by Abby Drake
“For all we know, he could be her lover,” Poppy added, then let Alice digest the possibility before saying, “As for the black mail, well, I give him an allowance.” It was something she’d never even admitted to her mother. “Maybe he’s decided it’s not enough.”
Alice shrugged. “People have all kinds of arrangements, Poppy. It doesn’t mean Duane’s a criminal.”
Folding her hands on the lap of her skirt, Poppy shivered from the air-conditioning. “Wouldn’t it explain why we weren’t invited to the engagement party?”
Alice stopped drumming. “You’re talking in circles.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m not. I am very hurt that we weren’t invited. We’ve been Elinor’s best friends since we were kids. Jonas is her son. Don’t we deserve to go to a fancy Washington party?”
“First of all, we weren’t invited because it’s for the politicos. We live in New York and don’t know any of them. Second, the party is being hosted by the parents of the bride. The congressman, Poppy. It’s their party, not Elinor’s.”
“She could have insisted.”
Alice shifted on the seat; the leather squeaked. “Sorry, kiddo, but I don’t see how it fits.”
“If Elinor is sleeping with Duane, or even if she just thinks he’s blackmailing her, she wouldn’t want us there. She couldn’t invite you and Neal and not us.”
The air-conditioning droned.
“But Poppy,” Alice said, though her voice was quieter now, “if Elinor thinks Duane is involved, why would she ask for our help?”
“Because if we proved it was Duane, she’d know we wouldn’t let it go public. Her reputation would be safe. Let’s face it, Alice, Elinor might be using us.” She supposed she should feel guilty for thinking such a thing, but it was safer to be angry with Elinor than with Duane, who’d know she would never ask for a divorce.
“No, Poppy, you’re dreaming.”
“Maybe so, but as soon as I get into the house, I’m going to find out.”
Just then the gates yawned open. Duane’s silver BMW convertible—Poppy’s five-year anniversary present to him—nearly hit them head-on. He swerved and came to a stop on Alice’s side. “Morning, ladies!” he cried, flashing his Duane-smile.
Alice put down the window.
“What are you lovely girls up to on this fine morning?”
“We’ve been at a charity breakfast,” Poppy quickly shot back. “Are you going out?”
He patted a camera case on the seat beside him. “Pictures to take,” he said, smiled again, then waved. “I’ll be home later.”
In a flash he was gone, leaving Poppy and Alice in silence, except for the air-conditioning that continued to drone.
Ten
Brunch had stretched into early afternoon, and there was little left to say to the esteemed congressman, his lovely wife, Betts, and the soon-to-be-daughter-in-law, Lucinda. So Elinor and Malcolm stood in the doorway and bade them a hearty good-bye-so-nice-that-you-came, and then Malcolm left, too, heading back to Washington, back to his work that paid for their comfortable life. Jonas had opted to stay in New York, muttering something about a job interview in Manhattan. Then he hauled the canoe from the yard where he’d left it the week before (someday he’d learn to put things away), strapped it onto the roof of the old Jeep that he kept in Mount Kasteel, and rushed off to hopefully catch a few trout on the lake. Elinor was pleased that her children were finally adults and she didn’t need to know every detail of their comings or goings. Life was so much easier to navigate without dependents.
When she was certain she was alone, Elinor went into her bedroom, picked up her cell phone, and called CJ.
“I have to go to Grand Cayman to get the money,” she said as soon as CJ answered the phone. Years ago Elinor had confided to CJ that she kept a secret tax-free account there in case of emergency. She’d explained that Malcolm didn’t know. (“He’s such a bore about doing anything that might question his character or his damn patriotism.”) However, she hadn’t admitted that the real reason behind the account was the fact that she was afraid Mac would leave her someday and she wanted to be financially prepared. She’d never dreamed financial preparation would involve underwear. She ran her hand through her hair now and tried to ignore the muscles in her throat that seemed to suddenly be constricting.
“It’s nice you have it,” CJ replied. “Not everyone can put their hands on a half million dollars. Cash.”
Elinor bypassed the sarcasm. “It’s a catch-twenty-two, Catherine. If we weren’t worth a lot of money, I wouldn’t be blackmailed.”
CJ didn’t admit that she had a point. “Are you sure you can do this without Malcolm finding out?”
“He’s wrapped up in his work. Besides, between you and me, he might not even care. I don’t know which would be more humiliating.” She laughed, then walked to the window and stared down at her husband’s prized topiaries. “I have to get the money, CJ. I have to be ready. In case we can’t learn who’s doing this. In case we can’t stop him.”
“But…”
Elinor shook her head, as if CJ could see her. “I need to do this before the engagement party, in case my friendly blackmailer decides to show up there…” She shut her eyes and stifled a scream.
“When will you leave?”
Elinor regained her composure. “Wednesday. And I need a favor.”
Silence.
“Catherine?”
“I’m here, E.”
Elinor hated when CJ went silent the way their mother so often had. Silence could be so judgmental. “Will you come to the house and stay here in case if the blackmailer calls?”
“Because our voices sound alike,” CJ answered. It was, of course, part of being identical, in looks and voice, if not personalities. “But Elinor, it’s not as if you’ll be trapped. You’ll have your cell phone…can’t you forward your house calls?”
“I don’t know if the cell phone will work everywhere on the island.” Elinor had learned from Father the importance of always having the answers.
“I won’t need to go to your house. Leave your cell with me.”
“I’m taking it with me.”
“But you just said…”
“I can use it in the airports. I might be able to use it on the ground. I don’t know which number this moron has. I need you to cover the house.”
“Have the house calls forwarded to me.”
Elinor tapped her foot. She had no patience for her sister right now. “What’s the problem, CJ? Can’t you just come over here? Pick a guest room. God knows we have several.”
“What about Luna?”
“Bring her. Or leave her with that boy. It’s not as if you never go away.”
“And I always feel guilty about that. Poor Luna needs a family. Not just inattentive old me.”
Then silence again.
“Please, CJ. No one has to know. Malcolm has gone to Washington. If he finds out you’re here, tell him you’re renovating the cottage or something. He never goes there, does he?”
“No. Of course not. But won’t he wonder why you’ve left the country so close to the party?”
“Don’t tell him I’m out of the country. Say I’m in Philly. That my dress needed last-minute alterations.” She knew that her words sounded fabricated. She didn’t remember whether or not she’d ever told Malcolm that her preferred seamstress now lived in Philadelphia, that she was the daughter of the woman who had been their mother’s seamstress, the one Dianne Harding had depended on for every special event.
“Oh, E, I don’t know…this involves so many lies.”
“It’s not just the phone call I’m worried about, CJ. I’m afraid the blackmailer will show up at my door. You could handle it. No one else could.”
So CJ, of course, finally agreed. After all, she was the dependable one. Elinor knew that someday she should tell CJ that she was her anchor, that she was her strength. Someday, but not now. There simply was too much to do.
Eleve
n
Monday morning the temperature climbed toward the low nineties, and it was raining in Manhattan. Clusters of ghostly ectoplasms waltzed on the asphalt, a reminder that though it was almost September, the weather could still simmer like summer. Behind the wheel of her Esplanade (Neal only bought American), Alice had begun to sweat—or perspire, they’d been taught to call it at the McCready School for Girls, long before menopause had erupted and turned her into a near-nymphomaniac, as well as a perpetual swamp.
They’d come in on the Henry Hudson and taken a left up West Seventy-second, which brought them now to Central Park and Strawberry Fields, the area landscaped in memory of John Lennon. They were two and a half blocks from the Lord Winslow, the scene of Elinor’s crime.
Alice wondered if Yoko had ever worn La Perlas.
In the seat beside her, Poppy twitched. She’d already told Alice that by the time Duane had come home last night, the Bloody Marys had worn off and she’d chickened out of asking what he knew about Elinor. Chickening out, of course, was more in keeping with Poppy.
“We’ll be done before you know it,” Alice tried to reassure her.
“I still think we’re too early,” Poppy said. “No one will believe we’ve come to town to shop. Not at ten o` in the morning.”
She was right, of course. Wealthy women never shopped until after lunch, which had more to do with filling the hours between lunch wine and evening cocktails than with the digestive system.
They couldn’t say they were in town to have their hair or nails done because on Mondays the best salons were always closed. Besides, that wouldn’t have seemed right, what with Yolanda in the backseat.
“No one will care why you’re in town,” Yolanda said at that same moment, poking her head through the small opening between the cushy leather front seats. At the last minute, she’d decided to go with them, announcing that once at the Winslow, Alice and Poppy could get out and Yolanda could get behind the wheel and drive around the block until the mission was complete. It would save having to locate a garage or, worse, valet parking, which could be disastrous if a quick getaway was required.
“Do you have the picture?” Yolanda asked.
“You already asked her that,” Alice said. Sometimes, for a hairstylist, Yolanda could be pushy.
“I have the picture,” Poppy said and plucked the yellow envelope from her Miu Miu handbag, which was quite big and too heavy looking for her. She’d bought it on a whim one day when she and Alice had been in town for lunch and they’d seen Duane with a woman.
“Darling,” he’d said when they’d approached his table at Gramercy Tavern, where they’d gone because Poppy had an appointment at her lawyer’s in Union Square, which she’d said had something to do with her trust fund and her mother’s private companions. “Do you know Mandy Gibbons? From the Gibbons-Gibbons firm?”
Well, of course Poppy hadn’t known her, had never heard of Gibbons-Gibbons, which Duane probably made up on the spot.
“I’m trying to convince her to take part in next month’s charity ball in New Falls.”
Duane’s choice of words had been nearly as ridiculous as the spandex worn by Mandy Gibbons that clung to every pore and was not exactly office attire even for someone who was twenty-five, give or take a few.
But Poppy had been her social self and said hello-how-nice-to-meet-you, then after lunch she’d dragged Alice into one shop then another, buying the Miu Miu and scores of other things she did not need and were neither appropriate for her wardrobe or suited to her taste.
Pulling up to the canopy at the Lord Winslow now, Alice pushed away the reminder of Duane’s no doubt delicious penis. God, she thought, I must need a shrink, or at least hormone replacement therapy. “Okay,” she said with a small sigh, “let’s get this over with.”
The doorman approached and opened the curbside door.
The reception desk was actually a counter, long and dark and gleaming, reminiscent of a hunt club or other good old boys’ gathering place where brandy and cigars and perhaps a rendezvous or two were neither unexpected nor discouraged. Atop the desk sat an old-fashioned leather blotter, a classic fountain pen, and a dome-shaped silver call bell.
Alice decided to speak for them because Poppy’s hand quivered as it touched the bell.
Ding-ding.
A young man came around a corner and took his place behind the counter. He was about the same age as Jonas, but he was thin and pretty.
“Hello. My name is Alice Richardson,” she lied. Yolanda had recommended they not give their real last names. Using their first names, however, would help avoid slipups.
“How may I help you, Ms. Richardson?” His skin was shiny and dark, his accent lightly Caribbean.
She smiled her best smile, the one she saved for meeting the strangers in the other towns. “Larry?” she’d say. “How nice to meet you.” Or, “Parker? Why, you’re as enchanting as your e-mails.” And the next one in Orlando, “Bud? Oh, my. You don’t look like a theme-park magician.”
Of course, there would be no Bud in Orlando if Kiley Kate backed out. Alice frowned and turned back to the business at hand.
“I am a friend of Elinor Harding,” she said, as Poppy nudged the photograph toward her. “She was here last week. Thursday. Perhaps you remember her?” She showed the picture to the young man, whose nametag read Javier.
He smiled back, which was good. “I am sorry,” he replied. “I see so many faces. We have so many guests.” He didn’t ask if there had been a problem.
“She stayed in room four-o-two,” Alice said. “She overslept and packed in a hurry. She had a flight to catch.” Alice made up that last part because she thought it added to the believability. It was not unlike the fabrications she’d become so adept at telling, such as, “I’m from Topeka,” where she’d never been but liked the sound of. Middle America. Middle class. Middle everything. A few good talking points but not worth the bother after she left town. Before her first encounter, she’d researched Topeka online and learned about its Jayhawk “Air Refrigerated” Theatre and its wheat farms and tornadoes and the fact that Annette Bening hailed from there. (She’d later bragged that they’d been in the same high school class. What the heck, Alice had figured, once you’d told one fib, why not keep going?)
Javier looked at her blankly, his smile still in place.
Alice shifted on one foot and refrained from fanning her face with her hand. “Our friend left a few things behind. She asked if we’d collect them.”
He glanced at Poppy, then back to Alice. “Perhaps you’d like the lost and found.”
Alice pushed the photo toward him. “It would be easier if you remembered her.”
He looked down at the picture, picked it up, and squinted. “I am sorry,” he repeated. “We have so many guests.”
“And we have so little time,” Poppy suddenly spoke up and slid a bill across the counter. It might have been a ten or a twenty or a fifty, even. “Perhaps your manager can help us?”
Alice went on smiling because she didn’t know what else to do.
“I am the manager,” he said. “I’m called the night manager, though I work from midnight until noon. If you’d care to leave your friend’s phone number, I will check with housekeeping and will be in touch.”
They could hardly leave Elinor’s phone number, so Alice related hers with two digits transposed. If he’d been a little older, and not so aloof, she might have turned on the charm. Instead, she picked up the picture, ignored the bill on the counter, then marched across the lobby without waiting for Poppy to catch up.
Twelve
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Alice said to Yolanda when they climbed into the Esplanade, traded places, turned the corner, and headed toward Amsterdam, then the West Side Highway. “The desk clerk—oh, excuse me, the night manager—wouldn’t give us one iota of information. ‘We have so many guests,’” she mimicked him. “And my friend here,” she said, pointing to the back where Poppy had landed, “tried to
buy him off. As if he were a maitre d’ and the Lord Winslow was a trendy restaurant.”
“Duane does it all the time,” Poppy noted, which certainly explained it.
“Maybe it wasn’t such a waste,” Yolanda offered. “If the desk clerk is in on the blackmail, at least he knows something is happening. That Elinor is not going to take this lying down.”
Lying down.
Ha.
“Well,” Alice said, “I can’t see what good will come of it. Personally, if I were Elinor, I’d tell my husband and keep the half million.”
“But you’re not Elinor,” Poppy said. “And neither am I, and I’m not going to be the one to tell her what I think she should do. She’s always been nice to Momma and me.” Yolanda did not ask for details. “Besides,” Poppy continued, “I have an idea. While we were standing at the reception desk, I noticed a security camera. Do you think the hotel has lots of cameras? Do you think one is aimed at the alley, near where the Dumpster is?”
Alice was about to comment on Poppy’s brilliance when she heard a muffled ding-ding. Poppy, no doubt, had swiped the shiny silver bell from the reception desk at the hotel.
Staring out the windshield, Alice suspected this adventure was about to become an ordeal.
Elinor had no idea how—or if—she’d make it through the next hour, day, or week. She’d spent the morning e-mailing back and forth with Betts Perry, arranging and rearranging the seating chart for the engagement party (would the Republican from Idaho be welcomed by the Democrat from New Jersey?) and counting her blessings that Remy and the esteemed second lady would be seated on the opposite side of the room, away from the family, but with the House Speaker, who was rumored to speak very little in public.
It was even more tedious to help Betts make last-minute adjustments to the way-too-gourmet menu.
Grilled foie gras with Ceylon cinnamon and cider vinegar jus.
Ceasar of green asparagus.
Bhutanese red rice and caramelized Brussels sprouts.