One Fifth Avenue

by Candace Bushnell

  “Oh my goodness,” Enid said, taking the box and examining it. “So that’s where she kept it.” She handed the box back to Annalisa. “That would be very Louise. Hiding it in plain sight. How did you get the box, dear?”

  “Schiffer gave it to me. After the King David gala. She was moved by what I said about Billy, and she insisted I take it.”

  “But how did she get it?”

  Annalisa smiled. “You don’t know that, either? She took it from Billy’s apartment on the day she found him.”

  “Clever girl,” Enid said. “I’m so happy she and Philip are marrying at last.”

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Annalisa said. “I want you to see the ballroom.”

  “Oh my dear, it’s marvelous,” Enid exclaimed, passing through the large double doors. The floor had been restored to its original black-and-white marble checkerboard, the aquarium was gone, and the marble mantelpiece was newly polished, revealing the intricate carvings telling the story of the goddess Athena. Luckily, Paul had never touched the ceiling, so the painting of sky and cherubs still remained. Scattered around the room were little tables and chairs and vases filled with sprays of white lilies and lilacs. The room smelled heavenly, and strolling to the fireplace, Enid examined the detailed carvings. “Wonderful,” she said, nodding in approval. “You’ve done so much in such a short period of time.”

  “I’m very efficient,” Annalisa replied. “And of course, I needed something to keep me busy. After Paul’s accident. It still isn’t appropriate to be seen out in public.”

  “Oh no, my dear,” Enid said. “Not for another six months, at least. But a private affair in your own apartment is a different story. And it’s only seventy-five people.”

  “I did invite Mindy and James Gooch. And Sam,” Annalisa said. “I’ve decided that Mindy is like one of those old hags in a Grimms’ fairy tale. If you don’t invite her, she wreaks havoc.”

  “How true,” Enid said in agreement. “And it’s always wonderful to have children at a wedding.” She looked around the room with pleasure. “Ah, the times we used to have in this ballroom. When Louise was alive and still young. Everyone wanted to be invited to those parties, and everyone came. From Jackie O to Nureyev. Princess Grace when she was still Grace Kelly. Even Queen Elizabeth came once. She had her own security detail. Handsome young men in bespoke suits.”

  “But now it turns out that Mrs. Houghton was a thief,” Annalisa said, looking directly at Enid. “Or so it seems.”

  Enid stumbled a little, and Annalisa took her arm to steady her. “Are you okay?” she asked, leading Enid to a chair.

  Enid patted her heart. “Yes, dear. It’s the heat. Old people don’t do well in the heat. That’s why one is always hearing those terrible stories about old people who die in heat waves. Could I have some water, please?”

  “Of course,” Annalisa said. She pressed the button for the intercom. “Gerda? Could you please bring up some ice water for Ms. Merle?”

  The water arrived right away, and Enid took a large gulp. “That’s better. Now what were we talking about, dear?”

  “The cross. And Mrs. Houghton.”

  Enid looked away. “You’re so very much like her, dear. I saw it that night at the gala.”

  Annalisa laughed. “Are you saying I’ve got a precious antiquity hidden in the apartment?”

  “No, dear,” Enid said. “Mrs. Houghton wasn’t a thief. She was other things, but pilfering antiquities from a museum was not her style.”

  Annalisa sat on the small gold ballroom chair next to Enid. “How did she get it, then?”

  “You’re awfully curious,” Enid said.

  “I’m interested.”

  “Some secrets are best left at that—as secrets.”

  “Billy Litchfield died because of it.”

  “Yes, my dear,” Enid said, patting her hand. “And until just now, when you showed me the box, I never imagined that Billy Litchfield would have been involved in selling the cross. It wasn’t in his character.”

  “He was desperate,” Annalisa said. “His building was going co-op, and he didn’t have the money to buy it. He was convinced he would have to leave New York.”

  “Ah, New York,” Enid said, taking another sip of water. “New York has always been a difficult place. Ultimately, the city is bigger than all of us. I’ve lived here for over seventy years, and I’ve seen it happen again and again. The city moves on, but somehow the person does not, and they get run over in the process. That, I’m afraid, is what must have happened to Billy.” Enid leaned back in her chair. “I’m tired, my dear,” she said. “I’m getting old myself.”

  “No,” Annalisa said. “It wasn’t New York. Paul was responsible. Sandy Brewer showed him the cross one evening. Paul thought Sandy was going to fire him because he lost twenty-six million dollars on the morning of the Internet Debacle. So Paul sent an e-mail to the Times.”

  “Aha,” Enid said. And then, with a wave, as if she wished to sweep it all away, added, “There you go. Everything always works out for the best.”

  “Does it?” Annalisa said. “I still need to know how Mrs. Houghton got the cross.” She looked directly into Enid’s eyes, her gaze not wavering. Louise, Enid remembered, could do that, too—stare a person down until she got exactly what she wanted. “Enid,” she said softly. “You owe me.”

  “Do I?” Enid gave a little laugh. “I suppose I do. Otherwise, who knows what would have happened to the apartment? Very well, my dear. If you want the truth so much, you’ll have it. Louise didn’t take the cross from the Met. She took it from my stepmother, Flossie Davis. Flossie took the cross because she was silly and stupid and thought it was pretty. Louise saw her take it and made Flossie give it to her. Louise, I’m sure, intended to return it to the museum, but Flossie had a bit of dirt on Louise. She was quite sure that Louise killed her husband.”

  Annalisa stood up. “I thought you said he’d died from a staph infection.”

  Enid sighed. “That was how I remembered it. But after Billy died, I had a chat with Flossie. And then I went to the library. There’s no doubt Randolf Houghton did return to One Fifth with some kind of infection. But the next day, he rapidly went downhill and died twelve hours later. The cause of death was never determined conclusively—but that wasn’t unusual in those days. They didn’t have all the tests and medical equipment they do now. The assumption was that the infection had killed him. But Flossie never believed it. Apparently, one of the maids told Flossie that right before Randolf died, he lost his voice and couldn’t speak. It’s one of the symptoms of belladonna poisoning. Very old-fashioned.”

  “So Louise was a murderer?” Annalisa said.

  “Mostly, Louise was a passionate gardener,” Enid replied carefully. “She once had a greenhouse on her terrace but took it down after Randolf died. Flossie insists she was growing belladonna. If she were, she would have needed a greenhouse to do it in. The plant can’t survive in direct sunlight.”

  “Ah,” Annalisa said, nodding. “And I suppose you wanted me to do the same thing to Paul.”

  “Absolutely not,” Enid said. “Although it’s crossed my mind that ultimately Randolf’s death was for a good cause. Louise did so much for the city. But she never would have gotten away with it today. And of course, your husband is still alive. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Annalisa said. “Paul is quite harmless now.”

  “That’s good, dear,” Enid said, standing up. “And now that you know everything, I really must run. Schiffer and I are going to switch apartments this week, and I must start packing.”

  “Of course,” Annalisa said. She took Enid’s arm and escorted her down the two flights of steps. At the front door, she paused. “There is still one thing you haven’t told me,” she said. “Why did Mrs. Houghton do it?”

  Enid emitted a cackle. “Why do you think? Her husband wanted to sell the apartment.” She paused. “Now you must tell me something as well.
How did you do it?”

  “I didn’t,” Annalisa said. “I only begged Paul not to go.”

  “Of course,” Enid said. “And isn’t that a typical man? They never listen.”

  An hour later, Philip found his aunt in her kitchen, precariously balanced on top of a stepstool, taking things out of the top shelf of a cabinet. “Nini,” Philip said sharply, “what are you doing? The movers will pack everything up.” He took her hand and helped her down. “It’s the day before my wedding. What if you fell? What if you broke your hip?”

  “What if I did?” she asked, affectionately patting his cheek. Thinking of Annalisa, she said, “It would all continue. It always does, one way or another.”

  The morning of Philip and Schiffer’s wedding day was hazy and hot. The clouds were expected to burn off, but there might be thunderstorms later in the day. In the overheated kitchen of the Gooches’ apartment, Mindy Gooch was going over a catalog for Sub-Zero refrigerators with James. “I know it’s only a country house, but we might as well get the best. We can afford it. And then we won’t have to worry about replacing it for at least twenty years.” She looked up at James and smiled. “In twenty years, we’ll be in our mid-sixties. We’ll have been married for almost forty years. Won’t that be amazing?”

  “Yes,” James said with what had become a nearly permanent jumpiness. Mindy had yet to say a word about Lola, but she didn’t have to. The fact that she’d messengered those columns was enough. They would never talk about it, James thought, the way they never talked about anything that was wrong in their marriage. Of course, Mindy didn’t have to do that, either, not when she wrote about their marriage in her blog.

  “What do you think?” Mindy asked now. “The forty-or the sixty-inch? I say sixty, even though it’s three thousand dollars more. Sam will be having friends up to the country, and we’ll need lots of room for food.”

  “Sounds great,” James said.

  “And did you get the toilet paper and paper towels?” Mindy asked.

  “I did it yesterday. Didn’t you notice?” James asked.

  “Well, really, James,” Mindy said, “I’m a little busy here. Renovating the house and turning my blog into a book. That reminds me, Sam is bringing his little girlfriend to the wedding. I’ve asked Thayer Core to come by here at two o’clock to pick Sam up, then they’ll meet Dominique at Penn Station. She’s coming in from Springfield, Massachusetts. You can thank me for that—I thought you’d probably want to spend the day undisturbed, so you can work on your new book.”

  “Thanks,” James muttered.

  “And one more thing,” Mindy continued. “Dominique is Billy Litchfield’s niece. Ironic, isn’t it? But I suppose life is like that—it’s a small world. Sam met her at tennis camp, and she’s going to Miss Porter’s in the fall. So don’t say anything negative about Billy. She’s very sensitive, I think. But we don’t have to feel too sorry for her. Sam says she inherited three million dollars from Billy’s estate. It was in a Swiss bank account. Who would have thought Billy had so much money?”

  Later that day, around midafternoon, Lola Fabrikant awoke in Thayer Core’s bed, exhausted. Thayer was out—probably running errands for that awful Mindy Gooch, she thought—and out of habit, Lola immediately turned her phone on. She was supposed to have Saturdays off, but her new boss, the crazy director Harold Dimmick, had already sent her six frantic e-mails, demanding that she come by his apartment so she could advise him on what to wear to Schiffer and Philip’s wedding. For a moment, Lola considered ignoring the e-mails but thought better of it. Harold Dimmick had bizarre habits and barely spoke, but he was so crazy he had to pay his assistants a salary of eighty thousand dollars a year to get anyone to work for him. Lola needed both the job and the money, so she put up with Harold and the long hours. Harold had just started shooting an independent film and was working round the clock; consequently, she was as well.

  She got up and went into the small bathroom, splashing water on her face. Looking in the mirror, she wondered once again what had happened to her life. After James had refused to see her, her fortunes had quickly taken another turn for the worse. Marquee had disappeared, along with his website, The Peephole, and while Lola was furious because he still owed her two thousand dollars, there wasn’t a thing she could do. She’d tried living on her own for a bit, but her money had begun to run out quickly, and she’d had to beg Thayer to let her move in with him. She’d even tried looking for a regular job, but it turned out James had been right about the effects of writing a graphic sex column. Every potential employer seemed to know about it, and she couldn’t even get an interview for an interview. Then she’d run into Schiffer Diamond during one of her stakeouts of One Fifth. Schiffer had spotted her standing by the bushes in front of Flossie Davis’s building, and had crossed over to greet her. “Hey, kiddo,” she said, as if they were actual friends and she hadn’t stolen Philip away from her. “I’ve been wondering what happened to you. Enid said you were back in town.”

  Lola tried to remind herself of her hatred of Schiffer Diamond but was overwhelmed by Schiffer’s persona—she was a movie star, after all, and if someone had to take Philip away, wasn’t it better that it was Schiffer Diamond and not some other twenty-two-year-old like herself? So Lola found herself pouring out all her troubles, and Schiffer agreed to help her, saying it was the least she could do. Schiffer had arranged for her to meet Harold Dimmick, one of the directors on Lady Superior. Due to Schiffer’s recommendation, Harold had hired her, but Lola no longer believed Schiffer had anything to do with it. Harold was such a freak, only someone as desperate as Lola would even consider the job.

  “So you’re finally up,” Thayer said, coming into the apartment.

  “I worked last night until three A. M., if you recall,” Lola snapped. “Not everyone has a cushy nine-to-five job.”

  “Try nine-to-seven,” Thayer said. “And the Gooch is making me work today. Have to take her kid to the train station to meet his girlfriend.”

  “Ugh,” Lola said. “Why can’t she go herself? It’s her kid.”

  “She’s working,” Thayer said. “On her book.”

  “It’s going to be horrible. I hope it’s a flop.”

  “It’ll probably be huge. She gets over a hundred thousand views on her blog.”

  “She could have at least gotten us invited to the wedding.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” Thayer scoffed. “We’re considered the help.”

  “Well,” Lola said, insulted. “If you want to think about yourself that way, go ahead. I never will.”

  “What do you plan to do about it?” Thayer asked.

  “I’m not going to just sit around and let things happen to me. And neither should you. Listen, Thayer,” Lola said, going into the tiny kitchen and taking a bottle of VitaWater out of the mini refrigerator, “I’m not going to continue to live like this. I’ve been looking at ads for real estate. There’s a tiny apartment in the basement of a building on Fifth Avenue, between Eleventh and Twelfth Streets, for four hundred thousand dollars. The building just went co-op.”

  “Ah,” Thayer said. “Billy Litchfield’s old building.”

  “With your hundred thousand a year and my eighty, that’s ninety thousand a year after taxes. That’s almost eight thousand a month. We ought to be able to afford a mortgage on that.”

  “Right,” Thayer said. “And the apartment is probably the size of a shoe box.”

  “It was a storage room. But so what? It’s on Fifth Avenue.”

  “And the next thing you know, you’ll be wanting to get married,” Thayer said.

  “And?” Lola said. “It’s not like you’ll ever find anyone better than me.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said. The skies outside the window were darkening, and there was a clap of thunder. “Storm’s coming,” Thayer said. “I’d better get moving.”

  While he was waiting in Penn Station with Sam, the clouds passed over without producing rain. Coming out
of the station on Seventh Avenue with Dominique in tow—she was a scrawny kid with limp blond hair, Thayer noted—the air was so still and hot, it was almost nauseating. Thayer flagged down a taxi and urged his charges into the backseat. “I’ve never been to New York before. It’s so crowded. And ugly,” Dominique exclaimed.

  “You haven’t seen the good part yet. Don’t worry, kid, it gets better,” Thayer said. As the taxi edged down Fifth Avenue, another bank of thunderclouds rolled across lower Manhattan. The skies opened just as the taxi pulled up in front of One Fifth, pelting Thayer and Sam and Dominique with drops of rain the size of pennies.

  “I’m soaked!” Dominique screamed, running into the building.

  Roberto came forward with an umbrella—too late—and shook his head, laughing. “Bad weather out there, eh, Sam?”

  Sam wiped the water off his face. “They said it was supposed to clear up later.”

  “I’m sure it will. Just in time for the wedding. Mrs. Rice always gets what she wants,” Roberto said, and winked.

  In honor of the occasion, the lobby was festooned with hundreds of fragrant white roses. Dominique looked around in wonder, taking in the uniformed doormen, the paneled walls, and the riot of flowers. “I can’t believe you live here,” she said, turning to Sam. “When I grow up, I’m going to live here, too.”

  Thayer smirked. “Good luck.”

  The scent of the flowers drifted into the Gooches’ apartment, assaulting Mindy’s nose as she sat poised in front of her computer. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes for a moment and sat back in her chair. When had it begun, she wondered, this mysterious and unfamiliar feeling of contentment? Was it when Annalisa Rice had returned to One Fifth without Paul? Or had it actually begun earlier, when she’d started writing her blog? Or had it perhaps sneaked up on her when she discovered James was having sex with Lola? God bless that little slut, Mindy thought. Thanks to Lola, she and James now had the perfect marriage. James didn’t dare cross her. And she no longer had to worry about providing him with sex. Let him have his occasional tartlet on the side, she thought. She had everything she wanted.