The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [47]
“Fine, no problem,” said Charlotte, gathering up her coat and gloves from the chair.
“We’re not doing any work on the place till the spring. So you have plenty of time,” Rita said, bussing her on the left cheek. “It’s going to be great fun, I promise.”
Charlotte snatched the paint chips and shoved them into the side of her bag before slowly walking out of the apartment. She took careful, measured steps, like a drunk pretending to be sober. The only thing that improved her mood was the text message from Pavel. “Thank you, Charlotte, for such a wonderful New York evening. I will call you later about dinner on Tuesday and the visit to Max.” That and the fact Rita hadn’t even mentioned moving the pool.
27
Sunday morning was blissful. She’d taken a three mile speedwalk up from Battery Park to the piers before breakfast. Stopping to stretch and drink a cappuccino, she stood beneath the rusted, old White Star Liner gates on 14th Street. This was where the Titanic had been scheduled to arrive before it hit the iceberg. Charlotte was not a traveler, not in the real sense of the word, but twice a year, she flew the same migratory route as the rich and restless nomads she so religiously served: Paris, London, St. Barth’s, Rome, Aspen. Last year, she’d even been to Morocco and the year before, to Rajasthan.
Charlotte’s travel was like reading Page 6 in the Post. It gave her something to talk about with clients. It made them feel more comfortable, imagining that their decorator shared the same “taste” in travel. It was like sharing her visits with her shrink. The shrink proved that Charlotte wasn’t perfect. It made her clients feel less inadequate. But Pavel and his fairytales, the story of the dacha, the silent, snow-filled forests, and even Moscow, had spurred a sudden longing to get away. Far away. And to go by sea on a private yacht. To be surrounded by nothing but water and sky. To be unmoored …
A gust of freezing wind tossed bits of litter into the air as Charlotte turned around to jog back home. She’d take her time reading the papers and look at the “brand” profile that had been e-mailed to her from Darryl’s handlers. Their letter explained that it was important for Darryl’s home—and therefore Charlotte’s work—to reflect Darryl’s overall brand image. “Handlers!” Charlotte sneered. What a perfect word, she thought. After all, it is what they call people who train circus animals.
As she turned the corner onto North Moore Street, she noticed a white van parked in front of her building. “Nothing dull here!” read the sign on the side of the van. The license plate read: BSHARP. It was Leo. Every year, he drove up from Florida and circled the neighborhood, stopping to sharpen kitchen knives and garden tools.
“Hey, Leo. It’s me, Charlotte!” she said, running up to shake hands with the wizened old white man leaning up against the van. His skin was as brown and wrinkled as an alligator.
“How’s business?” she asked.
“Not bad.” Leo replied, nodding towards the bright red SUV parked behind him. “These are all his,” he added, holding up a bouquet of lethal-looking silver scissors.
A very large bald black man sat inside the SUV, pounding on the steering wheel. The throaty bass from his woofers shook the vehicle. The word “BREATHE” was written in white script across his windshield. The letters were so big, Charlotte couldn’t imagine how the guy could even see the road. Splinters of sunlight reflected off the floating gold “rims” or “dubs” as Charlotte now called hub caps after her midnight rambles through the Auto Parts section of the List. Charlotte breathed. Deeply.
“I’ll bring you some coffee in an hour or so, Leo,” she said, fleeing inside the building.
An hour later, she was lying on the couch and skimming through “The Hunt,” her favorite new column in the New York Times Real Estate Section. These stories about poor, struggling yuppies, students launching careers, and middle-class families searching for somewhere to lay their heads in Manhattan always made Charlotte feel