by K. K. Hendin
She scrolled through the rest of the Google alerts, finding nothing else interesting. One article about Harold mentioned her in the context of “poor orphan Cedar,” which made her roll her eyes and take down the name of the person who wrote it. It was true that Harold had taken her under his wing when her parents were killed, but it wasn’t like she was a poor little orphan.
But she could play one if she had to. With things like that, she always played the victim, and was careful to make sure she did. People liked you more when they believed you had a vulnerable side. Cedar’s was complete and utter bullshit, but nobody had to know that.
She got out of the tub, hair piled on the top of her head, rivulets of water running down her stomach and collecting neatly onto the mat. There was nothing about Cedar that wasn’t neat. Nothing. And if there was, it was ruthlessly dealt with until it was no longer an issue.
Cedar wrapped herself up in her robe, and slid her feet into her slippers, a pair of silk lined heels. Flats were for peasants, and any potential heiress of the Feingold fortune was not a peasant. Her housekeeper was, though, if her outfit today was any indication. And the fact that she was working as a fucking housekeeper, for God’s sake. Cedar thought about possibly instating a uniform to her house staff, and wrote a note to herself, reminding her to talk to Jean-Paul about designing a uniform. She had a reputation to uphold, and having a housekeeper in shitty clothing was not a way to do it.
A few more phone calls and emails were sent before she went to bed, satisfied. The funeral wasn’t until the next week, but it was going to be the most amazing funeral that New York had ever seen.
It was raining on the day of Harold’s funeral. The sky was overcast, and just gloomy enough to drop a layer of gray on the city. “Appropriate weather,” said one sober news anchor the morning of the funeral, “to mourn the death of one of the biggest men of New York.”
It was appropriate, and it worked wonders for the mood, but it did nothing good for Cedar’s hair. She had her makeup artist come over early in the morning, and helped her with a face that said “I’m mourning the loss of a person very dear to me, but I look fabulous while doing it.” Her outfit was going to be reported in every major newspaper in the country, because that’s who she was. And so she dressed appropriately. And had memorized the eulogy she was going to give, which was mostly lies. But nobody really cared. The funeral wasn’t actually a place for people to mourn the death of Harold Feingold. The funeral was a place for people to reassure themselves of their importance and their place in society. Not just anyone was invited to Harold Feingold’s funeral, because not everyone was worthy. The journalists had a separate, corded area to watch and observe but to never forget for even a second that they were never going to be good enough to actually be invited to anything like this. Cedar had made sure only the reporters she approved of were coming to the funeral, and the rest of the paparazzi were located behind a line of the best security guards money could get.
It wasn’t just a funeral. It was an event.
And even though nobody attending the funeral would ever admit to it, going to Harold Feingold’s funeral was the same as going to a showing at the gallery. It wasn’t for the reason they said they were going, and even if it was something they normally wouldn’t have ever done, they were more than happy to go. Get dressed in an outfit that people wouldn’t forget, mingle with the right people, and glory in where you were in life.
If you had to buy an extraordinarily expensive piece of art or cry a few tears, well, that was the price of admission for these kinds of things.
The casket was there when Cedar made her way into the church, followed by the insistent flashes of the paparazzi, silently clamoring for the best angle of her. Cedar Reynolds was a commodity, and even the paparazzi knew that. So, she wasn’t an actress or a singer, or anything else like that, and even though she wasn’t a Rockefeller or Astor or Thames, she was Cedar Reynolds, and everything she touched turned to gold. They all knew she wasn’t to be trifled with, and none of them had the guts to even try. They knew what happened to those who did, and none of them wanted to go down that road.
Cedar had made sure to have the photographers positioned to get everyone’s best side and angle, and after she discretely posed for the pictures on the way into the church. Harold wasn’t Christian, but there was something about the Thames-Harrison Church that felt like it was the best place for him to be eulogized.
It was the most exclusive church in the city, and nobody could just come to the church, let alone throw a last minute funeral. But Harold was Harold and Cedar was Cedar, and the church was more than happy to offer the building for the occasion.
Stained-glass windows filtered in murky light, lending the whole building a feeling of slight gloom. Candles flickered, and it seemed like the building itself was mourning the loss of Harold Feingold.
Cedar walked slowly up the aisle of the church, toward where Harold’s body was lying in its casket. It was a closed-casket funeral because Harold did not believe in death, or dead people. He was cremated, because he didn’t believe in organ donation, either, but there was a casket, nonetheless. It was something large to bury, because tossing ashes in the wind was crass and hippie and Harold had been neither of those.
Cecil rushed up to Cedar. “Everything’s under control,” he said quietly. “The mayor is running a little bit late because of traffic, but he’s supposed to get here soon.”
“He damn well better get here soon,” Cedar snapped. “Fuck traffic, he has a eulogy to deliver, and I will not delay the funeral because he did not decide to leave early enough. Doesn’t he have a police escort or something?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s only the president,” Cecil said. “I’ll check.”
“You do that,” Cedar replied, and, remembering where she was, continued down the aisle in search of the reverend.
Cecil sighed and texted the mayor’s secretary. Not on his private cell, where Cecil would send dirty texts, but on his official mayoral phone. The things he did for Cedar, seriously. Going through the back door of the church instead of the front, and didn’t even get photographed by anyone. Which was a damn shame, because he had dressed to the nines today. He better get a serious bonus for this shit. He wouldn’t, though, because that wasn’t how Cedar worked. Which sucked, but on the other hand, he was probably one of the best paid personal assistants in the city. Cedar wasn’t necessarily nice to him, but she sure as hell paid enough to make up for it.
His phone buzzed. No police escort. Fuck, Cedar was going to rip off his balls.
Cedar glanced around the rapidly filling church with satisfaction that would never show on her face. The mayor was going to be here in another three minutes, and everything was running according to schedule. As it should be. Emailing the seating plans the night before was a stroke of genius, in her opinion. Everyone was sitting where she, and partially Harold, had decided, and hopefully nobody would think of doing anything stupid, like flirting with the people they were fucking in front of spouses. Any other event it was no problem, and added to the entertainment for the night, but that wouldn’t be tolerated today.
If the net worth of all the people in this church were added together, it would be enough to put a significant dent in the national debt. Significant. The air smelled of money, privilege, and power. This may have been New York, land of the immigrant and city of the diverse, but in this church, it was New York, land of stock options, and city of real estate deals with a side business of who even knew. In this church, diversity meant that the only people in the room whose net worth were under one million dollars were corded off and sitting with pads of paper and a pen, scribbling notes about people who made more in a year than they could imagine making ever.
Good, thought Cedar. Good.
Mr. Morris came up to here. “Cedar.”
She inclined her head. “Morris.”
“The Mayor is here and should be seated in a few moments.”
Cedar checked her
watch. Perfect. “Excellent. Vanguard is starting, he’ll make his way to the front now.”
The musicians were in place. The sun was struggling to break through the clouds and was failing miserably. Some of the most powerful people in the United States were sitting in the lush seats, waiting for the service to begin.
This is what money can get you, thought Cedar. This is what real power gets you. And even though death wasn’t a thing she was going to contemplate for herself anytime soon, this was what she was setting her sights on.
Tomorrow, the newspapers would be full of pictures. Magazines were rushing to get out special editions, eulogizing Harold and remembering all he’d accomplished.
Being sweet didn’t get you any of this. Being nice, actually nice? Those people were the ones who were still working as reception somewhere in Queens. Being honest? Actually honest? Those were the people who lost their businesses, whose homes had been bought by Harold and sold for a fortune.
This was what you got when you went after what you wanted.
She looked at Vanguard, and nodded slightly. The president of the New York Stock Exchange walked to the front of the church, and cleared his throat. There was immediate silence, followed by the sound of the front door being shut.
“We gather here today to celebrate the life and mourn the death of Harold Feingold,” he began, his voice echoing through the church.
Cedar relaxed a little bit, and took out her handkerchief. The world was Cedar’s stage, and this was another scene she would nail.
It was raining when they lowered the casket into the freshly dug plot of ground. Cedar cried softly into her handkerchief, making sure her mascara didn’t run. The gravestone was already in place, since Harold had ordered it when he got his first diagnosis, and the image of the ten men on Harold’s board lowering his body into the open grave, with Cedar standing alone crying a few feet back would be the one splashed on every cover of every newspaper, magazine, and website for the next week.
“Saying Goodbye to a Legend,” read one headline.
“Mourning a New York Giant,” read another.
Cedar was fawned over in every article. Flowers began to pour into the gallery from all corners of the country, and Cedar’s staff spent all week redistributing them to different hospitals, nursing homes, and homeless shelters.
The reading of the will wasn’t going to be for another two days, and Cedar was going to lose her shit if she didn’t figure out what was in the will sooner than that. Fucking Morris was a waste of time, he wouldn’t reveal anything. Which was why Harold hired him, but that wasn’t any help for Cedar.
Nobody knew. Nobody, although a lot of people thought they did. The media did nothing the week of Harold Feingold’s death but talk about him, Cedar, and speculate exactly who was in the will, and what they would inherit.
“Of course it matters who inherits,” Cedar was quoted as saying. “Harold created an incredible amount of businesses that need the right person to make sure they keep running and keep hundreds of New Yorkers employed.”
Did she care that it wasn’t going to be her that inherited it all? They asked. Rather rudely.
She smiled, and told them that she had more than enough to do as it was, running the gallery and bringing only the freshest artists to the New York art scene. She didn’t have time for any sort of real estate business or such. If she did inherit? She’d make it work.
She was Cedar Reynolds, the magazines gushed. She could make anything work.
Twenty-four hours before the reading of the will, and Cedar was biting heads off her staff left and right. Cecil sent out a mass text to all the staff members at the gallery, telling them that the next shipment of flowers were to be sent to St. Mary’s, but only if the flowers were red. Subtext? Stay out of Cedar’s way. It was code red emergency, and nobody wanted to be caught in that.
The last time someone did, they were escorted out by security, and last the staff at the gallery heard, they were still looking for a job. A year and a half later.
Cedar pressed five on her speed dial and listened to the phone ring until it went to voicemail.
Why the fuck wasn’t Morris picking up his fucking phone? Cedar resisted the urge to throw her phone through the window. Maybe it was an emergency. She’d called him twice already today, and had a perfectly legitimate excuse for both of those phone calls. Just because Harold was dead it didn’t mean that he could just ignore her like that. The fucking nerve.
She fumed, and put her phone very carefully back on her desk. If he wasn’t going to pick up, well then, she would deal with things her way. And tomorrow, she would be at the reading of the goddamn will, or she was going to break into his office and read the damn will herself.
Tentative knock on the door. Cedar gritted her teeth, and then relaxed. Fucking up your teeth because you were upset wasn’t worth it. “Yes?”
“It’s Cecil. Whitney called about her new piece, and wanted to know when she should ship it in.”
“When she should ship it in?” Cedar snapped. “Did you approve of it?”
Cecil looked horrified. “Of course not.”
“I didn’t think you did. I trained you much better than that.” Cedar shook her head and turned to her computer. “She’s going to have to be dealt with, that one. Fine, her last pieces sold well, but she is nowhere near a place where she can assume—assume!—that she could just send something in without me okaying it first.”
Cecil waited quietly. It was never worth it to interrupt Cedar when she was like this.
“Email her and tell her that she needs to follow protocol that she agreed to when she signed the contract, and send us pictures along with a detailed description. And that if she tried to be presumptuous like that, it would take us a bit longer to consider her new piece of work.”
“Of course, Cedar.”
“Good.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Cecil asked, hesitant.
“No, but I would like a bottle of green juice.”
“Your usual?”
“Yes. And schedule an appointment for a massage for me at five, please.”
“Miguel?”
“Of course.”
“No problem.”
“There shouldn’t be a problem,” Cedar muttered as Cecil scurried away. This fucking will was driving her crazy. Why couldn’t he have just said something before he decided to up and die? How could she plan if she didn’t know what was going to happen?
She reached up and gently massaged her temples. By tomorrow evening, this would all be behind her.
Now, if she could just get through the next couple of fucking hours without killing someone. She was wearing silk. There was no way she’d be able to get blood off of this outfit.
Ellis Carrington was sprawled on his couch when his doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting his takeout for another fifteen minutes, but maybe this one time, they were early. That would be a nice surprise, he was starving.
He grabbed the sweatshirt tossed over his couch and pulled it on before ambling to the door. He peered through the peephole that only worked sometimes, confused. That guy didn’t look like any of the delivery people. For one thing, he was wearing a suit. “Who is it?”
“Samuel Morris.”
“Am I supposed to know who you are?” he asked. He didn’t know any guys named Samuel Morris, let alone anyone who would be knocking on his door wearing a suit like that here.
“Perhaps, although probably not.”
“Straight answer, man.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You packing?”
“A gun? No.” The guy looked around anxiously. “Can I come in, please, Mr. Carrington? I have something important to talk to you about and it is not something I should talk to you about through a door.”
Ellis shrugged and unlocked the door. “You better not be trying to sell me anything, including religion.”
“I’m not selling you anything, Mr. Carrington.”
El
lis stared at the guy. A little shorter than him, late thirties, a super fucking expensive suit. The fuck was this guy doing in his crappy New Haven apartment?
“Can I get you a beer?” Ellis asked, unsure of what to do with a guy who looked like he would be too grossed out to sit on the couch.
“No, thank you.”
“Okay, then.” Ellis sank back down onto the couch. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s more of what I can do for you,” Mr. Morris said, opening his very fancy attaché case. “You graduated from college when?”
“Undergrad, two years ago; master’s, a month ago. Why?”
“Yes, and with excellent grades in both. Your professors speak very highly of you.”
“Well, that’s nice of them,” Ellis said, trailing off. “Why were you talking to my professors?”
“We’ve been keeping an eye on you for quite some time.”
“Who’s we? And also, you sound a bit stalker-y, saying things like that.”
Mr. Morris only smiled faintly, and Ellis wondered if he ever smiled for real. “Have you heard of Harold Feingold?”
“Of course,” Ellis said. “Real estate mogul, stocks, diamonds, electronics, a gallery, and a bunch of other businesses. Died recently, funeral was two days ago.”
“You’ve been reading obituaries?”
“Of course. I wrote my thesis on Feingold’s method of real estate purchasing in grad school.”
“Yes, you did. He was rather flattered when he read that paper.”
Ellis’s mouth dropped. “What do you mean, he read it?”
“What do you know about Mr. Feingold’s will?”
“…Nothing? Nobody knows anything. What is this, twenty questions? Who the hell are you?”
“For someone who supposedly knows a lot about Harold Feingold, you’re not really proving yourself here.” Mr. Morris stuck out a hand, one that looked like it never picked up anything heavier than a file folder in its life. “I’m Samuel Morris, Esquire. Harold Feingold’s primary lawyer.”
