The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [76]
The daughter of Millicent Connors and Benjamin Wolfe, Charlotte Wolfe was brought up on in one of New York’s most exclusive Fifth Avenue buildings. She attended the elite Chapin School and Sarah Lawrence College. Police request anyone with information about her whereabouts to contact 1-800-577-TIPS immediately.
46
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
Entering the trustees’ dining room at the Cincinnati Museum of Art, she was greeted by the sound of muted but heartfelt applause. Lowering her emerald green eyes, she smiled, and gave her husband’s arm a gentle squeeze. Everyone affectionately called her Bet. With her champagne-streaked blonde hair pulled back in a sleek, tight chignon, her statuesque build, sun-kissed skin, and ruby red lips, people said she looked a lot like an older version of Carolyn Bessette. Had she lived, of course. The poor thing.
Yes, the women in town all agreed that she’d had some work done: the forehead, the creases between her nose and mouth, maybe even a discreet lift to the eyes. But it was so subtle, it only added to her allure. This was just one of the extraordinary things about Bet. Women envied her, but they also loved being near her. Every charity event in town that she sponsored was wildly oversubscribed. And no one ever turned down an invitation to one of her marvelous dinners at home or a weekend in the country.
The other extraordinary thing about Bet was her marriage to George. George’s mother had been a gorgon—an absolute harridan. When Bet arrived in town out of nowhere, with no credentials to speak of, no background, no real money, everyone at the club had given her relationship with George a month, two at the most. After all, they’d witnessed the social demise of so many other younger, wealthier, more suitable women.
But Bet had not only succeeded in defanging George’s mother, she’d befriended her, too. In fact, Bet’s friends were convinced that it was her tireless nursing and infinite patience before the old woman’s unexpected but merciful demise that cinched the couple’s marriage. She and George had been virtually inseparable ever since.
Last but far from least, was Bet’s style. You could forgive a woman almost anything, including a somewhat dubious past, when she had style like Bet. It wasn’t just the way she dressed or what she’d done with the house. It was how modest and generous she was with other women. Everybody had called her in at one point or another for advice. Whether it involved a decision as mundane as choosing a color for the new maid’s room or as important as decorating a nursery for the baby, or buying some hugely expensive piece of French furniture at auction, Bet just knew.
What was it she had given all the girls at Christmas? Fabulous eighteen-karat gold straight pins in velvet boxes? “So you can tell the fake from the real thing,” she’d said in her notes, after thanking them for making her feel at home in Cincinnati.
The party at the museum had gone on till two a.m. After making love to his wife, George fell asleep. She had waited until she heard the sound of his snoring before creeping into her dressing room and locking the door behind her. She was exhausted, wrung out. Eight hours of vapid, small talk with such boring, tedious women. One more story about an adorable eight-year-old Mozart prodigy and she thought was going to puke. Did they ever talk about anything but their children? Stripping down to her $1,000 Nina Ricci bra and thong, she smoothed the creases out of the Dior dress and carefully hung it up in its proper place.
At first, her husband