The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [33]
Because the bottom line (metaphorically speaking), was that this generation of new money, Jews or not, didn’t give a damn about Wasps who belonged to the Brook or the Union Club, and lived off their meager interest from ironclad trust funds. They would guffaw all the way to the Caymans at the idea of waiting in a room marked “STRANGERS” like the one Charlotte had once sat in at the Park Avenue Racquet and Tennis Club, while a porter went to fetch a member.
Rinsing the Wedgewood in warm soapy water reminded Charlotte, once again, of Rita and her problems with the pool.
Christ! The pool! Charlotte shuddered at the prospect of that discussion. Rita had only learned to swim three summers earlier—in the arms of an Olympic swimming coach, of course. This was shortly after they’d finished construction on the 15,000-square-foot “cottage” in Gay Head, the uber exclusive area of the Vineyard where Jackie O once had her place. A neo-Victorian monstrosity with faux Gothic turrets and “trim,” Rita claimed it was a tribute to the island’s whaling widows.
“More like wailing with an ‘i,’ ” Charlotte had laughed with Anna later. But she couldn’t deny that the project was a huge success.
Architectural Digest had given the interiors six full pages. The World of Inferiors, as Charlotte had now renamed England’s poshest shelter mag, turned it down. “Not modern enough, dear,” the editor had e-mailed her. Even if Charlotte herself was sick to death of Hitchcock and Shaker chairs and hutches, of authentic colonial grape presses and milk-paint pie cupboards, she couldn’t help but appreciate what they’d done to her bank balance.
What a travesty! Charlotte thought, as she hurriedly rifled through the hangers in her cedar-lined, 200-square-foot walk-in closet. All these people paying thousands of dollars for stuff designed by the Shakers. How many Shakers depended on lifestyle management teams and personal assistants and concierges and hot-rock massages to get through their day?
19
There it was. No sign, of course. The windows were so thick with soot and dust, Charlotte could hardly see inside. Cupping her hands on the side of her face, she peered in at the bizarre mix of trash and treasure: half-chewed dog bones, a ripped tapestry-covered wing chair, and small polychrome angels with wings wide open, suspended in midair.
“Whatcha doin’?” The voice startled her. It sounded like that old dead actor, Jimmy Cagney, raspy and pure Bronx. Turning around, Charlotte found herself face-to-face with the legendary 5′ 3″ dealer himself.
“I’m Anna’s friend, Charlotte,” she said, reaching out to shake hands.
“Yeah! I heard about ya!” he said, returning the handshake. “Another drekerator, right?”
“Right, Max,” Charlotte said mildly. Bouncing around on the balls of his feet like a boxer in the ring, Max had a head of wavy black hair and the shrewdest pair of brown eyes that she’d ever seen. He was chewing on the stump of a dead cigar. “Least, ya don’t look like one them broads born in the back of a Town Car. And I don’t see no monogram on your canvas tote bag, neither.”
“No, Max. That’s never been my style,” Charlotte said.
“Ya gonna buy?” he asked, with an impish grin.
“Yes, I am!” Charlotte said. “I’ve been waiting to buy from you for fifteen years, Max.”
Max hoisted up the metal gates, pushed the two-foot-thick wooden door open and gestured her inside.
Through the gloom, gold glittered. Burnished gold on six-foot pricket sticks, ornate Spanish picture frames, and Venetian mirrors with glass, wavy and pocked with age. The furniture: armoires, prie-dieus, throne-like chairs, gleamed with that dull, polished patina that came only from centuries’ worth of hands gently rubbing the surface.
Whose hands? Charlotte wondered. There were statues of saints and of the Madonna and more angels than in most cathedrals.
“I’m in heaven,” Charlotte sighed.
“You’re in hell,” Max replied. “I haven’t sold a thing in months.”
This was one of the many mysteries about Max. Anna said that if he