The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [66]
“What does that mean, Pavel? Did you send the wire?”
“Look, I am trying to work it out …” He was shouting through a storm of static. She heard something about tax police and held her breath. “I’m going to be out of touch for a while. The family’s meeting me and …”
“I can’t hear you very well,” Charlotte said, moving closer to the window in the hopes of retrieving a signal.
She heard the word “sorry” and then he was gone.
Jesus Christ. Even with her credit line, she was looking at hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. Eighty yards of the Scalamandre silk had come in at $50,000, and that was with the discount. The woman making the balloon shades was charging another $15,000. She’d already started the sewing. And what about the $400,000 order for lighting? Everything was veering out of control. Anna had warned her about the Russians. She was disgusted at her own weakness, at the thought that this man had seen her naked. She had to get out of the house. Walk. At least there was Gina. Suddenly Charlotte was so excited at the prospect of seeing Gina she could feel tiny goose bumps on her arms.
The phone trilled as Charlotte dried herself off in the bathroom. Her stomach flip-flopped. Maybe it was Pavel calling back. Dropping the towel, she rushed into her bedroom and picked up.
“Charlotte?”
Just the sound of Vicky’s voice annoyed her.
“Welcome back, Vicky. How was the trip?”
“Incredible, absolutely incredible. You have to come over right now and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Ummmm. I’m not sure I have time,” Charlotte replied. Listening to the details of other people’s trips was almost as boring as listening to them talk about their dreams or their sex lives.
“Then make time, Charlotte. But forget about the trip. Wait till you hear about last night. It was the most moving experience of my whole life, I swear.”
“Really?” Charlotte said, tuning out. “Your night with the Buddhists, right?”
“You cannot imagine. I left the house at 7:00 with no keys, no money, no phone. And everybody met me at the 72nd Street IRT.”
“It hasn’t been called the IRT in thirty years, Vicky!”
“Whatever. The subway, okay? Anyway, we went down to some shelters on Avenue D and rode the trains all night just like the homeless. I even talked to some of them.”
“It sounds like some kind of new adventure vacation, Vicky.”
“You’re such a cynic, Charlotte, you know? That’s your problem. This is a Buddhist tradition. They do it every year.”
“Well, bravo for them, Vicky!”
But Vicky was still talking. “It was so cold out, I almost gave away my shahtoosh.”
Charlotte choked. “Surely you jest, Vicky. Please don’t tell me you were wearing $2,000 worth of dead Tibetan antelope hair on Avenue D? And you call yourself an f’ing Buddhist.”
There was dead silence at the other end of the phone. Vicky had hung up.
Walking into the kitchen she removed a piece of soft chamois cloth from a plastic bucket under the kitchen sink. Today’s moment with Gina would be perfect, she thought, stroking and polishing the poker until it gleamed. It had to be.
Feeling jubilantly alert, invincible even, she decided that she’d skip seeing Vicky—just not show up—and walk to Gina’s. The walk would clear her head and help her focus. Charlotte had left the bottle of Ativan untouched on her bedside table all night. She didn’t want anything to come between her and the fullness of her experience with Gina. If only others understood; if only they could see the world as she saw it, there would be no judgments. The world would applaud her courage, her strength.
40
Charlotte blinked. Was she hallucinating? It looked like Gina was clutching a large, claw-toothed hammer in her left hand. Her face was red and sweaty, too. Charlotte could hear the sounds of wailing from somewhere in the back of the loft. “What the hell?” she muttered, reluctant to step any farther in than the front hallway. “Make yourself comfortable, Kate,” said the flustered, young blonde. “I just have