Real Dead Houswives of The Hamptons

Real Dead Housewives of the Hamptons

Crimes Against Love

(Truth is stranger than friction)

Joseph F Hanna

Smashwords Edition

A Lawton Close Mystery

Copyright@ 2012 by Joseph F. Hanna

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, photocopy, or mechanical without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction.All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Joseph F Hanna

Shelter Island NY

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Prologue

Psalm 49: Man in his prosperity forfeits intelligence:

He is one with the cattle doomed to slaughter.

Do we see death coming? Is it that bird that pecks at the window? Is it the shadow passing over on a cloudless day? Is it a feeling, a hunch, a slight unease? Everyday we spin out our plans for the time ahead. We imagine our little victories and dread our little setbacks. And yet not much of what we imagine actually happens. We are surrounded by love and we are surrounded by malice. We think we know who our enemies are. We think we know who our lovers are. They can’t all be telling the truth because these stories contradict those stories. Deception is on every hand. Evil is real. Do we believe it? The news outlets catalog it for us every day. But the news outlets only deal in outcomes, in damage done. Before it is news, evil is nothing but an urge, a whisper, the offer of candy from a stranger, a van parked in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time of night, a promise made in deception. Can we sense it? Some of those close enough to reach out and touch us have sick and murderous thoughts. We think we know them. We fit them into our plans. And then one day, circumstances, will, and fury combine for a moment of revelation. Evil is with us. It desires destruction, our destruction. But why? Why? We wonder as the light begins to go dark and in that twilight, the lover is revealed to be something else. The knife flashes like an inkling of what is true as it comes down again cutting through the veils of deception to meet still warm flesh. 

Maybe it was a premonition. Maybe it was just the sugar from Dickie’s key lime pie, but I was on the prowl for something. I wasn’t sure what it was, but the urge for it had me on my restless feet. The offices on Madison Avenue seemed too small. New York City seemed airless and lacking in light. My boss was in the Green Room reading a book on the history of AIG. His darling wife (they weren’t speaking) was slammed-door out and presumably shopping. With his credit card in her ninja-like hands, the first swipe is the deepest. If it’s done with the skill of a martial arts master, you don’t feel anything until later. The bleeding is immediate, but you don’t feel it. She has a black belt in deficit spending and a matching purse that, by the way, cost twenty thousand dollars. Note to editor, that is not a typo. 

We didn’t have a project. I was bored and anxious. 

I had to be mean to something or someone and I can’t stand being cruel to animals. Teddy was out, LT my boss is off limits for financial reasons and Carrie my sometimes girlfriend was in Los Angeles. I imagined she was being chased around an Olympic sized pool by a short, hairy rich man from the entertainment industry named Sid, but then I have a big imagination. That left Dickie.

I turned my restless feet in the direction of the kitchen. I pushed the door aside silently. It swings both ways. Dickie doesn’t. He is trying celibacy after bending auras with half the female customers of his West Palm Beach music club and sniffing parlor. Now he tries to redress his karma with humility and the celibacy scam. As if it was that simple. He was at his island holding a spatula in one hand. A mixing bowl was to his left with about a cup of white flour in it. Two sticks of butter awaited his spatula as they slowly came to room temperature. Dickie saw them not. His beady little eyes were concentrating hard on his little and entirely illicit television set. It was probably Ina Garten or Giada; or so I thought. As I approached, I could see that it wasn’t a cooking show – not that there wasn’t a lot of heat and browned off meat and steaming pots and slicing and dicing. There was all of that. He was watching an episode of Beautiful People of The Hamptons. I recognized the long face, the full lips, and the mushroom cap of thick black hair on the little screen. If you don’t watch the show, and I don’t very often, (Dickie does so I have seen it) the face belonged to Buckley. I don’t remember her last name. I don’t even know if they have last names. On the little screen, she raised her glass bulb of white wine to her engorged lips.

Dickie!

The spatula flew up about eight inches as his motor neurons (whatever they might be) shorted out causing an involuntary muscular spasm that somehow raced from his clenched hand to his eyebrows. Dickie is wired funny. The spatula arced over, tumbled once and smacked the ancient marble flooring that Teddy found at Old World Resources, the recycler.

You know you are not allowed to watch TV in the kitchen!

Dude! You scared me! he cried out.

That show will rot your brain, even more. Why don’t you watch it on your iPhone?

I lost it.

Where?

I don’t know.

Have you told LT?

No. I want to watch this.

This is like visual transfats. It makes you mentally obese, but has no nutritional value.

Shhhhhhh. I’m trying to watch. They hate each other.

"Who hates each other? Why are they on now? It is supposed to be on at night.

Shhhhhhh.

She’s got issues, said the face on the TV. The screen flicked to another woman. She was blond and frowning deeply. Her name is Jordan. She may be a beautiful person of The Hamptons because she inherited billions of dollars, or at least two, when her father passed. He was the chairman of the board of American Food Products. As far as her looks go, I give her only three tiaras – add a tiara if you like them skinny and blonde. 

I can’t believe she said that. She is such a bitch! said Jordan.

Who is such a bitch? I asked. What is this doing on now?

Shhhhhhh. It’s a marathon. The new season starts Wednesday night.

Who hates who?

Jordan hates Buckley and Bobbi sides with the duchess.

Why? I asked. I guess, when I thought about it later, it was a stupid question. A psychologist couldn’t begin to untangle that cat’s ball.

Because of the insult, said Dickie. He turned his face to mine and screwed up his features in what his motor neurons probably thought was a display of amazed incredulity. Unfortunately, Dickie’s life of debauchery and impairment by various designer molecules had made neuroffs where once neurons had played among the tangled ganglions and windmills of his mind. Don’t you ever read the paper?

I read the sports pages and the headlines. I pass over the dark abyss of the gossip columns. And anyway, I get updates on my phone, I said. I thought my voice was well modulated and pleasant.

I can’t believe you went to the opening, said Buckley on the illicit TV.

Why are you talking funny? said Dickie to me.

Am I? I spend too much time with LT. I am feeling anxious and I need to break something. You better not let LT see you watching TV in the kitchen.

He’s reading. I’m trying to watch this.

She threatened me, said Buckley on the little screen. I’m scared of her.

There is something terrible in her past she doesn’t want anyone to find out, said the blond woman.

Who are they talking about? I asked.

Marty. She’s new. She replaced Lilly who quit last season because she’s rich now. Let me watch.

Dickie …

What?

I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say or too much, but it wouldn’t have done any good either way. That’s when the doorbell rang.

I’ll get it, I said. I needed action. I was about to get it.

CHAPTER 1

I didn’t bother looking at the video monitor; I just went to the door. I glanced at my watch as if it might provide some clue about the identity of the ringer. The watch said it was too early for a delivery and too late for the cleaning service. It wasn’t their day anyway.

I put my hand on the oil rubbed bronze lever and paused before wrenching it down to free the door. Maybe I had a premonition. Maybe I didn’t. We never know what is on the other side of a closed door, do we? Especially if we haven’t bothered to check the video monitor. It wouldn’t have mattered much. I still had to open the door.

As the door came toward me, I got a puff of humid city air smelling like bus exhaust. She was standing perfectly straight in the exact middle of the doorway. When the door had rotated enough so that we could see each other’s faces, she quickly flashed a well-crafted professional smile. It was disarming without being an invitation. The eyes remained focused and searching. I knew those eyes. I had just seen them on Dickie’s illicit granite island TV set. I could feel my eyebrows going up in spite of my facial motor neurons to which my voice head was yelling at ease!

Yes? I asked her.

Is this the office of Lawton Treadwell Close?

It is. Do you have an appointment?

No. Would it be possible to see him on a matter of … something important?

I don’t know. Why don’t you come in and I will ask him.

Thank you, she said as she came through the door. This doesn’t look much like an office of an important lawyer.

No it doesn’t, I said. I used my hand to indicate one of the antique chairs on either side of the skinny table. Teddy knows what skinny tables are called. I don’t.

I work with a really marvelous designer, she offered. Perhaps he would like to talk over some ideas?

Mr. Close is married to a designer. Do you know Theodora Martin-Smyth? Everyone calls her Teddy.

No.

They worked very hard to achieve this look.

Oh, she said. She looked as if she had run out of comments, but no. My friend is very good. I’m sure it would bring in a lot more business. You could do so much more.

Yes. Teddy thinks that less is more.

Oh.

I’ll check with Mr. Close. I’ll only be a moment.

She sat. Her lips were colored a coral red that reminded me of Technicolor movies from the fifties. I had never seen that shade before on a living human. Liz Taylor or Jayne Mansfield might have gotten away with a coral red lipstick in a close up with some meat pie like Victor Mature, but I always assumed the color was overcooked by primitive color processing and overheated studio lighting. I have to say it worked for her. With her blonde hair and simple gold earrings, the lipstick lifted her out of the particulars of time and place. It was a classic look. She pushed her uncovered knees to one side for modesty. Her thighs were uncovered as well. I have to say it was a nice package and there wasn’t much left for my imagination to have to sketch in. You could pretty much see what you got. You could see everything but the price tag. They usually put that on the bottom or somewhere where it won’t scare off the casual browser.

LT was frowning when I knocked. He looked up from his book and asked, Who was at the door?

A Ms. Jordan, that’s her first name. She would like to have an audience with Lawton Treadwell Close. You may know her from the television show Beautiful People of The Hamptons.

What’s that?

A television show.

On cable?

I don’t know.

What’s it about?

I don’t watch it. Dickie watches it.

Dickie …

Yes.

Does she have a last name?

I’m sure she does.

And?

I didn’t ask.

You are supposed to ask.

She’s too famous to ask.

No! He said and held up a single digit. If she is famous, you don’t have to ask.

She’s not that famous.

What does she want?

She would like to discuss with you a matter of importance.

Uh huh.

Will you see her?

What has happened with the Planister Divorce?

We await the paperwork. Last time it took five weeks.

I see.

We could use a project. I need action.

He put down his book. That was at least something. Then he glared at me. That was actually a good sign. It meant that there was at least an internal argument raging inside of him. Maybe he was beginning to crack. What does she look like? he asked. That threw me.

She’s had a lot of after-market work done in the shop. She’s been chopped and channeled, bobbed and weaved. The upholstery is not stock and there’s plenty of it.

Speak English, please.

She looks good, like a grand concourse Bentley that’s just come from the restorers. No! Make that an American car, maybe a classic Thunderbird. Nothing’s original, but it looks showroom.

I am not a car person, what you would call a car guy. If you must use drawn out metaphors, please try to be a little more imaginative.

She’s a painting, where the restorer got carried away and changed it all around.

Stop! I understood you the first time. I get it.

I’m just saying …

Endlessly.

She’s waiting in the hall.

Show her in.

Really?

He sighed. Opened the deep drawer and put his book in it. Then he closed the drawer, felt at his throat to see if his tie was still tied (it was), looked up at me with the saddest eyes I can remember seeing on his usually placid face and said, Really.

I couldn’t just turn my back on those eyes. Is everything OK? I asked him.

What do you mean?

Is everything OK between you and Teddy?

Ah! Teddy. Please show the woman in.

He actually tried to make his face smile. The lips drew up nicely, but the eyes didn’t change. I got the tingle.

CHAPTER 2

Do you have a last name? asked LT. He was leaning against, almost sitting on, the front of his desk. I had never seen that pose in the entire time I had worked for him. It exposed his well-creased pants and his oxblood loafers. She was in the wing back chair with the magnetic coils that turn on an alarm at the video console if they detect something metal with the weight of a handgun or a pipe bomb. Dickie was not at the video console as he normally would be because LT did not want his inflamed curiosity about celebrities to be part of the dynamic.

Of course I do.

Might we know it?

I thought you did.

Did you?

Everyone knows I am the daughter of Brandon Larkspur.

LT went silent. His face showed nothing, but his body stiffened. I knew why.

Do you know the Larkspurs? said Jordan when the room had been silent for a tick longer than was comfortable.

The North Carolina Larkspurs? asked LT.

Michigan.

Ah! The flour mill Larkspurs.

We’ve done rather well…with our flour mills, she said picking at an imaginary piece of lint on the hem of her skirt. Her great grandfather founded American Food Products. They started with cereal, but now they have dozens of brands you see in the supermarket including the Pantry Raid line of pizza snacks. If you haven’t tried them, don’t bother. They are strictly for kids from the Midwest who have never had the opportunity to taste Poticelli’s thin crust, wood fired, tomato and basil by the slice from either of his two locations in Queens, marone!

My Grandmother was a Larkspur from near Asheville, said LT. I could tell he was uncomfortable. He straightened up and then moved from one side of the desk to the other. He did not lean back, but kept his full weight on his feet. His spirit did not allow him to sigh, but his flesh was set up for one. He had taken in the breath for it. He held it in like everything else.

Oh yes. We called them the Larkspurs-in-law. They went in for law and teaching.

Indeed. Why have you come to me today?

I suspect my husband is seeing someone.

Ah, said LT and the pent up sigh spilled out. He picked a funny line of business for someone who dislikes encountering human frailty. He made the short walk to the chair behind his city desk. It is what Teddy calls a partner’s desk. It came from Mr. Wentworth’s antique store up on 92nd and Madison. It is supposed to be some important piece from Philadelphia made by a cabinetmaker named Breikhardt. It just looks like a desk to me, a little on the big side. But what do I know? The boss bent in the middle and sat without his usual grace. It was a kind of a slump down.

He’s number four I’m afraid, she said to his back. When he was down and facing her again, she hit him with a steady gaze that seemed to dare him to say something judgmental. If she kept that up and began to rake over what LT calls unsavory personal details, he would soon be squirming in his seat. I didn’t want him squirming in his seat. I wanted action so that I could distract myself from anxieties I couldn’t name. I needed to shape the meeting toward my own selfish ends. The trouble with our schemes and our wishes is that sometimes we get what we think we want and then the trouble that comes along with it makes the previous anxiety seem like a fun afternoon watching a baseball game that might go either way.

What is the basis of your suspicions? he asked.

Not much in the way of evidence. That’s why I came to you.

Are you sure you wish to proceed? In my professional experience, which is not inconsiderable, many are happier in denial.

Not me, buster! she snapped at him.

I looked again at our prospective client. Buster? Was she kidding? She didn’t look like she was kidding and her right eyebrow was ever so slightly twitching. She wasn’t kidding at all. I turned my eyes to LT. I expected Buster to stand and dismiss her. He remained seated. His lips compressed slightly. You would prefer to know the truth, He said. He didn’t make it a question.

Yes.

The cost for my services is also not inconsiderable.

I’m not concerned about money.

Then why would you allow yourself to be showcased in an unseemly video-graphic horror? he exploded. I jumped in my seat. I have seen him with hundreds of clients, potential and actual, and he had never exploded with one before, even the ones who had committed murder.

She just stared. The stare must have communicated something, because LT grimaced and said aloud, I’m sorry. That is really none of my business…at present. My apology is genuine. My emotional state has been prodded most irritatingly by…by persons and matters that need not concern us here. Why don’t you tell me something about your husband and the reasons for your suspicion?

She let a moment of silence pass like water under the bridge when the tide is running out, and then, when the previous subject was just a distant ripple, she began. You are going to think badly of me, but he is a professional polo player.

Good looking, said LT in a flat tone, sounding almost bored.

Of course.

Keeps himself in excellent shape.

He is an athlete, she said almost contemptuously.

Not wealthy, one suspects, he continued.

Not without me, she admitted. Then she tilted her head and waited for his next move. I’m just a Kelly from Sheepshead Bay, but it looked to me as if each of them had squandered all their pawns. It was time to move up a Bishop or get off the pot. I’m sorry, that’s a mixed metaphor, but you can get the idea even so.

He is younger, said LT, arching a single eyebrow.

He is, she said evenly.

He is away at matches, said LT.

He is. I go to many of them, but I have to remain in the area for contractual reasons.

The aforementioned show.

Of course.

He’s Argentinean?

So he tells me.

Madam, you are in a pickle.

I am. What can you do about it?

What are your requirements or desires as the case may be?

I suppose murder for hire is not on the table?

That is not a subject for levity.

I suppose not. You didn’t say no however.

He stood. He leaned forward slightly and placed his knuckles on the desk top. He glared at her for a moment and then turned to me.

Max! Frisk her.

Me?

Do as I say!

What? she said as I moved to the side of the wing backed chair. I grabbed her hand and wrist and drew her to her feet. Let go of me!

I started at the shoulders and went down to, well, far enough to tell if there was a transmitter. I was about to start on the front when she screeched and started squirming. I got a good look between her bras cups all the way down to the top of her skirt. The skin was skin and as for the rest, there were no extra bulges. She wiggled and waggled and alternately threatened us with all kinds of mumbo jumbo and/or squealed.

Dickie stuck his head in the door. Is everything alright? he asked.

Dickie, please stay as a witness, said LT.

OK, but I’ve got a record, he said. They would tear me to pieces in court.

Madam, imagine that you are about to fly to some desirable destination and you have to pass through security.

I finished up around the skirt. Luckily, it was tight enough and small enough that I didn’t have to give her the full TSA. She’s clean unless it is something so high tech we are not going to find it without a scanner. I said as I let her go. She tried to slap my face, but she made a mess of it and ended up flailing around without connecting. I stepped back, just out of range. She did not advance to cover my retreat. If she had, I don’t know what would have happened next, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Sit down please, said LT sternly to her. Then he nodded to me. Max, the purse.

She heard the same thing I did and we both grabbed for it at the same time. I had to wrench it to get it clear of her grasping hands. Hey! she yelled. That’s mine!

It was nearly empty. It’s clear, I said. There’s no camera.

Why in the name of heaven would there be a camera? she asked. She twisted her head around to peer at LT with what looked like genuine wonderment.

Madam, said LT, I have operated more than my share of sting operations. You are on that television show and I have many …

It’s her! exclaimed Dickie. It’s Jordan!

Dickie? said the boss.

Yes?

That will be all.

But…

Please close the door quietly as you return to the kitchen.

I could sue you for everything you have, said Jordan.

You could try, but that would be counterproductive. You came to me for help. Now without seeming to suborn murder, please tell me what I can do for you. Dickie?

I’m leaving.

Do so at once.

He left. I heard the door click quietly as it latched. It’s soundproof so I did not hear his socked feet padding toward the kitchen. He probably had his ear up to the door, not that it would do him any good. Dickie is a celebrity hound. I could have used the other H sounding word, but I’m trying to make nice with my language.

I heard you were the best at this sort of thing. I didn’t know you played so rough.

I am not going to apologize. I would advise you not to be so cavalier about murder. The taking of another’s life is not suitable for glib remarks. We live in a time of moral insanity. No! I have over-spoken. It is a time of without reticence, without proportion, without understanding. I have many enemies. A number of them have been inconvenienced when I have brought into the light evidence of their carefully concealed illegal activities. I have ideological enemies as well. For someone to come in here and casually suggest that I might participate in murder…

I’m sorry, she said quietly.

Let us move on quickly. Why have you come here without an appointment? Is this something urgent?

It is. As I said, I have been married four times.

Is that germane?

If you would allow me to continue?

He shrugged. She continued. After the second disaster, the family law firm created a number of arrangements should I be so stupid as to repeat the mistake. You might call the arrangements a prenuptial agreement, but they are much more comprehensive. Certain provisions are activated on a time schedule; I guess you could say milestones. A big milestone is about to be passed. It will be our fifth wedding anniversary. On that date, if we are not legally separated, a rather significant sum of money will pass into my husband’s control. I should not want him to have that control if…if…well, I suppose you can figure that out for yourself.

When is this date?

The end of this month.

Three weeks.

Twenty three days, she said. Then she stopped and looked at him.

He returned her gaze for a moment, as if considering something, and then said, You are proposing a hurry-up offense. That will take resources and resources cost money.

Please don’t mention money again. I came to you because I was told you get results.

I do. Max, call Carol and see if Burt, Mr. Dunton and Tyrell are free.

Now?

Yes. Use the kitchen phone.

But… I started a rebuttal, saw the look in his eye and let it die in the air.

I had to move fast to catch Dickie. He already had his back to the door by the time I got it open. He was moving quickly on his little martial arts trained stocking feet toward the kitchen.

Carol seemed happy to hear my voice. She asked when we were leaving for the country. I said I didn’t know. I told her LT wanted to get his posse together and that he had asked for Tyrell, little Bobby Dunton and Burt Steinman. She said that Bobby Dunton was scheduled for a security detail at a large event at the Metropolitan Museum, but she would move some people around and send him over. Tyrell was just finishing some paper work on a shoplifting gig. He would share a cab with Dunton. Burt Steinman was in D.C., but was flying home in the afternoon and would check in by phone when he landed.

When I got back to the office, I nodded at LT and that was all he needed. Then she looked at me as if she had never seen me before. She really gave me the once over. I think he may be too tall, she said.

Whenever I leave a client alone in the office with LT, he puts weird plans in motion that involve me, often exposing me to danger, but I am neither consulted nor told about the weird plan because he says I don’t have a poker face. This time I got a hint of the weird plan before it was actually falling down around me. They never work as intended. Did I mention that?

What? I said, defensively and louder than I intended.

There is going to be a charity polo match in Bridgehampton.

You want me in the crowd? I’ll need to get a new blazer after the last adventure in Palm Beach. You can read about what happened to my blazer and Carrie’s hair in That Flesh is Heir To.

You will need more than just a blazer. You will need a helmet, a pair of boots, jodhpurs…

"You want me to look like one of the players? You want me to