One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [36]
“And now Louise is dead,” Flossie said triumphantly. “I can’t say I’m sorry. Nobody deserved death more than she. I knew she’d come to a bad end.”
Enid sighed. This was typical Flossie, completely illogical in her analyses. It came, Enid thought, from never having had to really apply herself.
“I would hardly call her death ‘just deserts,’” Enid said carefully. “She was ninety-nine. Everyone dies eventually. It’s not a punishment. From the moment we’re born, life only goes in one direction.”
“Why bring that up?” Flossie said.
“It’s important to face the truth,” Enid said.
“I never want to face the truth,” Flossie said. “What’s good about the truth? If everyone faced the truth, they would kill themselves.”
“That might be true,” Enid said.
“But not you, Enid,” Flossie said, pushing herself up on her elbows in preparation for a verbal attack. “You never married, never had children. Most women would have killed themselves. But not you. You go on and on. I admire that. I could never be a spinster myself.”
“‘Single’ is the word they use now.”
“Well,” Flossie said brightly, “I suppose you can’t miss what you never had.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Enid said. “If that were true, there would be no envy in the world. No unhappiness.”
“I was not envious of Louise,” Flossie said. “Everyone says I was, but I wasn’t. Why would I be envious of her? She didn’t even have a good figure. No bosom.”
“Flossie,” Enid said patiently. “If you weren’t envious, then why did you accuse her of robbery?”
“Because I was right,” Flossie said. Her wheezing increased, and she reached for an inhaler on the coffee table. “The woman,” she said between gasps, “was a thief! And worse.”
Enid got up and fetched Flossie a glass of water. When she returned, she said gently, “Drink your water. And forget about it.”
“Then where is it?” Flossie said. “Where is the Cross of Bloody Mary?”
“There’s no proof the cross ever existed,” Enid said firmly.
“No proof?” Flossie’s eyes bulged. “It’s right there. In the painting by Holbein. It’s hanging around her neck. And there are documents that talk about Pope Julius the Third’s gift to Queen Mary for her efforts to keep England Catholic.”
“There’s one document,” Enid said. “And that document has never been shown to be authentic.”
“What about the photograph?”
“Taken in 1910. About as real as the famous photograph of the Loch Ness Monster.”
“I don’t know why you don’t believe me,” Flossie said, looking at Enid with hurt eyes. “I saw it myself. In the basement of the Met. I shouldn’t have let it out of my sight, but I had the Pauline Trigère fashion show in the afternoon. And Louise did go to the Met that day.”
“Flossie dear,” Enid said firmly. “Don’t you understand? You might just as easily have taken the cross yourself. If it exists at all.”
“But I didn’t take it,” Flossie said stubbornly. “Louise did.”
Enid sighed. Flossie had been beating this rumor drum for fifty years. It was her stubborn insistence that Louise had stolen this cross that had caused Flossie’s eventual removal from the board of the Metropolitan Museum in a charge led by Louise Houghton, who had subtly suggested that Flossie suffered from a slight mental impairment. As this was generally believed to be true, Louise had prevailed, and Flossie had never forgiven Louise not only her supposed crime but also her betrayal, which had led to Flossie’s permanent fall from grace in New York society.
Flossie could have worked her way back in, but she refused to let go of her crazy idea that Louise Houghton, a woman above reproach, had stolen the Cross of Bloody Mary and kept it hidden somewhere in her apartment. Even now Flossie pointed out the window and, with a wheeze, said, “I’m telling you, that cross is in her apartment right now. It’s just sitting there, waiting to be discovered.”
“Why would Louise Houghton take it?” Enid asked patiently.
“Because she was a Catholic.