Too Much Money

by Dominick Dunne

  PERLA KNEW it was true. The letters had been written by Perla to a gigolo she briefly had been married to during an earlier phase of her life. She remembered writing the letters in her own hand. She had placed her much younger brother, Rocco, from the last of her father’s five marriages, into an alcohol and drug rehab center in Johannesburg. She could remember writing her lover that her brother had told his drug counselor at the rehab a very different version of the death of the second of her four husbands than hers. Perla was a smart woman. She didn’t need Simon Cabot to tell her that it would not do at all to have a story like that in circulation at a time when she was finally starting to be invited to the top houses in New York, London, and Paris because of her enormous and much-publicized philanthropy. She had learned from Konstantin when to attack and, more important, when to back off in a situation. She didn’t give a fuck about Kyle Cramden, and if this ruined his case, so be it. She had other cards to play. It would be okay to let Gus think he had won this round. It would be better and more devastating to get him later, when he started to feel secure, breathing a sigh of relief that this lawsuit was over. That’s when she would strike. As long as she had the money to stop it, Infamous Lady, the book that he’d been telling people around town was the thing he lived for these days, was never going to happen. She wanted to squash that asshole like a bug.

  First off, she ordered her two investigators who had passed along the story of child molestation in Biarritz to former congressman Kyle Cramden and his lawyer Win Burch to desist from repeating that story. The maid at the Hôtel du Palais in Biarritz had not walked in on Gus molesting a young boy. No such molestation had taken place. It was based on an old rumor that one of Gus’s enemies tried to start many years ago when he did not like the way he was portrayed in one of Gus’s novels. After some resistance on Gus’s part, mainly just an attempt to make her sweat a bit, a settlement had been arrived at between Peter Lombardo and Win Burch at two o’clock in the morning on the night before the deposition. Christine Saunders had been right about Peter, he shot enough holes in the congressman’s case to ensure that Gus would never have to face the dreaded Mr. Burch on the stand. The deposition did not take place. The settlement, although less by far than the millions the congressman had sued for, was still very large for someone who lived on a salary, as Gus did.

  CHAPTER 27

  WHEN LORD BIEDERMEIER’S SECRETARY, VERONA, buzzed him to say that Elias Renthal was on the phone, he was somewhat surprised, but he hoped this meant that the former convict was ready to start writing his memoir again.

  “This is Lord Biedermeier speaking,” he said.

  “Biedermeier, this is Elias Renthal.”

  “Mr. Renthal. I’m so happy to know that you are out of your coma that I have been reading about,” said Lord Biedermeier, who had a great curiosity as to what this call was about.

  “I’m out of the coma but still in the hospital. You will think this a curious invitation. I know what a busy schedule you have, but I wonder if you could come up to the Adele Harcourt Pavilion tomorrow to have tea or a glass of wine with me. There is a person who is most anxious to meet you. And I am not at liberty to reveal the name.”

  “Yes, I can come,” said Lord Biedermeier, without even checking his calendar. Elias had had a book under contract with his company since before he was incarcerated. Now would be the perfect time to get that memoir going again, with the entire city abuzz about Elias Renthal and his beautiful wife, Ruby.

  “Tenth floor of the Adele Harcourt Pavilion at New York–Presbyterian,” said Elias. “It’s the VIP floor. Suite six hundred.”

  Ruby, rushing, made a quick hospital stop to check on Elias’s progress before her hair appointment at Bernardo’s and her lunch engagement at Swifty’s with Baroness de Liagra, who had just flown in from Paris. She handed Tammi Jo a box of cookies that Gert had baked that morning.

  “Gingersnaps,” said Ruby.

  “Oh, I love gingersnaps. I’ll probably eat the whole box. There’s no one like Gert when it comes to cookies. No, I’m only kidding, Mrs. Renthal. I’ll take it to the nurses’ station. They’ll be thrilled.”

  “How is Mr. Renthal?”

  “He’s much better today,” said Tammi Jo.

  “Do you think so? Good,” replied Ruby.

  “He’s just like his old self, not that I ever knew his old self, but what I imagine his old self must have been, full of vim and vigor. He had a very healthy BM.”

  “Actually, I don’t need that full a report,” replied Ruby, her nose wrinkled in a show of distaste. “Just that he’s doing well is enough information for me. Have you changed your hair, Tammi Jo? You look different.”

  “Thank you for noticing, Mrs. Renthal,” said Tammi Jo, as she put both hands to her coiffure. “This is my Audrey Hepburn look.”

  “Oh,” replied Ruby.

  “Visitors today. Lord Biedermeier, who Mr. Renthal says is his publisher,” said Tammi Jo. “I Googled him and found that he’s Gus Bailey’s publisher also.”

  “Lord Biedermeier is coming to meet my husband? He didn’t tell me that.”

  “Yes, and someone else too, but I don’t know who the someone else is. I’ll bet it’s someone very fabulous, if he needs to keep them a secret.”

  “Oh,” said Ruby. She knew who the mystery guest would be. Someone who spent an inordinate amount of money on beautiful orchid plants.

  “RIGHT THIS way, Lord Biedermeier,” Tammi Jo said, relishing the opportunity to call someone by a European title, as it felt very chic to her, like something Audrey Hepburn would do. “I’m Mr. Renthal’s nurse. I’ll take you to his room.

  “I love the books you publish, especially Gus Bailey’s. The first thing I read in every issue of Park Avenue is Gus Bailey’s diary. Could you give Gus Bailey a message for me, Lord Biedermeier? I know he’s writing a novel based on Perla Zacharias and, well, I went to nursing school with the male nurse who’s doing time in the Biarritz prison for the death of Konstantin Zacharias. I could tell him a thing or two. We used to think of Floyd as a healer. Oh, here we are.”

  She opened the door and said to Elias, “You have a visitor, Mr. Renthal. Lord Biedermeier.”

  Biedermeier walked through the sitting room and through the open bedroom door and up to the bed where Elias was propped up with pillows. He had on his new Turnbull & Asser blue silk pajamas, which Tammi Jo later told her mother cost six hundred ninety dollars. The price tag was still on, and there were four pairs, in different colors, all at the same price. Tammi Jo was transfixed by the extravagance of the Renthals.

  “What a pleasure this is,” said Lord Biedermeier.

  “I’ve been in a coma,” said Elias.

  “Yes, it has been well publicized. There’s no one like Simon Cabot,” said the publisher, establishing himself at the beginning of the meeting as an insider.

  “I never saw this suite before,” said Lord Biedermeier. “Pretty fancy.”

  “People like the Van Degans and the Rockefellers always use this suite during their illnesses,” said Elias, who, even after prison, felt it necessary to establish his importance.

  Tammi Jo couldn’t resist making her contribution to the lore of Suite 600 in Harcourt Pavilion. “Do you remember Antonia von Rautbord? The society lady who was in a coma for so many years? Such a sad story. She was in this suite until they moved her to a rest home. She used to have her hair and nails done, even in the coma.”

  Neither Lord Biedermeier nor Elias was interested in Tammi Jo’s contribution, and neither responded. Tammi Jo poured Pellegrino water with lemon slices into lovely antique glasses engraved with the initial R that Jacques, the chauffeur, had brought over from the new house on East Seventy-eighth Street, now that Elias was having visitors. The glasses with the engraved R had been purchased at a Rothschild auction in Geneva by Baroness de Liagra as a housewarming present for Ruby Renthal. Tammi Jo placed a small table next to Lord Biedermeier’s chair and put down the glasses of Pellegrino water and passed
two silver trays of Gert’s tea sandwiches, which Ruby called society sandwiches. The two men did not speak during those moments, waiting for Tammi Jo to leave. “Would you prefer India or China tea?” said Tammi Jo in a throaty voice, imitating Ruby.

  “Oh, no, no, Tammi Jo. Everything is lovely. Thank you so much. Now, Lord Biedermeier and I would like to be alone. Would you close the door behind you? Thank you, Tammi Jo.”

  “So why am I here?” asked Lord Biedermeier. “Are you ready to start working on your memoir again, adding the story of the seven years in prison and your stroke?”

  “Facility, not prison,” said Elias.

  “Prison sounds better. It’s a great story, Elias. One of the richest men in the world on his knees cleaning toilets. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”

  He stopped when he saw the look that began to appear on Elias’s face. He spoke quickly again to explain himself. “I meant that from a theatrical point of view, or a storyteller’s point of view.”

  “I didn’t ask you here to tell you my story. We can discuss my book later,” said Elias.

  “Have you actually written it?” asked Biedermeier.

  “With a little help from a hired hand who will receive no credit,” answered Elias. “I’ll just need to update it to include recent events.”

  “I’ll bet we could get Park Avenue to run an excerpt. I’m sure my friend Stokes Bishop would agree to it. It would be great publicity. ‘The Renthals Retake New York,’ something like that. We’ll get Annie Leibovitz, poor dear with all her troubles, to photograph your beautiful wife, Ruby, and put her on the cover. We’ll do a big party at the Four Seasons, and everyone who’s anyone in the city of New York will come.”

  “We’ll see,” said Elias. He knew that a big party at the Four Seasons in his honor was a good idea, part of a well-thought-out plan created by Simon Cabot to get them back into the life they had enjoyed before their fall. “That’s another conversation entirely. For lunch, not a hospital bed. I asked you up here to meet somebody who wants to meet you. She and I share a great dislike for one of your authors.”

  Elias pressed a button, and the door opened. Standing there in front of Tammi Jo was a small but very noticeable woman who gave off an aura of money and power. She was wearing a sable coat. She had an attitude of superiority about her that very, very rich people sometimes acquire, which has nothing to do with class or background, merely with money. Her face had been stretched too tight by far in surgery. Her closest friends, who were her hangers-on, said among themselves that they almost didn’t recognize her after her latest operation. She bore a resemblance to the much younger Ormolu Webb, whose plastic surgeon she had recently used.

  Perla turned to speak to Addison Kent, who had escorted her to the Adele Harcourt Pavilion, as he now escorted her to all her lunches and dinners and appointments since he had unofficially become her walker. “You wait here, Addison. There is something that Elias and I need to discuss. I’m sure this lovely nurse will keep you company,” she said, pointing to Tammi Jo but not looking at her. Tammi Jo didn’t think it was the right time to tell Perla Zacharias that she had gone to nursing school with the man who was in prison for causing the fire that had killed her husband.

  “Mrs. Zacharias,” announced Tammi Jo, as if she were Doddsie at the Butterfield Club. Tammi Jo was thrilled to be with such people. She followed as Perla walked into the room, to pour another glass of Pellegrino water with a slice of lemon. Tammi Jo thought Perla had style, the way she let her sable coat float off her shoulders onto a chair. Tammi Jo picked it up, hugged it, and hung it on a hanger in a closet, unable to take her eyes off the famous Mrs. Zacharias, who people said was richer than the Queen of England. Perla had been professionally made up, and her hair had been smartly cut in the latest fashion by Bernardo, the fashionable hairdresser of choice these days, although it barely masked the horrible disfigurement from her face-lift. She approached Elias in his bed and kissed him on both cheeks. Later, Elias told Ruby he had hardly recognized her with the new face.

  “I have prayed for you every day, darling Elias,” she said.

  “That’s some orchid plant you sent, lady. The rumor on the floor here among the nurses and interns and even Ruby is that it cost a thousand bucks,” said Elias.

  “You’re worth it, Elias, and, as the world knows, I can afford it,” she said.

  Biedermeier immediately recognized the very rich woman whom his author Gus Bailey had made into an internationally recognized name. “Lord Biedermeier. I would like you to meet a lady you have heard a great deal about. This is Mrs. Konstantin Zacharias. She is the widow of the greatest financial genius of his time, who was tragically asphyxiated in a fire started by an unstable male nurse who is currently doing ten years in the Biarritz prison.”

  “I know the story well. I read about it in Park Avenue,” said Biedermeier. He didn’t mention that one of his bestselling authors was writing a novel based on the subject. “Yes, I recognized you, Mrs. Zacharias. Helmut Newton took those wonderful pictures of you inside the courtroom in Biarritz at the time of the male nurse’s murder trial.” That night he said to his dinner partner, with admiration, “She just looks rich, even with all the plastic surgery.”

  “Your author Mr. Bailey’s novel based on the murder and the murder trial is what I am here to discuss,” she replied, like a CEO calling a meeting to order. Tammi Jo pushed two chairs closer to Elias. “Would you close the door behind you?” said Perla to Tammi Jo, as if she were speaking to a servant. “And take some Pellegrino and ice and lemon to Mr. Kent in the other room.” When Tammi Jo opened the door with the glass of Pellegrino in her hand, Addison nearly fell over because he was listening at the other side, his ear pressed to the door.

  “They’re talking about Gus Bailey,” whispered Tammi Jo.

  CHAPTER 28

  GUS WAS NERVOUS AS HE SAT IN THE OFFICE OF his publisher, Lord Biedermeier. His book editor, Beatrice Parsons, was on vacation and unable to attend the meeting, which made him feel even more uncomfortable and vulnerable. He wished he had found another agent after his own retired, but after so many years of writing books for Biedermeier he had a good relationship with his publisher and he had thought he could handle his affairs himself. He had never imagined he would be in such a troubling predicament.

  “I wanted to discuss Infamous Lady with you, Gus,” said Biedermeier. “I’m concerned about the topic. Everyone knows the book is about the circumstances surrounding Zacharias’s murder, and I just wonder if people aren’t going to be sick of it by the time the book comes out. You’ve been on it too long and covered it exhaustively for Park Avenue. People are losing interest in the Zachariases. There’s been a trial. There’s been a verdict. The nurse was found guilty and is serving his sentence in the Biarritz prison. The story is over.”

  Gus’s worst nightmare was happening. He simply couldn’t believe Biedermeier was actually playing this game; that Perla had gotten to him, too. He slumped forward and could barely hear what his publisher was saying to him. He had been hoping this nonsense was behind him after he settled his lawsuit and showed Perla Zacharias that he would not be bullied. Compared to this, Win Burch felt small-time. He had poured so much of himself into this novel; so much of him was caught up in its writing. It was what he went home to at night, and if he lost the book he’d lose everything. Gus felt weary and sick. And the news from his doctor had not been good. How could he start over now? He feared he didn’t have the time.

  “But, we have a contract and I’ve written so much already and I’ve been promised the first interview with the male nurse, Floyd McArthur, who’s in prison. I’ve gotten to know his family and his lawyer, and they want me to do the interview. He has never spoken to anyone in the media, but he agreed to talk to me. There is enormous interest in his story. Aren’t you interested in that? I’ll have so many things like this to reveal in the book that I wasn’t able to talk about in the magazine,” Gus pleaded. He thought he felt tears pricking at his
eyes. He knew if the publisher did not support the book, even if he contractually had to publish it, it was dead in the water before it was even in bookstores.

  Biedermeier hesitated. Then he made an elaborate gesture of dismissal. “I really think we should brainstorm other topics for you,” he replied.

  The two men looked at each other. Biedermeier had won the moment. “What about this Madoff fellow?” he said, in a more pleasant tone of voice. “That is a topic people are interested in, and it’s ongoing. Perhaps you can find some people to interview who lost their fortunes. I think we can even pay for you to fly down to North Carolina to check out his new accommodations, so to speak.”

  Gus was quiet for a moment; there was a hint of darkness in his expression.

  “I’m not going to North Carolina,” said Gus, straightening with resolve. “I’m going to Biarritz to meet with the nurse. I don’t want to miss that hearing.”

  “I told you I’m not interested in the Zacharias story,” said Biedermeier, a “boss” tone overpowering his usually charming British accent. Stern as he sounded, Gus noted his publisher would not meet his eyes.

  “Then I’ll go on my own,” said Gus. “I can use it on my television series.”

  “I thought you were broke,” said Biedermeier. “You’ve told that to half the town.” He had heard a rumor that Gus had had to put his house in the country up for sale to pay his legal bills.

  “I am, but I have a backer who’s as interested in this story as I am. Same person who bought and brought me the sixteen letters that Perla wrote to the mysterious third husband. The very information that got Perla to stop helping Kyle Cramden and Win Burch crush me in that awful lawsuit.”