The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [23]
“Shh! Your father’s working. Keep quiet, Charlotte,” her mother had ordered. “Or I’ll punish you.”
Insisting that Charlotte eat her dinner with two silver napkin rings clenched between her upper arms and torso was one of her mother’s favorite forms of punishment. “It’s to help your posture, dear,” she’d say. “You’ll thank me for your straight back when you’re older.” What kind of parent punishes their own child for sounding happy or for finding a way of fighting off the demons in the dark? That was the thing, you see? By making noise, Charlotte was telling the demons that she was still awake. Not until later did she discover that some demons don’t wait until you’re asleep. Some attack and hurt you, even when you’re wide awake.
Her phone vibrated just as the train was pulling into the 68th Street station. Taking the stairs two at a time, she raced up Lexington, over to Madison, and flipped open her screen. The doctor had left a voice mail.
“Charlotte. I just got your results. And there’s really nothing to worry about. But I’d like you to schedule an appointment. Please call my secretary and she’ll set it up.”
Her hands were shaking as she punched in his digits. The word “really”… It sounded like he was minimizing something. It wasn’t quite casual enough.
“Good morning. This is Dr. Thorpe’s office.”
“Hi! I’m Charlotte Wolfe. The doctor …”
“Yes, he spoke to me, Ms. Wolfe. We have a cancellation next Thursday at 11:15. Will that work for you?”
Charlotte gulped. “There’s nothing sooner? I’m—”
“Anxious? I’m sure you are, dear. But the doctor’s out of town. May I pencil you in?”
“Forget the pencil,” Charlotte retorted. “Use a pen. I’ll be there.”
“Very good, Ms. Wolfe. See you then.”
Scanning Madison, she zeroed in on her destination. Lamiere was the name of the shop. “It’s supposed to be Lumiere,” the dealer, Ed, had chuckled years ago. “But the painters spelled it wrong.”
Considering this guy bought most of his stuff from flea markets and jacked up the price thirty times, you’d think he could afford to repaint one letter.
“Charlotte, how lovely to see you!” Ed shouted as he opened the door. Gracefully sidestepping his hug, she smiled instead. Rumor had it, Ed had been wearing the same pair of greasy black pleather pants and matching beanie for twenty years. He even smelled oily. “You too, Ed. I can’t wait to see what you have for me.”
“You are going to LOVE it. I didn’t even bother to put it out in the shop. That’s how sure I am about it.”
Leading the way through his labyrinth of lighting, Ed took her to the back. And there, standing all by itself in a corner of the workroom, was the perfect Murano lamp. “See? The emerald is the same color as your eyes, Charlotte. And it’s genuine 1920s. Even the base is glass.”
“You’re right. It’s gorgeous,” Charlotte said, fondling the five-foot pole of clear emerald, hand-blown glass. The carnival-like stripe of twisted gold inside almost brought tears to her eyes.
“And not a nick on it,” Ed announced.
“Now go ahead, Ed. Knock me out. How much?”
“The net, Charlotte? $13,000.”
“Oh c’mon, Ed. I’ve known you a long time. I want the net net.”
Ed shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “$11,000. Can’t go a penny less. The list is $18,000, Charlotte. And you know damn well, there’s nothing out there like it.”
“Done. And I need it wrapped like the infant Jesus. It’s going abroad.”
“Net” was the friendly discount off the list price that dealers gave all designers. “Net net” was the even friendlier discount given to favorite designers. Depending on the item, the discounts ran anywhere from a conservative 10% or 20% all the way up to 30% and 40%. Charlotte, of course, never settled for less than net net. Occasionally, she would pass on some of the discount to her clients. Other times, considering what she had to put up with servicing these clients, she figured that she was more than entitled to keep the “change.”
After neatly avoiding a farewell hug, Charlotte stood out