The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Mista Vance?” a tough, Staten Island-y voice bellowed. “Detective Doherty. Right this way.” He led the pair up the stairs, where Cordelia had been placed in custody.

  “Normally I woulda put your wife in the holding cell, but we got a few nasty ones in there today, so she’s been sittin’ at my desk.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Morgan.

  “No prob. Say, who are you guys, anyway? A call from the mayor’s office? Sheesh. The D.A. dropped this case faster than a hot coal. Cartier called us personally to say they were dropping all charges!”

  “It’s not who my client is,” said Sy firmly, “it’s that she is completely innocent and that this was all a terrible mistake.”

  “Oh, yeah? We got camera footage of her stealing a boatload of loot!”

  “She didn’t steal!” burst out Morgan.

  “Morg—” said Sy, trying to calm him. “Don’t listen. She’s fine!”

  “No,” continued Morgan. “We have an arrangement with Cartier. The salesgirl who normally is aware of our house account was on vacation, okay?” He put a hand to his brow, wiping the sweat, which was not caused at all by Cordelia’s actions but his own.

  Had he driven her to it? Clearly the jewels and the clothes and the benefits were all plugs to fill the gaping holes he had punched into their marriage. The poor woman, and now some Staten Island schmuck was berating and belittling her. This was not their life! He was picking her up in a jail? Deep breaths.

  He calmed down, and as the three rounded the corner in silence Morgan saw his wife looking sullen at the detective’s desk.

  “Cordelia!” Morgan ran to her, throwing his arms around her to get her out as soon as possible.

  “Oh, darling,” she cried, hugging him. “Thank you—I’m so sorry.”

  “Never, don’t say a word. This was all a terrible misunderstanding.”

  “I’ll say,” interrupted Detective Doherty. “We misunderstood that it was okay for you to steal.”

  “That will be enough,” said Sy.

  It took several minutes for Sy to sign the necessary documents, and Cordelia spent the time huddled in Morgan’s arms. This was a big deal, she realized. She was in jail! She was getting out, but she was lucky she had a fancy lawyer who could save her. What had she been thinking? Sometimes she felt as if she were possessed or sleepwalking. She remembered going to Cartier and taking the jewels, but it was as if she had been under water, or somehow watching herself do it, while at the same time remaining very detached. How did she get there? She really had to throw out some of those pills in her medicine chest. They were playing tricks on her.

  “All done,” said Sy reassuringly. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  They all three turned on their heels and scurried down the stairs. As nice as an Upper East Side precinct was, it was certainly not a place one wanted to linger. On the way out they passed some high-class prostitutes, an old lady complaining about some disruptive dog, and a guy filling out a form about a lost cell phone. The air outside had never felt fresher.

  “Thanks so much, Sy,” said Morgan, shaking his hand.

  “No problem,” he said, getting into a taxi.

  Cordelia was leaning on Morgan as they walked home. She was shivering and shaking, from the cold or her actions, he didn’t know.

  After Cordelia and Morgan got to their bedroom, he asked what those three hours were like in there. “Oh, not too bad, I suppose,” she said, trying to keep her composure, dreamily staring out of the window as if in a semitrance. The tears had been caked onto her cheeks, making the skin feel taught over her bones, but she hadn’t shed any over the actual incident, only over the weight of the pressure that led her to it.

  “It was funny, actually. I wasn’t embarrassed at all. It was fine,” she said, putting on a fake smile. She had to be strong, for herself and for Morgan. If she let herself collapse again . . .

  “Oh, and I saw Lamar Crabb being booked!” she said.

  “That’s who that was. I knew I recognized him!”

  “He didn’t see me, thank goodness,” said Cordelia. “They told me he was indicted in a stalking case! There was this poor girl just out of college—I mean, young enough to be his daughter—who was getting called incessantly at all hours. She was getting these obscene and threatening calls for months, and it turned out it was him, her boss! Or, rather, her boss’s boss—he’s the CEO. She was an assistant or something at his firm—can you imagine? Poor Beatrice.”

  “That’s appalling. He must be praying this doesn’t get out.”

  “Well, the good news is I’m back home.”

  “Yes, you are, darling.” He stroked her hair lovingly. “Why don’t we get some Coco Pazzo takeout and eat at home?”

  “That would be lovely,” she said, wearily but with a smile. “Just perfect.”

  Her forced smile was betrayed by the welling tears that made her eyes grow shinier and shinier. Be strong, be strong! She chanted to herself, but to no avail. Finally, she all but collapsed into a quivering mass of choking sobs, her life spiraling out of control, and her body following suit.

  “It’s okay, darling,” Morgan said, comforting his wife with hugs.

  “I’m so sorry, Morgan, for humiliating you. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. It’s been a traumatic week. You have to let yourself rest. Let’s go lie down.”

  Morgan tucked her into the crisp sheets and sat beside the wife he loved so much. He fluffed up the monogrammed pillows around her and made sure she was comfortable. Despite the tragedy of Jerome’s death and her own propensity for jewel snatching, he felt this was all his fault, that the unraveling of Cordelia was all due to his adultery, the initial yank of her threads.

  “I’ll get you a sedative. You should sleep,” he said, patting her head.

  “Thank you, Morgan.”

  He brought her a pill and a glass of water. She stared off, glaze-eyed, at the curtains. “What is happening to me? I feel so . . . aimless. Nothing means anything to me anymore.”

  “Don’t think that. It’s not true,” he said, desperate to fix all that he had destroyed in her.

  “I . . . I feel like I’m just going through the motions—another party, another lunch, shopping. I’m half dead.”

  “Just calm down, honey. Don’t worry about all this. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “I don’t deserve you, Morgan. I’m just a shell. You . . . you’re such a good man. You’re such a good man . . .” she began to cry again, and Morgan felt a pain that knifed through his chest, his guilt a blade that sliced him into shards.

  “Cordelia,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I have not been as good a husband as I could have been to you. But I am going to change that. I want to be a better husband for you, and a better person.”

  “I’ve always loved you, Morgan. You’ve never let me down.”

  “I promise I never will.”

  As Cord slowly fell asleep, the echo of her words calling him a good man hung above him. He, a good man? He was about to have his mistress murdered. No, he was not a good man. What was he thinking? He had been temporarily insane. Ending up in jail would not be a great way to be a good husband to Cordelia. She needed him by her side, and no matter what, he knew he would be.

  He went into his study and retrieved Vince’s card and dialed the cell.

  “Hello, it’s me, Morgan. Listen, I’ve reconsidered what we discussed. Call it off. The . . . whack, or whatever you call it . . . Yes, I’m sure . . . What do you mean, it’s in motion? Look, I’ve changed my mind . . . Can’t you just not go? . . . Then who is it who does it? . . . No, no, you know what, you’re right not to tell me. Can’t you just call that person and tell him no? They can keep the money.”

  Morgan began pacing, and sweat was dripping from his brow. He had to call this off. “Call back tomorrow? What kind of organization are you running? I know, I know, but look, I want you to cancel my order . . . Okay, I’l
l call tomorrow. Please. Please!”

  Great, this was great. He had to make sure this goombah didn’t kill Maria. He couldn’t have another thing on his conscience. And even though he wished her dead, he couldn’t be the cause of her annihilation.

  “Who was that?”

  Morgan turned around, startled. It was John, standing on the threshold, clutching his weekend duffel bag.

  “Oh, a business acquaintance.”

  “What’s going on with Mom?”

  “She’s had an accident.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yes. She’s suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder, due to the loss of Jerome, so she got a little confused in Cartier and took some things and forgot to pay for them.”

  “She stole?”

  “Not intentionally,” said Morgan defensively.

  “Shit.”

  “Why don’t you go in and cheer her up? I’m sure she’d love to see you.”

  “All right,” said John. He left the room. That was a close call. Indiscretion could be his downfall. That and murder. He had to call off the kill. Now.

  chapter 55

  Melanie woke up and stretched herself across the bed in an X like a fluffy Persian cat who had happily happened on a strip of sunlight. Arthur was sitting at the foot of the bed, putting on his socks.

  “Well, hello there, miss. You’re finally awake.”

  “My god,” said Melanie, looking at the clock. “I’m so lazy today! I must have slept, like, ten hours.”

  “It’s okay, babe.”

  Arthur scampered over across the bed and kissed his wife on the forehead. Melanie giggled, pinned under him, and bashed him with a pillow to free herself. Feigning pain as if impaled with an Acme anvil, Arthur staggered to his shoes. Melanie, meanwhile suddenly looked ill.

  “Arty, I think I’m going to barf.”

  “Ha-ha. I’m sure you’re so sick, Sarah Bernhardt.”

  “No, seriously—”

  Before he could say a word, she was doing a Flo Jo sprint for the bathroom.

  “Oh, my goodness—” Arthur darted after her to put a calming hand on her shaking back as she violently chundered her tummy’s contents into the porcelain, Linda Blair–style.

  “Holy moly,” said Melanie. “That was horrible.”

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Arthur said, trying to soothe her by patting her head. “Maybe you should get back in bed.”

  Arthur tucked her in sweetly and looked down at his wife, who was safely wrapped in a cozy thousand-thread-count Porthault eggroll. He said he’d be happy to stay home by her side, but she knew he was swamped gearing up for Casket Week in Vegas. So she bid him farewell, and before long her eyes were at half-mast and then closed for business as she entered a deep, downy morning nap.

  About two hours later, she heard keys in the door and man’s shoes across the marble foyer floor.

  “Sweetness? Is that you?” Arthur must’ve come back to check on her. What a mensch she married.

  “No, madam,” a familiar, crisp voice chirped. “It is I. I’ve returned.”

  Guffey! Returned? Melanie had been convinced he was lying on a chaise longue in Palm Beach with his former mistress, who had so much class it was coming out of her ass.

  “Guff, you’re back? I’m in here!”

  He appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, madam. I am sorry my troubles kept me from you for as long as they did . . . Are you all right?”

  “Well, I’m a little under the weather. But yes, I’m just fine. Everything’s fine.”

  They shared a smile, and Guffey left to go to his room and unpack.

  Later on, over tea, Melanie sat in her robe in the kitchen as Guffey got back into the swing of things, putting the kitchen in order and making the necessary shopping lists for Juanita.

  “So, Guffey,” Melanie said gently. “I know you said you had . . . troubles. Is everything okay?”

  “Nothing to worry about, madam. I’m fine. We are only dealt what we may handle, as they say.”

  “Well, I was worried. I didn’t know what went wrong or if . . . it was my fault.”

  “Your fault? Why, no!”

  “I just thought . . . maybe it was something I did. Or said. Or an embarrassing combo of both. ’Cause that Observer piece—”

  “Nonsense! I don’t care about a foolish article.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Lord, no!”

  “I thought . . . I thought maybe you left because I humiliated you.”

  “Not in a million years,” he said, shaking his head. “Madam, I left because sadly my brother’s latest bout with fairy dust had left him temporarily incapacitated. It was a dark family matter, nothing more.”

  “Really?” said Melanie, her face lighting up, as if she were thrilled Guff’s bro was on the smack. “I mean, that’s awful. But I’m relieved. I know things were much smoother with Diandra, and that I don’t always know what’s what. But I’m glad I wasn’t the cause of your sudden departure.”

  “Heavens, no,” he said, smiling softly. He was touched that he had so much of an impact on her. She must have simply crumbled when he fled. As if the pressure of the damning article wasn’t enough, she probably felt abandoned by even him, her trusty servant and advice giver. And one thing was for sure: the harsh words from Billy Crispin’s pen-as-sword had most certainly deflated her swollen pride. In fact, his mistress seemed more relaxed and real than ever before. He looked at his sick charge in her new robe—he had noticed her new sheets and the new conservative clothes on her dressing chair earlier—and he felt a parent’s pride. She was listening, absorbing; she was trying so hard, all this time. And it was out of this touched and compassionate place that Guffey decided to tell her the truth about her looming predecessor.

  “Madam,” he started, not knowing quite how to broach the subject. “Something you should know about the first Mrs. Korn . . .”

  “Hmm.” Melanie smiled. “Funny you should mention her. I was so paranoid after the article, I actually thought you went back to work with Her Majesty.”

  “Not at all,” he said, nodding. “You see—how should I say this?” He paused. “I made her.”

  “What?”

  “I knew her before she was Diandra Chrysler.”

  “She had another husband?”

  “No. I knew her before her reinvention.”

  Melanie was quiet. Guffey continued.

  “I knew her when she was Diane Buick.”

  “Buick?” Melanie was stunned. A cheap car clearly was not name enough for her, so she thought it was only a minor change if she switched to a more luxe brand? No way.

  “Diandra isn’t Diaaaandraaa? You mean, she changed her name? From Diane?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And Chrysler? Well, god, at least she had the good sense to pick a name that had a mark in the New York skyline. And here I thought she was this great pinnacle of breeding and taste!”

  “She was. Because of me. I buttled for the Viscountess of Havorshire before I left the U.K. I knew it all: I was the eyes and the ears of the castle, of the social season. And when I came to the States to work for Prince Casius of Greece, Diane was one of his . . . well, women.”

  Melanie sat with bated breath, stunned. Guffey continued.

  “We became fast friends. She was desperate to win his affections, and I spied her attempts to be refined and worthy of him, but she suffered tremendous class anxiety and sought my help to hone herself. And I did the best I could. But his heart was led to greener pastures, to the young daughter of a derby horse breeder in Kentucky. And Diane was devastated. So I decided to help her. She became my little project, and before long she was a social force to be reckoned with, and shortly thereafter she was on the arm of every millionaire on Fifth Avenue. She brought me with her on her ascent, but we parted ways when I took a liking to Mr. Korn and I saw how she mistreated him. When she took up with another man and said she might move, I knew I could never l
eave New York. Our winter season in Palm Beach was torturous for me. Florida is my least favorite state in the Union.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Melanie, her eyes glazed over in a flickering montage of screen doors slamming, cheerleaders’ pom-poms, teased, bleached bangs, Dairy Queens, and El Caminos rocking in the parking lot out back.

  So, there it was. The famed, renowned, revered Diandra was just like her. Only Melanie had made it out of that putrid peninsula and the first Mrs. Korn was put to pasture there. Sunshine shmunshine—Melanie would take the darkly sparkling, edgy bustle of Manhattan any day. And the diamond-esque glimmer of the Chrysler Building’s sharp spire was a nightly sight she’d never give up for all the money in the world.

  chapter 56

  “Make a left here. Yes, this should be it,” said Morgan, glancing down again at the address that he had scratched out on the Post-it.

  The cab driver turned and looked back at him. He could tell this guy was, you know, sophisticated. This wasn’t a place he should be hanging around.

  “You sure you wanna stop here?”

  Morgan looked at the less than enticing darkened building on the deserted corner of this Bronx neighborhood and thought, No! But, alas, he had no choice.

  “I don’t want to, but I have to.”

  “All right.”

  “But do you think you could wait for me? Keep the meter running and I’ll give you a fifty-dollar tip.”

  “Sounds great. Don’t jerk me around.”

  “I promise,” said Morgan, getting out of the taxi. He had intentionally not called a town car or used his own driver because he did not want anyone to be able to trace his steps. Vince had been so vague about calling off the hit that Morgan had been compelled to go and meet the guy in person, just to make sure it would not happen.