Morning Noon & Night (7 page)

“Thanks.”

When Kendall went out on the runway, it was as though she had been doing it all her life. Even the other models were impressed. The show was a big success, and from that time on Kendall was a member of the elite. She started working with the giants of the fashion industry—Yves Saint Laurent, Halston, Christian Dior, Donna Karan, Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, St. John. Kendall was in constant demand, traveling to shows all over the world. In Paris, the haute couture shows took place in January and July. In Milan, the peak months were March, April, May, and June, while in Tokyo, shows peaked in April and October. It was a hectic, busy life, and she loved every minute of it.

Kendall kept working and she kept learning. She modeled the clothes of famous designers and thought about the changes she would make if
she
were the designer. She learned how clothes were supposed to fit, and how fabric was supposed to move and swing around the body. She learned about cuts and drapes and tailoring, and what body parts
women wanted to hide, and what parts they wanted to show. She made sketches at home, and the ideas seemed to flow. One day, she took a portfolio of her sketches to the head buyer at I. Magnin’s. The buyer was impressed. “Who designed these?” she asked.

“I did.”

“They’re good. They’re very good.”

Two weeks later, Kendall went to work for Donna Karan as an assistant and began to learn the business side of the garment trade. At home, she kept designing clothes. One year later, she had her first fashion show. It was a disaster.

The designs were ordinary and nobody cared. She gave a second show, and no one came.

I’m in the wrong profession
, Kendall thought.

“Someday you’re going to be a very important designer.”

What am I doing wrong?
Kendall wondered.

The epiphany came in the middle of the night. Kendall awakened and lay in bed, thinking,
I’m designing dresses for models to wear. I should be designing for real women with real jobs and real families. Smart, but comfortable. Chic, but practical
.

It took Kendall about a year to get her next show on, but it was an instant success.

Kendall rarely returned to Rose Hill, and when she did, the visits were dreadful. Her father had not changed. If anything, he had gotten worse.

“Haven’t hooked anybody yet, eh? Probably never will.”

It was at a charity ball that Kendall met Marc Renaud. He worked at the international desk of a New York brokerage house, where he dealt with foreign currencies. Five years younger than Kendall, he was an attractive Frenchman, tall and lean. He was charming and attentive, and Kendall was immediately attracted to him. He asked her to dine the next evening, and that night, Kendall went to bed with him. They were together every night after that.

One evening, Marc said, “Kendall, I’m madly in love with you, you know.”

She said softly, “I’ve been looking for you all my life, Marc.”

“There is a serious problem. You are a big success. I don’t make anywhere near as much money as you. Perhaps one day-”

Kendall had put her finger to his lips. “Stop it. You’ve given me more than I could ever have hoped for.”

On Christmas Day, Kendall took Marc to Rose Hill to meet her father.

“You’re going to marry
him?”
Harry Stanford exploded. “He’s a nobody! He’s marrying you for the money he thinks you’re going to get.”

If Kendall had needed any further reason to marry Marc, that would have been it. They got married in Connecticut the following day. And Kendall’s marriage to Marc gave her happiness she had never known before.

“You mustn’t let your father bully you,” he had told Kendall. “All his life, he has used his money as a weapon. We don’t need his money.”

And Kendall had loved him for that.

Marc was a wonderful husband—kind, considerate, and caring.
I have everything
, Kendall thought happily.
The past is dead
. She had succeeded in spite of her father. In a few hours, the fashion world was going to be focused on her talent.

The rain had stopped. It was a good omen.

The show was stunning. At its end, with music playing and flash bulbs popping, Kendall walked out onto the runway, took a bow, and received an ovation. Kendall wished that Marc could have been in Paris with her to share her triumph, but his brokerage house had refused to give him the time off.

When the crowd had left, Kendall went back to her office, feeling euphoric. Her assistant said, “A letter came for you. It was hand-delivered.”

Kendall looked at the brown envelope her assistant handed her, and she felt a sudden chill. She knew what it was about before she opened it. The letter read:

Dear Mrs. Renaud,

I regret to inform you that the Wild Animal Protection
Association is short of funds again. We will need $100,000 immediately to cover our expenses. The money should be wired to account number 804072-A at the Crédit Suisse bank in Zurich.

There was no signature.

Kendall sat there, staring at it, numb.
It’s never going to stop. The blackmail is never going to stop
.

Another assistant came hurrying into the office. “Kendall! I’m so sorry. I just heard some terrible news.”

I can’t bear any more terrible news
, Kendall thought. “What…what is it?”

“There was an announcement on Radio-Télé Luxembourg. Your father is…dead. He drowned.”

It took Kendall a moment for it to sink in. Her first thought was,
I wonder what would have made him prouder? My success or the fact that I’m a murderer?

P
eggy Malkovich had been married to Woodrow “Woody” Stanford for two years, but to the residents of Hobe Sound, she was still referred to as “that waitress.”

Peggy had been waiting on tables at the Rain Forest Grille when Woody first met her. Woody Stanford was the golden boy of Hobe Sound. He lived in the family villa, had classical good looks, was charming and gregarious, and a target for all the eager debutantes in Hobe Sound, Philadelphia, and Long Island. It was therefore a seismic shock when he suddenly eloped with a twenty-five-year-old waitress who was plain-looking, a high-school dropout, and the daughter of a day laborer and a housewife.

It was even more of a shock because everyone had been expecting Woody to marry Mimi Carson, a beautiful, intelligent young heiress to a timber fortune who was madly in love with Woody.

As a rule, the residents of Hobe Sound preferred to gossip about the affairs of their servants rather than their peers,
but in Woody’s case, his marriage was so outrageous that they made an exception. The information quickly spread that he had gotten Peggy Malkovich pregnant and then married her. They were quite sure which was the greater sin.

“For God’s sake, I can understand the boy getting her pregnant, but you don’t marry a waitress!”

The whole affair was a classic case of déjà vu. Twenty-four years earlier, Hobe Sound had been rocked by a similar scandal involving the Stanfords. Emily Temple, the daughter of one of the founding families, had committed suicide because her husband had gotten the children’s governess pregnant.

Woody Stanford made no secret of the fact that he hated his father, and the general feeling was that he had married the waitress out of spite, to show that he was a more honorable man than his father.

The only person invited to the wedding was Peggy’s brother, Hoop, who flew in from New York. Hoop was two years older than Peggy and worked in a bakery in the Bronx. He was tall and emaciated, with a pock-marked face and a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“You’re gettin’ a great girl,” he told Woody after the ceremony.

“I know,” Woody said tonelessly.

“You take good care of my sister, huh?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Yeah. Cool.”

An unmemorable conversation between a baker and the son of one of the wealthiest men in the world.

Four weeks after the wedding, Peggy lost the baby.

Hobe Sound is a very exclusive community, and Jupiter Island is the most exclusive part of Hobe Sound. The island is bordered on the west by the Intracoastal Waterway and on the east by the Atlantic Ocean. It is a haven of privacy—wealthy, self-contained, and protective, with more police per capita than in almost any other place in the world. Its residents pride themselves on being understated. They drive Tauruses or station wagons, and own small sailboats, an eighteen-foot Lightning or a twenty-four-foot Quickstep.

If one was not born to it, one had to earn the right to be a member of this Hobe Sound community. After the marriage between Woodrow Stanford and “that waitress,” the burning question was, What were the residents going to do about accepting the bride into their society?

Mrs. Anthony Pelletier, the doyen of Hobe Sound, was the arbiter of all social disputes, and her devout mission in life was to protect her community against parvenus and the nouveau riche. When newcomers arrived at Hobe Sound and were unfortunate enough to displease Mrs. Pelletier, it was her custom to have delivered to them, by her chauffeur, a leather traveling case. It was her way of informing them that they were not welcome in the community.

Her friends delighted in telling the story of the garage
mechanic and his wife who had bought a house in Hobe Sound. Mrs. Pelletier had sent them her ritual traveling bag, and when the wife learned its significance, she laughed. She said, “If that old harridan thinks she can drive me out of this place, she’s crazy!”

But strange things began to happen. Workmen and repairmen were suddenly unavailable, the grocer was always out of items that she ordered, and it was impossible to become a member of the Jupiter Island Club or even to get a reservation at any of the good local restaurants. And no one spoke to them. Three months after receiving the suitcase, the couple sold their home and moved away.

So it was that when word of Woody’s marriage got out, the community held its collective breath. Excommunicating Peggy Malkovich would also mean excommunicating her popular husband. There were bets being quietly made.

For the first few weeks, there were no invitations to dinners or to any of the usual community functions. But the residents liked Woody and, after all, his grandmother on his mother’s side had been one of the founders of Hobe Sound. Gradually, people started inviting him and Peggy to their homes. They were eager to see what his bride was like.

“The old girl must have something special or Woody never would have married her.”

They were in for a big disappointment. Peggy was dull and graceless, she had no personality, and she dressed badly.
Dowdy
was the word that came to people’s minds.

Woody’s friends were baffled. “What on earth does he see in her? He could have married
anyone
.”

One of the first invitations was from Mimi Carson. She had been devastated by the news of Woody’s marriage, but she was too proud to reveal it.

When her closest friend had tried to console her by saying, “Forget it, Mimi! You’ll get over him,” Mimi had replied, “I’ll live with it, but I’ll never get over him.”

Woody tried hard to make a success of the marriage. He knew he had made a mistake, and he did not want to punish Peggy for it. He tried desperately to be a good husband. The problem was that Peggy had nothing in common with him or with any of his friends.

The only person Peggy seemed comfortable with was her brother, and she and Hoop spoke on the telephone every day.

“I miss him,” Peggy complained to Woody.

“Would you like to have him come down and stay with us for a few days?”

“He can’t.” And she looked at her husband and said spitefully, “He’s got a job.”

At parties, Woody attempted to bring Peggy into the conversations, but it was quickly apparent that she had nothing to contribute. She sat in corners, tongue-tied, nervously licking her lips, obviously uncomfortable.

Woody’s friends were aware that even though he was staying at the Stanford villa, he was estranged from his father and that he was living off the small annuity that his mother had left him. His passion was polo and he rode the ponies owned by friends. In the world of polo, players are ranked by goals, with ten goals being the best. Woody was nine goals, and he had ridden with Mariano Aguerre from Buenos Aires, Wicky el Effendi from Texas, Andres Diniz from Brazil, and dozens of other top goals. There were only about twelve ten-goal players in the world, and Woody’s driving ambition was to join the group.

“You know why, don’t you?” one of his friends remarked. “His father was ten goals.”

Because Mimi Carson knew that Woody could not afford to buy his own polo ponies, she purchased a string for him to ride. When friends asked why, she said, “I want to make him happy in any way I can.”

When newcomers asked what Woody did for a living, people just shrugged. In reality, he was living a secondhand life, making money playing skins at golf, betting on polo matches, borrowing other people’s polo ponies and racing yachts, and on occasion, other people’s wives.

The marriage with Peggy was deteriorating rapidly, but Woody refused to admit it.

“Peggy,” he would say, “when we go to parties, please try to join in the conversation.”

“Why should I? Your friends all think they’re too good for me.”

“Well, they’re not,” Woody assured her.

Once a week, the Hobe Sound Literary Circle met at the country club for a discussion of the latest books, followed by a luncheon.

On this particular day, as the ladies were dining, the steward approached Mrs. Pelletier. “Mrs. Woodrow Stanford is outside. She would like to join you.”

A hush fell over the table.

“Show her in,” Mrs. Pelletier said.

A moment later, Peggy walked into the dining room. She had washed her hair and pressed her best dress. She stood there, nervously looking at the group.

Mrs. Pelletier gave her a nod, then said pleasantly, “Mrs. Stanford.”

Peggy smiled eagerly, “Yes, ma’am.”

“We won’t need you. We already have a waitress.” And Mrs. Pelletier turned back to her lunch.

When Woody heard the story, he was furious. “How dare she do that to you!” He took her in his arms. “Next time, ask me before you do a thing like that, Peggy. You have to be
invited
to that luncheon.”

“I didn’t know,” she said sullenly.

“It’s all right. Tonight we’re having dinner at the Blakes’, and I want—”

“I won’t go!”

“But we’ve accepted their invitation.”

“You go.”

“I don’t want to go without…”

“I’m not going.”

Woody went alone, and after that, he began going to every party without Peggy.

He would come home at all hours, and Peggy was sure he had been with other women.

The accident changed everything.

It happened during a polo match. Woody was playing the Number-Three position, and a member of the opposing team, trying to stroke the ball in close quarters, accidentally hit the legs of the pony that Woody was riding. The pony went down and rolled on top of him. In the pileup that followed, a second pony kicked Woody. At the emergency room of the hospital, the doctors diagnosed a broken leg, three fractured ribs, and a punctured lung.

Over the next two weeks, there were three separate operations, and Woody was in excruciating pain. The doctors gave him morphine to ease it. Peggy came to visit him every day. Hoop flew in from New York to console his sister.

His physical pain was unbearable, and the only relief Woody had was from the drugs the doctors kept prescribing for him. It was shortly after Woody got home that he seemed to change. He began to have violent mood swings. One minute he was his usual ebullient self, and the next minute he would go into a sudden rage or a deep depression. At dinner, laughing and telling jokes, Woody would suddenly become
angry and abusive toward Peggy and storm out. In the middle of a sentence he would drift off into a deep reverie. He became forgetful. He would make dates and not show up; he would invite people to his home and not be there when they arrived. Everyone was concerned about him.

Soon, he became abusive to Peggy in public. Bringing a cup of coffee to a friend one morning, Peggy spilled some, and Woody sneered, “Once a waitress, always a waitress.”

Peggy also began to show signs of physical abuse, and when people asked her what happened, she would make excuses.

“I bumped into a door” or “I fell down,” and she would make light of it. The community was outraged. Now it was Peggy they were feeling sorry for. But when Woody’s erratic behavior offended someone, Peggy would defend her husband.

“Woody is under a lot of stress,” Peggy would insist. “He isn’t himself.” She would not allow anyone to say anything against him.

It was Dr. Tichner who finally brought it out into the open. He asked Peggy to come see him in his office one day.

She was nervous. “Is something wrong, doctor?”

He studied her a moment. She had a bruise on her cheek, and her eye was swollen.

“Peggy, are you aware that Woody is doing drugs?”

Her eyes flashed with indignation. “No! I don’t believe it!” She stood up. “I won’t listen to this!”

“Sit down, Peggy. It’s about time you faced the truth. It’s becoming obvious to everyone else. Surely you’ve noticed his behavior. One minute he’s on top of the world, talking about how wonderful everything is, and the next minute he’s suicidal.”

Peggy sat there, watching him, her face pale.

“He’s addicted.”

Her lips tightened. “No,” she said stubbornly. “He’s not.”

“He is. You’ve got to be realistic. Don’t you want to help him?”

“Of course, I do!” She was wringing her hands. “I’d do anything to help him.
Anything.”

“All right. Then let’s start. I want you to help me get Woody into a rehabilitation center. I’ve asked him to come in and see me.”

Peggy looked at him for a long time, then nodded. “I’ll talk to him,” she said quietly.

That afternoon, when Woody walked into Dr. Tichner’s office, he was in a euphoric mood. “You wanted to see me, doc? It’s about Peggy, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s about you, Woody.”

Woody looked at him in surprise. “Me? What’s my problem?”

“I think you know what your problem is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you go on like this, you’re going to destroy your life and Peggy’s life. What are you taking, Woody?”

“Taking?”

“You heard me.”

There was a long silence.

“I want to help you.”

Woody sat there, staring at the floor. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “You’re right. I’ve…I’ve tried to kid myself, but I can’t any longer.”

“What are you on?”

“Heroin.”

“My God!”

“Believe me, I’ve tried to stop, but I…I can’t.”

“You need help, and there are places where you can get it.”

Woody said wearily, “I hope to God you’re right.”

“I want you to go to the Harbor Group Clinic in Jupiter. Will you try it?”

There was a brief hesitation. “Yes.”

“Who’s supplying you with the heroin?” Dr. Tichner asked.

Woody shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Very well. I’ll make arrangements for you at the clinic.”

The following morning, Dr. Tichner was seated in the office of the chief of police.

“Someone is supplying him with heroin,” Dr. Tichner said, “but he won’t tell me who.”

Chief of Police Murphy looked at Dr. Tichner and nodded. “I think I know who.”

There were several possible suspects. Hobe Sound was a small enclave, and everyone knew everyone else’s business.

A liquor store had opened recently on Bridge Road that made deliveries to their Hobe Sound customers at all hours of the day and night.