The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [10]
As Charlotte walked into the narrow crypt-like foyer, she inhaled. “Repressed casual” is how she summed up the Upper East Side uniform of starched jeans and stuffed shirts at this hilariously overpriced bistro. And she’d never liked the room: the low ceilings, all the mauves, the tables too close together. It was as cramped and stiff as the people dining in it.
Anna was standing up and waving as Charles led her to their banquette.
“Ciao! Cara!” she said, kissing her on both cheeks. “What a fabulous suit.”
Charlotte was wearing one of her men’s Armani pinstripes. She’d had ten of them tailored to fit her lanky 5′ 9″ build years ago.
“Thanks,” she said to Anna, turning quickly to Charles. “I’ll have a kir royale, please, the Caesar, and a pesto brushed tilapia.”
“Make that two, if you would,” Anna chimed in.
“Good choice, ladies,” Charles replied, snapping his fingers at a passing busboy. “The tilapia is particularly nice today.”
Settling in, Charlotte gave Anna a big smile and glanced around the room.
“Well, there’s one group that must have come in through the kitchen,” she muttered while nodding towards three women who had obviously just come out from the plastic surgeon’s office. With their faces covered in bandages, they looked more like they’d just been air-lifted in from Basra. Slurping soup through straws; even their fish entrée was pureed in the blender.
“You know the most revolting thing of all?” Anna asked, smothering a laugh. “They go vomit in the bathroom after.”
“I know, Vincenzo told me,” Charlotte said, giving a demure wave to the group.
Vincenzo was their favorite waiter. A native of Milan, he’d recently migrated to Da Albertos, a restaurant downtown.
“Tree tousand a week, I am taking ’ome,” he’d crowed, the last time they chatted. “And tonight, Alberto was in de kitchen wid a rock de size of de Gibralter.”
The rock, of course, was cocaine, not a diamond.
After Charles had returned with her champagne, Charlotte unfolded her napkin and looked at her friend expectantly. “Okay, Anna. This story about Caroline better be good.”
“This, my dear, is better than good,” Anna replied, sliding in closer and lowering her voice.
“You know you missed the Armory show Saturday night.” The Armory show was New York’s most prestigious, carefully-vetted antique show.
“I told you. I had to go to the museum.”
“Oh right. Well … You are not going to believe this: The City Sheriff actually came in and confiscated all of Caroline’s merchandise.”
“No way!!” Charlotte croaked. The scratchy edge of a crouton had caught in her throat.
For years, Caroline had been the mistress of one of the richest old aristos in England. She was so wealthy, she drove her clients around in a 1932 Rolls Royce woodie. (The license plates read “DEKR8.”)
“It seems she forgot to pay her plumbing bills. For that new maisonette on Sutton Place. ‘Forgot,’ as in, for the past eighteen months.”
My God! The humiliation. The trade will crucify her, Charlotte snickered to herself. “Was she there?” she asked, stabbing at her last crouton.
“No, she left her poor daughter at the booth,” Anna said.
“The unholy cruelty of mothers,” Charlotte hissed, pushing her plate away as if signaling a need to change the subject.
For once, Anna refused to take the hint. “Aren’t you tired of being haunted by your mother, Charlotte?”
“You mean hunted not haunted, Anna. She isn’t dead, you know.”
“You have to learn what to ask for from people, cara. Asking for what they can’t give gets you nowhere.”
“I ask for nothing,” Charlotte replied, dabbing the linen napkin over her mouth. “That way I’m not disappointed.”
Smoothing her platinum silver hair back from her face, Anna swished the champagne around in the bottom of her glass. “It’s funny,” she said, closing her eyes. “We Italians call orgasm, the little death. Il piccolo morte.