“Browsing? Come on, you of all people. It’s for charity!” said Wendy.
“They are completely exquisite, but the reality is that I don’t really need any more,” said Melanie.
“Really, Melanie! I didn’t think you were so stingy!” said Wendy, desperate to make a sale.
Melanie turned and looked at Wendy. She’d never win with her. “Oh, Wendy,” she said, for lack of anything better to say.
“What about these Tibetan women!” said Wendy, waving her arms. “You don’t want them to go hungry, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” said Melanie.
“Good. So, how many?”
“That’s why I invited them over to my house tonight to give me a private weaving lesson. I promised them a thousand each,” said Melanie, walking away.
Across the room, Joan was desperately trying to make a sale.
“You know what the beauty is of these things? That you can fit the entire shahtoosh through your wedding band. That’s how you know it’s real,” said Joan, whipping off both her engagement and wedding rings and gliding an ochre shawl through them. She looked like a magician’s assistant performing a trick. “Come on,” said Joan to Mimi and Alice. “Don’t you want to buy a shahtoosh? Don’t tell me those goats croaked for nothing.”
Mimi looked at Alice. “I’ll purchase one,” said Alice steadily.
“Now we’re talking! And remember, it’s for a good cause.”
As Joan took Alice’s cash, she watched Melanie air-kiss Mimi on her way out the door.
Joan handed Alice her shawl. “Enjoy,” she advised, and then walked over to Wendy.
“Is our whole social set going to hell in a handbasket? First Jerome keels over leaving no heir apparent, then Cordelia commits a felony, and now Melanie Korn, the fellatrix of the friendly skies, is embraced by the upper tiers of society? What’s going on?” asked Joan.
“It is spiraling out of control. What’s next—the Clintons get into the Bath and Tennis?” responded Wendy.
Joan burst out laughing. “Oh, Wendy, you are too much.”
“Oh, I’m short of breath at the thought.”
“Okay, listen. The Winter Antiques Show is in January, and it’s a time when everyone regroups and we weed out the undesirables. Hopefully things can get back on track,” said Joan sternly.
“I hope so. Otherwise I don’t know what I will do,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “We need some excitement to shake things up.”
chapter 59
Mindy Greenbaum did not know what hit her. She was gasping for air, choking on noxious fumes, struggling to keep from vomiting onto the floor of the taxi. The driver, an odious, greasy-haired, dirty little man, had obviously not showered since the seventies. And now his BO was strangling her throat like a noose, making her wonder if she really did need to go to Macy’s to buy her boss a Christmas present. And not only did he reek, but he was a fanatical animal activist to boot; he’d been on a cosmetics testing tirade since Ninety-fifth Street.
“And those bitches, man, with their fur coats! They have dead corpses draped on them all for the sake of vanity and fashion! It makes me fucking SICK!” he raged.
Mindy was starting to get a little nervous. He was really on a roll.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she said softly, in the futile hope that she could shut him up.
“Oh, do you? Well, they don’t! Those poor, precious animals are cooped up and farmed in order to make slippers and ponchos! It is a TRAVESTY! Those fuckers need to be taught a lesson.”
“Uh-huh,” Mindy mumbled.
The driver kept staring at her in the rearview mirror, making sure she was on the same page. He barely kept his eyes on the road, but he would raise his voice and gesticulate louder when they passed either a woman in fur or a man in a leather jacket. Mindy was now convinced he was on drugs.
“I try and show them a lesson, those fucking fashion designers and rich bitches! I throw blood on them, but they don’t care! It’s going to take more! I want to teach them a lesson! They SUCK!”
“You know what? I think I’ll just get out here,” said Mindy nervously. They were only on Sixty-fourth and Fifth, but she couldn’t take any more of this freakish David Koresh–ian rampage.
“Look at that BITCH out there!” he said, referring to a woman waiting on the corner, clad in a sable. He furiously rolled down his window and shouted at the lady. “FUR KILLS!”
She gave him the finger and the car behind him honked. “Fucking slut. Inhuman bitch!”
“This is great,” said Mindy again, throwing ten bucks at him. He pulled over and let her out. There was a woman waiting to get into the cab, but Mindy gave her a warning look. It didn’t matter anyway, because when the driver saw her shearling coat he yelled “Fucking killer!” and hurled a Coke can at her, nailing her in the shin. “This is just a fraction of the pain those animals on your back felt, you murderer!” he said before tearing off down Fifth.
The driver was in a foaming-at-the-mouth fury. He beeped his horn, gave other drivers the finger, and practically mowed down a group of tourists before turning onto Fifty-ninth. As he cruised along past the horse-drawn buggies, he yelled at the drivers, “You fucking treat animals like shit!”
Those poor horses. They should be on a farm, not fucking hauling white trash from Kansas around Central Park. They must be so cold. And they put blinders on their eyes so they couldn’t see! So cruel. It was insane. It was shocking. He would have to write George Dubya again about this crap. How could people do this? Where was the ire? Was he the only one who cared? He was so worked up by now that his wrath blinded him. As he accelerated down the street, he noticed a doorman hailing a cab for another rich bitch in a fur coat on the opposite side of the street. That was it. That was fucking it. Those fuckers needed to be taught a lesson. He whipped his car around in the middle of the street, practically knocking down a pretzel vendor and causing several cars to jam on their brakes. He found his target. She was a tarted-up, spoiled whore in a fur coat so huge, he could see the souls of the seventy-five martyred sables it took to make it.
“Die, die, my darling!” he muttered before accelerating full-force into her. Her eyes widened as he took aim, but it all happened so very quickly. With one hit and a final “AY!” Maria was dead.
chapter 60
It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Wreaths festooned with red ribbons and bows were placed on the front door of every grand apartment building in Manhattan. Sweaty workers heaved Christmas trees to align every cross street on Park Avenue. The teams at Barneys and Saks had spent hours and hours mounting festive themed windows to give those Wyoming tourists something to make their eyes pop out. Elijah and Betty Ann Mackeral had beamed with pride as the team from NBC hacked down the seventy-two-year-old pine tree that had stood on their property in Stowe, Vermont, and was now gracing Rockefeller Center for Katie and Matt and all the world to see. But for the high-society crowd, complimentary eggnog and reindeer-shaped cookies at department stores and the aroma of cider and mulling spices at Williams-Sonoma did not herald in the holidays. Neither did the relentless renditions of “The Little Drummer Boy” and “Let It Snow!” over the intercom at Frederic Fekkai, nor the tinsel on the plastic trees at Elizabeth Arden. No. For them, it was and only was Lawrence and LeeLee Powell’s annual Fête de Noël that officially ushered in the season.
The party was always held on the Tuesday before Christmas, at their triplex apartment on the tippy-top of 741, and everyone planned their mass exodus out of the city for the holidays accordingly. This year, Robert Isabell and his crackerjack team had been working on the event since December 26 of the previous year. The instructions had been terse—“Think stained-glass window”—and Isabell had taken the concept and run with it. The results of his efforts would make Martha Stewart appear lazy. Over the course of a year, he had carefully assembled colorful celluloid-paned lanterns from the 1920s to hang from the ceiling. He had found—through a Hermitage connection�
��yellow enamel Fabergé ornaments to adorn the tree in the foyer. An art dealer had led him to stained-glass ornaments that dangled from the tree in the dining room; they had been specially commissioned from Louis Comfort Tiffany for a Washington, D.C., debutante at the turn of the century. He had successfully outbid a German newspaper tycoon at the Druot in Paris for the seventeeth-century Santa Claus figurines that were purported to have once been owned by the Hapsburgs. And he had even gotten his hands on a dilapidated, grease-stained cardboard box of red and green puppets that a good source told him were made by John-John and Caroline for their mother, Jackie Onassis.
But Isabell not only purchased decorations, he commissioned them as well. Shellacked pinecones that had been gathered in Acadia National Park in Maine were discreetly clipped onto the ropes of fir branches that snaked around the mantel. Seamstresses from a Very Important Italian couture house had been enlisted to make raw silk and crushed velvet stockings in their off-hours. Exotic fruits like red tamarillos, deep purple eggplants, orange tangelos, and cherry lipstick bell peppers had been ordered in advance from Mexico and California, and glazed or spray-painted and arranged in epergnes. Freshly plucked and redolent small nosegays of red spray roses tied with subtly monogrammed ribbon were placed in small bouquets throughout the apartment. But perhaps the most whimsical decoration was the live creche that had settled in the living room. A set designer from Lincoln Center had constructed the manger, and the New Haven Repertory company had rehearsed their pantomimes for months. Isabell had been careful and precise, and the result was magnificent. So as the Harlem Boys Choir softly sang Latin carols in the ballroom, and Tony Bennett—the surprise guest of the evening—warmed up his magical voice in the visitors’ quarters of the apartment, guests started to arrive.
By seven-thirty, approximately three hundred people had checked their furs and evening coats in the lobby, accepted a glass of champagne from a tuxedoed waiter, and wandered around the apartment to inhale the fantastic decorations.
“They really outdid themselves this year,” said Joan with approval.
“Magnificent,” agreed Wendy.
They of course had arrived early and cased the joint in order to plant themselves at the best viewing location. That was in the spectacular reception room, where Bobby Short had been coerced to sit down at the Steinway and tinkle out a few songs.
Joan and Wendy continued scanning the crowd. “I don’t see Cordelia Vance,” said Wendy.
“Still in seclusion.”
“Wise,” said Wendy, eyes darting. She narrowed them when she saw Melanie Korn, in a red dress with a plunging necklace. She was chatting away with Nigel Goodyear, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her boobs.
“I really hate that Melanie.”
“Now, now, Wendy, Santa’s watching,” chided Joan, looking Melanie up and down. “But I know what you mean.”
Melanie laughed, then touched Nigel on the shoulder and wandered away. Joan turned away in disgust. Melanie spotted her husband and went up to give him a hug.
“Now, will you look at Cindy Briggs,” said Joan. “She most certainly has had work done. And before Christmas—so stupid, really. Everyone would know. Why not do it after Christmas, when you’re gone for so long that everyone forgets your face? Some people are just clueless.”
As Joan babbled on, Wendy continued guest scanning. She saw Gustave Strauss arrive with a leggy blonde and plant a wet one on her under the mistletoe. Another single man bites the dust, thought Wendy, averting her eyes. In the corner, swaying to the music, was Cass Weathers, who really seemed a little bloated. Perhaps it would have been prudent to have forgone the turkey at Thanksgiving. Holding court in the corner was the latest toast of the town, Billy Crispin. A small sycophantic group was gathered around him, hanging on his every word, and it was obviously already going to his head. When he’d seen Wendy earlier he’d looked at her as if she were cellophane. Whatever. He’d be over in, like, two minutes.
Suddenly, shock registered on Wendy’s face. Something mega was going down. Right here. Right now. Right over Joan’s shoulder.
“Oh my god,” said Wendy.
“What?” said Joan, turning desperately.
“Look!”
A full team of police had entered with Lawrence Powell, who was frantically looking around the room.
“Do you think they’re here for Cordelia?” asked Joan, excited.
“Couldn’t be. The doormen would have told them she’s holed up in her own apartment.”
Joan and Wendy’s peripatetic eyes danced around the room.
“You think the grand Dr. Johnson’s prescription drug abuse caught up with him?” asked Wendy.
“I doubt the police would be out in full force for a little misdemeanor.”
They watched as Lawrence Powell’s head bobbed up and down, searching for someone in the crowd. Finally, he spotted his prey and whispered to a police officer. He then pointed in Joan and Wendy’s direction. Wendy and Joan immediately whipped their heads around to see who was standing behind them. It was Melanie Korn. She had her back to them, chatting away with Pamela Baldwin. Wendy and Joan turned back to each other, mouths agape.
“It’s Melanie!” whispered Wendy with glee.
“I knew she had sketchy background. Her father croaked in the can,” said Joan, ecstatic.
“Maybe they’re arresting her for bad taste.”
They watched as the stream of officers moved through the crowd toward them. Joan looked back at Melanie, who was still yakking away.
“Mrs. Korn is still oblivious,” snorted Joan, loving every nanosecond.
“All I can say is, I thank you Jesus for letting me be here to witness this with my own eyes,” said Wendy, looking skyward.
“We just won the scandal lottery.”
“We have been called on. Now we have to spread the gospel.”
“Unfortunately, everyone’s here,” said Wendy.
“Not Europe. Not London. We must get to them first.”
This would be a hoot! Suddenly, in unison, both women squinted. Why, the woman in the ill-fitting, masculine police uniform with a gun strapped to her belt looked a lot like . . .
“Isn’t that . . . ?” asked Wendy, turning to Joan.
“It couldn’t be,” replied Joan. “But it looks just like her.”
“Wendy Marshall and Joan Coddington?” the woman asked.
“Yes?” both replied, confused.
And sure enough, the leader of the pack was none other than Alice Martinez, Mimi’s “guest” at Joan and Wendy’s little shahtoosh tea, no longer in the borrowed Dior suit but in head-to-toe New York’s finest blue. Forget the Fendi baguette. This time her only accessories were a badge, pair of cuffs, and hip holster.
“Wendy Marshall and Joan Coddington, you are under arrest.”
“Alice?” Joan asked incredulously, making out the seemingly elegant matron under the navy getup.
“Yes, Alice Martinez. Detective Alice Martinez. And I have warrants for both of your arrests.”
There was a gasp and a hush. Bobby Short abandoned the piano, the Glorious Food waiters stopped passing the hors d’oeuvres, and the gentle purr of voices that had enlivened the party came to a dead silence. Was this part of the festivities? Or was this . . . god forbid, no. A real scandal?
As Detective Martinez started Mirandizing the newest felons on the block, Joan and Wendy entered panic zones.
“Under arrest? For what?” Joan asked, her voice rising to a shrill decibel.
“For illegal trafficking of contraband goods, importing without a license, customs fraud, and two counts of bribery,” Alice replied robotically.
Wendy, her vision blurred by on-deck tears, glanced around the room at the astonished onlookers. This was absolutely mortifying. There must have been a mistake. No.
“It can’t be,” said Wendy.
“It is,” said Alice, clasping the cuffs over the black satin band of Wendy’s Cartier dinner watch.
“Ph
illip? Phillip?” shouted Joan over the crowd. Her eyes wildly moved through the aghast guests, searching for her spouse. But Phillip was nowhere to be found.
Joan was beside herself. This was all horribly unfair. Why were they the ones who got pinched? Every Fifth Avenue bitch had thrown a shahtoosh tea, including Mimi! She must have turned state’s evidence, the sellout! THE RAT!
“It was a setup!” yelled Wendy.
“We’re patsies!” shouted Joan.
Out of nowhere, Mimi appeared. “I tried to warn you,” she reprimanded. “I had no choice.”
Traitor!
“Come on,” said Alice, pushing Joan through a throng of slack-jawed socialites.
“Do you have to?” asked Joan.
“Yes,” said Alice gruffly.
“This is a mistake,” said Wendy, bursting into tears.
“It is no mistake. You two are crooks, you hoity-toity Park Avenue snobs who think you are above the law. I couldn’t wait to bring you down. You both are worse than pond scum!” shouted Alice.
Wendy and Joan didn’t know what to do. They stared at their “friends.” Everyone either glanced away, embarrassed, or stood mute, enjoying their comeuppance. Finally, Alice dragged the offenders away. The din in the room grew louder and louder with mouths flapping over what had happened. Finally, Bobby Short returned to tickle the ivories and everyone soon forgot about Joan and Wendy.
chapter 61
“Sweetheart?” Cordelia called out, sitting up in bed. “You there, darling?”
She looked at the clock—10:34! She couldn’t believe the healthy dose of sleep she’d won, without one frustrated toss or anxiety-ridden turn.
“Out here, Cordelia!” Morgan shouted from down the hall. She smiled and rose to wrap herself in her soft cashmere robe. It was nice, it being just the two of them for Christmas. At first she was devastated when the boys announced at Thanksgiving that they’d be renting a house on St. Bart’s with a group of friends, but now, in the quiet of her home with her husband down the hall, she felt cozy and warm. Of course, it would have been nice to have the children, but she focused on the positive—that would be her New Year’s resolution.
The Right Address Page 32
