Feast of Murder(4)
“Listen,” he said, to Bobby’s jiggling back, “let’s talk about something more pleasant. You know I’m getting out on October first?”
“I’d heard that, yes. Is it certain? The parole people have agreed?”
“It’s not parole. It’s the end of my sentence. Anyway, I have this boat, replica of the Mayflower. I don’t know if you’ve read about it in the magazines—”
“I have read about it. Everybody’s read about it.”
“Yes, well. I’m giving a combined Thanksgiving-dinner, welcome-home-to-myself party there. I mean at sea. I’ve had Courtney out here half the afternoon, working out the details—”
“I thought you were working out the details of the McAdam thing.”
Jon waved it away. “There are no details to the McAdam thing. Write a check. Sign a paper. It’s over. Getting to sea in a replica of the Mayflower is a lot more complicated. I’ve always wanted to do it. Journey around for a while. Land someplace. Use all the original cooking methods and the authentic utensils. It’s what I dream about when other men dream about girls.”
Bobby had finally stopped moving. “If you’re inviting me along for the ride,” he said, “I’ll have to decline. I don’t get out of here for another five years.”
“I’m asking you for a favor, Bobby. I need an introduction to someone you know.”
“Who could I possibly know that you don’t know?”
Jon thought he could list a host of such people, including wheeler-dealers and con men and financial smoke artists of every description. Jon liked Bobby, but Bobby was naturally bent, and like all the rest of the naturally bent he attracted members of his tribe to his side. Jon didn’t want to hurt Bobby’s feelings, so he didn’t say any of that. He also really needed a favor.
“If I’ve got my facts straight,” he said slowly, “and I might not. I got them from People magazine. Anyway, if I’ve got my facts straight, you have a sister named Bennis Day Hannaford.”
“That’s right. She writes fantasy novels. You know, knights and ladies and unicorns and magic trolls. They do really well, I think. Do you want her to go in on some kind of deal?” Bobby looked confused.
“No, no,” Jon reassured him. “It’s just that I think she might be the means for you to help me with something, if you want to help. I want to get in contact with a man named Gregor Demarkian.”
“What?” This time Bobby really stopped still, stopped dead. Then he started to grin. “You do have something up your sleeve. You are pulling some kind of trick. You’re going to get Donald McAdam.”
Jonathan Edgewick Baird was emphatic. “I’m going to do nothing of the kind.”
3
Sheila Callahan Baird had worked long and hard to become a trophy wife, but when that job turned out to have unexpected difficulties, she decided to put up with them. God only knew, there were other things she could do. She had a degree in history from Smith. She had her own interior decorating business with offices and showrooms on Madison Avenue. She even had her own private interest income, just like a real tycoon. Of course, the degree from Smith was twelve years old and hadn’t been much use to her even when she’d first gotten it. The interior decorating business wasn’t doing very well, either. If Jon hadn’t been bankrolling it, it would have been bankrupt months ago. As for the private interest income—Sheila didn’t like thinking about the private interest income at all. It was, in fact, the income on a sum of money in trust, and that trust was “revocable.” The word had confused her at first, but she’d figured it out soon enough. It meant that if Jon wanted to, he could take it back.
Now it was seven o’clock on the last day of August, and she was sitting in front of the mirror in her dressing room, trying to decide if Desert Pink foundation would be too light for a ball at the Metropolitan Museum. Behind her, a hall lined with walk-in closets held the endless parade of dresses, shirts, shoes, slacks, ball gowns, caftans, sweaters, and whatever else that sometimes seemed to her to be the theme of her marriage. Imelda Marcos collected shoes, and Sheila collected the rest of the wardrobe. She collected everything else, too. The chair she was sitting on was a French vanity seat that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette. It had cost $30,000 at auction at Sotheby’s. The table she had spread her makeup across was a Viennese occasional that had once belonged to a Hapsburg. She had picked it up for $42,000 on the Avenue Foch. The dress she was wearing was a custom Dior, strapless and backless, satin and velvet, $12,568. The diamond earrings in her ears were six carats each and flawless. Jon had bought them for her, but she had made sure to check them out. They had literally cost millions. If a trophy wife was a wife to hang trophies on, Sheila Callahan had definitely reached her goal.