“None.”
“Well, I never liked him anyway,” Violet said.
“You told me you did!”
“I lied.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I thought he made you happy. But clearly he didn’t, so now I can tell you the truth. I think he’s weird. I’m sorry, Rev. I really am.”
“Don’t be. It’s the story of my life, misreading people.”
“Why don’t you take the day off? Come with me up to Saks. I have a fitting.”
I figured, what the hell? Why not? The last thing I wanted to do was stay in the shop and wait on anyone else eager to buy the happy couple a wedding present.
Violet picked me up in her blue Volvo, and we drove up to Saks in Chevy Chase. The whole area had become more gentrified in recent years, boasting a row of glittery new designer boutiques, built to accommodate the fashion needs of a younger, trendier social crowd. Old Guard Violet still went to Saks’s famed Fifth Avenue Club, where she found comfort in the cubicle of Lisa Crawford, the personal shopper to whom I’d introduced her when she first arrived in Washington. Lisa, a slim, chic African-American woman with closely cropped hair, had a Vogue editor’s eye for fashion. If she didn’t like an outfit, she would point to it and say, “And that would be a big no!” Violet ignored Lisa’s sage advice on clothes at her own peril.
I sat on the couch while Violet tried on a snappy navy blue number Lisa had chosen for her. Violet looked great, and Lisa called the fitter. While we were waiting, Violet showed me and Lisa the invitation to Bob and Melody’s reception.
“A little tacky, dontcha think?” Violet said.
Lisa, who knew I’d dated Bob Poll because I’d bought an outfit from her when I was seeing him, examined the flimsy card and looked at me sympathetically. I just shrugged and said, “C’est la vie.”
Lisa got a kind of knowing look on her face, and intuitive Violet immediately sensed that she had a tidbit of gossip she was itching to tell us.
“What?” Violet said, pointing at Lisa. “You know something. Spill it.”
“I don’t want to make anyone feel bad,” Lisa said, glancing at me.
“I’m beyond caring,” I said.
“Okay…. Well, you know Once Is Not Enough?”
We both nodded in amusement because Once Is Not Enough, Washington’s premier consignment store, was Rainy Bolton’s favorite shop in Washington. She loved Inga Guen, the owner. The shop was frequented mainly by style-conscious women who either couldn’t afford to buy new designer clothes or, like Rainy Bolton, who could easily afford them but found the hefty prices in retail stores “a scandal.” Violet often lied and told her mother-in-law she’d purchased an outfit there secondhand when in fact she’d bought it brand-new, simply because she wanted Rainy to believe she was thrifty.
“I happen to know that Mr. Poll has a running account at that shop,” Lisa went on. “He sends a lot of ladies to get designer outfits, and they send him the bill.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“There’s this woman who comes in here who used to work at King Arthur’s, that strip club. But now she’s married, so she can afford to shop here. She told us that Mr. Poll used to buy her a lot of stuff there, and he sent a lot of the girls from the club there to get clothes from Inga.”
“Out of the goodness of his heart, no doubt,” Violet said.
Violet and I just looked at each other. Sometimes the most interesting information came from the most unlikely places. Lisa and Inga were not involved in politics or the government, but they probably knew about more sexual shenanigans in Washington than the FBI, simply because they sold clothes and they knew who was buying what for whom and when.
“Honey, you are so well out of that one,” Violet said, referring to Bob. “I bet your pal Gunner would be interested in that info.”
After the fitting, Violet and I went for a stroll along Boutique Row. I told Violet she absolutely had to go to Bob and Melody’s reception, if only for my sake. She said she couldn’t face it—Grant would probably be there with Cynthia.
“If you think I want to run into the two of them in front of the whole of Washington, you’re nuts. I’d rather go to Iraq.”
I told her that was just the time to do battle—with everyone watching.
“I should give you the book Gunner gave me. There’s a section called ‘Win by Letting Yourself Be Hit At.’”
Violet looked at me askance.
“What book is that?”
I started explaining the Book of Five Rings to her, but she didn’t seem too interested. She cut me off and said she felt much too humiliated to go to the reception no matter what “some dead samurai said about winning.” I have to say I didn’t really blame her. I felt so low myself I wasn’t even interested in shopping. But Violet said she wanted to buy me a present, so we dropped by the Dior boutique to see if there was anything there that caught my fancy.
Nouria Sahala, the vivacious wife of the Otanni ambassador, was in the back room, trying on an evening gown. We caught a glimpse of her walking back and forth, adjusting the long train. Violet stopped short and ducked away before Nouria could catch sight of her.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Come on, let’s get out of here!” Violet said, quickly heading for the front door.
I was mystified by her behavior. I knew that Violet and Nouria were friends, and that Nouria always invited the Boltons to her famous parties. The exotic décor of the Otanni Embassy, combined with Nouria’s personal warmth and her power-laden guest lists, made her invitations much coveted around town.
I knew Nouria to say hello to. She was an acquaintance rather than a friend. A think-tank wonk I once dated took me to one of her dinners a while back. Nouria had subsequently come into my shop to ask my advice on redecorating the sprawling white living room of the embassy, which was blandly pleasant but lacked the exotic charm of the main reception hall. I suggested a more colorful scheme, incorporating some of the decorative motifs of her country. But nothing ever came of it, because she didn’t want to close down the embassy for the time it would have taken to refurbish it. Besides, she was a firm believer that people, not décor, make a party. Nouria had always been very nice to me. When she caught sight of me and waved a warm hello, I couldn’t very well avoid her without appearing rude.
“Reven! Nouria!” she said, pointing to herself, as if I wouldn’t know. I found that quite endearing. “Come here! I need your opinion. Do you like this dress?”
Nouria was a tall, blond beauty with a sunburst smile and the figure of a runway model. Her clothes were chic and often quite flamboyant. It was generally agreed that Nouria had done more to showcase Arab women’s rights just with her outfits and her parties than a bundle of international conferences on the subject. I gave the leopard-print chiffon sheath the once-over. She looked great in it.
“You don’t think it’s a bit too much?” she asked me.
When I walked into the back room to take a closer look at her, I saw the real reason Violet had hightailed it out of there so fast. Sitting on the couch, also appraising the dress, was Cynthia!
“Well, hi there, Dream Girl!” she said. “What brings you to this neck of the woods? Aren’t you s’posed to be working on my house?”
This was the first time I’d actually clapped eyes on Cynthia since Grant’s decampment. I wondered if she’d seen Violet. I prayed not, because it was imperative to make her think that Violet and I were on the outs if Operation Mary Lou Lindsay was going to have any chance of success.
I told her I was “just browsing around, taking a break.” It was impossible to tell if she believed me.
“Come on, girls, what about the dress?” Nouria said impatiently. She spoke in a swift patter with a light accent.
Cynthia and I both agreed we liked it, and if she liked it, she should buy it. As I was leaving, I heard Cynthia say, “Nouria, honey, let me buy that dress for you as a little gift.”
N
ouria shot back, “What? Are you crazy? I buy my own clothes.”
I was pleased that she didn’t even thank Cynthia for the offer.
Violet was skulking around the parking lot, waiting for me.
“Did they see me?” Violet asked as we got into the car.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“What took you so long?”
“Nouria wanted my opinion on the dress.”
“Did Cynthia say anything to you?” she asked.
“Nothing memorable. But she offered to buy that dress for Nouria,” I said.
“You’re kidding!”
“Nouria told her to take a hike! She didn’t like it one bit, I could tell.”
“Bless her little ambassadorial heart! But how cheeky is that? The witch thinks she can just buy her way in anywhere!” Violet fumed.
“It’s been known to work before,” I said.
“Yeah, well, it just goes to show you how much this city has changed. Money never used to mean beans here. Power was all that really counted. But now it’s like money has taken over this whole town like a big fungus. Money and power and celebrity have all become the same damn thing. You can’t tell the difference anymore.”
“They’re not the same. It’s just more difficult to separate them now because they’re all so intertwined.”
Violet pulled out onto Wisconsin Avenue. She drove for awhile, then said: “I wonder if Nouria will still invite me to the embassy.”
“Of course she will. Nouria’s loyal. Don’t think like that.”
I said this to pep Violet up, knowing full well that divorce was a big eraser for most women, particularly in Washingon. We’d both seen it so many times. Women started off strong when they first went out on their own, then gradually got rubbed off the social page. Violet herself had supported a few hapless ex-wives when they became single, so she knew the score.
She said somberly: “Don’t kid yourself. In this town, old ex-wives never die. They just fade away.”
Chapter 24
I was embarrassed to tell Gunner about Bob, embarrassed to admit he’d been right all along and that Bob was not at all what he seemed to be. I still didn’t believe he was a killer, but the guy definitely had some faulty wiring somewhere; no normal person courts someone the way he courted me then ups and marries someone else—even if she is his old girlfriend.
It was too freezing a day for Usherville, so Gunner and I broke precedent and met at this little café way up on Connecticut. Besides, I needed a drink. I ordered a double scotch—something I’ve never done in the middle of the afternoon—well, almost never. Gunner had an orange juice. I purposely didn’t say anything until our drinks arrived because I didn’t want the waiter interrupting us. Plus I needed to drink up a little courage before I admitted my humiliation. I took a couple of swigs of scotch and relaxed a little as the liquor warmed my innards.
Finally, I said lightly: “Well, guess what? You were right…. Bob is not the man I thought he was. Turns out he’s a complete shit.”
Gunner didn’t say a word. He just stared at me. I took a few more sips of scotch, trying to avoid his gaze.
Finally, I looked him square in the eye and said, “He’s married…. He married Melody. The two of them snuck off together and tied the knot. I haven’t heard a word from him. Not one fucking word…. You’d think he might have told me, wouldn’t you? Know anyone who wants a hideous gold bracelet?”
Gunner had no reaction. At first I thought he didn’t really understand what I was telling him. He just sat there with his chin jutting out and his head tilted back, staring at me with narrowed eyes and a slightly pained expression on his face, like a big cat being pelted with sleet. It suddenly dawned on me that, on the contrary, this news wasn’t coming as any big shock to him.
“Oh, my God! You knew. You knew he got married, didn’t you?” One tiny nod of that dreadlocked head told the tale. “How long have you known?”
He hesitated, then said, “Nine days.”
I was horrified.
“So why the hell didn’t you tell me?” I cried. The bartender glanced over at us, then went back to polishing glasses.
Gunner sighed. “I thought about it.”
“You thought about it? What stopped you?”
“Nobody knew about it—not even that goon chauffeur. So if I’d told you and you’d reacted and tried to get in touch with him, he’d have to wonder where you got your information. Also, I kinda wanted to see how it would play out.”
“Play out? What are you, some kind of fucking photojournalist who takes pictures in a war zone and does nothing when someone’s about to get shot? If you found out someone was gonna kill me, would you tell me? Or would you just wait to see how it played out?”
He didn’t respond. Another thought occurred to me.
“You’ve been following him, haven’t you?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The answer was obvious. “So was he seeing her the whole time he was seeing me?”
Gunner lowered his eyes. I knew I was right. I drank the rest of the scotch.
“So that’s why you kept telling me he was a shit—because you knew it for a fact. Although God knows when he got the time to see her…. Jesus Christ!” I was near tears.
“You’re upset.”
“Ya think?”
“I’m sorry.”
I just looked at him. “You know what I’m really upset about? I’m upset about our relationship. Fuck Bob Poll. I was wrong about him. It’s not the first time I’ve been wrong about a guy. But here’s the thing: I took a look at that book you gave me, and I can tell from all that shit you underlined that you see yourself as some kind of samurai warrior with this deep code of honor and ethics within yourself. And yet, and yet…when it comes to acting honorably toward me, you just abdicate all responsibility and decide to wait until it plays out. I don’t get it. Can you please explain it to me?”
Gunner paused. “I’m glad you took a look at the book.”
“Yeah, well, screw the book! I wanna understand what our relationship is, okay? I mean, you come in and you plunk yourself down in the middle of my life so that I tell you everything and you tell me nothing! Is that how it works? Then you find out something that is so important to me and you don’t say a word and I’m just supposed to accept that, right?”
Gunner spoke softly and deliberately, like he was talking to a child having a tantrum. “I needed to see how this guy would handle the situation with you.”
“He hasn’t handled it. I haven’t heard a freaking word from that rat bastard son of a bitch, okay? Not one freaking word! You know who I had to hear it from? Marge Horner—one of the worst unelected people in Washington! Marge fucking Horner. Spiderwoman. Who snubs me because she doesn’t think that I’m grand enough for her. I had to hear it from her. Whaddaya think of that?”
“I think,” he began softly, “that’s one way of handling it.”
We sat in silence for a time. Finally, I said, “You want to know something?”
“Sure.”
“You’re just as bad as he is. You just sat by and waited for me to be humiliated—and I don’t mean by Marge. I mean by Bob. If you’d told me, I would have broken it off first and saved myself…. Oh, never mind! Shit!” I buried my head in my hands and lost it.
Gunner let me cry. He leaned back in the rickety wooden chair with his arms crossed, staring at me. The piped in music started playing “Stand by Your Man,” and it was so ridiculous that it made me laugh—that weird hysterical laughter you get when you’re crying and everything suddenly seems totally absurd and pointless. Gunner handed me a paper napkin from the dispenser. I blew my nose and wiped my eyes.
“So did you attend the wedding?” I asked him facetiously.
He shook his head in amusement. “Wasn’t much of one. They went to the Arlington Courthouse.”
“What do you do? Just tail him around all the time?”
“Something like that…. Reven?”
&
nbsp; “What?” I said petulantly.
“Don’t envy Ms. Hartford. This is not a man you want to be married to.”
“That’s what Rosina says. You know what I found out? He has a running account at this upscale consignment shop. He sends a lot of girls there. Girls from King Arthur’s.”
“Once Is Not Enough,” Gunner said.
“You know about that?”
“There’s not a lot about Mr. Poll I don’t know, except the one thing I’d like to know.”
“If he’s your killer, right?…Do you really believe he’s a serial killer? I mean really?”
Gunner shook his head. “I just don’t know. Anyway, I could believe it. I could even know it for a fact. But without proof, it doesn’t do me any good.”
“No, but seriously. Do you have anything linking him to these crimes, other than your obsession with him?”
“Look, I have my own theory about these crimes, okay?”
“Jesus. You’re like a politician. You just say whatever you want to say. You don’t answer the damn question.”
“I gotta go.”
I was so sick of this game. How come I was always the one giving out the info, and he was always the one holding back? I reached across the table, grabbed his sleeve, and said, “Okay, Gunner, here’s the deal. Before you leave here, you have to tell me one really personal thing about yourself!”
He cocked his head. “Why?”
“To make up for the fact you didn’t let me know about Bob. And because I’ve had it, okay? Tell me something important and meaningful about yourself right now, or I’m finished. You can get yourself another snitch. And no bullshit. I mean it.”
He didn’t have to answer me, and we both knew it. But he understood I was dead serious. Either that, or he just plain felt sorry for me.
He finally leaned forward, put both his hands palms down on the table like he was bracing himself, and said: “Okay…. My daughter died two years ago, and my wife committed suicide as a result.”
Pow! Just like that, without much emotion, like his grief had simply wrung dry. I stared at him, not knowing how to respond.
Mortal Friends Page 17
