“It is my understanding that Mr. Zacharias was a fine man,” said Simon.
“I’d hate to die like that, wouldn’t you? Gasping for air. It was the smoke that killed him, and that poor Filipina nurse who died with him. She tried to escape from the safe room, did you know that? But Konstantin was overmedicated and paranoid that he was going to be murdered, and he hit her, the poor Filipina lady who has six children in New Jersey, to keep her from opening the door. There was a settlement, I hear.”
Simon, who had heard all the versions of the murder, didn’t reply. He didn’t want Ruby Renthal, who talked too much, to say in conversation in New York, “Simon Cabot told me …”
“Perla told me at the funeral in Johannesburg that he was simply covered with soot. She said his face was entirely black. When the firemen finally got there two hours later, poor Konstantin was already dead. Is it true that the police gave the order to put the head guard in handcuffs, when he finally arrived with the only key to the villa after hearing about the fire on the radio?”
“I am unfamiliar with the moment-by-moment activities of that terrible night when Mr. Zacharias was asphyxiated,” said Simon.
“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Ruby, hoping she hadn’t gone too far. “The whole thing is so sad. Is Perla in London?”
“She’s at the house in Paris, I believe. She’s being honored at the British embassy for her philanthropic work. She moves about. I could have my office check her whereabouts for you,” said Simon.
“No, no. I’m going right back. I came only to see you, Mr. Cabot,” said Ruby. “I’m flying back to New York tomorrow and then I’m going on to Las Vegas to see my darling husband. You’ll like Elias so much when you finally meet him. He used to go shooting every year at Deeds Castle with the Duke of Chatfield, and he has so many friends here in London.”
“Yes, yes. I wish you had let me know in advance that you were coming, especially as you came here primarily to see me,” said Simon. He was clearly uncomfortable with the position he was in. “I was surprised to receive your call yesterday when you arrived in London. You see, I don’t think it’s going to work out for us, Mrs. Renthal.”
“For heaven’s sake why?” asked Ruby, openly shocked that he did not leap at the offer she had made. “We are prepared to meet your price, whatever it is. I know what Perla pays you.”
“Believe me, Mrs. Renthal, it’s not the money,” said Simon Cabot. “I have other clients. Very well known people of high rank. Some royals even, on occasion. I’ve had to discuss the possibility of representing you with them. I’m afraid I must be blunt, Mrs. Renthal. They are not pleased that I should be representing someone who is in prison in the United States.”
“What my husband is in a federal facility for is not even a crime in this country,” said Ruby.
“Nonetheless, he is in a federal prison and has been for some years,” said Simon.
“I see,” said Ruby, clearly hurt by the rejection. She wondered if Perla Zacharias, who had told her somewhat reluctantly about Simon Cabot when Ruby had run into her after leaving a hair appointment at Bernardo’s and congratulated her on the photos from after the trial that had accompanied Gus Bailey’s article in Park Avenue, had not wanted a person with a criminal background on her publicist’s client list. She remembered that Perla had not returned her first two calls and suddenly realized that if Perla had not happened to have picked up the telephone herself, something she rarely did, the third time she had called her, she might not have returned that call either.
“Perhaps after your husband has been released we could talk again, if you haven’t made other arrangements,” said Simon. He signaled to the waiter for a check.
“No, no, put it on my room, please,” said Ruby to the waiter.
RUBY FLEW back to New York, feeling that she had failed in her mission. She felt that so many people had let her down since Elias went to prison. She remembered the night that Bunny and Chiquita Chatfield, who were visiting in New York, had given a little dinner in the back room of Swifty’s for a select group of people during Elias’s trial. Bunny stood and tapped his knife against his wineglass and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a minute.” Lord Chatfield was an imposing figure with a deep and resonant voice, and all conversation ceased as the guests turned to look at him. His famous title, with its imposing place in English history, never failed to dazzle his rich New York friends. “We all know what a difficult time this has been for our dear friend Elias Renthal and his simply super wife, the beautiful Ruby. The newspapers have been full of such terrible rot about Elias. We all know him to be one of New York’s great citizens, and I wish all of you would rise and lift your glass to Elias and join me in wishing him the greatest luck in the days ahead.”
Several people in the room, but not all, cried out, “Hear! Hear!” It was the deliberate silence of those who did not that Ruby remembered most.
Gus was at his country home in Prud’homme, Connecticut, working on his novel, Infamous Lady, for which he was being paid a million dollars, when the unexpected call came. He almost didn’t answer, thinking it would be Beatrice Parsons, his editor, making her weekly phone call to see how the novel was coming along, wanting pages faxed to her. But he did answer.
“Hello?”
“Is that Augustus Bailey?” said a woman’s voice.
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Of course, Mr. Bailey. This is Perla Zacharias calling from London.”
Gus was stunned. The widow who was richer than the Queen of England was calling him in Prud’homme, Connecticut, from London. Her voice was deep. She had a slight foreign accent, though she spoke English fluently. There was a tone of recent-widow bereavement in her voice, even though a few years had passed since her husband’s death.
“Yes, Mrs. Zacharias,” he replied. He allowed no sound of surprise to appear in his voice that he should be receiving an international telephone call from her.
“We have a mutual friend in the former first lady,” said Mrs. Zacharias.
Gus recognized the ploy of using an important name to establish an immediate intimacy. He had used it himself. “Oh, Nancy, you mean.”
“Yes, Nancy. Have you seen her?”
“I haven’t, no. I haven’t been in Los Angeles for months, and she rarely travels these days,” Gus replied.
“Such a marvelous wife she was to the president,” said Mrs. Zacharias.
“Yes,” replied Gus. He waited, making no attempt to fill in the dead air. He knew she wasn’t calling him about the former first lady.
“I am leaving shortly for Paris, where I will be living while they rebuild the top two floors of the villa in Biarritz. Actually,” she added, “we’ve met. That darling Winkie Williams introduced us once at the opera a few years back.”
“I would have remembered that, Mrs. Zacharias,” said Gus.
It was time for Perla to get around to the purpose of the call.
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few moments. Gus waited, patiently. Finally she began.
“It is my understanding that you are planning to write a novel about a notorious lady, who I assume is me,” she said sternly. “It would seem to me that you have sufficiently covered the story of my late husband’s death in Park Avenue. According to my count, you have written six very long articles on the case.”
“That’s infamous lady, not notorious. There is much that is unanswered,” replied Gus cautiously.
“It is my understanding that you even interviewed my dental hygienist,” said Perla.
“Your dental hygienist sought me out, not the other way around. I was unaware of her, and she had a very nice story to tell about you.”
“I have never been interviewed. People have wanted to interview me over the years, or photograph the villa in Biarritz, things like that, for Vogue and W, but Konstantin was a very private person, and he never wanted any publicity.”
“I am aware of that,” said
Gus.
“I very much admire you, Mr. Bailey,” she said. “I have read your books and many of your interviews, and I have decided that I will allow you to interview me for your book. It is very important that you get the facts straight.”
“My plan is to go to Biarritz and look at the villa where the fire was,” said Gus.
“Come to Paris afterward. I’ll be living at the Plaza Athénée.”
THE NEXT morning, at the very same time that Perla Zacharias had called Gus the day before, the telephone rang at his house in Prud’homme. The call was from Paris. The man calling spoke English with such a strong French accent that he was difficult to understand. He was also extremely agitated. He identified himself as Pierre La Rouche. He was Perla Zacharias’s lawyer. He was infuriated that an arrangement for an interview had been made without his knowledge. Gus had seen him at the trial in Biarritz, and afterward in Johannesburg, talking outside the synagogue following Konstantin Zacharias’s funeral. He had also spotted him on several other occasions when the nurse, Floyd McArthur, who had taken care of Konstantin because he suffered from a disorder of the nervous system, had been arrested and sentenced to ten years in prison for the crime.
Gus remembered Pierre as a dramatic looking fellow with a superior attitude and slicked-back gray hair who chain-smoked through a long tortoiseshell cigarette holder. Gus remembered disliking him.
“I am having a very difficult time understanding your English, Mr. La Rouche,” said Gus. “Perhaps if you would eliminate the anger in your voice, it would be easier for me to understand.”
“Madame Zacharias cannot have an interview. It is impossible. How dare such a thing be discussed without consulting me?”
“Calm down. You have the dynamic wrong here. Mrs. Zacharias, or Madame Zacharias, called me at my unlisted number in Connecticut that you are now calling. I did not call Mrs. Zacharias. I was greatly surprised to hear from the woman. It seems to me that if you’re going to scream at somebody, you should scream at her. But you probably can’t afford to do that because she’s so rich and paying you a fortune, so you call and blow off steam to me. Get over it.”
“What sort of things do you intend to ask her?” The tone of La Rouche’s voice had changed considerably.
“About the fire. Where she was. How she found out the villa was burning. If she called Konstantin in the bathroom from her cell phone. Why the police kept the fire department from entering the apartment for two hours. Things like that.”
“But that’s exactly what she won’t talk about. That was all dealt with at the trial,” said La Rouche.
“Even you know that it wasn’t dealt with sufficiently,” replied Gus.
“There are other things to talk about. Her philanthropic works, for instance. Are you aware that the French government is presenting her with its highest civilian medal of honor for her philanthropic work for the poor children of Paris?”
“I’m not interested in writing about her philanthropic works, or her eighteenth-century French furniture or her Fabergé egg collection or her jeweled salt and pepper shakers. I repeat, she called me. I didn’t call her.”
“I have a solution,” La Rouche replied quickly. “Why don’t you e-mail me specific questions you are planning to ask Madame Zacharias. I will decide what you can and what you cannot ask, and I will be present during the interview.”
“Good-bye,” said Gus. He hung up.
CHAPTER 9
FOR REASONS INCOMPREHENSIBLE TO MOST OF HER friends, Lil insisted on having regularly scheduled luncheon engagements with her stepmother, Dodo Van Degan, whom she was known to loathe and about whom she spoke badly behind her back. She would tell Dodo how important it was for the family that they at least give the appearance of unity. Lil also was heeding the advice of her nephew, young Laurance, who pointed out that it would be bad for his business if there was a public rift with Dodo. After all, he noted, she was the richest one in the family.
From the beginning, the hatred these two women felt for each other hung between them as they dined at Swifty’s. Every word and gesture, no matter how pleasant on the surface, was laced with contempt.
“The pea soup is simply delish,” said Lil to Dodo during one of their earliest attempts at preserving the Van Degan unified front.
“I hate pea soup,” said Dodo, disinterestedly. Raising her finger to get the waiter’s attention, she said, “Octavio, I’ll have a gin martini straight up, with an olive, and the chef’s salad.”
“Those are my mother’s pearls you’re wearing,” said Lil.
“Your father, my husband, gave them to me on my last birthday before he died,” replied Dodo, fingering her pearls. “He said he liked to look at them on my neck, that they were being wasted in that black velvet box.”
“My father had no right to give my mother’s pearls to you. If he wanted you to have pearls, he should have taken you to Mr. Platt at Tiffany’s. Mr. Platt knows more about pearls than anyone in New York. Mother always wanted me to have those, and my father knew it. My father was growing senile, and you took advantage of him.”
Dodo put her hands behind her neck and unscrewed the diamond clip of the pearl necklace. Before Lil could stop her, she dropped the necklace in her stepdaughter’s “delish” pea soup.
“You awful woman! Look what you’ve done!” cried Lil in horror. “You’ve dropped Mother’s pearls in my pea soup. I’m sure they’re simply ruined.”
“Don’t be silly. Good for the sheen, I hear,” replied Dodo, a wide grin stretched across her face.
AS TIME went on, however, the two women began to grow more accustomed to each other, and the results of their luncheons became less disastrous. On their most recent date, Lil was sitting at her regular corner table in the back room of Swifty’s with Dodo across from her.
“Did I tell you I had the loveliest letter from Winkie Williams?” she said, before taking a dainty spoonful of her French onion soup. After the incident with her mother’s pearls, she could no longer stomach the pea soup.
She continued, “It was as if he had sent it from heaven. It came with a very expensive and beautiful orchid plant, everything written and ordered the night before he died. I’m to be the executrix of his will. He said it would take my mind off my apartment, which of course you know I’m always complaining about. Good old Winkie. He always did everything right.”
After a pause and another sip of the French onion, Lil shifted in her seat. These lunches had taught Dodo enough about her stepdaughter’s gestures to signal to her that whatever was coming was the topic Lil Altemus was really dying to talk about.
Lil said, in a low voice, “Everyone’s acting strange lately, I don’t know why. Something astrological, probably. Mercury in retrograde, whatever that means. Like Gert, you know, my cook. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. There was no rose on my breakfast tray again this morning. And she got huffy with me when I counted the change she brought back with her from buying the groceries at Grace’s Marketplace.”
“That’s the same thing as accusing her of stealing, after she’s put up with your crap for twenty-five years. She had every right to be huffy,” said Dodo.
As always, Lil ignored what her stepmother said, especially when she used coarse language, which she knew Dodo did to rile her. “I suppose she could be upset with me because it’s time for her to go on another trip to Ireland to visit that niece of hers. She’s named after me, don’t you love it? Miss Lillian Altemus Hoolihan of Roscommon, Ireland. I have to keep from laughing when Gert calls her that. These annual trips of hers to the old country are getting a little costly for me, so I suggested to her that she go over to Ireland every other year rather than every year.”
“I told you to sell the pearls if you need more money,” said Dodo.
“I just couldn’t sell Mother’s pearls. Addison Kent of Boothby’s auction house looked at them and he said they were beautiful, and he could do very well with them at auction, but I just couldn’t sell them. Not just so m
y cook can make her trips.”
“No wonder she didn’t put any roses on your breakfast tray,” said Dodo.
“She’ll get used to it,” said Lil. “It’s cutback time. It’s as simple as that.”
THE TRUTH was that Gert missed the old apartment on Fifth Avenue. The big kitchen. The maids. The butler. The dinners for twenty-four. That was what she had become accustomed to over the years. She liked having Adele Harcourt come into her kitchen to compliment her on her fig mousse. She especially liked it when Lil brought her into the dining room after a particularly delicious dinner to introduce her to the distinguished guests, who clapped for her and called her Gert. She wouldn’t say such a thing to a single soul, but she knew that she had been the star society cook in New York, and she missed her importance. She was the one everyone wanted to sit next to on bingo nights at St. Ignatius Loyola church, on Park Avenue at Eighty-fourth Street, where she went to early Mass nearly every morning. “Jackie Kennedy’s funeral was at St. Ignatius,” she often said when she described her church to her relatives in Ireland. She was thinking about those Fifth Avenue days as she walked home from Grace’s Marketplace, a fancy grocery store on Third Avenue and Seventy-first Street, carrying shopping bags of food back to the white-brick building on Sixty-sixth Street between Third and Second Avenues. She hated the building. She hated the apartment. She hated the stove in the kitchen. She was used to bigger and better. She hated the old linoleum on the kitchen floor. She particularly hated her room, which was half the size of her room on Fifth Avenue. But she would never say a word. She knew that Missus, as she called Lil Altemus, was having money troubles. She was a daily listener to Lil’s diatribes against her nephew, Laurance Van Degan Jr., who had put her on a strict budget to live, and her stepmother, Dodo Van Degan, who had inherited all the money that Lil had thought she was going to inherit.
Too Much Money Page 9