Charley's Web

by Joy Fielding

  Yes, you read that right.

  Seventy-five thousand dollars.

  For a purse.

  The mind boggles. Who in their right mind would even consider spending that kind of money for a handbag? “Is it lined in gold?” I queried the reed-thin saleswoman with the sleek, dark hair who greeted me at the door of the beautifully appointed Bottega Veneta store in the shopping heart of Palm Beach.

  The saleswoman smiled the tight smile of someone who’s had perhaps one too many nips and tucks, and said patiently, “It’s handmade.”

  Oh, I see. That explains everything. “Can I see it?”

  “We don’t keep it in the store,” the saleswoman said, as if this fact should be self-evident. “You’d have to special-order it.”

  “Isn’t it against the law to make purses out of crocodiles?” I ventured further, receiving only a look of disdain in reply.

  Who’d even want something made from the skin of a reptile? Charley wondered, literally shuddering at the thought.

  I spent the next half hour checking out the other, somewhat less outrageously priced items that sat at respectful distances from one another on the long row of shelves on either side of the small store. Sprinkled among the gorgeous, latticed leather bags that are Bottega’s trademark, were an array of stunning sling-back sandals, flats, and high-heeled shoes, all equally fabulous, and all mind-numbingly expensive, although even a seven-hundred-dollar pair of pumps starts to sound reasonable when it’s sitting next to a seven-thousand-dollar bag. And what’s seven thousand dollars compared to seventy-five thousand anyway? Why, it’s a bargain, I thought, deciding I had to get out of there before it was too late.

  Continuing down Worth Avenue, I visited a number of other shops. I found a long silk skirt for fifteen thousand dollars at Giorgio Armani, a simple cotton dress for eight thousand at Chanel, and a two-million-dollar yellow diamond pendant at Van Cleef and Arpel. In Neiman Marcus, I came across the six-thousand-dollar blouse from Oscar de la Renta I’d admired in the latest issue of Vogue. Hanging on a rack! In the middle of a bunch of other similarly priced items. As if this were normal. “Would you like to try that on?” a salesgirl asked matter-of-factly.

  “Maybe another time,” I answered, fleeing the premises, and heading for the ocean at the east end of the street in an effort to clear my head. “Who’s buying these things?” I heard myself ask out loud, my voice carried out to sea by a gentle gust of ocean breeze. As I slipped off my sandals ($16.99 at Payless) to walk along the cool sand….

  “No, I don’t like that. A little too Remember Love-ish for my taste,” Charley muttered under her breath, deleting the last two lines from her computer, and pausing to reconsider what she wanted to say next.

  Who’s buying these things? I wondered, surreptitiously scrutinizing each woman I passed. Could that hideous handbag on the arm of the frump in the navy sweatsuit really be worth almost as much as my house? Did those oversize sunglasses hiding the pimples on the faces of the teenage girls giggling in front of Tiffany’s really cost more than my monthly car payments? Was nobody else as shocked as I was by the prices designers were asking—and people were paying—for their wares?

  “Uh-oh. Maybe starting to sound a touch disingenuous,” Charley said under her breath.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not naive when it comes to what it costs to look fashionable these days. I, myself, have been known to shell out exorbitant bucks for a pair of jeans just because they have a little embroidered crown on the rear pocket. But six thousand dollars for a blouse? Seventy-five thousand dollars for a purse? Is everybody nuts?

  And, in the end, where does such extravagance get us?

  Where does it get us indeed? Charley wondered, not quite sure what point she was trying to make.

  Does it buy us better sex, better health, a longer life? As we march our poor feet down the street in our too-high stilettos, our shoulders cramping under the weight of those oversize crocodile bags, our bones are already crumbling and threatening to disintegrate. Despite our best efforts at denial and the continuing advances of modern science, we are getting older. Necrosis of the jawbone is only one ill-conceived miracle pill away.

  “Charley?” Michael Duff interrupted.

  Charley swiveled around in her seat.

  The editor-in-chief filled the entrance to her cubicle. “A police officer is here to talk to you.”

  “The police?”

  “About that e-mail,” he explained. “She’s in my office.”

  “Oh.” Charley pressed SAVE on her computer and stored the article she was writing for Sunday’s column before getting up and following Michael to his office. The truth was she’d almost forgotten about Monday’s e-mail. It seemed so long ago. “Do they know who sent it?” she asked, speaking to the back of Michael’s green-and-white golf shirt.

  “I think she just wants to talk to you,” he said, opening the door to his office and stepping aside to let Charley enter first.

  A uniformed officer promptly jumped to her feet. “Jennifer Ramirez,” she said, introducing herself and extending her hand. Despite her slim build and shy smile, the officer’s handshake was strong and firm. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and her brown eyes were the color of warm chocolate sauce.

  “Charley Webb,” Charley said.

  Michael Duff took his seat behind his desk, then motioned for the two women to sit down. “You sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” he asked the police officer.

  “No, thank you. I’ve already had my quota this morning.”

  “Charley?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Do you know who sent me that e-mail?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Officer Ramirez said, pulling out her notebook from the pocket of her navy shirt. “Have you had any more?”

  “Well, I get lots of e-mail every day.”

  “Ones that threaten your life?”

  “Not usually, thank goodness. I always give copies of those to Michael.” She nodded in his direction.

  “We keep all threatening letters on file,” he volunteered.

  “We might need to see those later.”

  “Certainly.”

  “But this particular letter was the first one that threatened your children?” Officer Ramirez asked, although it was more statement than question.

  “It said I should ‘die, bitch, die,’ and take my bastard children with me. It also said I should keep a very close eye on them, that I’d be surprised by the horrifying things people were capable of,” Charley recited, seeing the e-mail in her mind’s eye as clearly as it had appeared on her computer screen earlier in the week.

  “Which you interpreted as a threat?”

  “You don’t?”

  “It’s certainly not a very nice letter,” Officer Ramirez said.

  “But you don’t think whoever wrote it is dangerous?”

  “I think they’re angry.”

  “Angry enough to harm my children?”

  “Hopefully it’s just some jerk who gets his rocks off writing nasty letters.”

  “That’s what Michael said,” Charley told her. “I probably just overreacted.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “You haven’t been able to trace the computer?”

  “Unfortunately, no. So you haven’t received any more threatening letters in the last several days, is that correct?”

  “Not since Monday.”

  “Well, that’s good. Pardon my ignorance, Miss Webb, but what sort of thing is it you write?”

  Charley tried not to let her face register dismay that the officer was unacquainted with her work. “I write a weekly column about various issues of the day. Whatever happens to be on my mind,” she qualified.

  “I take it that what’s on your mind is sometimes upsetting to other people,” Officer Ramirez stated.

  Michael Duff laughed. “Charley has been known to stir things up a bit.”

  “Sounds fascinating. I guess I’l
l have to start reading your column. Tell me, Miss Webb, and again, pardon my ignorance, but have you ever targeted anyone in particular in these columns, someone who might want to get back at you for something you’ve written?”

  “I’m sure there’s a long list.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “Oh,” Charley said, as the faces of Lynn Moore, Gabe Lopez, and Glen McLaren flashed quickly before her eyes. And those were only the more recent examples. “Shouldn’t you wait to see if I get any more letters before you start questioning anyone? Wouldn’t want to antagonize them any more than I already have.” She tried to laugh, failed.

  “Of course. This is all very preliminary,” Jennifer Ramirez told her. “But I would like to have that list. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?” Charley asked. “In case something happens to me? Is that what you mean?”

  “Is there anyone else, someone from your personal life perhaps, that you think could have sent that e-mail? An ex-husband, perhaps? A coworker you’ve pissed off?”

  Charley shook her head. She was on reasonably good terms with both her children’s fathers, although less so with Franny’s stepmother. And while she wasn’t exactly buddy-buddy with the other reporters on staff, she doubted any of them disliked her enough to threaten her or her children. “There’s no one.”

  “It’s probably just a disgruntled reader,” Michael interjected.

  “Probably.” Officer Ramirez rose to her feet. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you, Miss Webb. The odds are this was a onetime thing. Get me that list as soon as you can, and of course, if you receive any more ‘interesting’ letters, please contact me immediately.” She handed a copy of her card to both Charley and Michael. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I can show myself out.”

  “You okay?” Michael asked Charley after the policewoman was gone.

  “Fine.” Maybe she should have told the officer about the “interesting” letter she’d received from Jill Rohmer, she was thinking. Now that’s a name that would have gotten her attention, made her sit up and take notice. Except what would have been the point? Jill couldn’t have sent that e-mail. Charley doubted that murderers were given access to computers while in prison. Wasn’t that why Jill had contacted her by hand? No, mentioning Jill Rohmer would have served only to distract the officer. Jill would have highjacked the investigation before it even got off the ground.

  Still, how ironic was it that Charley was considering meeting with a convicted child killer at a time when her own children had come under threat?

  She almost laughed. Who was she fooling? She wasn’t considering anything. She’d already made up her mind. Although in thinking back on her meeting with Alex Prescott, she wasn’t sure quite how he’d managed to talk her into agreeing to see Jill. She smiled, again wondering who was fooling whom. The truth was that Alex Prescott hadn’t talked her into anything. He’d been opposed to her telling Jill’s story. The truth was she was the one who’d persuaded him.

  “What’s the matter?” Michael was asking.

  “What?”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing. What do you mean?”

  “You were a million miles away.”

  More like seventy-five, Charley thought, calculating the distance to the prison in Pembroke Pines. “Actually, I’m thinking of writing a book.”

  “Thinking or planning?” Michael asked, cutting right to the chase.

  Charley smiled. “Planning.”

  “Does that mean you’re also planning to ask for some time off?”

  “No,” Charley said quickly. “Unless, of course, you disapprove of the subject.”

  “The subject being?”

  “Jill Rohmer.” Charley immediately filled Michael in on the details of Jill’s letter and her visit to Alex’s office. “You think it’s a bad idea?”

  “On the contrary—normally I’d say it’s an excellent idea.”

  “Normally?”

  “Well, you’ve just received an e-mail threatening your children. Do you really think this is the best time to go one-on-one with a convicted child killer?”

  Charley gave the question a moment’s thought. Maybe it was precisely the threat to her children that was contributing to her willingness—indeed, her eagerness—to meet with Jill Rohmer. Maybe she had a need to understand the kind of mind that could do such horrible things.

  Or maybe I just want to be famous, she admitted silently.

  “Of course, if you do decide to proceed, I get first serial rights,” Michael added, turning his attention to the papers on his desk. His way of signaling the meeting was over.

  “Consider it done.” Charley rose from her seat and left his office.

  Her phone was ringing when she reached her cubicle. “Hello,” Charley said, answering it just before her voice mail could click in.

  “Charley?”

  “Steve?”

  “How are you?” he asked, as Charley pictured her son’s father standing proudly beside a swimming pool he’d just helped install, shirt off, a glass of lemonade in his hand, courtesy of the wanton woman from the house next door.

  That was how she’d met him, after all, she thought with a smile. After several weeks spent watching his gorgeous, half-naked body dig and plaster and tile a neighbor’s new pool, she’d poked her head over her backyard fence and asked him if he’d like a glass of something cold. “What’ve you got?” he’d asked, following her inside her house.

  Nine months later, James was born, the spitting image of his father, and while Steve had never been a permanent fixture in either of their lives, he made every effort to see his son several times a month. He was two years younger than Charley and still content to drift from job to job, yard to yard, lemonade to lemonade.

  “I’m fine. You?” Charley wondered if something was wrong. It wasn’t like Steve to call her at work.

  “Great. Except listen, I have a slight problem with this weekend.”

  “What do you mean, a slight problem?”

  “I can’t make it.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t make it?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Yes, it’s a problem. I’ve made plans.”

  “I’m really sorry, Charley. You know I wouldn’t do this unless it was really important.”

  “More important than your son?” Charley asked, then immediately wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t like her to lay a guilt trip on either of her exes. The truth was that neither of them had asked for parenthood, and the bigger truth was that she was more than happy to be a single mother. She’d never wanted either man to be a staple in her life, and had never asked them for anything, including child support. Still, Franny’s father, Ray, had always insisted on being an active participant in his daughter’s life, giving Charley money every month without fail, and even Steve contributed a little something from time to time. Both men had proved to be far more responsible than she’d had any right or reason to expect.

  “Come on, Charley. Don’t be like that.”

  “I’m sorry. New job?”

  “New girl,” he said, and Charley could actually feel the smile in his voice. “She wants me to meet her parents. They live in Sarasota.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Well, who knows?”

  Charley felt a slight pang in her chest. She knew, even if he didn’t. She also knew that women had a way of complicating things. Certainly everything had gotten a lot more complicated after Ray had married Elise, she thought.

  “Maybe James can go with Franny,” Steve suggested. “He’s done that before, hasn’t he?”

  Steve was right. On at least two occasions, Franny had asked that her brother be included on weekend visits with her father, and Ray had generously agreed. So maybe he could be prevailed upon once again. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll think of something.”

  “Tell James I’ll make it up to him real soon.”

  “I’ll tell him.”


  “Thanks, Charley. You’re the best.”

  “Yes, I am,” she agreed. “Have a nice weekend.”

  “You, too.”

  So much for driving out to Pembroke Pines, she thought, hanging up the phone. She couldn’t very well interview a child killer with her own child sitting on her lap. Still, the thought of having to postpone her interview…. She picked the phone back up, dialed Ray at home.

  It was answered after five rings. “Hello?” a woman shouted over the sound of a baby crying.

  Charley pictured the always frazzled woman with the dark curly hair, bouncing her crying infant over her shoulder. “Elise, hi. It’s Charley.”

  “Ray’s not here.”

  Franny’s father ran a small consulting business out of his home. Charley was never exactly sure what it was Ray consulted on, and truthfully, she didn’t care. They’d met just after she moved to Florida. At the time he was working for a store that sold computers, and she was in the market for a laptop. She’d come home with both a new computer and the man who’d sold it to her. “Will he be back soon?”

  “I doubt it. He just left. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Charley took a deep breath, then plunged right in. “I was wondering if it would be possible for James to tag along with his sister this weekend,” she began.

  “You must be kidding.”

  “I know it’s an imposition….”

  “You think?”

  “It’s just that James’s father had to cancel, and I have to go out of town on business…”

  “And that’s somehow my problem?” Elise asked, as her baby continued to scream.

  “No. Of course it’s not your problem. Look, maybe I should wait and speak to Ray.”

  “Why? You think he’ll be easier to manipulate?”

  Charley said nothing. What could she say…yes?

  “Look, it was bad enough before we had a baby of our own,” Elise reminded Charley unnecessarily. Things had already been tense between the two women before Elise had given birth to Daniel. Now they were even worse. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to find a new patsy,” Elise said before hanging up.