Too Much Money (11 page)

“I heard whoever bought it paid in excess of forty million dollars,” said Christine Saunders, the famous television news star and interviewer, at one of Maisie Verdurin’s dinner parties, honoring former president Bill Clinton. Maisie Verdurin, the most prominent real estate broker in the city and a hostess of note in the media society of New York, was rumored to have brokered the deal between client and estate, but Maisie, who was notoriously tight-lipped on pending deals, chose to remain mum on the subject.

“Come on, Maisie. Tell us who is spending all that money. I’ve never seen such beautiful front doors in my life. The bronze work is simply ravishing. If anyone knows, you know, Maisie. It’s become the most discussed house in the city.”

“I don’t know any more about it than you do,” Maisie replied, holding up her arms in mock innocence and enjoying being the center of conversation at her own dinner party, as the former president listened in amusement.

“What do you think, Mr. President?” asked Christine Saunders, turning to Mr. Clinton, who was seated prominently next to her. Gus Bailey, who mostly listened at dinner parties these days and seldom spoke up, admired the way Christine Saunders asked a teasing question of such a world-renowned figure.

“I haven’t any idea,” replied the president.

“Make a guess,” insisted Christine.

“Someone getting out of prison maybe,” the president observed, grinning.

Everyone laughed except Maisie. It was at that very moment that Maisie rose from her seat to give her charming toast to the president, although the hired waiters had not finished passing the crème brûlée or pouring the champagne. Gus, observing the moment from his end of the table, knew exactly who would shortly be getting out of federal prison in Las Vegas, Nevada, after having served seven years and paid fines of seven hundred million dollars, but he said nothing. He had stopped telling his stories at dinner parties, ever since he had been sued for slander for something he had said on Patience Longstreet’s under-watted radio show.

“T
HERE’S THIS
man in England I’ve been meaning to tell you about,” Ruby said over the telephone to Elias when she told him she wouldn’t be out to Las Vegas that weekend as she was going to England. “His name is Simon Cabot. He’s very much a background figure. You wouldn’t have read about him or seen his picture in the papers, which is the whole point of him.

“His speciality is people with tarnished reputations, like ours. Whenever one of the young English royals smokes pot or gets drunk or something, they call him in, and he deals with the media in the most ingenious ways.”

“Why are we talking about a man named Simon Cabot, whom I’ve never heard of?” said Elias.

“He will be perfect for us,” said Ruby. “He’ll get us back where we were. Look what he did for Perla Zacharias at the murder trial in Biarritz. To the public, Perla came out smelling like a rose. The crowds cheered. The chief rabbi of France came to Biarritz as a witness. He arrived from Paris in Perla’s plane.
That was all Simon Cabot’s idea. Simon wouldn’t let Perla use the Rolls-Royce to go from the hotel to court. It was his idea for her to arrive in an SUV, along with her staff all crowded in, like she was just real folks instead of the third richest woman in the world. He wouldn’t let her wear any jewels, even gold jewelry, nothing except her wedding ring from Konstantin. It was Simon’s idea that she wear that twenty-five-year-old Yves Saint Laurent pantsuit on the opening day of the trial, and she looked divine in it. Gus Bailey had a picture of her in it in his article in
Park Avenue
. Nasty as the article was, she still looked perfectly resplendent. Simon Cabot could do the same for you, Elias, when you get out of that dump. He’ll turn the whole affair into something very positive. There will be an enormous amount of publicity, and he’ll think of some wonderful thing that you can do for families of people in prisons, or something. He’s brilliant, absolutely brilliant.”

R
UBY ASKED
Martin, Claridge’s famed hall porter, to arrange a discreet corner table in the reading room at Claridge’s, out of sight of the fashionable lobby crowd, as both she and Simon Cabot, although not famous, were each recognizable faces to certain of the guests who frequented the hotel, and their meeting would certainly be commented upon and give rise to speculation that Elias Renthal was going to use Simon Cabot to help ease the way back into society after a long prison sentence. It was the sort of situation that Martin understood perfectly, and their tea meeting went unobserved.

“Perla spoke so highly of you, after the trial of her husband’s alleged murderer in Biarritz,” said Ruby. “She said you gave her such marvelous advice.”

“Fascinating woman,” said Simon. “Like someone in a novel.” Simon was not one who talked about his clients.

“Yes, yes, she is fascinating,” said Ruby. “Have you seen the
villa in Biarritz? I’m sure you have. Most beautiful house I ever saw. And the French furniture! My God. Better than the furniture at Versailles.”

“I have been to the villa in Biarritz, yes,” said Simon.

“So awful, that terrible fire in Biarritz. Poor Konstantin dying like that. He didn’t actually burn to death, you know, as people say. My husband always says that Konstantin was the finest banker of his day.”

“It is my understanding that Mr. Zacharias was a fine man,” said Simon.

“I’d hate to die like that, wouldn’t you? Gasping for air. It was the smoke that killed him, and that poor Filipina nurse who died with him. She tried to escape from the safe room, did you know that? But Konstantin was overmedicated and paranoid that he was going to be murdered, and he hit her, the poor Filipina lady who has six children in New Jersey, to keep her from opening the door. There was a settlement, I hear.”

Simon, who had heard all the versions of the murder, didn’t reply. He didn’t want Ruby Renthal, who talked too much, to say in conversation in New York, “Simon Cabot told me …”

“Perla told me at the funeral in Johannesburg that he was simply covered with soot. She said his face was entirely black. When the firemen finally got there two hours later, poor Konstantin was already dead. Is it true that the police gave the order to put the head guard in handcuffs, when he finally arrived with the only key to the villa after hearing about the fire on the radio?”

“I am unfamiliar with the moment-by-moment activities of that terrible night when Mr. Zacharias was asphyxiated,” said Simon.

“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Ruby, hoping she hadn’t gone too far. “The whole thing is so sad. Is Perla in London?”

“She’s at the house in Paris, I believe. She’s being honored
at the British embassy for her philanthropic work. She moves about. I could have my office check her whereabouts for you,” said Simon.

“No, no. I’m going right back. I came only to see you, Mr. Cabot,” said Ruby. “I’m flying back to New York tomorrow and then I’m going on to Las Vegas to see my darling husband. You’ll like Elias so much when you finally meet him. He used to go shooting every year at Deeds Castle with the Duke of Chatfield, and he has so many friends here in London.”

“Yes, yes. I wish you had let me know in advance that you were coming, especially as you came here primarily to see me,” said Simon. He was clearly uncomfortable with the position he was in. “I was surprised to receive your call yesterday when you arrived in London. You see, I don’t think it’s going to work out for us, Mrs. Renthal.”

“For heaven’s sake why?” asked Ruby, openly shocked that he did not leap at the offer she had made. “We are prepared to meet your price, whatever it is. I know what Perla pays you.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Renthal, it’s not the money,” said Simon Cabot. “I have other clients. Very well known people of high rank. Some royals even, on occasion. I’ve had to discuss the possibility of representing you with them. I’m afraid I must be blunt, Mrs. Renthal. They are not pleased that I should be representing someone who is in prison in the United States.”

“What my husband is in a federal facility for is not even a crime in this country,” said Ruby.

“Nonetheless, he is in a federal prison and has been for some years,” said Simon.

“I see,” said Ruby, clearly hurt by the rejection. She wondered if Perla Zacharias, who had told her somewhat reluctantly about Simon Cabot when Ruby had run into her after leaving a hair appointment at Bernardo’s and congratulated her on the photos from after the trial that had accompanied Gus Bailey’s
article in
Park Avenue
, had not wanted a person with a criminal background on her publicist’s client list. She remembered that Perla had not returned her first two calls and suddenly realized that if Perla had not happened to have picked up the telephone herself, something she rarely did, the third time she had called her, she might not have returned that call either.

“Perhaps after your husband has been released we could talk again, if you haven’t made other arrangements,” said Simon. He signaled to the waiter for a check.

“No, no, put it on my room, please,” said Ruby to the waiter.

R
UBY FLEW
back to New York, feeling that she had failed in her mission. She felt that so many people had let her down since Elias went to prison. She remembered the night that Bunny and Chiquita Chatfield, who were visiting in New York, had given a little dinner in the back room of Swifty’s for a select group of people during Elias’s trial. Bunny stood and tapped his knife against his wineglass and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a minute.” Lord Chatfield was an imposing figure with a deep and resonant voice, and all conversation ceased as the guests turned to look at him. His famous title, with its imposing place in English history, never failed to dazzle his rich New York friends. “We all know what a difficult time this has been for our dear friend Elias Renthal and his simply super wife, the beautiful Ruby. The newspapers have been full of such terrible rot about Elias. We all know him to be one of New York’s great citizens, and I wish all of you would rise and lift your glass to Elias and join me in wishing him the greatest luck in the days ahead.”

Several people in the room, but not all, cried out, “Hear! Hear!” It was the deliberate silence of those who did not that Ruby remembered most.

Gus was at his country home in Prud’homme, Connecticut, working on his novel,
Infamous Lady
, for which he was being paid a million dollars, when the unexpected call came. He almost didn’t answer, thinking it would be Beatrice Parsons, his editor, making her weekly phone call to see how the novel was coming along, wanting pages faxed to her. But he did answer.

“Hello?”

“Is that Augustus Bailey?” said a woman’s voice.

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Of course, Mr. Bailey. This is Perla Zacharias calling from London.”

Gus was stunned. The widow who was richer than the Queen of England was calling him in Prud’homme, Connecticut, from London. Her voice was deep. She had a slight foreign accent, though she spoke English fluently. There was a tone of recent-widow bereavement in her voice, even though a few years had passed since her husband’s death.

“Yes, Mrs. Zacharias,” he replied. He allowed no sound of surprise to appear in his voice that he should be receiving an international telephone call from her.

“We have a mutual friend in the former first lady,” said Mrs. Zacharias.

Gus recognized the ploy of using an important name to establish an immediate intimacy. He had used it himself. “Oh, Nancy, you mean.”

“Yes, Nancy. Have you seen her?”

“I haven’t, no. I haven’t been in Los Angeles for months, and she rarely travels these days,” Gus replied.

“Such a marvelous wife she was to the president,” said Mrs. Zacharias.

“Yes,” replied Gus. He waited, making no attempt to fill in the dead air. He knew she wasn’t calling him about the former first lady.

“I am leaving shortly for Paris, where I will be living while they rebuild the top two floors of the villa in Biarritz. Actually,” she added, “we’ve met. That darling Winkie Williams introduced us once at the opera a few years back.”

“I would have remembered that, Mrs. Zacharias,” said Gus.

It was time for Perla to get around to the purpose of the call.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few moments. Gus waited, patiently. Finally she began.

“It is my understanding that you are planning to write a novel about a notorious lady, who I assume is me,” she said sternly. “It would seem to me that you have sufficiently covered the story of my late husband’s death in
Park Avenue
. According to my count, you have written six very long articles on the case.”

“That’s
infamous
lady, not notorious. There is much that is unanswered,” replied Gus cautiously.

“It is my understanding that you even interviewed my dental hygienist,” said Perla.

“Your dental hygienist sought me out, not the other way around. I was unaware of her, and she had a very nice story to tell about you.”

“I have never been interviewed. People have wanted to interview me over the years, or photograph the villa in Biarritz, things like that, for
Vogue
and
W
, but Konstantin was a very private person, and he never wanted any publicity.”

“I am aware of that,” said Gus.

“I very much admire you, Mr. Bailey,” she said. “I have read your books and many of your interviews, and I have decided that I will allow you to interview me for your book. It is very important that you get the facts straight.”

“My plan is to go to Biarritz and look at the villa where the fire was,” said Gus.

“Come to Paris afterward. I’ll be living at the Plaza Athénée.”