Closet Confidential (2 page)

I reminded myself that Lorelei had seven closets, jammed with designer clothing and accessories, and I intended to keep our minds on them rather than the rivalry between her and my mother as we sifted through her pricey clutter. Lorelei might also have more money than God, but I wasn’t planning to crawl over broken glass to earn my fee.

I produced a smile that my mother would have been proud of. “No, I am myself.”

If Lorelei had not lost her only daughter, Anabel, several months back, I might not have been in her home on a cool but sunny Sunday afternoon in June. But Anabel Beauchamp had drowned on a Woodbridge construction site, a freakish accident that left her friends, co-workers, and the young people she worked with badly shaken. I had liked and admired Anabel, and after all, our families had a shared history. I still felt guilty that I’d been in Europe and unable to attend the funeral. All to say, I was prepared to cut her grieving mother some slack.

Lorelei’s husband, Harry, shot me a sympathetic glance. He was the only soft, comforting element in the vast glass, stone, and steel living room. Harry and I would probably both be glad when this ritual was over. And Lorelei would be happy when she’d put my mother—who hadn’t even lived on the same continent for the last twelve years—in her place. Senior year in high school? I figured it was a shame to let their distant past blight her life.

Lorelei must have been six feet tall, slender and elegant, with perfect bones and flawless skin. That face had gazed out from hundreds of magazine covers over the years. This was the woman who had snagged the role of spokesmodel for Face It cosmetics at the age of forty-five and in many ways had changed the way America regarded women as they hit midlife. She had the confidence that would come naturally to someone with a perfume named after her. I had noticed the soft exotic scent of
Lorelei
as soon as I’d arrived. Lorelei’s personal tragedies had not marred her classic features. The tiny lines that were visible when you sat next to her never made it into the advertising shots, but even if they had, they didn’t diminish her beauty.

She tucked a strand of her silver blond hair behind a perfect ear. “Hmm. You’re still single?”

“Happily so.”

“What happened to what’s-his-name? That young man you were engaged to in Manhattan? Didn’t he give you a lovely ring? I seem to remember Esme raving on the subject the last time I saw her. She was very excited about it.”

My mother had indeed been over the moon about both what’s-his-name and the ring. And when I told her I’d tossed the square-cut diamond solitaire into the swirling dark waters of the Hudson, she’d been devastated. After four marriages and countless near misses, she was used to the idea that the man you loved could be a cheating hound. But it had been a new experience for me, and I had no plans to get used to it.

“Didn’t work out. Sometimes a person needs variety.” I grinned to leave the impression that I’d been the variety seeker. I was glad I’d taken care in choosing my outfit. My crisp white shirt had a flattering row of ruffles, and my venerable black pencil skirt was perfect with it. I’d splurged on a pair of open-toed red patent platform heels and a pedicure. When you’re barely five feet tall, shoes matter.

With the large pair of gold hoop earrings on long-term loan from my mother, my classic wide woven leather belt, and a vintage lapis lazuli bracelet I’d scored at a garage sale, I could pass the Lorelei test, barely.

“I suppose.” She produced a soft smile. “Although Harry has never sought variety in thirty-five years.”

“Never have, never will, Lorelei darlin’.” Harry still hadn’t shaken off his soft southern drawl after more than thirty years in the Hudson Valley.

I knew he was telling the truth. I’d never seen a man quite so besotted by his wife. A couple of my mother’s husbands had been head over heels, but none of them lasted past five years.

“In fact,” Harry said as he got to his feet, “I think it’s time to celebrate that with a champagne cocktail. That’s the current house specialty, Charlotte honey.”

Of course it would be the house specialty for Lorelei Beauchamp. The color was right for one thing. Same pale shimmer as her famous hair.

As Harry was talking, Lorelei turned and stared out the expanse of fourteen-foot-high windows; her mind had drifted elsewhere. I didn’t know what part of Harry’s comments had triggered a troubling thought.

Harry glanced her way, then mine. “I have a special technique. Want to step into the kitchen with me and see how I do it?”

“With pleasure.” Actually I was very happy to step away from Lorelei. Maybe she needed to be by herself. Harry had always functioned as Lorelei’s white knight, manager, and protector. Now apparently he’d added mind reader to his résumé.

I followed him along the stark minimalist hallway to the mostly concrete and stainless steel kitchen. This house had been featured twice in major architectural magazines. The kitchen had scored a full page in both, although I couldn’t imagine anyone cooking anything in it. Harry stopped at an immense cooler designed especially for white wine and, I supposed, champagne.

This seemed like a good time to tell Harry that I don’t drink much and never when I’m working. I need my wits about me.

Harry grinned and nodded toward the cooler. “New toy. It keeps the bubbly at a perfect forty-two degrees.”

Harry opened the door and produced a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. No cheap and cheerful sparkling wines for the Beauchamps’ champagne cocktails. He grinned as he twisted off the foil and eased the cork out with the gentlest of pops. “We’re having mimosas today. Does that work for you, Charlotte?”

He took down three crystal flutes from the bar cupboard and set them on the glossy counter.

“Not for me, Harry. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll stick with the orange juice.”

“Charlotte honey, that’s no problem with me. I squeezed the juice fresh just before you got here. I’ll go easy. I imagine you’ll need your wits when you tackle those closets.” He stepped over to a refrigerator that was bigger than my entire kitchen and reached in.

More like when I tackle Lorelei
, I thought. Most closets are a piece of cake for me. These seven would come with stacks of Louis Vuitton suitcases and tons of emotional baggage.

“How is she doing?” I asked, nodding back toward the seemingly endless living room where Lorelei sat staring out the wall of windows and seeing nothing.

Harry paused, still bent over. “Ah well.” He picked up the pitcher of fresh orange juice. “Not too good.”

“She seems so sad.”

“She can’t believe it. Anabel being gone. Like that.” He straightened up and snapped his fingers. “One day she’s our perfect girl, the next . . .” His eyes filled.

Sally had shown me the newspaper coverage of the tragedy when I returned from my trip, and I’d been shocked by the image of Anabel’s covered body being carried from the muddy construction site where she’d drowned. It still distressed me when I thought of it. I hoped that wasn’t the picture that stayed in Harry’s head. I felt a catch in my throat as I watched Harry struggle to control his emotions.

“We were lucky to have her. So lucky. At least we have those beautiful memories.”

I understood what he meant. Anabel was five years younger than me, but I always remembered her open smile and sturdy good nature. Harry’s girl for sure.

“She was wonderful. Everyone loved her.”

“Thank you, Charlotte honey.” He turned his attention to the flutes and poured in the orange juice. “Juice first. The alcohol mixes down.”

“And she was lucky to have you. You gave her a very joyous life.”

At least Harry had.

“I hope so.”

“Trust me.”

Harry had been a wonderful parent, warm, uncritical, yet no pushover, the master of the gentle correction and the quiet life lesson. Anabel must have felt loved and cherished every day of her life. As for Lorelei, she hadn’t been unkind, merely remote and always all about Lorelei. But then again, you can’t have everything.

Harry smiled as he arranged the three flutes on a stylish tray from the Museum of Modern Art. “I’m awfully glad you agreed to come. You can see that she needs some kind of distraction. She’s not getting back to normal. Not at all. I have to confess, Lorelei sounded intrigued when I told her about your new occupation. That’s when I got the bright idea to call you. I thought that playing in those closets would be fun for her and would give her a chance to spend time with someone who was almost family. And I felt confident that you would understand if she’s not herself.”

“I’ll do my best. I hope it works.” I knew the closets might be improved when we finished, but there was no way of fixing Anabel’s death. No surprise that Lorelei wasn’t herself.

Harry picked up the MOMA tray and nodded for me to lead the way back to the living room. “And if you find Lorelei sometimes makes comments that are a little less than kind about your own mama, I hope you won’t let that get you down. It’s not personal. You know she has her funny little ways. But she thinks the world of you and she always has.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised a half hour later when Lorelei threw back the ebony-trimmed etched-glass doors to her own dressing room, the first of many closets that lay ahead of me. Like everything in the house, the doors were custom-made. She’d stood there for a while inhaling softly before the dramatic opening flourish. I admired her perfect posture as I believed I was intended to.

“What do you think? It’s a bit like a Jackson Pollock, isn’t it? All jumbled up.”

It might have been, too, except that everything in it was a soft shade of white, cream, gray, or the official family color: champagne.

How to respond? “It does have a certain artistic purity.”

She laughed, showing her perfect teeth to advantage. “You are a cute little thing, Charlotte. I hope Esme realizes what she has in you.”

Let it go, I told myself.

“Is this closet a problem? It looks as though it was custom designed for you. Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong, and you know it, Missy Smarty Pants. It
was
designed for me. They all were, naturally. It only makes sense.”

Great. We were getting nowhere. “Why don’t you give me an idea about what you’d like to achieve in this project?”

Lorelei nodded, approving. “Nicely done. And now the ball’s in my court. Well, of course, it is and it should be. Let me see, what would I like to achieve? That’s a very good question, Charlotte Adams. And I don’t know the answer to it. Do you have to know right this minute?”

I chuckled politely. “I don’t. But we’re unlikely to achieve whatever that turns out to be if we don’t figure out what it is.”

Lorelei sank into a soft gray velour chaise that sat in the middle of the dressing room, like a fainting couch perfectly positioned for those days when there was a wardrobe malfunction. With those gorgeous looks and all that money, it was hard to imagine Lorelei ever having any kind of problem at all. But of course, Lorelei had a huge problem and one that money couldn’t fix. Nothing would bring Anabel back. It would take more than a closet makeover to bring the meaning back to her mother’s life.

“Sometimes I can’t seem to find something.”

I blinked and Lorelei laughed her silvery laugh. “I don’t mean that I have nothing to wear. Of course, that’s ridiculous. But I often can’t find the one perfect article I’m looking for. I don’t know where it is, and I don’t even know where to begin looking. Finding what I want, that is something I’d like to achieve.”

“Sounds well worth striving for.”

“Hmm.” She yawned languidly. “I suppose it is. What else am I going to do with my time?”

She got to her feet with one fluid movement, and we passed through her bedroom on our way to closet two. I gave a backward glance at the room with the largest bed I’d ever seen, no doubt also custom constructed for Lorelei. The headboard must have been six feet high and upholstered in white leather. A shimmering white silk spread covered the bed. I supposed the eight pillows would be enough even for Lorelei, with one or two for Harry.

As we turned to go, she stopped abruptly. “I don’t think I can cope with any more today.”

I raised an eyebrow without thinking. If she couldn’t cope with looking at the second of her seven closets, I wasn’t sure how she’d react to the more challenging part of sorting them out, not that I believed for a second she was serious about the project.

“I can tell that you think I’m being silly.”

“It’s your project, Lorelei. Naturally, you make the decisions. I have to say that it doesn’t get any easier. And looking at the closets is usually the first step.”

“I get so tired lately. You have no idea.”

I found myself regretting my raised eyebrow and stodgy comments. Lorelei was so beautiful, so elegant, and so inclined to play to the imaginary camera every minute, it was easy to forget she’d suffered such a terrible tragedy so recently. I’d always found her hard to deal with, but that didn’t mean I could overlook what she’d lost. I reached out and touched her hand.