The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [70]
“Charlotte. It’s Max. Somethin’s up with your Russkie friend. His check bounced. Call me.”
She trembled when she heard the next voice.
“Hey there, darling. Guess who? It’s Philip. Listen, have you still got that bracelet from Craigslist? Call me.”
Leaning in, she listened to the beginning of the next message and pressed Skip. It was some guy from accounting at Rosselli, probably about another bad check.
The next two messages left her wishing that she’d stayed in bed.
“Charlotte! It’s Rita. Listen, I’m postponing our meeting about the new Vineyard House. So put the paint chips away. Abe says we’re fine. Not to worry. I’ll call you soon.”
Then there was Darryl. “Hi! Do me a favor, will you. Cancel that order for the prison toilets and hold off on the dojo for Tim. I’m sure you’ll understand, Charlotte. We’re pulling back till this thing blows over.”
Understand? Charlotte wailed to herself. She can’t pull back, not now. Not when I’ve already paid for the f’ing toilets. Which was when her eyes tripped over the headline of Thursday’s Post.
“DON’T LOOK DOW(N)!”
Her mind skittered around like a car on a patch of slick ice. The market had plunged 900 points overnight.
Christ! she thought. It was bad enough being alone and broke. But being one among millions … Where the fuck was the comfort in that?
Eyes pinned on phrases like “Uncertainty Spreads! Global Anxiety,” Charlotte blindly grabbed the checkbook next to the answering machine and flipped through the tidily written sum, in search of her balance. Balance? There was no balance. She was running on fumes. Drying off her sweaty palms on a paper napkin, she struggled halfheartedly to make sense of it all.
Sure. There had been the collapse of Lehman Brothers and the fire sale at Merrill Lynch back in September. But neither had seemed to affect her clients. Subprime loans weren’t exactly an issue for people building $50,000 swimming pools for their puggles, either. As for Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac … “They sound like country western singers!” is all Rita had said.
Hiding the checkbook under a pile of shelter magazines, Charlotte placed her palms on her temples and squeezed. Why, oh why, did the entire world have to panic and fall apart at the seams when she was scrambling so desperately to hold herself together and to fend off chaos? It was crazy.
Turning the pages of the Business section, she did find an uncanny irony in the news about a Wall Street crash. When was it she had first started her own personal crusade “cleaning house”? Had the gods finally heard her? Were they wreaking their own vengeance up there in her kill zone on the Upper East Side? Perhaps New York’s trophy wives were about to become an even more endangered species.
She actually chuckled before pressing Play. There were three hang-ups and a woman’s voice. It sounded tiny and distant.
“Charlotte. This is Lola. We’ve been trying to get you for two days. Your mother’s had a series of small strokes. Call me in Alpine.”
Charlotte hadn’t spoken to her mother’s housekeeper, Lola, in twenty years. They’d never liked each other. Even when she was a kid, the woman looked ancient—all hunched over and wrinkled. But maybe the strokes explained that strange moment when her mother had fumbled for words on her last visit? She shrugged. Not even strokes could excuse the cruelty of the gift. Charlotte began scratching at the bumps on her neck. The more she thought about her mother as an invalid, about taking care of her, about spending her own money (what money?) on nurses and doctors, the harder she scratched. In that last phone call, her mother had whined about feeling dizzy, light-headed.
Reaching for the phone, she picked up the