Perfect Little Ladies (6 page)

Finally left with dirty glasses, blessed silence, and Luna, who wanted to be fed, CJ scooped a bowl full of dry food, put out fresh water, grabbed the front section of the
Times
, and plunked herself at the table. She studied the picture as if it might hold a clue, a telltale remnant of Elinor, lipstick on his collar, panties peeking from his pocket.

When CJ saw no clue, she stared at the man. Joseph Remillard was on the short side, with football-player-wide shoulders and thinning hair. He had a slight paunch but a charming smile with a cleft in his chin that must have been good for a few female votes. Still, he was not as good looking as Malcolm.

“So what’s the deal?” CJ asked the man in the photo. “Are you sleeping with my sister?”

It had been years since she’d seen Elinor naked, but CJ supposed she looked the way CJ did now—butt cheeks that weren’t as taut as when they’d been teens, breasts not as perky, bellies still small but no longer appropriate for an itsy-bitsy bikini.

Not that they’d ever been allowed to wear one.

“No daughter of mine is going to pierce her ears (wear bell bottoms or miniskirts, smoke marijuana, get into a car with
a boy),” their father had barked on more than one occasion. He’d claimed he had to be strict because his job was at stake, that if the Board of Trustees of the McCready School for Girls thought him incapable of rearing his own daughters correctly, he would not be headmaster for long.

So the trustees had been directly responsible for bringing up Elinor and CJ. Father had made certain his daughters’ clothes and their friends and the food that they ate and the damn dolls they played with were all trustee-approved, at least in his eyes.

It was no wonder their mother had sipped cooking sherry when she knew their father wasn’t looking.

Tossing down the newspaper, CJ wondered what her father would think of this latest Elinor charade. The odd part was this: Of the twins, Elinor was the one who was most like what he’d been—controlling, in control. Not at all like CJ-the-pushover, who’d spent her life trying to please others, though look where it had gotten her.

No, Elinor had never worried about pleasing anyone but herself. Unless, of course, that had all changed, and Elinor was now pleasing…him.

CJ’s eyes fell back to the paper.

Yes, she thought. If Elinor were to have an affair, it would need to be with someone who had the ability to make her jaw drop along with her panties. It would need to be someone who was stronger than she was, more powerful, more capable of calling the shots. Elinor Harding Young would not lie down with just anyone. It had to be someone like Joseph Remillard.

The morning’s Bloody Mary roiled in CJ’s stomach. If the truth got out, it would humiliate Malcolm. It would no doubt
be the end of Jonas’s engagement. And Elinor would become fodder for the tabloids, a middle-aged mockery, a political joke, like that young intern and her tell-all blue dress.

Luna nuzzled CJ’s hand, in search of an after-breakfast walk. “Sure thing,” CJ said, scratching the Lab’s head. “I could use some fresh air myself.”

If Duane had needed a substantial influx of cash—say a half million dollars—would Poppy have noticed the signs? If it truly was possible that he was Elinor’s blackmailer, could Poppy find out before any more damage was done?

Maybe it was the Bloody Marys, or the one-hour wait for the photo prints at the Mount Kasteel Pharmacy, but by the time Alice finally wheeled her big SUV up to the gate at Poppy’s driveway, Poppy knew what she had to do.

“It’s Duane,” she suddenly blurted.

The vehicle stopped. “Duane?” Alice asked. “Your husband?”

“I think he’s Elinor’s blackmailer.”

Alice drummed her thumbs on the thick leather steering wheel. “How would Duane know Elinor had a lover?
We
didn’t even know, for God’s sake.”

When Poppy had bought this estate upon their return from Monte Carlo, newly married and giddy, she’d loved the high stone wall. She’d told Duane that the locked wrought-iron gates made her feel safe, as if the world couldn’t get to her, no matter what. He’d laughed and said the gates made him feel like a big shot again, as he’d been in the heyday of silver. She should have known then that the marriage was doomed.

“For all we know, he could be her lover,” Poppy added, then let Alice digest the possibility before saying, “As for the black
mail, well, I give him an allowance.” It was something she’d never even admitted to her mother. “Maybe he’s decided it’s not enough.”

Alice shrugged. “People have all kinds of arrangements, Poppy. It doesn’t mean Duane’s a criminal.”

Folding her hands on the lap of her skirt, Poppy shivered from the air-conditioning. “Wouldn’t it explain why we weren’t invited to the engagement party?”

Alice stopped drumming. “You’re talking in circles.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not. I am very hurt that we weren’t invited. We’ve been Elinor’s best friends since we were kids. Jonas is her son. Don’t we deserve to go to a fancy Washington party?”

“First of all, we weren’t invited because it’s for the politicos. We live in New York and don’t know any of them. Second, the party is being hosted by the parents of the bride. The
congressman
, Poppy. It’s their party, not Elinor’s.”

“She could have insisted.”

Alice shifted on the seat; the leather squeaked. “Sorry, kiddo, but I don’t see how it fits.”

“If Elinor is sleeping with Duane, or even if she just thinks he’s blackmailing her, she wouldn’t want us there. She couldn’t invite you and Neal and not us.”

The air-conditioning droned.

“But Poppy,” Alice said, though her voice was quieter now, “if Elinor thinks Duane is involved, why would she ask for our help?”

“Because if we proved it was Duane, she’d know we wouldn’t let it go public. Her reputation would be safe. Let’s face it, Alice, Elinor might be using us.” She supposed she should feel guilty for thinking such a thing, but it was safer to be angry
with Elinor than with Duane, who’d know she would never ask for a divorce.

“No, Poppy, you’re dreaming.”

“Maybe so, but as soon as I get into the house, I’m going to find out.”

Just then the gates yawned open. Duane’s silver BMW convertible—Poppy’s five-year anniversary present to him—nearly hit them head-on. He swerved and came to a stop on Alice’s side. “Morning, ladies!” he cried, flashing his Duane-smile.

Alice put down the window.

“What are you lovely girls up to on this fine morning?”

“We’ve been at a charity breakfast,” Poppy quickly shot back. “Are you going out?”

He patted a camera case on the seat beside him. “Pictures to take,” he said, smiled again, then waved. “I’ll be home later.”

In a flash he was gone, leaving Poppy and Alice in silence, except for the air-conditioning that continued to drone.

Ten

Brunch had stretched into early afternoon,
and there was little left to say to the esteemed congressman, his lovely wife, Betts, and the soon-to-be-daughter-in-law, Lucinda. So Elinor and Malcolm stood in the doorway and bade them a hearty good-bye-so-nice-that-you-came, and then Malcolm left, too, heading back to Washington, back to his work that paid for their comfortable life. Jonas had opted to stay in New York, muttering something about a job interview in Manhattan. Then he hauled the canoe from the yard where he’d left it the week before (someday he’d learn to put things away), strapped it onto the roof of the old Jeep that he kept in Mount Kasteel, and rushed off to hopefully catch a few trout on the lake. Elinor was pleased that her children were finally adults and she didn’t need to know every detail of
their comings or goings. Life was so much easier to navigate without dependents.

When she was certain she was alone, Elinor went into her bedroom, picked up her cell phone, and called CJ.

“I have to go to Grand Cayman to get the money,” she said as soon as CJ answered the phone. Years ago Elinor had confided to CJ that she kept a secret tax-free account there in case of emergency. She’d explained that Malcolm didn’t know. (“He’s such a bore about doing anything that might question his character or his damn patriotism.”) However, she hadn’t admitted that the real reason behind the account was the fact that she was afraid Mac would leave her someday and she wanted to be financially prepared. She’d never dreamed financial preparation would involve underwear. She ran her hand through her hair now and tried to ignore the muscles in her throat that seemed to suddenly be constricting.

“It’s nice you have it,” CJ replied. “Not everyone can put their hands on a half million dollars. Cash.”

Elinor bypassed the sarcasm. “It’s a catch-twenty-two, Catherine. If we weren’t worth a lot of money, I wouldn’t be blackmailed.”

CJ didn’t admit that she had a point. “Are you sure you can do this without Malcolm finding out?”

“He’s wrapped up in his work. Besides, between you and me, he might not even care. I don’t know which would be more humiliating.” She laughed, then walked to the window and stared down at her husband’s prized topiaries. “I have to get the money, CJ. I have to be ready. In case we can’t learn who’s doing this. In case we can’t stop him.”

“But…”

Elinor shook her head, as if CJ could see her. “I need to do
this before the engagement party, in case my friendly blackmailer decides to show up there…” She shut her eyes and stifled a scream.

“When will you leave?”

Elinor regained her composure. “Wednesday. And I need a favor.”

Silence.

“Catherine?”

“I’m here, E.”

Elinor hated when CJ went silent the way their mother so often had. Silence could be so judgmental. “Will you come to the house and stay here in case if the blackmailer calls?”

“Because our voices sound alike,” CJ answered. It was, of course, part of being identical, in looks and voice, if not personalities. “But Elinor, it’s not as if you’ll be trapped. You’ll have your cell phone…can’t you forward your house calls?”

“I don’t know if the cell phone will work everywhere on the island.” Elinor had learned from Father the importance of always having the answers.

“I won’t need to go to your house. Leave your cell with me.”

“I’m taking it with me.”

“But you just said…”

“I can use it in the airports. I might be able to use it on the ground. I don’t know which number this moron has. I need you to cover the house.”

“Have the house calls forwarded to me.”

Elinor tapped her foot. She had no patience for her sister right now. “What’s the problem, CJ? Can’t you just come over here? Pick a guest room. God knows we have several.”

“What about Luna?”

“Bring her. Or leave her with that boy. It’s not as if you never go away.”

“And I always feel guilty about that. Poor Luna needs a family. Not just inattentive old me.”

Then silence again.

“Please, CJ. No one has to know. Malcolm has gone to Washington. If he finds out you’re here, tell him you’re renovating the cottage or something. He never goes there, does he?”

“No. Of course not. But won’t he wonder why you’ve left the country so close to the party?”

“Don’t tell him I’m out of the country. Say I’m in Philly. That my dress needed last-minute alterations.” She knew that her words sounded fabricated. She didn’t remember whether or not she’d ever told Malcolm that her preferred seamstress now lived in Philadelphia, that she was the daughter of the woman who had been their mother’s seamstress, the one Dianne Harding had depended on for every special event.

“Oh, E, I don’t know…this involves so many lies.”

“It’s not just the phone call I’m worried about, CJ. I’m afraid the blackmailer will show up at my door. You could handle it. No one else could.”

So CJ, of course, finally agreed. After all, she was the dependable one. Elinor knew that someday she should tell CJ that she was her anchor, that she was her strength. Someday, but not now. There simply was too much to do.

Eleven

Monday morning the temperature climbed
toward the low nineties, and it was raining in Manhattan. Clusters of ghostly ectoplasms waltzed on the asphalt, a reminder that though it was almost September, the weather could still simmer like summer. Behind the wheel of her Esplanade (Neal only bought American), Alice had begun to sweat—or
perspire,
they’d been taught to call it at the McCready School for Girls, long before menopause had erupted and turned her into a near-nymphomaniac, as well as a perpetual swamp.

They’d come in on the Henry Hudson and taken a left up West Seventy-second, which brought them now to Central Park and Strawberry Fields, the area landscaped in memory
of John Lennon. They were two and a half blocks from the Lord Winslow, the scene of Elinor’s crime.

Alice wondered if Yoko had ever worn La Perlas.

In the seat beside her, Poppy twitched. She’d already told Alice that by the time Duane had come home last night, the Bloody Marys had worn off and she’d chickened out of asking what he knew about Elinor. Chickening out, of course, was more in keeping with Poppy.

“We’ll be done before you know it,” Alice tried to reassure her.

“I still think we’re too early,” Poppy said. “No one will believe we’ve come to town to shop. Not at ten o` in the morning.”

She was right, of course. Wealthy women never shopped until after lunch, which had more to do with filling the hours between lunch wine and evening cocktails than with the digestive system.

They couldn’t say they were in town to have their hair or nails done because on Mondays the best salons were always closed. Besides, that wouldn’t have seemed right, what with Yolanda in the backseat.

“No one will care why you’re in town,” Yolanda said at that same moment, poking her head through the small opening between the cushy leather front seats. At the last minute, she’d decided to go with them, announcing that once at the Winslow, Alice and Poppy could get out and Yolanda could get behind the wheel and drive around the block until the mission was complete. It would save having to locate a garage or, worse, valet parking, which could be disastrous if a quick getaway was required.