Never Too Rich Read online

  Slowly she nodded. “I ... I’m free,” she gulped, wondering whether she would later regret having taken the plunge.

  “Good.” Olympia looked like a general as she reached across the desk to shake hands. “Then we have ourselves a deal. Welcome to the big time.”

  Shirley Silverstein couldn’t believe her good fortune. This was the land of Oz, and Oz was entirely new to her.

  So far, her life had been one long series of misadventures and miseries. Things would probably have been much different had her father not died when she was so young. But Abe Silverstein, working on a high-rise construction project in Manhattan, slipped on a girder and plunged twenty-eight floors down to Eighty-sixth Street, leaving behind a wife, Ruth, and Shirley, age six. The real tragedy, it turned out, was not Abe’s death, but Ruth’s reaction to it.

  Ruth Silverstein had found solace in religion—not in her own, but in a Bible-thumping sect of charismatics.

  It was a small group, rather more of a cult than a church, and was run by a defrocked Baptist preacher named Brother Dan. Born Daniel Dale Dudley somewhere in Kentucky, Brother Dan claimed the devil lurked inside everyone and that only the laying-on of his own hands could exorcise the Beast.

  He required the members of his diehard little group to give everything they owned to the church, and most of Abe Silverstein’s hard-earned pension and life insurance found their way into his pocket.

  Four months later, more of Abe’s legacy was turned over to Brother Dan when he wheedled Ruth Silverstein into marriage.

  “We’re moving into the church,” Ruth told Shirley the day of the ceremony. “It isn’t as nice as this apartment, but it’s better, because it’s been blessed.” Her eyes took on a shining brilliance. “Now we no longer have to worry about the devil.”

  The church, it turned out, was a small two-story house in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn, with tar-papered walls made to look like brick and a blue neon cross above the front door. It was squeezed between a launderette and a beauty parlor.

  Shirley heard rats scuffling inside the walls.

  “Here we are!” Olympia said brightly.

  Shirley had been staring blankly out the side window of the cab, and Olympia’s voice intruded, startling her.

  “That’s Alfredo Toscani’s town house,” Olympia said, pointing at the double-width house on the steeply graded, quiet residential block. “His studio takes up the first two floors.”

  Shirley took a deep breath. Trying to fortify herself with courage.

  Snake was getting bored. He’d waited around for Shirley long enough.

  As he swung his leg over the bike seat, he kept his eyes peeled on a skinny Puerto Rican girl strutting sassily along the sidewalk across the street. Her satiny black hair bounced with every step she took.

  He grinned to himself. Now, there was a walk that appealed mightily to his masculine senses! There was nothing like a pair of hard little buttocks poured into skintight jeans to turn him on—and it didn’t take much imagination to see what she would look like without them.

  He gunned the growling motor to get her attention, and sure enough, he caught her shiny black eyes looking him over.

  All right!, he thought with a surge of excitement.

  For the time being, he forgot all about Shirley. After all, there was prime Spanish pussy here in the streets.

  Chapter 8

  Anouk spent a busy morning. As soon as she’d shooed Wilhelm out, she devoted forty-five minutes to the telephone, silently blessing whoever had invented push-button phones for saving her glossy fingernails wear and tear. More than half a dozen calls were required just to begin to mend fences.

  She sighed as she caught sight of her day’s carefully planned schedule, entered in her open Hermes appointment book in beautiful fountain-pen script, each blue letter neat, graceful, and perfectly formed, just like the nuns had taught her. Whether you liked it or not, some things stayed with you always.

  Picking the book up she had to smile wryly. How ambitious of her. There had been so much she’d planned to do.

  9:45 A.M..............Wilhelm

  12:00 noon..........Grosvenor Neighborhood House Christmas dinner-dance committee meeting at Plaza Hotel

  2:00 P.M..............Meet with Lydia Zehme re: living-room redecoration

  3:30 P.M..............Rubio’s memorial service

  And that didn’t take into consideration the formal sit-down dinner party for twenty-four guests that she and Antonio were giving that evening.

  She tossed the book back down. Well, the dinner party and Rubio’s memorial service couldn’t be put off, but other than that, her down-to-the-minute afternoon was clearly shot. Cleaning up Antonio’s indiscretion had red-flag priority. After all, if a scandal touched him, it would tarnish her as well. She had to move quickly.

  She tightened her lips, the hair-thin line on each side of her face, running from nose to mouth, deepening in annoyance. It galled her to think that anything could tarnish her. Well, it wouldn’t; she would see to that. She hadn’t gotten where she was only to be supplanted by somebody else. Society had its rules, and if one didn’t exactly abide by them, well, one could at least make it appear as if one did—which was what she was counting on to whitewash Antonio’s indiscretion and smooth over any potential fallout.

  Sanitation work. How she loathed it.

  She picked up the phone.

  Call number one.

  Virginia Norton Rottenberg, vice-chairwoman of the Grosvenor Neighborhood House Committee—of which she herself was chairwoman this year. Anouk pictured Virginia as she punched the number. A too-tall, horsy woman of no curves. An ungainly middle-aged heiress to one of New York’s oldest and bluest dynasties. Real estate. Newspapers. Investments. Power.

  Too much money and too much inbreeding.

  “Rottenberg residence, good morning,” an ancient, wheezy male voice answered.

  “Mrs. Virginia Rottenberg, please.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Anouk de Riscal.”

  “Very well, madam. One moment, please.”

  Anouk waited and waited. Then: “Hello, Anouk! What’s cooking?” Virginia Norton Rottenberg, with her penchant for horses and clipped nasal colloquial phrases, sounded like Nancy Kulp on The Beverly Hillbillies.

  “Virginia, I know I’ve been gone for an unforgivable month, and that I’m not giving you much notice now, but . . . well, an emergency has come up. Could you fill in for me at today’s meeting?”

  “Okeydokey, Anouk. Be only too glad to. Won’t hurt to crack the whip and get the gals moving, eh? Ha-ha.”

  “Ah . . . no, I suppose not.”

  “Don’t worry. Everything will be hunky-dory. Ha-ha.”

  Anouk frowned for a moment, and then her brow smoothed. “Ah, I presume you mean you’ll have everything under control.”

  “Righto! I’ll call you later and fill you in on what the gals decide. Those hens could use some prodding. Ha-ha.”

  “Thank you, Virginia. I appreciate it. See you at the party tonight.”

  “Over and out. Ha-ha.”

  Anouk hung up quickly, glad that call was out of the way. Virginia never failed to unsettle her. There was too much of the sergeant major in her.

  Call number two.

  Klas Claussen, one of her husband’s three—no, make that two, now that Rubio is dead—assistants.

  This time Anouk was more familiar with the lay of the land, and her husky voice positively purred. “Klaskins, darling! It’s Anouk!”

  “Anouk! Thank God you’ve returned.” Klas’s voice had never lost its vaguely Icelandic lilt. “This town was dead without you. How was Mexico?”

  “How do you think it was? Meh-he-co is Meh-he-co as always. Bottled water and sunshine. Really, it made me yearn for winter in New York. Listen, chéri. I am going to see you at Rubio’s memorial service, aren’t I?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world. Why do you ask?”
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  “Obviously, because I wasn’t certain you were going to be there.”

  Klas gave a guttural laugh. “How else could I be certain that Rubio’s really gone and won’t return to haunt me?”

  She made reproachful clucking noises. “Down, boy, down. I know you and Rubio weren’t exactly kissy-kissy, but really, darling! Such bitchiness is uncalled-for.”

  “I suppose you’re right. One mustn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “No, one mustn’t.” And she added sweetly, expertly thrusting home a well-deserved knife slash as only she could: “Especially when you’re just as much at risk as he was.”

  She heard his sharp intake of breath and smiled grimly. She had hit him where it hurt most. Below the belt. Well, that is simply too bad, she thought. You’ve been begging for it, Klaskins, you bitch.

  Then, effortlessly, she adjusted her voice to its brightest tone. No one knew better than she how to switch gears without warning. First, the merciless thrust. Then the lifeline.

  It never failed to work wonders.

  “Anyway, Klaskins, I didn’t call to depress you,” she continued. “Au contraire, chéri! It’s absolutely vital that I talk to you about something wonderful!” She rolled the word lavishly on her tongue.

  “We’re talking now,” he said stiffly, still miffed.

  “No, it has to be in person. I can’t tell you what it is yet, darling, but believe me, you’ll like what I have to tell you. Call it”—she laughed gaily—”an early Christmas present!”

  “Anouk!” Suddenly he sounded like a petulant child. “That is not fair, and you know it! You must tell me now!”

  Ah! Her topaz eyes sparkled with triumph. Now she had him hooked! It was only a matter of reeling him in. But the fish had to thrash and struggle a bit or there was no sport in it.

  “No, no, Klaskins. You’ll just have to wait a few hours. But believe me, you will be very pleased. I’ll see you at the service. Do try to arrive early.”

  “Good news, eh?” He didn’t give up easily.

  “Very good news, I assure you.”

  “I’ll be the first person there!”

  She laughed again, a tinkle of music. “That’s more like it, Klaskins. Ciao-meow!”

  There, she thought with satisfaction. Smiling, she dropped the ivory receiver into its cradle. That had definitely piqued his curiosity. Visions of sugarplums were surely dancing dervishes in his head.

  Two calls down. Five more to go.

  Phone call number three.

  She had to look up Doris Bucklin’s number.

  “Bucklin residence,” a maid answered.

  “Good morning. Is Mrs. Bucklin there? This is Anouk de Riscal.”

  “No, ma’am. Mrs. Bucklin is out.”

  “Then could you tell me where I can reach her?”

  “No, ma’am. I really can’t tell you. Mrs. Bucklin doesn’t take lightly to my giving out information like that.”

  Anouk almost shook with fury. Maids. She detested the lot of them. If they didn’t steal you blind or gossip behind your back, they soon got airs and saw themselves as extensions of their employers.

  “It’s really very important.” Anouk used her most emphatic tone. “If you could just tell me where she’ll be around noon ...”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Believe me, I won’t get you into trouble. In fact, I won’t even breathe a word that you told me, though Mrs. Bucklin would be glad to know that you did.” White lies were one of Anouk’s staples. They slid effortlessly off her tongue.

  “Well ...” There was a hesitant silence, during which Anouk had a vision of slow gears trying hard to turn. Finally, grudgingly: “She’s got a lunch date. In a restaurant.”

  Anouk smiled faintly. “Could you tell me which one? Please. It is urgent.”

  After another long pause, the maid said, “Luhzerk.”

  Anouk stared at the receiver. Luhzerk? Where in heaven was—? Ah! Le Cirque. The stupid fool couldn’t even pronounce something as simple as Le Cirque!

  “Thank you,” Anouk said sweetly. Dumb servant, she didn’t add, though she felt no qualms about thinking it. “You were most help—”

  There was a click, and she felt a swirling cloud of fury.

  The stupid twit had hung up on her!

  Phone call number four.

  Le Cirque.

  She didn’t have to look up that number. She had it memorized along with other necessary numbers—shoe, hat, and clothing sizes, to mention but a few.

  “LeCirquemaylhelpyou?” It was a one-word bark.

  “Yes, Henry, you can. This is Anouk de Ri—”

  “Madame de Riscal!” The rushed words warmed and slowed at once. “What a pleasure!”

  This is more like it, Anouk thought smugly. Not that she was impressed by fawning. It was, after all, her due, and she was long used to it. Also, she was realistic enough to know that, God forbid, should she ever be toppled from her pinnacle, all the doors that were wide open to her now would slam shut with a bang.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Henry,” she returned smoothly. “I know it’s asking for a lot, but—”

  “Say no more, Madame de Riscal! Your usual table awaits you.”

  Just like that! Anouk felt a heady glow of warmth. Some nobody who had reserved a table two weeks ago had just been scratched.

  Now she needed a last-minute lunch partner. Le Cirque wasn’t the kind of restaurant where one dined alone, and even if it were, she still wouldn’t show up alone: Doris would know instantly that Anouk had come expressly to intercept her. No, it had to appear to be a casual, accidental encounter.

  Logistics, logistics. Staying atop the social heap required the strategies of a military tactician.

  Phone call number five.

  Dafydd Cumberland. Her very own “walker,” who escorted her to events whenever Antonio was too busy. He was also Klas Claussen’s lover.

  Charming, handsome, witty Dafydd, who liked to collect weirdos almost as much as he liked to collect art. Always so wicked, and sooo amusing. As adept a bitch as she. Together they were like a pair of finely orchestrated Benihana knives—experts at shredding reputations and converting enemies to mincemeat.

  Anouk punched the seven digits and waited through three rings. Then: “Dafydd! Darling!” How he loved to be greeted extravagantly. “Are you doing anything? . . . Yes, now. . . . Well, something simply tragic has come up, and I simply must go to Le Cirque!” A cloud wafted across her beautiful face as she listened to his squawking voice. “You were supposed to be where?” She listened for a moment. “Oh, I see.” She sounded suitably dejected. “Of course it’s an emergency, dear heart! . . . ‘Dire’ doesn’t begin to describe it! Would I have called at the last minute otherwise?” The clouds instantly cleared from her face and the sun shone brightly on her lips and in her eyes. “You are a dear ... I quite agree. I’ll pick you up in an hour and a quarter. And remember, I owe you one, darling.”

  Smiling, she replaced the receiver. Now there was another social IOU outstanding—better currency than cash any day, at least in the rarefied social heights where money was more plentiful than Sahara sand.

  Two more calls to make. The battleax was next.

  She dialed her husband’s office, but not his private line.

  “Mr. de Riscal’s office,” Liz Schreck rasped shortly.

  Anouk went on full alert. Did she detect a more snappish tone than usual? With Liz it was hard to tell. Even on the best of days, she was acid and bullets.

  “Liz, dear. It’s Anouk!”

  A longer-than-usual pause, followed by a stiff “Yes, Mrs. de Riscal?”

  Oh-oh, Anouk thought. Better tone down some. The bitch is definitely snappier than usual.

  “I’m calling about Rubio’s memorial service,” Anouk cooed smoothly. “It is at three-thirty?”

  “Unless someone changed it without telling me,” Liz said tartly.

  Anouk had to smile. Liz must have gotten quite an eyeful!<
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  “Good,” she said. “I was just checking. I’ll see you there, then. Oh, and Liz . . .”

  Liz sighed heavily. “Yes, Mrs. de Riscal?”

  “If you could perhaps come a little early? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  There was a long pause. “Oh, all right,” Liz said testily, “I’ll try.”

  “I really do appreci—”

  The line had already gone dead.

  Anouk banged the receiver down and shuddered. What a dreadful woman!

  Phone call number six.

  Lydia Claussen Zehme.

  “L.Z. Design Lab, good morning,” a secretary’s voice answered chirpily.

  “Good morning. This is Anouk de Riscal. Is Lydia in?”

  “One moment, please.” There was a click, and Muzak filled a long pause. Anouk held the receiver away from her ear and glanced over at her Egyptian-style Cartier alarm clock. She had better start moving soon if she was going to intercept Doris at Le Cirque. It was nearly eleven already.

  There was a click and: “Anouk, darling!” Like her brother Klas, Lydia hadn’t lost her Icelandic accent. “I was just going to call you to confirm. Rest assured, we’re on for this afternoon. Don’t ask me how, but we managed to get the sketch boards and swatches for your new living room done. Barely, but we burned the midnight oil and they are fantabulous, if I say so myself. Just as you asked, delivered in record time!”

  “Oh, Lydia,” Anouk moaned, “you’re going to kill me! I know you moved heaven and earth to get everything finished by today, and I know I wanted it all done yesterday, but. . . could we possibly postpone it until Monday? Something . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “Well, if it’s inconvenient ...” Lydia began a little sharply.

  “Oh, you are so sweet,” Anouk gushed. “Sometimes I really don’t know why you put up with me.” Of course I do. Because the de Riscals are a feather in your decorating cap. Because from my new living room you’ll get twenty copycats who want the same thing. “Are you absolutely sure it isn’t inconvenient?”