Perfect Little Ladies

by Abby Drake

  “Ah,” he said. “Act two. Maybe this time you can rewrite a few scenes.”

  She did not ask what he meant.

  “You need to divorce me, Malcolm.”

  Elinor and Mac sat in the back of the black Lincoln Town Car that Mac only used on special occasions. He’d always said it embarrassed him to be chauffeured around, as if he thought he was too important to tackle the Beltway himself.

  He sighed. “What going on, Elinor?”

  She gazed out the window at the indestructible stone buildings, the historic streetlamps, the sleek limousines that snaked through the grid streets, their dark, tinted windows harboring power within. Elinor had once found Washington exciting. She’d never expected to have to pay for her crimes. Perhaps that was a by-product of Father’s example, or maybe she’d simply lived too long in this city.

  Beside her, Malcolm breathed. A small hollow grew in her stomach, the same one that had grown the night her mother told her she’d found Malcolm and CJ in the greenhouse. Together. Making hasty, cumbersome love. While CJ was heavy with Jonas. Their baby, not hers, not Elinor’s, no matter how hard she had tried to believe it, no matter how hard she’d tried to convince the world, because it was what Father had told her to do.

  She’d tried to tell Father about the scene in the greenhouse, but he’d said she was overreacting, that they both knew her mother was inclined toward the dramatic.

  As with other things—such as the incident with the gardener—they’d never mentioned it again.

  Still, it didn’t seem fair that now, after all these years, Elinor would turn out the villain.

  She teared up, and it wasn’t an act.

  “I’ve had an affair.” Elinor spoke softly, so the driver wouldn’t hear through the privacy window, though Mac had once told her that Jimmy was nearly deaf, that, at seventy-six, he needed the job to supplement his Social Security.

  Mac didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead at the Plexiglas that separated the worlds of employer, employee.

  “I’ll leave Washington quietly,” she continued. “I’ll go back to Mount Kasteel. Sell the estate. I’m sure I can move into the cottage with Jonas until I figure out what to do.” She stopped herself from adding, “CJ can move in with you, and you both can live happily ever after.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Outside, the nation’s capital continued to slide past, with its altars to presidents, its homages to the people, its secrets tucked in every corner.

  “Congressman Perry knows,” she said. “I don’t know how he found out.”

  The seconds, the minutes, gnawed at her pride. She dabbed her tears; he did not seem to notice.

  “Malcolm,” she said, “I’m being blackmailed. The phone call you received was from the blackmailer. I wasn’t in Philadelphia. I was in Grand Cayman. I’ve kept an account there for years. I started it with my share from Father’s estate. I added to it whenever you gave me money for parties or decorating. When we remodeled the town house, I told you the cost was twice what it was. I put the other half in my account. I’ve let the money grow. I needed to know I’d have money to start over on my own.” She stopped for a moment, then added, “I’ve always been afraid you would leave me, Malcolm.”

  If Mac was listening, he didn’t acknowledge her. It was irritating, painful, humiliating. It reminded her of eighth-grade geography class, when she’d copied the answers off Alice’s test paper and Mr. Laufer had guessed.

  “I’m not going to give either of you an F,” he’d announced to the entire class, “because I’m sure this must be a coincidence. I know that neither of you—certainly not Elinor—would cheat in my classroom.” No, certainly not the daughter of the headmaster.

  She had been too mortified to admit that instead of studying she’d been helping her mother plan the spring faculty luncheon because it would win praises from Father and did not interest CJ. She’d been too mortified to admit that cheating had seemed preferable to receiving an unacceptable grade.

  “Malcolm,” Elinor said now because it did not seem the right time to degrade herself further by saying she knew he loved CJ more than he loved her, “the blackmailer found out I’ve been seeing Joe Remillard.”

  Mac turned his face in slow motion toward her, as if the planet had stopped revolving and he was quietly catching up. He looked at her briefly, then averted his eyes. “Jesus, Elinor.”

  That’s when she got pissed. She wanted to lash out, call him a bastard, tell him he had no right to judge her after the things he and CJ had done. She wanted to remind him that he was the one who’d chosen to sleep in another bedroom, not her. She wanted to shout to the driver to pull over, then bolt from the car, slam the door behind her, and disappear into the night.

  Then Malcolm asked, “Do the children know?”

  She fell silent, the eighth grader swallowing guilt. She looked back out the window and wished she had never seen Washington or Remy or even Malcolm, for that matter, wished she had never loved Malcolm, wished she did not love him still.

  “There’s a train out of Penn Station at three. We’ll pull into Washington around seven. If we wait for a flight, we won’t get there until later.”

  “Three in the morning?” Poppy asked, and Manny nodded. “But what about your kids?”

  “I’ve been gone two nights already and they’re fine. They know what I’d do if they aren’t. I’ll tell them I have to escort a prisoner.”

  “Oh,” Poppy said, “right. I almost forgot about that.”

  It was worse now that they hadn’t found any evidence against Duane, that the only clue they’d turned up was when Poppy found some of the words in Vanity Fair exactly as they’d been pasted onto the note. But the words in her copies of the magazine were intact, uncut, not used for blackmail. And Duane was still nowhere around.

  The three of them—Poppy, Manny, and Yolanda—had stayed at Poppy’s house all night and all day perusing every nook and cranny in search of anything that might link Duane to Elinor and the blackmail. But they hadn’t found anything. Not even love letters from ladies that Poppy had feared.

  By late afternoon, they’d fallen asleep like Belita, and hadn’t woken up until the telephone had rung.

  Now Poppy tossed a few things into an overnight bag. Bleary-eyed, the three of them and Belita headed for the Metro bound for New York City, then Washington and whatever awaited.

  “I can get into Dulles at eight-fifteen in the morning,” Alice said to Neal as she scooped her makeup from the vanity and deposited it in her bag. “I’m so sorry to do this, but Elinor needs me.”

  “I could say I need you, too, but we’ve already established that.” He had told her the truth, that he’d canceled the dinner with the Tang folks because it would have been too boring without her, that he would have missed the way they talked to each other after those kinds of nights, the way they dissected the people and the power plays and the entrées.

  He’d said he missed her.

  She’d said she missed him, too. Or maybe it was the them that she missed.

  She stopped what she was doing now, went back to the bed, leaned down, and kissed him. “You’re the best, you know that.”

  He began to unbutton her shirt. He reached inside, inciting a hot flash between her thighs.

  “Neal,” she nearly whined and pulled away. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you at home.”

  “After you’re finished with the five women?”

  He laughed. “There was not even one, O wife of mine.”

  “You smelled like Bijon.”

  “I didn’t say one didn’t try.”

  Alice laughed, because she deserved that. She brushed off the hot flash. “We are so silly, aren’t we? Two people our age acting like jealous kids?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I love you, Alice Bartlett.”

  She blew him a kiss, rebuttoned her shirt, and said, “Tell Kiley Kate that Grandma’s sorry, but I’ll see her soon.”

>   “Our granddaughter will be too busy at Sea World.”

  Alice smiled, zipped up her bag, and reminded herself for the hundredth time since last night that she was glad she was alive, and glad she was his, and he was hers. As she went out the door, she checked her cell phone: there were no messages from Bud. He was a gentleman, as she had suspected.

  Forty-six

  Elinor couldn’t believe she had slept. She woke up after nine, surprised she was still alive, surprised nothing apparently had happened since she’d taken two sleeping pills and had tried to make the whole night go away.

  It hadn’t, of course, as the ache in her stomach reminded her now.

  She got out of bed and looked around the master bedroom. She supposed Mac was down the hall, asleep in the guest room. How long had it been since they’d slept together? Since he’d started checking the Pacific Rim pharmaceutical markets into the wee hours. Since he’d claimed he had not wanted to disturb her.

  Not that it mattered any longer.

  They’d had no more conversation after Jimmy dropped them off at their front door. Once inside, Elinor merely said, “I’ll leave in the morning.” Malcolm didn’t answer, so she went upstairs to bed, numbed by his silence, weighted by her shame.

  If she had dreamed, she didn’t remember, which no doubt was a good thing.

  On her way to the bathroom now she picked up her cell phone and turned it on. Might as well see if the blackmailer had tried to reach her during the night.

  The light flashed.

  She had three new messages.

  CJ.

  CJ.

  CJ.

  The last one sounded frantic.

  “Call me as soon as you hear this, E. It’s important. I’m in trouble, big time.”

  Manny warned everyone not to touch anything in CJ’s room. Yolanda reminded him this was about panties, not murder. Still, Alice and Poppy and Yolanda sat in the chairs and avoided the bed and the lavender lace. Manny stood by the window, holding Belita. CJ waited by the door for Elinor.

  They remained in place like a sculptor’s tableau until she finally showed up.

  “Well,” Elinor said, “I see you’ve come to Washington after all.” Her face was drawn and tinged a bit gray, as if she’d changed her foundation or been swallowing silver. She did not ask why everyone had assembled—if they’d come to rally around her or if they were somehow connected to the “trouble” CJ had claimed to be in.

  No one responded. They let Elinor’s eyes scope out the room, then alight on the panties the way theirs had done.

  Like CJ, she shrieked.

  When she’d quieted down, CJ told her what had happened, how the panties had been lying in wait, a lace land mine poised to explode on the pillow, shooting shrapnel of feathers and shards of La Perlas. Her description, she knew, was over the top, but, damn, she was angry—angry at her sister, angry at herself, for getting involved.

  Elinor blanched, Elinor blinked. Then she recounted what the congressman had said about his wife’s favorite color being lavender.

  “And now it’s time,” Manny said, “to call the police.”

  “You can’t make me,” Elinor said. She turned to the others. “He can’t make me, can he?”

  CJ shrugged along with the others, though she silently hoped that he could.

  “I’m an officer of the law,” Manny said. “I didn’t want to be dragged into this, because I know it’s my duty to turn this over to the proper authorities. And the proper authorities are not us.”

  Elinor shook her head. “Go ahead,” she said at last, her skin tone reverting to near normal as she uttered her glum resignation. “It doesn’t matter. I told Malcolm last night. And everyone in town will know soon enough, now that the congressman knows.”

  CJ wondered when—if ever—she’d seen her sister this forlorn, a candidate admitting defeat. She stood up and put her hands on Elinor’s shoulder. “E,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

  Elinor patted her hand. “Before the police get here, can we order tea? I need caffeine, CJ. You and I know this is going to get worse.”

  “Sure. Anyone else want anything?”

  There were murmurs for coffee and juice and a bagel. “And scones,” Elinor added, matter-of-factly. “Have room service bring a basket of scones. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday, except for that god-awful mousse last night.”

  It was as if they were going to order tea at the Ritz, with neither a half million dollars nor a nation at stake.

  CJ moved toward the phone, then Elinor suddenly cried out, “Oh, my God! I do that every time I’m in a hotel!”

  The group raised eyebrows, tilted heads, curled their hair. Well, one curled her hair, anyway.

  “Do what?” Manny finally asked.

  “I order tea and scones. I did it at the Lord Winslow.”

  “Anyone who’s ever traveled with you knows you do that,” CJ added.

  Elinor laughed. “You’re right. You know. Malcolm does. Jonas. But I would never have dreamed Janice would have remembered. I haven’t gone anywhere with her in years.”

  “Janice?” Yolanda asked.

  “My daughter. Three days ago she asked if I’d be staying at the Fairmont. She asked if I’d be ordering scones.”

  Silence again.

  “Don’t you see?” Elinor asked, her voice breaking a little. “Janice must have been mocking me. She must have known I had ordered them at the Lord Winslow.”

  “And that you didn’t finish them,” CJ added. “That you left them out in the hall, like the housekeeper told me.” Her eyes locked with Elinor’s in twin perception.

  Poppy turned her head. “Does Janice read Vanity Fair?”

  Elinor tossed Poppy a halfhearted defense. “My daughter and I don’t always get along, but I can’t believe she’s blackmailing me.”

  “Did she stay here last night?” Alice asked.

  “She said she was going to. Jonas said her boyfriend was with her.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t meet him. CJ, did you meet him?”

  “Yes. I think his name’s Jack.”

  “Could it be Jake?” Poppy asked. “Is it possible he’s a security guard at the Lord Winslow?”

  “Does he wear black?” Yolanda asked. “Does he have an iPod?”

  “I wonder if he was in Grand Cayman,” Elinor hissed.

  “And,” Poppy added, her breath coming out in little bursts, “I wonder if he likes Chinese.”

  CJ said, “Shit,” then Belita said it, too.

  Forty-seven

  Before calling the Capitol Police, Manny let Elinor call Malcolm. Not that she had a clue what to say.

  He didn’t answer until the fourth ring, as if he knew it was she, and did not want to bother.

  “Malcolm,” she said, tying to sound normal, trying not to air any more dirty laundry—ha! such pathetic words!—in front of her friends, “please come to the hotel. I believe Janice is my blackmailer.”

  “Janice? Our daughter?”

  She closed her eyes. If she could die now, everything might work out all right. “Yes,” she replied.

  “Elinor…”

  She could not bear explaining the details right then. She could not bear to think she had driven her daughter to hate her so much…her own flesh, her own blood, to conjure such betrayal. In that instant, Elinor regretted every moment she had favored Jonas over her daughter, denounced herself for every time she’d clung to Jonas as if he were the sole lifeline she had to her husband. Had she been so insanely jealous of her sister that she’d needed to make certain Jonas would love her, his counterfeit mother?

  Along the way, Elinor had been dreadfully unfair to Janice.

  Why had no one stopped her?

  She gripped the phone tightly because she knew the answer: No one stopped you because you would not have let them.

  Dewdrops leaked from her eyes. “Malcolm,” Elinor whispered, “please. We have to confront her, and i
t will be better if you are here. Janice will need your support. It’s obvious she’s never felt she had mine.” She wanted to ask him to come there for her, too. She wanted to beg him for his support, for his love, though she hardly was worthy of either. “I’m in CJ’s room,” she added quietly, then gave him the room number.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he replied, then quickly disconnected.

  Elinor took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and looked at the others, who stood, without motion, like mannequins at Bergdorf’s or Saks.

  They waited until Mac arrived. He was somber and tense. His khakis were wrinkled, his hair was askew, and his eyes were slightly glazed, as if he hadn’t slept. Elinor knew it was her fault. Could it be a sign that he cared?

  CJ told him about the panties, because Elinor did not have the strength. Then Elinor asked him to call their daughter.

  “Come to CJ’s hotel room,” Mac said to Janice. “She wants to show you something before she goes back to New York.” He told her the room number as Elinor had told him, though everyone now suspected she already knew it.

  And so they waited, mostly in silence, except for Belita, who gurgled and giggled and said several words, one of which sounded like “Poppy.”

  Then, the knock on the door.

  Elinor leaned against the wall, her arms folded, her self-respect gone. For the first time since he’d arrived, Mac glanced at her, but she shook her head. She was finished with being in charge.

  He opened the door. “Hi, honey,” he said to Janice. “Come on in.”

  Her hair was its usual mess, her clothes tossed together with her usual thoughtlessness. But when Janice saw everyone, she withdrew, like a shy child caught off guard.

  Elinor winced.

  “What’s going on, Daddy?”

  Mac cleared his throat. “Honey,” he began, “do you know your mother is being blackmailed?”

  Her eyes landed on Elinor. Her gaze turned cool. Elinor recognized the chill that always seemed reserved for her, like a Yalumba Cabernet/Shiraz 2001 or a Chateaux Cheval Blanc Grand Cru. “Blackmailed? Why?”