, the dressing table, the porcelain bric-a-brac—everything was the same, which was strange considering that throughout the rest of the house Monique had gone to great lengths to replace my Old World luxury with a cold, minimalist decor, devoid (in my opinion) of charm and joy. Yet she had left my bedroom completely intact.

  The morning newspapers were on the bed, along with a copy of Nous, open to the “Daisy” column where there was a big color picture of Monique at some party or another. I pretended not to notice. Monique was sitting at the skirted dressing table wearing a bright pink silk peignoir, brushing her hair. The Marie Antoinette necklace lay on the glass tabletop. Even in the opaque light of an overcast day, the deep gray pearls seemed lit from within.

  “Good morning, Jo,” she said brightly, looking at me in the mirror without turning around. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “Have you already had yours?” I asked her, slightly panicked.

  “No, no. It’s just coming.”

  “Then I’d love some coffee, thanks.”

  “Carmela, café para la Señora, por favor.”

  “Si, Condesa,” the young maid said. She left the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

  “You didn’t change the bedroom? How come?” I asked her.

  She smiled at me in the mirror. “I will one day. But it’s comfortable, this room. I like it. It reminds me of you. And no one sees it.”

  “You changed the rest of the apartment.”

  “Well, of course. I can’t be Jo Slater,” she said with a derogatory little laugh.

  I ambled over to one of the front windows and stared down at Central Park.

  “I’d forgotten how nice it is to have a view,” I said.

  “Have you thought of leaving New York, Jo?” Monique said, getting up from the dressing table.

  I turned around and stared at this impudent interloper who was fluffing up the pillows preparing to get into my bed.

  “Where do you suggest I go?”

  She slid into the embroidered linen sheets.

  “I don’t know. But I believe one can live much better for less money in other cities, no?”

  “I guess. But just at the moment, I can’t leave my doctor,” I said in a pointed play for sympathy.

  “Is that going a bit better?”

  “Not really.” I sat down on one of the bergère chairs near the window. “So where are you and Nate planning on living after you get married?”

  “Certainly not his house. Have you ever seen it? It’s so dark. Like the black hole of Calcutta. I don’t know how people live without sunlight.”

  “You get used to it. Remember the last time you and I were together in this room?”

  “I saved you from committing suicide,” she said, rather astonishingly.

  I let the remark pass.

  “Do you ever use that balcony?” I asked. “I used to sun myself there sometimes.”

  “I hate air-conditioning so I keep the doors open when it’s hot. It gives a nice circulation . . . Where are the earrings? I’m longing to see them.”

  “I see you brought out the necklace,” I said, avoiding her question.

  “No, no, I wore it last night. It’s divine. I got so many compliments. I know why you loved it. It does makes one feel like a queen.”

  I wasn’t really listening to her. I was thinking how to get my timing just right. The maid had been gone nearly ten minutes. She’d be back soon.

  “May I use your bathroom?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  When I closed the door, I waited a minute or so, then flushed the toilet. I opened my bag and got out the packet of powdered Rotinal and put it in my pocket where I could easily get at it. I ran some water and washed my hands. I came out just as the maid was laying a white wicker tray on the bed beside Monique.

  Her breakfast consisted of a plate of strawberries surrounded by a circle of sliced oranges, four pieces of white toast slotted into a si
lver toast rack, a large pot of coffee, and a pitcher of hot milk. There were two Limoges cups on the tray with yellow and gold rims and bright blue cornflowers dancing on the white porcelain. My old china.

  The maid left, closing the door behind her. All I could think of was how I was going to get the drug into the milk.

  “Do you have any aspirin?” I asked Monique as she was pouring the coffee.

  “There’s a bottle of Tylenol in the medicine cabinet. Just take it.”

  “I already looked. I didn’t see any.”

  “Look again. It’s there.”

  “I promise you, I looked. I don’t think you have any.”

  With an air of great imposition, she flung back the bedcovers and marched into the bathroom. I dashed to the bed and quickly emptied the contents of the envelope into the hot milk, then ran back to my chair and sat down. Monique emerged seconds later holding up a bottle of Tylenol in her hand.

  “It was right there on the second shelf,” she said, handing it to me.

  “Sorry. I honestly didn’t see it.”

  “Do you need some water?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll take them with my coffee.”

  She got back into bed and finished pouring out the coffee.

  “Do you take milk? I forget,” she said, holding the milk pitcher poised above the cup.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Sugar?”

  “Just black, please.”

  She handed me the cup of coffee. I pretended to take the pills, but palmed them instead. Later, I slipped them into my pocket. I put the cup and saucer on the dressing table, watching Monique intently as she poured nearly half the pitcher of milk into her own coffee, then added two lumps of sugar.

  “This coffee is very strong without milk,” she said, stirring the cup.

  “It’s very good. I like it.” In truth I found the taste bitter, but I pretended to take another sip.

  My attention was focused on the moment when she was going to drink her coffee. She picked up a slice of orange with a silver fork and slipped it into her mouth as though it were a delicacy. Then she ate two strawberries. Dotting her mouth with her napkin, she said: “The strawberries are getting better. They were quite tasteless for a time . . . So where are these famous matching earrings you want me to have?”