The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [31]
Is there a “web Webb” connection?
How did Amy Webb’s killer gain access to her East Side mansion? Could it have been a chat room encounter gone tragically wrong? Is it some Internet connection that links the murder of this oh-so-well-to-do socialite with other wealthy female victims in Manhattan? We’re just asking …
Charlotte looked at her caller ID and picked up the phone. It was Anna’s usual Monday morning breakfast call. Ordinarily, after a mission, Charlotte would have been delighted to listen to Anna’s gossip about the murder. She imagined that it was like enjoying a cigarette after sex. But her mother’s Sunday visit and the nightmare had robbed her of even that tiny pleasure. So instead, Charlotte ranted on about her Sunday afternoon.
“Charlotte. Listen to me, please,” Anna said, cutting her off. “I know I sound like that guy with the ears in Star Wars. What was his name?”
Charlotte felt a tickle in the back of her throat. She giggled. There had been a particularly depressing night during the summer when Anna had showed up at her door with a bottle of Veuve and forced her to watch the entire Star Wars trilogy. “Yoda. His name was Yoda,” she replied, twisting a strand of hair around her pinkie finger.
“Yoda, si. But people only have as much power as you give them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Of course, I understand, Anna. And that’s very wise. But I can’t help it. I feel sorry for her. And I hate her. It’s all mixed up.”
Anna laughed. “Do you know why your mother is so good at pushing your buttons, Charlotte?”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Anna.”
“Because she installed them. I read that in a book somewhere.”
The joke worked. Charlotte felt as if someone had let the air out of her. Her shoulders slumped with the release of tension as she walked over from the table to steam the milk for her cappuccino.
“There is one more step in my therapy session, Charlotte. You must tell me a funny story about your parents, please …”
Charlotte gazed, bleakly, at the pale aqua walls and delft blue trim in her kitchen. Humor was not something she associated with her parents. But Anna was one of the most persistent women Charlotte had ever known.
“I’m not hanging up until you tell me, Charlotte.”
Racking her brain, Charlotte heaped two spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee. “Okay. I may have one story,” she conceded. “It didn’t seem funny at the time, but now …”
“Go ahead,” Anna coaxed. “I’m lighting a cigarette. I’m ready.”
Charlotte wiped the creamy froth from her upper lip with the back of her hand. “I was eight years old,” she said. “I woke up one night and my mother was yelling at my father. ‘Ben! Ben! Wake up!’ When I snuck out of bed, I saw him swinging an invisible golf club at the top of the stairs. He was sleepwalking his way through eighteen holes, Anna.”
Anna giggled. “You see how it helps?”
“Sure,” Charlotte replied, burning her tongue on the hot coffee. What she didn’t tell Anna was that the golf incident happened three months after her little sister had died. All Charlotte remembered about that time in her life was her own feelings of rejection. It had hurt her, too. The loss of the baby. After all, she was the one who had gotten up that night to comfort her when she was crying. She’d even turned her over on her stomach and left with her own Paddington Bear for company.
Her cell phone trilled.
“I have to go, Anna,” she said, eager to avoid more questions. She loved Anna for asking questions. But she felt guilty about hiding things. Like the fact that she’d had to schedule a doctor’s appointment after the sonogram.
“Everything’s fine. Just a little indigestion,” she’d lied when her friend asked about the results. Anna had been elated.
“Don’t forget Max at 1!” she was saying. “I sold my soul to get you