Constance was on her feet making phone calls in minutes.
* * *
Several blocks away, Josephine was on her way to an art auction at Parke-Bernet. The French antiques in the catalog were sumptuous and she had her eye on a small writing desk that provenance suggested belonged to Marie Antoinette. It had to be hers. As she entered the already packed auction room, she caught a glimpse of one of the young socialites standing beside her boyfriend with the catalog at her side. Josephine began to make a mental count of every cosmetic product that would be needed to fix this young lady. Her skin was soft, still supple from youth, with a bit of baby fat and a scattering of unsightly acne, yet her eyes were wide and her strongest feature. Josephine walked toward her, trying to get a closer look at the girl’s eyelashes. They were magnificent. Bold and dark. Supple and thick and black against aqua-blue eyes.… This was what made her eyes seem so vivid across the crowded room. The lashes were upturned long black fringes and more exciting than the desk, and Josephine lost interest in bidding.
“Anything we can help you with today, Madame Herz?” Reginald, the dapper Englishman in his natty suit, asked with deference. Although diminutive, Josephine cut a familiar figure in the auction rooms and was one of their best customers.
“Yes, her eyelashes!” she said to a bemused face as she stormed out to her driver.
* * *
“Damn it to hell!” Josephine screamed as she pushed a vial of dark liquid away from her. She was down in the labs of Herz Beauty, alone, playing with various formulas. This latest, a thick paste that looked more like fireplace soot than an eye cosmetic, was frustrating her to no end. The consistency wasn’t right. The color was off. Too much mess. The texture was either too thin or too thick. What was she missing?
She had to get home to see Miles and make sure he had had a proper dinner and bedtime. She knew she shouldn’t be working so late, attempting to do the impossible. In times like these she always thought of her husband. Her hapless husband, who had been of great use only once, when he gave her a beautiful boy. A man who hurt her as she had hurt him, over and over, with his words and his flings. A man who envied her business. A man who was finally gone. A gossip columnist she knew and who was on her payroll had called her a few days earlier. He had told her that Jon was having an affair and flaunting the woman, a client of hers, in public. She had confronted him and thrown him out. And worst of all, he hadn’t denied it or seemed to care anymore. No apologies and no remorse. Damn him. Her mind fluttered back to the days when they had first met.
* * *
Jon wandered in Melbourne’s Fawkner Park after a long day at the paper. He lit a cigarette and took a majestic inhale. He had just picked up the habit a week prior, but he did not look like an amateur. His feet shuffled against the pavement and he walked around with his head facing the darkening, orange-streaked sky. This was something he had always done. He would drift in and out of reality. She would simultaneously love and hate this about him.
Josiah waited for him at the fountain, which was their agreed-upon meeting place. He had wanted to pick her up at work and she had said no, not wanting him anywhere near her awful family. She would meet him. She was escaping yet another fight with her uncle—who had given her a bill for her stay—with a book and a head of steam. The warm air filled her lungs and reminded her of the summers in August back at home.
Jon looked at her as he had done in the teahouse: stalled, intrigued by this fiery and beautiful creature. As he walked toward her, he flicked the cigarette and took a deep breath of the warm spring air.
“Hiya,” he said, in a folksy American tone. He gave her a brief kiss, then looked at the book she was carrying, “I read that once.”
“You did? Vell, don’t ruin it. I’m only halfway through,” she replied.
“I would never tell you the ending. But I know what ours will be,” he said simply.
She regarded him in the dusky light. He was very handsome, that was for sure. “So tell me my future?”
“No, next time.”
“Tell me. You can do it,” she insisted.
“Here, these are for you.” He revealed a very mismatched bouquet of flowers. Speechless and touched, Josiah took a deep breath.
“I didn’t know which kind you liked, so I got them all.”
Josiah blushed. This was a new one for her. A handsome man she had just met, falling at her feet. A man straining to please her. She had never known anyone to show her affection in such an endearing manner. Taking the flowers, she held them close to her chest and smiled.
The two strolled around until the night seemed to envelop them. Jon told his war stories of school and his work as a young, hungry reporter. She spoke of her town in Poland and what she had learned from her travails, the journey from Europe. Throughout, he listened, rapt and engaged. And this garnered more affection in Josiah than any flowers he could buy. The night and their endless talking had faded into dawn and they found themselves in front of the boardinghouse. Every step she took, he was one step behind.
Finally, they reached the door. Josiah did not want to ruin it. She smiled and looked into his eyes. Deep, blue, and caring. Jon seized the opportunity. Their lips touched and the spark was like a circuit closing and lighting a bulb.
Josephine thought of the years that followed. The sweetness of their early love. The betrayal after she’d moved to London. The reconciliation. The flowers, the gifts of jewelry, the endearments. The promises never to … again. And then there was the whisper of a girl in Los Angeles and the call about his girlfriend in New York, a high-profile client whom he was seen dancing with at the Stork Club. Whoever could have guessed their love could become so tainted and so soured? She and Jon were doomed even as they recited their vows. He would help her launch and take flight, but then he would weigh her down, chasing his own success by shedding the weight of her business. He had cheated on her, it seemed, in every port they occupied, since she was always working and unavailable. And now she was done and he was gone, and he didn’t seem to care anymore. Nor did she.
“Better without him.” She shook her head. “He was weak and always a problem. Now he could go.”
She took a deep breath to banish her anxiety. Her business was flourishing and she had recently gotten her American passport, and her son, Miles, whom she’d enrolled at Collegiate, was doing so well there. Who needed Jon? Now she could spend all her time on her business. Now she could really win without him. Damn him. She knew deep down she still loved him but refused the feelings. Renewed in her resolve, she left the lab and darted into the street in front of her Fifth Avenue office, finally heading home.
25
SUSPICION
New York City, 1936
The day before the New Year’s Eve ball dropped, Constance had withdrawn the perfect amount from the bank. An amount she could draw legally without suspicion. She passed by a small card store and snuck in to purchase a cardboard envelope. She reached the office around a quarter to eleven. She did not even notice the inclement weather. She was too intent on the task at hand, the need to rid this nuisance from her life. Lenny had come back again with more threats and CeeCee had finally revealed her plan to scare him off and they’d sprung into action.
Inside, she headed immediately to her office without checking to see if CeeCee was in. She counted the crisp hundred-dollar bills and placed them inside the envelope. After several calls and a lunch with a client, she would place the package where CeeCee had instructed her to do so.
Before Constance checked the time again, the day had come and gone. It was near dusk when her phone rang.
“Constance?”
“Yes, who is—”
“CeeCee. I am grabbing a few things. Please leave it in my desk. Right side, lower drawer. I told him it would be there.”
“He’s coming tonight?”
“Yes. Leave it there and go home as soon as you can.” CeeCee’s voice sounded distant and panicked. “Happy New Year.” She heard a sull
en resignation.
Constance held the envelope. “I’ll put it there now. CeeCee, can we—?” The phone clicked. Not knowing where she was, Constance made no effort to ring back. Instead, she quickly put on her coat—a luxurious mink with a belt—over her signature trousers, and holding the fattened envelope and with barely contained anger and terror, she walked out of her office to make the drop.
As she neared CeeCee’s desk, she noticed the top was bare. Constance opened the desk drawer to find it emptied. Where were CeeCee’s belongings? Her office looked sterile and abandoned. There was not a scrap of paper or pen inside. All that rested on top was a small, limp flower in a vase. Constance put the envelope inside the desk. Right side. Lower drawer, per the instructions. Then she continued down the brightly lit hallway and into the crowded elevator. Her unease grew with each step until she exited the building.
* * *
Lenny walked the halls and offices of Gardiner Cosmetics with a sense of grandeur. He knew Mrs. Gardiner-Wyke was convinced she had to put him on the payroll to gain his silence. The dirty dyke had no choice if she didn’t want her fancy world to know the awful truth. This would be the very last time he would be in the building, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, as he mopped the floor.
It didn’t take much for Tony Morello to get himself into the building undetected. Rush hour all but invited outsiders to waltz into the busy throng. He made it to the fifteenth floor without so much as a request for his name. The instructions were simple: the money would be in the lower drawer of the desk with the flower on top. A simple, thirty-minute job at most. Tony was not entirely sure why Mickey had asked him to do this, but he was more than happy to oblige. The money was good and the job was easy, just putting the fear of god into the paddy. And Mickey was a friend and always got him laid from the best-quality broads in town. He had given him a lot of business over the years, not to mention access to the hottest women. And when Mickey got on a kick, especially with a pretty girl, there was no stopping him.
Tony could see the figure in the distance. An old man sweeping in the middle of the office. He stepped quickly toward him.
“Got a light?” Tony said. He pulled a Chesterfield out of the pocket of his jacket and let it hang in his mouth.
“The building is closed, sir,” Lenny replied. “Opens tomorrow at six-thirty.”
“Tomorrow, the person I’m looking for won’t be here. That wouldn’t do me any good.” Tony began to circle Lenny, closer with each step.
“Who ya lookin’ for?” Lenny asked. He gripped the handle of the broom. His knuckles began to turn white. Tony leaned forward and came into the light.
“Some lousy piece of shit that takes money from rich old broads.” He punched him in the jaw.
In an instant, Lenny took the broom and hit Tony across the head. He was fighting Irish, after all, and had had plenty of scrapes with the guineas. Like an angry bull, Tony lunged forward, grabbed Lenny’s collar, and started to beat his face. With a swing of his right arm, Lenny got Tony in the side of his face. Again, Tony went at him. Rage filled him to the core.
* * *
Mickey’s phone rang in the middle of the night. He had fallen asleep with a bottle of single malt whiskey in his lap. He picked up the bottle, played with it for a moment, then answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mickey—I screwed it up.” He heard Tony’s voice cracking,
“What happened?”
“I attacked the guy, see. He hit me and then we fought. Then he got my wallet, which slipped out of my pocket, Mick. I had to run as someone saw us fighting and started yelling. So I ran down the stairs. He could call the cops, Mick.”
Mickey sat bolt upright, knocking the bottle to the ground. He ran through his options as he tried to sober up. He could tell CeeCee he had struck out, and they could try again. Or he could muster up the courage to go and finish the thing himself. He would need a couple sips of fiery liquid luck, then perhaps he could go and teach the guy a lesson.
“Where are you?” Mickey asked
“At a diner on Broadway and Lafayette,” he heard Tony whisper in a hoarse voice.
“Do you still have this guy’s home address? I gave you that?” He recalled asking CeeCee to get his home address as well and was glad he had. He also knew the guy lived alone.
“Yeah. I was gonna put it in my wallet, but for some reason it was in my coat pocket.”
“Then this is your lucky night. Hang up. And wait there. I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll have to call Charlie.” Mickey hung up and swigged back the drink. He dialed the number he had for his friend Charlie, the wiseguy who handled the tougher jobs. Half of him was hoping that he wouldn’t pick up.
“Do you have any clue what time it is?” Charlie’s voice growled.
“It’s Mickey. Tony and I got into some trouble.” He was nervous. He never called needing this kind of help.
“Where and when?” Charlie said.
26
THE HIT
New York City, 1936
CeeCee’s days at Gardiner Cosmetics were over. The women of the office were baffled. They stopped by all day to ask Constance what had happened since she was so integral to the operation, why she had left so suddenly and cleared out her office with no explanation. All Constance could do was lie. To be honest, Constance wasn’t exactly sure what had happened herself but knew deep down it was related to the seemingly nefarious events at hand. She remained stalwart but felt clearly she needed to move on and to do so immediately. Luckily, shutting down her emotions was a Constance specialty, or a Canadian WASP specialty. She also wasn’t quite used to or familiar with crimes and misdemeanors, but she was smart enough to know she needed to leave town for a few weeks. And a trip to Palm Beach would be the perfect tonic.
Her new mansion was the perfect getaway. When told, Van was thrilled at the prospect of two weeks in the sun with his elusive wife and a bit shocked that his Constance would take so much time from work. He just smiled and nodded, as he didn’t want to risk bringing up the topic, lest she recognize it and limit her time there.
Within days of rail travel, she and Van were enjoying Constant Gardin, their newly christened Palm Beach estate. She had been advised to hire renowned interior designer Elsie de Wolfe, Lady Mendl, to oversee the renovation and installation. It had taken months, but the mansion had been completely stripped, painted, cleaned, and reset with the regal antiques Constance had purchased with the house. Lady Mendl insisted on cutting down the thick tropical shrubbery that hid the glorious sea view and created a bold and iconic green-and-white–striped Florida room, replete with a whimsical circus tented–style awning that would become the focal point of their entertaining. Soon after, Constance came to the conclusion that stripes would now figure prominently in her packaging, shopping bags, and tissue paper. She was “mad” for stripes. Green and white stripes. Pink and white and yellow and white. All stripes. While she knew deep down it was Lady Mendl who had pushed her toward the striped motif, Constance was brilliant at taking ideas and making them her own. “Stripes, stripes, stripes this season!” she fired off in missives to her staff of product designers.
Constance felt like a princess with a staff of twelve to clean and polish the silver services, and she and Van had never been happier or better acquainted. They both settled into a congenial routine of polo matches, swimming, and rounds of tennis at the club and, of course, cocktail and card parties. Through Topper and Lally, their membership to two of the very best clubs ensured a lily-white environment in which Constance was able to study and hone her social skills and craft. She learned the proper way to hold a cigarette holder, and the word “dahling” was now peppered and featured prominently in her speech. She listened astutely and realized everyday words became an old-money code: couches became sofas and paintings, pictures. With her movie-star blond looks, aristocratic husband, renovated mansion, and novel business success, Constance Gardiner-Wyke had officially been launched in PB so
ciety.
Lally and Constance had become close on and off the court. And of course the commission from the purchase of her estate didn’t hurt either. At the club, they were just finishing a late-evening game, tossing their wooden rackets in the air and laughing as they walked to the locker room.
It was late and dusky, and the locker room was empty of members, as they were all on the way to the terrace for cocktails. Constance watched as Lally stripped her tennis costume off to her brassiere and panties and felt the usual sensation in her chest and between her legs.
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