The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [13]
“Well, they’ll be easy for the help to clean,” Darryl said. “And I love the look of cantilevered, stainless steel.”
“Good. Then I’ll check into it,” Charlotte replied, as docile as a kitten. “But the flush is louder than a 747, Darryl.” Her palms were sweating and there was a dull throbbing on the right side of her abdomen. As her client pivoted to the right, Charlotte imagined planting a poker in the back of her head.
Darryl still hadn’t stopped talking. “It’s not like I’m doing the whole house with prison toilets, Charlotte. It’s just the library, the master suite and Tim’s room.”
Tim was the couple’s seven-year-old son. “And by the way, for Tim, I’m thinking something along the lines of a dojo, you know? He loves karate. His sensei told me about this old Japanese guy who comes in and hand weaves grass mats, just like in a real tatami room.”
“Right,” Charlotte said. “A dojo, why not?”
“Now, Charlotte. How are you doing on those photographs for the Carlyle?”
“I brought them with me,” she replied. “They’re out in the front hall.”
“Oh! I’m soooo relieved, Charlotte. I want something so hip, it hurts.”
As Charlotte untied the string around her package, Darryl’s Bluetooth blinked.
“Oh My God! Oh My God!” she squealed, wrenching it out, when the three-foot portraits were revealed. “I adore them!”
The workers had huddled around and were staring, goggle-eyed, at the photographs.
“The German artist calls them ‘Delirium,’ ” Charlotte explained, laying out the series of six black and white nude couples. “They were shot exactly three minutes after orgasm.”
“Well, I cannot wait to get them back to the hotel, Charlotte. They’re divine!”
“I knew you’d like them,” Charlotte said, peeking at her watch. “But listen. I’m headed downtown. I have to talk to the architects about visas for your French painters and the Italian mosaic team.”
“Oh, I am just so thrilled, Charlotte. We’re going to make this an absolute dream house.”
Picking up her bag, Charlotte kissed Darryl goodbye and hitched a ride down to the basement in the freight elevator. The visit had left her feeling utterly deflated.
7
Charlotte collapsed on her down-filled couch. Prison toilets … Christ! She thought. What an atrocious waste of a day. No new prospects on Craigslist. No Murano glass for Pavel. And she’d forgotten her cell at Boulud. Charlotte pushed the play button on her answering machine.
“Please, please, Charlotte. Say you’ll come!” It was Vicky. “I’m so stressed out, I’m flying Tom down on the jet. You could come together. Call me.” Tom was an occasional friend of Charlotte’s and one of the best masseurs in town.
“Nobody has hands like him,” Vicky had extolled rapturously, after Charlotte had sent him to the house as a gift.
The thing is, Tom was as good at massaging certain truths as he was knotted muscles. For instance, he was gay. Like totally gay. But somehow, Vicky still didn’t know.
“I have these fantasies,” she’d said over a long lunch at the oh-so-staid but reliable San Domenico. “I can’t help it, Charlotte. I mean, the man is so empathic …”
It was almost funny, that the most selfish people on the planet did nothing but talk about empathy. No way she was flying out to Aspen.
The next message was from her mother. “Hi, dear. You haven’t returned any of my calls, not even on your cell. I’m worried. Are you all right?” Worried? That would be a first.
The last message was from Dr. Greene. “Hello, Charlotte. It’s 5:15. I haven’t heard from you. I know that we’ve discussed ending your therapy. But this will be the second session you’ve missed. I will have to charge you.”
Perfect, Charlotte muttered to herself. Another $450 down the Toto toilet. She was already two months late on her Amex bill. Better to be two months late with her period. Being pregnant