The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [54]
“How old do you think it really is?” she asked, glumly rising to her feet.
“You mean, how young?” Charlotte replied. “Some parts of it are probably very old. You wouldn’t believe what these craftsmen can do in England and China.”
“China?” Rita groaned.
“Yeah. There’s a repro guy on my block downtown. Until a month ago when he got thrown in jail for arms and drug dealing, he was bringing in stuff that even fooled the antique experts at H.M. Luther.”
Her mission accomplished, Charlotte patted Rita on the hand and passed her the straight pin. “Use it to test the piece I bought in the library, Rita.”
“You promise you won’t say anything to Abe, right?”
“Of course, I promise,” Charlotte said, as they walked, arm in arm, towards the stairs. Secrets were like money in the bank for Charlotte. They gave her a nice bit of leverage when clients got out of control.
“Not that I really care, Rita,” Charlotte said as the housekeeper helped her into her Searle parka. “But who told you my piece was a fake?”
Rita blushed. “It was the color consultant.”
“Tell her to stick to paint chips in the future, will you?” Charlotte said, making no attempt to disguise her ear-to-ear grin.
33
Charlotte sang to herself as she rubbed a pearl-sized dot of La Prairie moisturizer onto her face, a barely-there layer of bronze powder to her cheeks, and a bit of Arden Eight Hour Cream on her lips.
Thank God I’ve always avoided the sun, she thought, searching for nonexistent pores in the mirror. What was it Vicky had raved about before leaving for the safari? Collagens derived from human foreskins? Whose foreskins? She’d wondered. Where do you get human foreskins? From dead men? Did husbands pluck them off the penises of defeated rivals? Did they buy them from moyels, the people who performed ritual circumcisions? Just the idea of it made Charlotte sick. Tying her freshly-shampooed hair up in a velvet hair-band, she was still singing when she hit the sidewalk.
Before taking off on her power walk, Charlotte hurried over to West Broadway and slid a quarter into the payphone. She had already left three messages on Gina’s cell. When she heard an actual voice, she blanked for a moment.
“Gina?
Silence.
“Gina? It’s Kate, from Craigslist.”
“Ahhh, yes.” The high-pitched voice sounded like a child. “Listen, I think I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to sell the silver, after all.”
“I understand,” Charlotte replied, softly. “You’re probably as nervous as I am, right? I mean, I sold a St. Laurent last week and …”
“Oh My God!” the woman squealed. “Couture or ready-to-wear?”
Charlotte laughed. “Couture, of course. Fall 1977.”
“Tell me you’re joking, Kate! Wasn’t that the year of his Chinese Collection?”
“Yup. One of his best, I think. Anyway, I got $12,000 for it.”
“I’m swooning, I’m positively swooning. Couture is the one thing I just cannot talk Steve into buying for me. ‘It’s absurd, darling,’ he says to me. ‘$50,000 for a stupid dress.’ ”
“Ah well,” Charlotte giggled. “Men have a lot to learn, don’t they?”
“They sure do,” Gina sighed. “So. Would you be willing to pay cash, do you think?”
Charlotte grinned. Thank God for greed! “Oh definitely! I only take cash, myself. And if you’re anxious about letting me in, I could meet you at Starbucks or something. That story in the Post really spooked me.”
“No! No!” the girl said, back-tracking. “Don’t be silly. You don’t sound like a killer. I mean, how many killers wear couture St. Laurent, right?” She laughed. “But listen, Steve’s away and I’m going up to my ashram for a week. Could you come to the house next Tuesday? I’m done with yoga at noon.”
“Oh wow!” Charlotte exclaimed. “You’re into yoga, too? I think it saved my life. I mean, I’m so hooked I carry my mat around with me everywhere.”
“Me, too! Me, too!” the girl echoed, delightedly. “This might actually be fun.”
Charlotte scribbled down the Tribeca address. “Is there a doorman, Gina?”
“He was fired last week. Turns out the guy was a convicted felon.” Of course, Gina