Hot Property
Page 13
“I’m just leaving Williams-Sonoma,” he says. “I got a new frozen margarita maker.” Tom is always buying something new, whether he needs it or not. The slickest kitchen appliances, the newest TVs—he just bought a 3-D TV for the library that cost over $3,000, and he needed to pay their AV team, Prestige Sound and Video, a father/son team named Garrey and Lonny from the Five Towns, a hundred dollars an hour to come over and set it up. He is constantly updating everything in their home and giving the old to either one of their children or to their adored housekeeper/dogsitter/personal assistant, Cecilia, who has been with the Chase family for over fifteen years.
“Can you believe it about HBO?” Tom says. “I mean, we don’t know what will happen, but just for Jonathan to even have had that meeting, to have the interest—how many twenty-one-year-olds can say that HBO is interested in their series?”
“It is unbelievable,” says Elizabeth. “Oh, I hope they buy it!”
Her cell phone rings, and she sees it’s Monique. “Hello,” she says, “one second, I’m just hanging up with Tom.” Odd that she’d be calling. If anything, Elizabeth should be calling to thank her for lunch.
“Tom, it’s Monique,” she says. “See you at home.”
“Hi—can you talk?” says Monique.
“Of course,” Elizabeth says, kicking off her Choos.
“Well, I just got off the phone with my friend Marilyn, whose daughter was recently hired to work for LEX Realty,” Monique says. “And she told me something that was really weird.”
“Does it have to do with us?”
“Well, it seems to. But let me tell you.”
“Okay.” Elizabeth starts to feel slightly apprehensive; Monique is hardly an alarmist.
Monique goes on. “So, entre nous, you know I sort of have a thing for Teddy Wingo.”
“I know, Monique.”
“So I was talking about our lunch today, and maybe I shouldn’t have, but I mentioned the fact that Teddy had missed an important appointment.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Elizabeth says, although she would have preferred that Monique had kept quiet about this.
“And there was a strange silence on the other end of the line. And then Marilyn said, ‘Actually, I don’t envy Elizabeth Chase having to deal with the likes of him.’ So of course I asked her what she meant, and at first she tried to steer me to another subject. But I wouldn’t let her, and finally she just came right out and said, ‘According to my daughter, he’s not to be trusted.’ And I said, ‘How would you know?’ And she said this: ‘Monique, this can’t come from me. You absolutely have to promise.’ And I promised. And then she said, ‘I know for a fact.’ And I said, ‘You’re still being vague,’ and she said, ‘I’ve already said too much.’ And then she absolutely refused to say more. She made me promise I wouldn’t identify her, but, well, my loyalty is obviously to you, Elizabeth.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me who the daughter is.”
“I’m already breaking a confidence. But—”
“It’s all right. But why would this woman say anything to you at all?”
“Because her daughter went out on a few dates with Teddy. And it didn’t end well.”
“Uh-huh,” Elizabeth says. “But in that case she and her mother have reason to hate him. They could be making this all up.”
“Marilyn’s not a petty person. She was warning me, knowing that I would warn you,” Monique says. “But here’s the thing. I know this girl has had a problem with drugs. She’s not exactly what I’d call stable. And therefore is probably kind of a loose cannon. I’m just wondering if she might be the one Teddy was breaking up with and who, you know . . . slipped him that really strong sedative.”
Monique must have won the game Clue all the time as a child, Elizabeth thinks to herself. She takes in everything Monique has just said and doesn’t immediately respond.
“You there?” Monique says.
“I’m here. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Well, let me know what you find out. And if I find out anything more, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks so much, Monique.”
Elizabeth hangs up and looks into the entrance gallery. The girls, mid phone call, had jumped down from her lap one by one, and Lola and Dolly are now wrestling with a stuffed lavender penguin that one of them has pulled from a nest of dog toys. Elizabeth gets up, walks into the kitchen, and pours herself a glass of Lillet, and then opens the freezer to drop in some frozen berries. Then she gets out the eggs and turns on the stove to make the girls their scrambled-egg dinner.
Just as she’s finishing the eggs and ladling them into three identical blue bowls that she bought in a market in Provence, Tom walks quietly into the kitchen; he’s wearing his Topsiders, jeans, and an Emory University T-shirt. He sits down at the rectangular country farm table around which they’ve built banquettes and where the family eats instead of the formal dining room, which they use no more than twice a year.
Elizabeth turns to Tom. “Amy’s coming tomorrow to give them their shots,” she says.
Dr. Amy Attas is the founder of CityPets, a veterinary house call service, and Elizabeth always feels reassured knowing that she will come to their apartment to treat the dogs whenever necessary. Dr. Attas was, in fact, the one who prolonged the Chases’ beloved Fluffy’s life by four years by doing her chemotherapy in the Chases’ apartment. Though some of her friends thought it extravagant, there was nothing Elizabeth wouldn’t do for her dogs.
Returning to the sink and washing the frying pan, she says, “So I got a weird call from Monique,” and then relays the rest of the conversation. She sets the pan in the stainless steel drainer and turns to face Tom.
“So what do you want to do?” Tom says.
“I guess we have to start watching Teddy carefully, seeing what he’s up to.”
Nervously running his fingers through his hair, Tom says, “I’ve always wanted to get rid of him. Actually, I wish he’d go somewhere else.”
“Yes, but don’t forget, it’s because of him that we’re getting the business from Luxury Estates. I wouldn’t even consider confronting him about anything until that deal is done.”
They’re speaking of a program that the venerable auction house Barrington’s created called Luxury Estates, in which they select one real estate brokerage company from each major city in America and do an all-out marketing campaign for the company’s properties. They offer this as a way of helping to promote estate and heirloom auctions held in major cities like New York, Boston, Chicago, and Los Angeles, events that comprise a substantial percentage of their business. Teddy, who has contacts everywhere, cultivated an “in” at Barrington’s. With some finessing, he was able to get what they were aiming for in a marketing campaign. The major real estate brokerage companies in New York City spent thousands of dollars on proposals, and all but Chase Residential and LEX were eliminated.
A month ago Teddy received the unofficial assurance that Chase Residential was to be chosen by Barrington’s as its real estate company from New York City. Not only would this mean a priceless amount of free publicity but, more importantly, all the other companies selected around the country would be referring their clients directly to Chase Residential and vice versa. It would be huge for the Chase business, particularly since so many wealthy Americans were—because of the weak dollar against the euro—opting to buy in New York City rather than in France or Italy or Spain.
“But the Luxury Estates program isn’t going to be announced for a while, is it?” Tom asks.
“Maybe not until Christmas.”
“So what are we going to do until then? Teddy might be seriously compromising us—we have no idea.”
“We’ll just have to watch him,” Elizabeth says. “And try to find out just how true this is. I still distrust it, only because we’re dealing with a woman Teddy probably was aw
ful to.”
“We should get the password to his e-mail account,” Tom says suddenly.
They both simultaneously think of Jonathan, who’s a computer whiz and might be able to hack into Teddy’s e-mail.
“I don’t know, Tom,” Elizabeth says. “Should we really do that? If he ever found out . . . let me marinate on this, as Jonathan says.”
“Okay, but let’s not forget that Teddy can pretty much go anywhere,” Tom says. “Any other company would be thrilled to have him work for them.”
“Maybe he already is working for them—”
“—And we just don’t know it,” Tom says, finishing her sentence.
Elizabeth goes and sits down next to Tom, and as soon as she does, Dolly, Lola, and Roxy gather around her legs, waiting for her to pick them up.
“I’ve trusted Teddy with so much,” she admits to her husband, picking a frozen blackberry out of the Lillet. She folds her hands on the table. “But now that I think about it, he’s always sort of vague with me.”
Tom shakes his head and says, “All right, the girls are coming over tonight—are we going to tell them?”
“Of course we’re going to tell them,” Elizabeth says, and leaves the room, Roxy, Lola, and Dolly trailing behind her.
Chapter Seven
Kate
Heaven on Earth
Fifth Avenue/70s. 8 rooms. Sprawling, sunny 3 bedroom, 3-and-a-half baths with 11-foot ceilings and spectacular wraparound terraces. White-glove full-service cooperative. $8.5 million.
“Hey you!” Alexa says cheerfully. “No more turn-downs from nasty bitch co-op boards, right?”
“Hope not.” Kate smiles, and waits to be introduced to the little man accompanying Alexa.
“Oh, and this is Mr. Butterworth.”
Mr. Butterworth pulls the ascot from around his neck, wipes his forehead with it, then arranges it under his chin again. He takes a mini bow and says to Kate, “Delighted to meet you, pretty girl.”
Who is this man? she wonders. Why can’t any of her clients show up alone or with their spouses or parents? Why do they have to complicate things by bringing along their friends and neighbors?
“Oh, and BTW, Mr. Butterworth’s my psychic,” Alexa says.
Oh, my God, Kate thinks. “Really! How interesting! How long have you two known each other?” she asks as they ride up in the mahogany-paneled elevator.
“Umm, sometimes it kind of seems like forever,” Alexa says. “I wouldn’t dream of making a move without consulting with him first. He told me that the last co-op, the nasty one that turned us down, probably wasn’t going to work out, but I just didn’t want to believe him, I guess. But I won’t make that mistake again, and that’s why this time around I figured I’d bring him along to actually see the apartment.”
“Not to be boastful, but I do know whereof I speak, darlin’,” Mr. Butterworth says. “Perhaps your friend Kate here would be interested in having me take a peek at her future sometime.”
It isn’t a bad idea—maybe he can tell her whether Scott is ever going to just give in and let himself be in love with her, because this is truly what she feels in her heart, the reason she keeps giving him one more chance, the reason Kate hates every date she ever goes on. She is just so sure Scott will come back to her. Kate has always been an utterly hopeless romantic in the weeping, perfect-movie-ending kind of way. In her high school yearbook, in the dedication page to her boyfriend Jimmy, she quoted “You’re in my heart, you’re in my soul. You’ll be my breath should I grow old, you are my lover, you’re my best friend, you’re in my soul.” At the time, she thought that life would not exist past Jimmy. Isabel and Jonathan, who each also had their first loves at age fifteen, both used the same quotation; Isabel with Essene, and Jonathan with Jen.
“I charge two-fifty for forty-five minutes, but frankly I’m worth every penny,” he adds.
“Oh, he is!” Alexa agrees enthusiastically.
Kirk Henckels, one of the top brokers from Stribling and a close friend of Elizabeth’s, greets them at the door, and then takes Kate aside to whisper that a broker from Corcoran is just finishing up a showing with his clients, and that he’ll be out the door in a couple of minutes. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “They’re taking a little longer than expected,” he explains.
“That’s okay,” Kate says graciously, and then suggests, since the other buyers are in the living room, that they start in the kitchen. She shows Alexa and her psychic the $6,000 Sub-Zero refrigerator, the marble center island (Alexa loves an island!), the gleaming utility room with a stainless steel washer and dryer.
“Nice,” Mr. Butterworth says approvingly, and Alexa smiles.
The sweeping thirty-two-foot entrance gallery is filled with Warhol, Picasso, and Milton Avery, and Kate knows they’re all originals, worth many millions. She thinks of Mr. Yates’s wonderful AP art history class she took at Horace Mann, and the endless memorizing she had to do, always staying up all night before exams (a last-minute Lucy, Kate was, always printing papers on her way out the door to class a few years later in college—always marveling at how she managed to meet every deadline) and assigning each artist to a friend of hers so she would remember him. She wonders briefly now why she didn’t go on to law school after graduation or pursue a doctorate in English literature. But joining the family business was always her destiny, and after seven years in real estate, she can’t imagine or want a different life for herself. There is nothing like working with your family, she always thinks.
Mr. Butterworth suddenly looks uneasy, and he grasps both of Alexa’s hands in his own as he says, “I have to tell you that I’m feeling the presence of a ghost within these walls. Nothing to be afraid of, darlin’, but I thought it prudent to mention nonetheless.”
“Wait, hold on, what do you mean?” Alexa says, her voice rising five octaves in a high-pitched squeal. “I just don’t—”
“Should we go see the spectacular wraparound terrace?” Kate interrupts, seeing that Alexa is about to have a total meltdown.
“But what do you mean by ‘nothing to be afraid of’? ” Alexa says loudly, her voice shriller and shriller as she clutches her purple ostrich Birkin like a life vest. “You’re telling me there’s a ghost in this apartment, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”
The broker from Corcoran appears now with a youngish couple dressed in jeans and T-shirts. “Would you mind keeping your voice down?” he tells Alexa, and ushers his clients toward the front door. He’s a man in his thirties in a navy blue Barbour coat and tasseled loafers; his name is Eric Austin, and Kate doesn’t much like him. She’s watched him over the past couple of years and finds him slick. And then there’s the condescending way he’s speaking to her client.
“I do mind,” Alexa says. “If Mr. Butterworth feels the presence of a ghost in this apartment, I have every right to be upset, don’t you think?”
“Who’s Mr. Butterworth?” the broker says, and then recognizes Kate. “How’s it going, Kate?” he says. “I know the Langfelders and I were supposed to be out of here a few minutes ago, but well, I’m sorry.”
“I’m Mrs. Walden’s psychic,” Mr. Butterworth offers. “May I give you my business card?”
“Thanks, not interested in you and your ghost stories.” Then he whispers, “You better keep your mouth shut—my client loves this apartment.”
“It would be highly unethical of me to keep to myself what I’ve seen here,” Mr. Butterworth announces. “And of course when it comes to ghosts, I say live and let live, darlin’.”
“ ‘Live and let live’—that’s a good one,” Eric Austin says. He and the Langfelders make their way from the door back toward the center of the entrance gallery.
“Actually . . . I’m very interested in the paranormal,” Daniel Langfelder says. “I think the idea of a ghost inhabiting the apartment is really pretty cool.”
A ghost with syphilis! Kate stares glumly at the herringbone floor. Her hopes for selling the apartment fade and then disappear completely. She can just picture Alexa going home and posting on Facebook this delightful piece of information about a ghost with a sexually transmitted disease.
“Fascinating!” Daniel Langfelder is saying. “I’d be thrilled to live in an apartment that comes with a piece of history like that.”
“Uh, right, fascinating,” Eric agrees.
Daniel Langfelder’s wife, a dark-haired woman with a tortoiseshell headband in her hair, is staring at them both. “Have you two lost your minds?” she says. “Over my dead body will I let you buy this apartment for us, Dan. Let’s get out of here. Now.”
“Oh, Amanda, why are you always so narrow-minded?” he says as he and his wife and broker head back toward the front door.
As soon as the door shuts behind them, Mr. Butterworth lets out a little whoop of pleasure. “I knew the wife wouldn’t go for it!”
“I’ll never go for it, either,” Alexa says. “Never.”
“Never say never,” Mr. Butterworth advises. “Because, guess what, darlin’, the ghost didn’t die from an STD, he died of a broken heart following the death of his wife, whom he’d been happily married to for over half a century. There’s a love story for you right there.”