Authors: Margarite St. John
The Art of Death (3 page)
Scaffold
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Steve Wright was not eating his heart out, as his ex-wife Madeleine Harrod hoped, but he was still depressed. Earlier in the year, he had been duped in a land development scheme, leaving him with a damaged reputation, unhappy investors, and debts he was still paying off. He wasn’t in the mood to host a Kentucky Derby party, but a businessman didn’t need to be in the mood to carry on.
An hour before the last race of the day -- the big one -- he slipped away from the merriment, descended the stairs to his private office, closed the blinds, and lay down on the sofa. Perhaps fifteen minutes of solitude would soothe his troubled mind.
He was just drifting off when he heard the door open and caught a peppery whiff of perfume before hearing his old nickname, “Lefty.” He recognized the scent, Caron’s Poivre at a thousand dollars an ounce. He recognized the breathy voice of a Jackie Onassis imitator. And he most definitely recognized the chutzpah of a person who dared enter a private domain without invitation.
Mad Madeleine was in the house. Having been told that she was coming and not having seen her in years, he’d kept an eye out. When he spotted her on the terrace with Dr. Beltrami, who was smoking a cigar, he quickly retreated into the club. He had no desire to speak to her.
He reluctantly opened his eyes. “This is my private office.”
Madeleine kissed his forehead, ruffled his hair, and moved his feet aside. Perching on the edge of the couch, she put a hand on his ankle. “Don’t get up.”
“Never intended to.” He jerked his ankle but Madeleine hung on.
“It’s been a long time, Lefty.”
“Not long enough.”
“Are you still bitter?”
Steve didn’t deign to answer.
“Because if you are, that means you loved me once. Maybe still do.”
More silence.
“I’ve changed, you know.”
Still no answer from Steve.
“I have, I really have. I’ve had a lot of therapy. And I don’t need your money anymore. Appledorn Exploratorium makes the best scientific toys in the world, so I’m a rich woman now. Maybe richer than your present wife. . . . By the way, whatever made you marry a woman older than me, Lefty?”
“Don’t talk about my wife. And don’t call me Lefty.”
Madeleine laughed softly. “I still think of you as a great baseball pitcher, the way you were in high school. You didn’t know it in those days, but when our schools played each other, I rooted for you. ‘Lefty’ was my special nickname for you; I wrote it in my diary. So ‘Lefty’ is a compliment. It reminds me of the good old days when you were young and strong and I was secretly in love with you.”
“I’m still young and strong. But there were no good old days.”
“Oh, yes, there were.”
“I hear you’re divorced again, Mattie.”
“I’m not Mattie anymore. I’m Madeleine again. Yes, I’m divorced. Free as a bird. I have a beau, though, Dr. Beltrami. Remember him?”
“I never met him. Heard plenty about him from you, of course.”
“He’s upstairs. He calls himself my suitor. Isn’t that precious?”
“What do you want, Madeleine?”
“To help you. I hear you’ve had some setbacks.”
Steve struggled to a sitting position, got up, and walked to his desk, where he made a production of opening the blinds, turning on his desk lamp, and sitting down. The more distance and light, the safer he felt. Pity from anyone, especially a woman, most especially his ex-wife, was more than he could stomach. “None of your business.”
“You know, I returned to the farm when Daddy got sick so I could take care of him. I’ve converted the barn into an artist’s studio, but it’s very raw. The house is old-fashioned, little cut-up rooms, rotting windows, canted doors, squeaky floors. The garage is practically falling down. So I could use your help.”
“With what?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Bringing everything up to the standard I can now afford. I don’t mind taking care of Daddy, but I want to live a lot better.”
“Why come to me?”
“Why not? You can use the work, I hear, and I need help. You’re the only contractor I trust.”
“Lots of contractors looking for work these days. I’ll give you some recommendations.”
“I don’t want them. I want you.”
“You can’t have me.”
She smiled. “You can’t have me either -- not the way you mean.”
When he began to protest that he didn’t mean what she thought he meant, she cut him off. “All I’m offering is a business deal that’s good for both of us.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think about what?” Steve swiveled toward the door to see his wife standing there. He felt guilty without quite knowing why.
Steve got up. “Come on in, honey. I don’t think you two ever met before. Lexie, meet Madeleine. She wants to hire Wright Construction to fix up the family farmstead. I told her I’d think about it.”
Lexie coolly glanced at her predecessor, then back at her husband. “Well, think about it tomorrow. The big race is about to start. You don’t want to miss the most exciting two minutes in sports, do you?”
Without waiting for an answer, Lexie turned on her heel and returned to the party upstairs. Steve followed Lexie and Madeleine as if mounting a scaffold.
Nose Candy
Saturday, May 4, 2013
“Man, you gotta buck up,” Dave Powers said to Steve.
It was an hour after Orb had won the Kentucky Derby. Some guests, scattered in little groups, were still drinking and talking in subdued tones, some were drifting away. Though The Lords of Maumee were packing up and the staff was stripping the buffet, the bar would remain open until ten to accommodate the stragglers.
Steve and Dave were resting in a corner of the terrace, puffing on cigars, their faces in shadow. The only light came from the red glowing tips of their cigars and the amber flames of a three-wick candle in a tall hurricane glass.
Steve took his time to respond. “I’m bucking up.”
Dave scoffed. “That tone of voice, brother, you could have said ‘I’ve got a terminal illness’ and it would have sounded the same.”
“It’s going to take awhile to get over the shellacking I took from the City and that global scammer, Dick Fetters.”
“Forget the son of a bitch. You’ll rise from the ashes just fine. I think the way the day went, it’s obvious you’re on the upswing.”
“Maybe. I had a little visit from Madeleine today. Remember her?”
“All I remember is once you married her, you disappeared from the action. To tell you the truth, my friend, I was kind of glad to see her go so you’d get back in the game. Selfish of me, I know, but you know you’re going to hear the truth from me. You should be used to that by now. So what’s she want?”
“She wants Wright Construction to do a big project out at the family farm.”
“Why?”
“The house was built in the 1800s, the barn is falling down, the garage is a wreck, everything’s a mess. She wants to live better, more in keeping with the fortune she now claims to have. And my company could use the work.”
“Why doesn’t she sell up and build somewhere else?”
“Her dad won’t leave.”
“That dude’s gotta be a hundred years old, doesn’t he? He can’t be farming anymore.”
“He isn’t. They lease the land, live on ten acres.”
“So she should start over somewhere.”
“The old man was always stubborn as a mule, and Madeleine’s a daddy’s girl. If he wants to stay put, she’ll stay put.”
Dave looked around to be sure they couldn’t be overheard. “Did you see who she came with?”
“That psychiatrist she went to as a little girl after the accident at the Dunes.”
“I didn’t know that about your ex-wife, but I know him as Dr. Beltrami.”
“He’s a new member of the Club.” Steve shifted in his chair and tilted his head inquiringly. “How do you know his name?”
“He’s well known at headquarters.” Dave Powers, Steve’s old friend from high school, was now a homicide detective with the Fort Wayne Police. “I didn’t know your ex-wife was his patient, though. That’s interesting.”
“How?”
Dave leaned forward and pretended to sniff cocaine. “Nose candy.”
“Who? Madeleine or the doctor?”
“The doctor.”
“Uses or deals?”
“Procures. Prescribes. Maybe uses too -- who knows? When one of his patients died of a cocaine overdose a few years ago, I got a chance to talk to him. He said he was just doing what Sigmund Freud did to wean a client off of painkillers.”
“Giving hard drugs to a psych patient addicted to painkillers sounds like giving an inveterate gambler the keys to a casino and all the chips he can stuff in his pockets.”
“We thought so too, but I guess Freud really did that -- gave cocaine to a patient, I mean. I’m told his patient died too. One of our rookies majored in psychology, so she did a little research.”
“So what happened? With Beltrami, I mean.”
“The guy was investigated, both by the police and the State’s medical authorities.”
“And?”
“No charges. Plenty of evidence suggesting ethical lapses and unlawful possession of a street drug, but the prosecutor wanted more. Guess who the prosecutor was?”
Steve shook his head.
“Madeleine’s ex-husband,” Dave said.
“Which -- ?”
“Well, obviously not you, and her first husband, Dan Belden, disappeared years ago.”
“So that leaves Ned Harrod -- of course. I didn’t know he was still a prosecutor.”
“Circles within circles,” Dave mused.
When Steve spotted Trent Senser approaching, he signaled Dave to change the subject. “Trent,” he called out. “It’s been a long day.”
“Mind if I sit down a moment? I don’t want to interrupt.”
“Have a seat. Lose that tie. Want a cigar?”
“No thanks. Afraid I’d choke and make a fool of myself. I just wanted to check in, ask if things went the way you wanted.”
“People seemed to have fun.”
“No weapons, no violence, no loud arguments,” Trent said.
“Were you expecting something?” Steve asked, amused.
Trent lowered his eyes, careful not to admit he’d kept an eye on the infamous Madeleine Harrod. “You never know with that much liquor flowing, all those huge bets to argue about. A couple of people were three sheets to the wind but nothing we couldn’t handle. About a dozen goody bags disappeared, but we were prepared for that kind of petty theft. The only thing we ran out of was caviar because some people were scooping it on the blinis like pico de gallo on tortilla chips. And one of the waiters dropped a tray of mint juleps.”
Steve chuckled. “If that’s the worst that happened, then I’m happy. Everything you could control went fine, so the job is yours again next year. Ah, here’s Dover. Dover, my man! How’d the house do?”
“You’re going to be a happy guy when the final figures are in.”
“Anybody visit the Sega game room?”
“It was packed all afternoon.”
“Stupid people,” Trent muttered.
“But brilliant for us,” Dover said. “The Club Boutique sold out of the silver julep cups and ashtrays, plus almost all the premium cigars. Not to mention the Derby polo shirts and the special-edition imitation Hermès scarves.”
Trent preened. He had designed the scarves.
There was no more talk of Mad Madeleine and Nose Candy Beltrami that night. Which was just fine with Steve.
Taking a Flyer
Saturday, May 4, 2013
When a little before midnight the Wrights returned to the Gretna Green mansion Steve had built a few years earlier, he expected Lexie to interrogate him about Madeleine. He hated confrontations. He hadn’t made up his mind about Madeleine’s offer anyway, so there was really nothing to fight about -- yet. So when he emerged from his dressing room, he yawned and stretched and said he was so tired, he just wanted to fall into bed and let the lights go out.
“Oh, Steve-o, that’s not like you. Let’s go have a little drink before we go to bed. There’s so much to talk about.”
He studied her through lowered eyes. She didn’t look angry. She didn’t sound angry. What was up? He waited.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said in a Marilyn Monroe voice.
“What surprise?”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m Madame Guillotine.”
Steve blinked.
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of: The National Razor.
She kissed him. “You’ll like my gift, I promise.”
“Not fair. I don’t have anything for you.”
She kissed him again. “Marriage isn’t tit for tat, you know. I can surprise you if I want. And you can just relax and enjoy it, no guilt whatsoever.”
In the glass-roofed atrium Lexie had copied from a New York hotel, a glass of Prosecco beside her, a neat scotch beside Steve, she began her story. “Remember the stock market crash of ’08?”
“How could I forget?”
“And then the money I lost with Bob Passwatter?”
Steve frowned and rubbed the arm where Bob had shot him. The very mention of the rogue financial advisor still angered him. “I’ll never forget the son of a bitch.”
“Well, after I licked my wounds, I started looking around for investments that didn’t require a lot of thinking or day-to-day management. And I took a flyer. A really big flyer.”
“You’re not talking about the fish farm in Florida, I take it, or the windmills, or the oil wells in North Dakota, or the scrapyard in New York, or anything like that.”
“No. Those investments are risky but sane. The windmills didn’t work out but the rest of the stuff is doing pretty well.”
“So what was the flyer?”
“Diamonds. Actually, just one.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He reached for the scotch. “I know you like jewelry, but that sounds crazy.”
“That’s why I never told you about it before. Anyway, I bought a 35-carat -- .”
“A what carat?” he shouted.
Henry, their German Shepherd, shot to his feet and barked.
Lexie giggled. “Shh. Henry thinks there must be a burglar around. And you’ll wake Lacey and Sadie.” Lacey was their toddler, asleep upstairs. Sadie was her nanny, asleep in her apartment over the garage. “It was a 35-carat pear-shaped diamond, flawless, with provenance. It came out of the Golconda mine in India. I bought it at auction in New York in 2010.”
“And paid what?”
“A little more than a million.”
“Jeez.”
“Guess what it sold for last week.”
“Do I want to know?”
“I think you do.” Lexie waited until he looked at her. “It sold for just over nine million.”
Steve whistled. “Who has money like that?”
“The Chinese. The Saudis. Rich people all over the world. In this case, the buyer was Chinese, a recycling entrepreneur. The Chinese will pay a premium, much more than $10,000 a carat, for D-flawless diamonds, defect-free.”
“How come I never saw the thing?”
“I never had it set. I’d have been afraid to wear it even if I had. So I treated it solely as an investment, nothing but a beautifully cut stone that would increase in value twice as fast as any stock.”
“How big?”
“Bigger than a shooter marble. I looked at it once, held it in my hand, then had it stored safely in New York.”
“You ever go look at it just to gloat?”
“No.”
“Why’d you sell it last week?”
“To buy an even more valuable diamond and have enough left over for a cash cushion. In this market, something’s got to give and I want enough liquidity to get through whatever comes.” Lexie opened a little inlaid box on the table between them. “Here’s a check that I think covers all your debts from the Dupont project that went so wrong. It’s from my diamond profits. You can pay off your investors, all the professionals you hired, and start something else.”
Steve eyed the check but didn’t reach for it. “You know I can’t . . . oh, for Pete’s sake, Lexie, you can’t do this to me.”
“What’s money for if it doesn’t make us happy?”
“It’s not for propping me up, that’s for damn sure.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”
Steve popped out of his chair and began pacing. “Of course I would. But it’s different for men.”
“Don’t put me down by rejecting the fruits of my labor.”
“I’m not. I can’t explain any better than I have, but, no, I can’t take your money.”
“I don’t think either of us should be carrying any debt, not in this economy. So think about settling your debts as a benefit to the whole family. It’d be better for all of us if you started a new project.”
“Accepting this check would be good for you and Lacey, is that what you’re saying, Lexie?”
She smiled.
“You know how to hit my weak spot.”
“As your wife, I should hope so. You want to hear another secret?”
“No.”
“I’m going to tell you anyway. That necklace I wore to the Derby party today?”
He nodded. “The one that looks like diamonds but you tell everybody it’s Erwin Pearl costume jewelry, a little something you picked up in Chicago.”
“It’s not costume. It’s fifty one-carat diamonds strung together, worth half a million.”
Steve sank back into his chair. “Why?”
“If we ever have to leave in a hurry, I can get it out of the country just by wearing it and sell off one diamond at a time. You can’t do that with gold bars or Old Master oil paintings or even currency, and in the worst case stocks won’t be worth a bean.”
“You make it sound like the world is ending.”
“Not ending but getting worse for the likes of me. I just got a notice that the IRS is auditing me. Last week both OSHA and the EPA, loaded for bear, showed up at the Scrapyard, poked into every nook and cranny. Trude is livid -- but not more livid than Drago. The Census Bureau just sent us an American Community Survey that’s so long and intrusive, I can’t believe it’s legal or going to be used for honest purposes, but I’m not going to fight it. So I’m trying to get us ready for whatever happens.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard, Steve. There’s no need for you to do anything that isn’t comfortable.”
“Like what?” he asked, a little too sharply.
“Like I don’t know what, but sometimes when we’re in a bad situation we feel desperate, make foolish choices. Besides, you deserve to get your reputation back.”
Steve sipped his scotch, wondering if she’d seen Mad Madeleine sitting on the couch holding his ankle or heard her banter about wanting him but not in
that
way. Maybe his wife had been standing in the hall outside his office a lot longer than he knew.
