The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [28]
17
Charlotte devoted the rest of her weekend to quality personal time. Late Sunday afternoon, she toted her trophies into the bathroom and set them up like a display of wedding gifts on top of her tiger maple cosmetic table. Running the bath with water as hot as she could stand, she stepped in and lay back, gazing at her hard-won acquisitions: the bottle of vintage Dom, the gold charm bracelet and the Vuitton. Her anxiety had given way to a sense of free floating ease, a mild euphoria that seemed to loosen her every muscle. All of the static, the incessant chatter inside her head, had gone as silent as the city after a heavy snowfall.
If only these women had the courage to see their own small, unhappy lives as she did, Charlotte thought. They’d be grateful to her. She was doing them a favor, releasing them from their misery. Reaching over for a neatly creased copy of the Post, she reread the feature story.
MANSION MAMA MURDERED!
By Ben Volpone
Sources close to the Manhattan Police Commissioner’s office report that the Friday afternoon murder of 28-year-old Amy Webb, wife of Richard Webb, one of the city’s hottest bond traders, has officials desperately seeking leads.
“The security system, including cameras and motion detectors, was off. There were no signs of forced entry,” the source informed a Post reporter. “But there are distinct similarities between this case and other unsolved female homicides in Manhattan.” When pressured for details, the source refused to elaborate. The police commissioner will speak at a press conference Monday afternoon.
Amy Webb, a small town girl born in the hills of western Pennsylvania, worked briefly as Mr. Webb’s personal assistant prior to their society wedding in Palm Beach, two years ago. The wedding, attended by the famous and infamous alike, made local headlines when Kanye West, the new Mrs. Webb’s favorite rapper, dedicated his song about prenups and gold diggers to the blushing bride. According to Palm Beach newspapers, “The groom was not amused.”
Webb’s body was discovered in her dressing room by her husband when he returned home early from a Fashion Group benefit at which his wife had failed to appear. Calls for comments to his office on Wall Street and his home in Bedford were not returned.
Charlotte put down the paper and began soaping her body with a loofah. She thought about how little the world would miss these women. Like Vicky, they were predators, her so-called “victims.” Even more depressing, these same women would give birth to children who would grow up equally delusional. Children, like Charlotte, who would be orphaned by their mother’s hollow-hearted, venomous ambitions.
Finishing up her spa ritual with a Clarins facial and a thirty-minute Klorane hair treatment, she reached for a bath sheet. Unfortunately, her most determined efforts to thwart her own mother’s plan to drop by for afternoon tea had failed miserably. “I’m bringing you a gift,” she’d shouted into the telephone. “Don’t even think of trying to cancel.” Why did deaf people shout, anyway? It wasn’t as if Charlotte was the one who was hard of hearing.
From the minute her mother had set foot in the door, her visit had gone downhill. “What a pity Parke Bernet went out of business, dear,” she’d said, eyeing the bold geometric pattern of Charlotte’s favorite Caucasian carpet. “I mean, I do so prefer old Persians, don’t you?”
When the two sat down on her new slipcovered couch, the sniping resumed. “And these pillows, Charlotte. What