Too Rich and Too Dead (7 page)

It could have been the wine—or perhaps just her burgeoning confidence—but at the moment Mallory felt completely confident that she'd be able to deliver.

Maybe Carly was voted Most Likely to Succeed, she thought with satisfaction. But this onetime classmate of hers isn't doing too badly herself.

R
ather than gathering around the fireplace for brandy, the evening's after-dinner activity consisted of the Bermans and their two guests taking the Rolls into downtown Aspen for Carly's eight o'clock presentation at the Wheeler Opera House.

Brett drove, insisting that there was no reason why his chauffeur should have all the fun. He parked the elegant silver car half a block away from the theater, maneuvering it so that it took up not one but two parking spaces.

As the foursome headed toward the entrance—Carly taking the lead with her husband trailing after her, Mallory and Gordon lagging a few paces behind—Mallory was shocked by the size of the crowd streaming inside. Scores of men and women, almost all of them old enough to remember when
Eisenhower was president, pushed their way into the small lobby on the first floor. They chattered away, exhibiting the same excitement they'd probably felt when they'd seen the Stones in concert for the first time—or in some cases, Frank Sinatra. It wasn't until that point that she realized just how popular Carly was. Or at least her claim that she had the ability to restore youth.

“I'm going backstage,” Carly informed them when they reached the double doors that opened onto the small lobby. “I have to do my breathing exercises before I go onstage.”

“I'll come with you,” Brett offered. “We need a few minutes to go over the introduction.”

As Carly charged off toward a back stairway with Brett in tow, Mallory turned to Gordon.

“In that case,” she said, “we might as well go inside and find seats.”

“If you don't mind, I think I'm going to bow out,” he replied, glancing longingly at the door. “I've seen Carly's dog-and-pony show before. Besides, she's not the only one who's putting on a show tonight. So are the Nuggets.” Smiling sheepishly, he explained, “I'm kind of addicted to basketball.”

“What about your car?” Mallory asked. “Isn't it still at the Bermans’?”

“I'll catch up with all of you later,” he said with a wink. “That way, Carly will never even know that I spent the evening watching the Lakers take on her home team instead of watching a rerun of the Rejuva-Juice story.”

“Have fun,” she told him, not letting on that she
was disappointed that she'd be sitting in the audience alone.

As she trudged up the stairs with all the other attendees, once again Mallory noted that, not surprisingly, Carly's audience consisted largely of in dividuals who had reached a point in their lives at which old age was no longer an abstract concept. But even in the case of those who appeared to have glided into middle age only recently, most had put at least some effort into looking younger than the number of candles on their last birthday cake would indicate. The women had colored their hair to banish the gray, and a few wore perpetually surprised expressions that said they were no stranger to facelifts. While fewer men were in the crowd streaming upstairs, the ones who'd turned out for the evening tended to be unusually trim, as if their way of warding off the ravages of time was by befriending a Nautilus exercise machine.

But she forgot all about the audience as soon as she walked into the opera house. It was much bigger than she expected, and considerably more grand. The thick velvet on the seats was a rich shade of red, as were the carpets and the curtain on the large wood-framed stage. Exposed beams covered the ceiling, which was painted the same deep blue as the walls. In back was a curved balcony bordered by a low wooden balustrade, its distinctive look a reminder that the theater had originated back in the days of the Wild West.

After Mallory found a seat, she remembered that she still had her guidebook in her purse. Opening it
to the page she'd marked with a bright orange Post-it and labeled “Local Sights,” she skimmed the section on the Wheeler Opera House.

Like the Hotel Jerome, it had been built by Jerome Byron Wheeler. It opened in 1889, bringing culture to a town that was only ten short years away from attracting the very first prospectors. The interior included a grand stairway with a gleaming wooden balustrade, a retiring room for ladies, and hand-painted frescoes on the walls and ceiling.

The theater also featured state-of-the-art lighting, including an elegant handmade chandelier constructed of hammered brass and silver. It was covered with more than thirty lights, each one shielded with a flower-shaped shade. The curtain, made by a well-known opera house scenery painter from Chicago, was designed by two New Yorkers and featured the Brooklyn Bridge spanning a river crowded with ships from all over the globe.

During its first five years, the Wheeler pre sented concerts, lectures, vaudeville shows, and Shakespearean plays. But after the silver crash of 1893, Wheeler went bankrupt. What hurt most was losing his crown jewel: the opera house. It remained standing, but its productions became considerably more modest. Instead of concerts and plays, it hosted events such as town meetings in which locals no doubt bemoaned the fall of their beloved town.

Then, in 1912, two major fires ravaged the Wheeler. While electrical problems caused the first, the second, which occurred only nine days later, was
attributed to arsonists. The flames were so intense that they melted the famous chandelier.

It wasn't until the 1960s and 1970s that the opera house was restored, and a crystal chandelier was added. In 1984, more extensive restoration was completed, and the Wheeler Opera House was finally returned to its former glory. Once again it became an important cultural center, featuring a variety of performances just as it had in its original glory days: opera, ballet, concerts, Broadway plays, films, and lectures, including the one that Carly Cassidy Berman, one of Aspen's brightest stars, was giving tonight.

Mallory tucked the book back into her purse and glanced at her watch. When she saw she still had some time before the show started, she decided it would be fun to find Carly and wish her luck. Sneaking backstage would also give her an excuse to see what the rest of the building looked like. She was all set to say “Break a leg” until she reminded herself that that might not be the most appropriate expression in a ski town.

She draped her jacket over the back of her chair to save her seat and then went back into the hallway. She wandered around until she found a door marked Dressing Room, tucked behind the stage.

Mallory was about to knock when she heard voices on the other side of the door. Loud voices. So loud, in fact, that she knew immediately that while only an hour ago Carly and Brett had practically thrown off their clothes right at the table to express their undying love for both lobster and each other, at
the moment they were engaged in a heated argument.

“How can you even
think
that?” she heard Carly screech. “For heaven's sake, Brett. I thought you understood!”

“You're not listening to a word I say,” Brett countered, his deep voice booming through the closed door. “As usual. You think you know the answer to everything, Carly. Why can't we ever discuss things the way other couples do?”

Mallory slunk away, embarrassed. While she hadn't set eyes on Carly Cassidy for years, in the last three hours she'd learned more about her than she ever wanted to know.

She sank into her seat, relieved that she'd scuttled away without being discovered. Almost immediately the house lights dimmed, enabling her to focus on Carly as she wanted to be seen.

But it wasn't Carly who stepped onto the stage. It was her husband.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you all for coming,” Brett began. He stood next to the lectern, rather than behind it, with one hand in his pocket. He appeared as comfortable onstage as if he were still standing in his own living room. In fact, he looked as if he were about to deliver the opening monologue on his own television talk show. There was certainly no indication of his altercation with Carly just a few minutes before.

“It is with the greatest pleasure that I introduce our speaker for this evening,” Brett continued, his powerful voice resonating through the theater. “She
is an amazing woman who not only is a dynamic speaker, but also happens to be my wife.” He paused to let the audience's polite laughter die down. “But in addition, Carly Cassidy Berman is living proof that the nutritional supplement she's about to tell you about, Rejuva-Juice, really works.”

For a moment, Mallory felt as if she was listening to P.T. Barnum introduce his latest find, doing a great job of convincing everyone that what they were about to see truly was a “Feejee Mermaid” when the grotesque creature on display was actually the upper part of a monkey stitched to the bottom half of a fish.

But P. T. Barnum's bizarre attraction was a far cry from the beautiful, confident woman who strode onto the stage, instantly mesmerizing her audience. Carly looked even more radiant than before. Her eyes were bright and her lips, refreshed with darker, shinier lipstick, twitched eagerly as if she couldn't wait to tell the rapt crowd all about the wonders of Rejuva-Juice. Even though she floated across the stage with all the grace of a ballerina—or at least a former cheerleader—at the same time she managed to emanate an amazing amount of energy.

Being in the spotlight certainly agrees with her, Mallory thought with a twinge of jealousy She fought it off by reminding herself that personally, she'd take hiding in the wings over standing on a stage any day.

“Before I tell you about the wonders of Rejuva-Juice—and believe me, I intend to do exactly that…” Carly paused, a small smile on her lips as
she acknowledged the laughter she'd clearly been anticipating. “… I'd like to show you some slides that will demonstrate the lengths I went to in order to bring you this amazing elixir. Lights, please!”

The auditorium grew even darker. As a giant screen descended from the top of the stage, the excitement in the room became palpable. The first slide appeared, featuring the words “The Rejuva-Juice Story” superimposed over a shot of pristine jungle so lush Mallory could practically hear the birds chirping and the insects twittering.

“The story of Rejuva-Juice begins in the Amazon rain forest,” Carly went on, “which is where I began my two-year trek. My goal was to discover what primitive people around the world use to maintain good health, high energy, and in many cases, a period of youthfulness that extends far beyond what those of us who live in so-called civilized societies enjoy.”

Carly clicked the remote control she clutched in her hand, and another shot of the dense jungle appeared. This time, she was standing in the middle of it. Her khaki shorts and pith helmet might have looked ridiculous on someone else, but with her tall, slender frame and the mane of perfectly coiffed long blond hair flowing around her shoulders, she made safari clothes look even more stylish than the classic little black dress.

“It took me three days to reach this village in Peru,” she told the crowd. “In one of the small cities I visited down there, I heard that deep inside the rain forest lived a tribe whose members routinely lived
to be one hundred and twenty. The first day I spent twelve hours on a bus that bumped along a dirt road. I spent the two days that followed on a raft, drifting along the Amazon River.

“Eventually, with the help of a native guide, I found the tiny village, if you could even call it that. When I arrived, I was treated like a queen, since no one who looked even remotely like me had ever visited. The people of the tribe had never seen hair my color before. ‘The color of the sun,’ they called it.”

Funny, Mallory thought. And here I thought it was called Number 233—Light Golden Blonde.

“Here in this village,” Carly continued, gesturing toward the screen, “I spoke with a shaman for hours—with the help of a translator, of course. Thanks to him, I discovered one of Rejuva-Juice's most important ingredients. It's a nut that grows in only one place in the entire world. That place happens to be located right outside the tiny cluster of huts.”

Carly clicked through half a dozen slides of the Amazon rain forest. They included two close-ups of a strange-looking plant and another shot of an equally strange-looking gentleman, his chest elaborately painted in half a dozen colors. He was wearing what appeared to be a dried vine that he had looped around his neck several times. She explained that he was the shaman who knew about the secret nut and its miraculous properties.

“But let's shift gears and travel to an entirely different part of the world,” Carly continued. “My next stop—at least, the next one that yielded an
important discovery—was in the foothills of the Himalayas. I was staying at a tiny inn in Katmandu when I heard about a remote village where men of ninety-nine still fathered children.”

I bet they don't rush to claim the first dance at their daughters’ weddings, Mallory thought wryly. Or to referee their soccer games.