The Craigslist Murders

by Brenda Cullerton

  “I can’t really talk over the phone. But my credit is frozen …” Like the vapor trails of airplanes, little tendrils of pain shot through her chest and disappeared. A vein throbbed in her temple. Fuck! Charlotte thought. My money.

  “What does that mean, Pavel? Did you send the wire?”

  “Look, I am trying to work it out …” He was shouting through a storm of static. She heard something about tax police and held her breath. “I’m going to be out of touch for a while. The family’s meeting me and …”

  “I can’t hear you very well,” Charlotte said, moving closer to the window in the hopes of retrieving a signal.

  She heard the word “sorry” and then he was gone.

  Jesus Christ. Even with her credit line, she was looking at hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. Eighty yards of the Scalamandre silk had come in at $50,000, and that was with the discount. The woman making the balloon shades was charging another $15,000. She’d already started the sewing. And what about the $400,000 order for lighting? Everything was veering out of control. Anna had warned her about the Russians. She was disgusted at her own weakness, at the thought that this man had seen her naked. She had to get out of the house. Walk. At least there was Gina. Suddenly Charlotte was so excited at the prospect of seeing Gina she could feel tiny goose bumps on her arms.

  The phone trilled as Charlotte dried herself off in the bathroom. Her stomach flip-flopped. Maybe it was Pavel calling back. Dropping the towel, she rushed into her bedroom and picked up.

  “Charlotte?”

  Just the sound of Vicky’s voice annoyed her.

  “Welcome back, Vicky. How was the trip?”

  “Incredible, absolutely incredible. You have to come over right now and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Ummmm. I’m not sure I have time,” Charlotte replied. Listening to the details of other people’s trips was almost as boring as listening to them talk about their dreams or their sex lives.

  “Then make time, Charlotte. But forget about the trip. Wait till you hear about last night. It was the most moving experience of my whole life, I swear.”

  “Really?” Charlotte said, tuning out. “Your night with the Buddhists, right?”

  “You cannot imagine. I left the house at 7:00 with no keys, no money, no phone. And everybody met me at the 72nd Street IRT.”

  “It hasn’t been called the IRT in thirty years, Vicky!”

  “Whatever. The subway, okay? Anyway, we went down to some shelters on Avenue D and rode the trains all night just like the homeless. I even talked to some of them.”

  “It sounds like some kind of new adventure vacation, Vicky.”

  “You’re such a cynic, Charlotte, you know? That’s your problem. This is a Buddhist tradition. They do it every year.”

  “Well, bravo for them, Vicky!”

  But Vicky was still talking. “It was so cold out, I almost gave away my shahtoosh.”

  Charlotte choked. “Surely you jest, Vicky. Please don’t tell me you were wearing $2,000 worth of dead Tibetan antelope hair on Avenue D? And you call yourself an f’ing Buddhist.”

  There was dead silence at the other end of the phone. Vicky had hung up.

  Walking into the kitchen she removed a piece of soft chamois cloth from a plastic bucket under the kitchen sink. Today’s moment with Gina would be perfect, she thought, stroking and polishing the poker until it gleamed. It had to be.

  Feeling jubilantly alert, invincible even, she decided that she’d skip seeing Vicky—just not show up—and walk to Gina’s. The walk would clear her head and help her focus. Charlotte had left the bottle of Ativan untouched on her bedside table all night. She didn’t want anything to come between her and the fullness of her experience with Gina. If only others understood; if only they could see the world as she saw it, there would be no judgments. The world would applaud her courage, her strength.

  40

  Charlotte blinked. Was she hallucinating? It looked like Gina was clutching a large, claw-toothed hammer in her left hand. Her face was red and sweaty, too. Charlotte could hear the sounds of wailing from somewhere in the back of the loft. “What the hell?” she muttered, reluctant to step any farther in than the front hallway. “Make yourself comfortable, Kate,” said the flustered, young blonde. “I just have to finish up some private business.”

  Is she kidding? Charlotte thought to herself. Had the woman hit somebody with the hammer? Her husband, maybe? Slipping out of her coat, she sat down to catch her breath. After avoiding the CCTV camera in the lobby, she’d walked up ten flights of stairs. She began to remove her fur hat, but one look in the hallway mirror changed her mind. Her hair was a wreck. She hadn’t washed it in two days.

  The clamor of raised voices soon had her moving on the balls of her feet towards the back.

  “Please, Mrs. Craven, I swear I didn’t know …”

  Craning her neck, Charlotte watched as Gina pulled a young guy toward a bathroom. There were shards of porcelain all over the marble floor.

  “You didn’t know not to use the brand-new $10,000 toilet?” Gina said, ominously. “Of course you knew. Everyone knows.”

  Surely the woman hadn’t taken a hammer to the toilet just because a worker had pissed in it?

  “Look, it won’t happen again. Just please, don’t fire me. I need the job,” the kid said, beseechingly.

  Gina sniffed. “Sorry, you should have thought of that before,” she snapped. “Now, get yourself over to the service elevator. You’re done here!”

  Charlotte dashed back to the spot where Gina had left her. As the blonde stepped towards her, she gave her a bright, innocent smile.

  “Trouble with the help, Gina?”

  “Sorry, Kate. But I couldn’t help it. I wouldn’t dream of using that toilet now! Not after he sat on it.”

  As they walked into the living room, Gina pointed at Charlotte’s brand new green yoga mat.

  “Hey! You really do take it with you everywhere, don’t you?”

  “I’d die without it!” Charlotte replied. “I have this teacher who’s just amazing.”

  “Ashtanga?”

  “Is there anything else?” Charlotte asked with a smile.

  “I’ve tried a bit of iyengar, too,” Gina added. “I love it. The last time I even flew my coach down with us to Mustique. We had the place just down the beach from Mick Jagger. Do you know the island?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Charlotte replied demurely.

  “Well, we had them paint my bedroom a lovely muted shade of orange. Just like Madonna does when she travels. I find it really helps a lot with meditation and the stress of jet lag …”

  “Right,” said Charlotte, holding her mat and gazing in awe at the vast, loft-like space that had opened up in front of her. OK, the woman is a monster, thought Charlotte, but how can I kill someone with style like this?

  While Gina traipsed off to get the silver, Charlotte inspected the room more closely. The colors were superb: sea grape lacquered walls, deep violet trims, Gaetano Pesce’s tufted sofas, upholstered in jewel-tone satins, and flourishes of hot pink. Other nods to the “now” included a pair of low-slung slipper chairs in celery linen and a few very nice Paul Frankl deco pieces. A magnificent palace-size Kerman rug was thrown casually over the black-and-white-pinstripe-painted floor. She saw some Renaissance pieces that would have had Max drooling: two gilt and jewel-encrusted Italian Rococo mirrors and an embroidered stump work toilet box that had to be 16th century. There wasn’t a single false note. Well, except for Gina.

  “Do you like it?” the girl asked, setting down a brown wooden box on the rug.

  “I think it’s brilliant,” Charlotte replied, honestly.

  “A friend helped me,” she said proudly. “ ‘Let go and embrace what you really want!’ he kept telling me.”

  “Well, your friend’s a pro,” Charlotte said, opening the box of silver. Gina sat down in a half lotus next to her as Charlotte ran her fingers over the monogram on a h
eavy fork.

  “They were a wedding gift from my parents,” she explained. “But Buccellati is so much nicer, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” Charlotte answered, replacing the fork in its slot. “I’ve never been married, of course. So …”

  “Oh! I’m surprised,” the girl said. “You’re so attractive!”

  Charlotte chuckled. “Marriage isn’t the answer to everything, you know, Gina!”

  “Don’t tell me. I mean, I love Steve, don’t get me wrong, we just disagree on some fundamental things.”

  “Really,” said Charlotte, looking her in the eye. “Like what?”

  “Well, like the fact I agreed to have a baby, but only if he promised me a boob job after! He wasn’t happy, believe me. Steve’s old, you know. He wanted more kids. But my breasts are one of my most valuable assets.” she added, giving both of them a friendly pat.

  “That’s why I didn’t nurse, either. The stretch marks on my stomach were bad enough.”

  I could strangle her right here and now, Charlotte thought. Instead she gave her the woman a hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “Could we talk a little about price?” Charlotte asked, taking a seat on a nearby sofa.

  “I suppose so,” Gina replied sullenly. “But don’t expect a big discount, Kate. It’s never been used.”

  “I understand. And listen, I hate to put you out, but my yoga class was a two hour session today and I am parched.”

  “Oh, sorry! I’ve got some vitamin water right over here,” Gina said, starting to cross the room. “I keep bottles everywhere around the house,” she added, turning her back on Charlotte and walking towards the Regency sideboard.

  Charlotte untied her mat.

  “You really should try iyengar, Kate. I could give you the name of my coach,” Gina chattered on. “It’s helping me so much, handling all the preschool apps and stuff …”

  “I’d love that,” Charlotte replied, rising from her seat on the sofa. “Why don’t I just take one more look at the silver? I’m not sure I like the idea of living with someone else’s monograms.”

  “Fine!” Gina replied, holding the bottle and glass in one hand while squatting down to pick up a serving spoon.

  The timing wasn’t perfect but it would have to do. As Gina looked down, Charlotte walked slowly towards her, the poker hidden behind her back.

  “What the ffff?” Gina yelped. Dropping the bottle, glass, and the spoon, she held her hands, palms out, to protect her face. Charlotte swooped down with the poker as the woman twisted her body away from the blow.

  The poker sideswiped her head. Gina’s knees buckled as she fell face first onto the carpet. The spoon lay in a small pool of blood next to her face.

  “Ppllllease,” Gina pleaded, one eye fixed on Charlotte’s indifferent gaze. As Charlotte raised the poker, once more, a voice ripped through the room.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  Whipping around, Charlotte saw a small child standing near the doorway. He was looking right at her.

  “What happened, Mommy? What happened?”

  Charlotte froze. The echo of her own words on that long-ago morning paralyzed her. Gina was crawling forward on her elbows. Charlotte hesitated. Kill her! Kill her now! A voice inside shrieked. But she couldn’t move. The child had started to howl. Putting her hands over her ears to block the sound, she shoved the monogrammed spoon into her pocket and dropped the poker. The howling was even louder. She could see tears streaming down the child’s face.

  Go! Charlotte, go! As the child began to walk towards his mother, Charlotte picked up the poker and staggered out into the vestibule. Her legs felt so heavy, as if they were running through deep water. Grabbing her coat, she pulled open the elevator door, ran inside, and punched “L” for lobby.

  Fuck! she thought when it started its descent. What if someone’s waiting in the lobby? What if somebody gets in on another floor? Sweat prickled at her neck as she desperately punched at the buttons.

  41

  Charlotte had no idea how long she’d been in the darkened bedroom or even how she’d gotten out of that elevator and into the house. She was just numb, so incredibly numb. This is why girls cut themselves, she thought, gnawing on her knuckles. So they can feel something. All Charlotte ever felt was tired. So goddamn tired. She wondered if the pain of cutting made girls weep. Did they cry until they were weak and utterly spent? Of course, they didn’t. Weeping was old-fashioned. It was all about control now, wasn’t it? Control, control, control.

  Hugging her knees, she felt the anger building again. It was almost a relief; as familiar as a loyal friend. Her mouth was dry and her eyes stung. Nothing seemed to erase the image of the child. She’d tried talking to her aunt, but Dottie wasn’t there. She was alone, just as she’d always been alone. Twisting the latches behind the sterling silver picture frame, Charlotte carefully removed the photo, ran her fingers across its surface, and tore it into tiny pieces.

  She felt as if she had bare-wired herself into a hot socket. Was the woman dead? Could the child give a description of her? Thank God her bright red hair had been hidden under her hat. She knew that she’d been inexcusably careless; that the police would lift her prints from the leather armrest of the living room couch, from the silver fork, and from the front doorknob. Of course, they wouldn’t match her fingerprints. She wasn’t in their database. She’d never been caught committing a crime. She didn’t even have a driver’s license. But if they found her otherwise …

  Fists clenched, Charlotte pulled the eiderdown over her body and slipped two Ativans beneath her tongue. She’d have to leave town for a while. Just until things calmed down. Maybe she’d make the trip to Alpine. She could feel the warmth flow through her limbs as the pill dissolved. Charlotte closed her eyes and plunged into the oblivion of sleep.

  42

  It was hunger that finally forced Charlotte to confront the agony of bright light that flooded through the kitchen windows. Checking the gilded clock on the mantle, she saw that she’d been in her room for nearly forty hours. Pulling in the pile of newspapers that lay on the hallway floor, her heart hammered up against her chest. The story was splashed on the front cover of the previous morning’s Post.

  THE CRAIGSLIST MURDERS!

  Ben Volpone

  In what could be an astonishing break in the case of Amy Webb and other recent unsolved female homicides in Manhattan, a woman nearly bludgeoned to death in her Tribeca loft was left alive by her alleged attacker on Tuesday afternoon.

  According to a Police Department spokeperson, “The victim, 27-year-old Gina Craven, is in intensive care at a local hospital. Doctors say her prognosis is good.” Similar to other, less fortunate victims, Mrs. Craven suffered blunt trauma to the head.

  For the first time since last April when Upper East divorcee, Judy Gross, was found dead in the living room of her apartment, police acknowledge a connection between Craigslist, the popular online shopping bazaar, and the murders of Mrs. Gross, Mrs. Webb, and Christina Johnson, a model killed in her Village brownstone last summer. As the police spokesperson confirms, “It appears that evidence now indicates that Craigslist is the method by which the perpetrator gained access into these victims’ homes.”

  Unnamed sources within the department report that the victim’s 4-year-old child was a witness to the attempted murder. As of late last evening, there was no news as to whether the mother or the child has yet helped the police identify or describe the attacker. The Police Commissioner will give a press conference on Friday morning at 9 a.m.

  The victim, Gina Craven, is the third wife of renowned political pundit and “grape juice” billionaire, Timothy Craven. Married five years ago in a beach ceremony on the Caribbean island of Mustique, Craven is a huge supporter of “Free Tibet” and a self-proclaimed good friend of the Dalai Lama.

  Calls to Craig Newmark, the gnomish, iconoclastic founder of the list in San Francisco, were immediately referred back to the New York City Police Department. A
man who answered the phone at the office, however, did mention that Craigslist had flagged a warning on its New York site several weeks ago, reminding users to “exercise the usual caution and common sense when dealing with unknown buyers and sellers.” One of the hottest shopping sites online, Craigslist offers its users everything from antique furniture, clothing, and auto parts to sperm donors, and vintage Cabbage Patch dolls. With the possible exception of Mrs. Webb’s brown Louis Vuitton vanity case, it is still not known what the other victims had offered for sale through Craigslist.

  Charlotte sucked in a deep breath and sank down into a dining chair. The furious blinking on her message machine seemed to be in sync with her pulse rate. Get a grip! Get a grip on yourself, Charlotte! she whispered, popping the cap off a bottle of Ativan in the kitchen cabinet. As a rule, Charlotte avoided sedatives during the day, but she had to control the panic, to keep her stomach from cramping. Sliding the pill into her mouth, she chewed and pressed Play on her machine.

  “Charlotte. It’s Max. Somethin’s up with your Russkie friend. His check bounced. Call me.”

  She trembled when she heard the next voice.

  “Hey there, darling. Guess who? It’s Philip. Listen, have you still got that bracelet from Craigslist? Call me.”

  Leaning in, she listened to the beginning of the next message and pressed Skip. It was some guy from accounting at Rosselli, probably about another bad check.

  The next two messages left her wishing that she’d stayed in bed.

  “Charlotte! It’s Rita. Listen, I’m postponing our meeting about the new Vineyard House. So put the paint chips away. Abe says we’re fine. Not to worry. I’ll call you soon.”

  Then there was Darryl. “Hi! Do me a favor, will you. Cancel that order for the prison toilets and hold off on the dojo for Tim. I’m sure you’ll understand, Charlotte. We’re pulling back till this thing blows over.”

  Understand? Charlotte wailed to herself. She can’t pull back, not now. Not when I’ve already paid for the f’ing toilets. Which was when her eyes tripped over the headline of Thursday’s Post.