The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [9]
Staring out at the Hudson, Charlotte realized how fiercely attached she was to these early morning rides along the river. Maybe it was the fact the water was always flowing, that it never stopped moving, that consoled her. As she sat back, she let her thoughts meander. Philip had been more obnoxious than usual at the museum benefit. Pawing her thigh, for God’s sake. Then there was Pavel, due in from Moscow for his monthly family visit the week after next. She liked Pavel. Maybe too much. Resting her head on the back of the seat, she suddenly felt deliciously drowsy.
The trill of her cell phone woke her from her catnap. Christ. Why had she said hello before checking her caller ID? It was Rita, her most demanding client. She was up in Martha’s Vineyard, shutting her house down for the winter.
“Sorry, Rita. But you say you’re furious about my $100 surcharge for cleaning the curtains?” Charlotte asked, testily.
“Yes, Charlotte,” Rita’s voice was unbearably shrill. Adenoidal. “That’s correct.”
“But you also want to talk about moving the swimming pool ten feet to the right?”
“Correct again, Charlotte. It’s ruining our view of the ocean.”
“It’s flat, Rita. The pool is flat. How is it interfering with your view?” Tapping her fingernails against the seat, Charlotte worked to keep her temper in check. She couldn’t afford to lose this client.
“And the curtains are Japanese Shibori silk,” she added. “Hand tie-dyed and shot with platinum. I had to take them to Maurice myself and explain how to launder them. As for the pool … You don’t just move a pool ten feet.”
“Why not, Charlotte? The Johnsons did. We were over there for drinks on Saturday night.”
“And did the Johnsons share with you what the cost of moving their pool might have been?”
“We don’t care about the cost,” Rita said. Charlotte silently seethed.
“I’ll tell you what,” Charlotte said in an effort to distract her client while also fantasizing about seeing her liposuctioned, bloated body, floating belly up from the bottom of her cobalt blue pool. “Didn’t you say you’re flying down with Abe next week?”
“Yes, Charlotte. I did. But I’d like the jet to bring you up here this afternoon. We need to talk.”
“Rita, I’d be delighted to talk. I’d also be delighted to cancel the surcharge on the curtains. But I can’t possibly get away today.”
Mollified by the easy win over her $100, Rita settled for Charlotte’s offer to get together the following weekend at her apartment on Fifth.
Charlotte nearly spat when she ended the call.
Haggling over 100 bucks when they’d just spent $300,000 to put in the infinity pool and another $50,000 for the 40-foot gunite “puggle pool” with its own wavelet machine. What the freakin’ hell kind of a dog was a puggle, anyway? No wonder I have such agonizing cramps and can’t sleep at night, she thought. Everybody needed more. No one had enough. The whole world was crying poor, especially billionaires like Rita, who whined about $100 surcharges for laundering their $55,000 living room curtains. And what the hell was taking this driver so long, she groaned, as the cab screeched to a stop.
“We are here, madam,” Ali said with a smirk.
Charlotte ignored the insult. No way I look old enough to be a “madam.”
“Go ahead and keep the change,” she replied. Charlotte prided herself on being a very good tipper.
Running against the light, she crossed 76th Street and approached the restaurant. Before giving the door a small tug, she smiled graciously at the only “papp” polite enough to snap her photo. The rest of the posse was lounging idly nearby. Charlotte knew that most of the ladies who lunched here came to be seen. As if being seen somehow confirmed that they