The Best of Enemies (23 page)

Bobby’s shaking his head no with great vehemence.
“Sorry, Cagney and Lacey, not buying what you’re selling.
If cops thought there was any possibility of Trip being missing and not dead, then how’d Sars get a death certificate so fast?
Remember?
Dad was going to have to do that with Mom, until . . .”

Teddy squares his jaw.
“Until we had confirmation.”

We’re all quiet for a second, remembering.

Bobby’s the first to break the silence.
“So we know for a fact that there’s a seven-year waiting period when there’s no body.”

Gently, I say, “Normally, yes, and you make a valid point.”
Bobby unclenches at the compliment, while Ted’s expression is that of having just bitten into a lemon.
“You’re missing the two mitigating factors.
First, in situations of imminent peril, like a plane crash, the presumptive death period doesn’t have to elapse for a death certificate to be issued.”

“Say what?”
Bobby asks.
“English, motherfucker, do you speak it?”

“Remember me covering a lot of the aftermath of 9/11 before I went overseas?
That’s when the rules changed.
Expedited procedures were established for the beneficiaries of those who perished in the Towers.
In some cases, decedent DNA wasn’t identified for years, but because of the imminent peril factor, death certificates were issued immediately and insurance companies paid families very quickly.”

“What’s the second part?”
Ted prompts.

I shrug.
“That Trip’s a Chandler and the rules are different for them.”

Trip’s family helped settle this country and they’ve been building their fortune ever since, first in shipping, and then in timber, railroad, copper, and eventually, electronics.
If history is any indication, this family has been virtually untouchable for almost two centuries.
Regardless of the crime’s nature, from his cousin’s recent alleged drunk driving escapades to his uncle’s alleged insider trading to his great-great-grandfather’s alleged mistress’s alleged strangulation, no Chandler has ever had a charge stick.

I can tell Bobby’s wavering, but he’s not yet fully persuaded.
“Still, this is some tin-foil-hat level of speculation, especially because I don’t believe Trip was smart enough to pull off something like this.
When
I
think you’re dumb?
Bro, you’re dumb.”

“You used to be smart, thousands of bong hits ago,” Teddy says.

“And you used to bang chicks.”

Teddy doffs an imaginary bowler hat.
“Touché.
You may continue.”

Bobby nods curtly.
“Thank you.
Anyway, last night, when Sars was reminiscing about how Trip put his dirty wool suits in the washing machine when they first started living together?
Not smart.”

“That’s a function of coming from privilege, not of a lack of intelligence,” I argue.
“I’m sure that was his first time ever touching his own dirty laundry.
Plus he can’t be dumb—he went to Yale for undergrad.”

Teddy snorts to himself.
“So did W.”

“You’re not helping,” I say to Teddy.
“Bobby, if Trip somehow had diminished capacity, how’d he get through U of C business school?”

Bobby replies, “You mean, outside of his family donating half of the campus’s buildings?
Easy.
He had Sars.
Remember how she said they met the first week of classes at that mixer?
He knew she was smart and he made her help.
And he probably copied off of her.”

“Huh,” I say, temporarily stymied.
“I can’t argue that theory.
Anyone who’d run around on his spouse would absolutely cheat on assignments.”

Bobby continues.
“Plus, you guys can’t be right because the numbers don’t add up.
I’m telling you, faking a plane crash with a single turboprop Piper like the Indiana Shanky guy?
Yeah, that makes sense because older planes only run about six hundred thou.
Pricey, for sure, but it’s still doable, you know?”

Teddy looks astounded.
“Six hundred thousand dollars is ‘doable’ to you?
Since when?
Yesterday you said your current net worth was thirty-two bucks until you get your payment from the trust.”

“I bought a burrito, so it’s more like twenty-four now.
Wait, I had an horchata, too.
Make it twenty-two.
My point is, Trip’s model of Gulfstream?
That’d be hella expensive.
Those things run, like, sixty mil.
Nobody’s gonna shell out those duckies to perpetrate a fraud.
So,
post hoc ergo propter hoc—
”

“Have you been watching
The Good Wife
again, Bob?”
Ted asks.

“Is it a crime to appreciate how Kalinda works a skirt?
So, yes, but that’s not my point.”
Bobby crosses his arms over his chest in triumph.
“My point is,
Counselor
, no one would spend sixty damn million dollars to fake his own death, so I rest my case.”

My phone buzzes and I glance down at the text Simon’s just sent.

I sit back down, pointing at my phone’s display.
“You’re right, Bob.
No one could or would sacrifice sixty million bucks . . .
unless they were sitting on the
seventeen billion
that’s currently MIA from investors’ accounts.”

We each stare in silence at the message.

Oh, Sars,
I think,
what has Trip done?

North Shore, Illinois

Tuesday

“How’s your summer going?”

Keep it together, Kitty-cat,
I tell myself.
You can do this.
Do not freak out.
You are their PTO president.
The second these moms sense weakness, bam!
That’s it.
Junta.
Or hostile takeover.
Or whatever it’s called when there’s a vote of no confidence and the democratic, fair, pretty leader’s ousted.
You want to end up on the bottom of the phone tree list like your neighbor Cecily, not even deemed responsible to call one person, let alone ten?
No.
No flipping way.
Not happening.

I smile broadly and say, “Oh, it’s been
to die
.
Just the best, Merritt!
And thank you for asking!
You must tell me all about yours!
Don’t you dare skimp on a single detail, either.”

Naturally, Merritt Wilhelm is still done up in high-speed moisture-wicking workout clothes, gun show on full display, lest anyone doubt for a second she spends all day at the gym.
She launches into an exhaustive description of some house on some body of water somewhere.
Don’t know.
Can’t care.
Not listening.
I’m not here to make small talk.
All I want to do is find my kid and mother-in-law, exit this damn party, and have a few minutes to sort out my racing thoughts.

“. . .
water as clear as can be!”

I cannot piece this together.
What am I missing?
What did Trip mean when he wrote that things were changing?
Was he leaving Betsy?
How could that be?
I never heard of a moment’s discord between them!
And how could he believe that I’d be the kind of woman who hooks up with her best friend’s husband?
Ugh, I feel sick again.
I can still taste the bile, even though I shoved three pieces of gum in my mouth after I brushed my teeth.

“. . .
jet skis, a pontoon boat . . .”

Was I somehow accidentally untoward with Trip?
He always flirted with me, but I thought he was being friendly.
Because I’d occasionally banter back, did he take my naturally sunny nature as an invitation?
Yes, I can be flirty—flirting is an effective, everyone-wins tool for getting others to do your bidding.
But my flirting isn’t of a sexual nature and I’d never flirt with anyone I actually crushed on—that would violate everything Kelly ever taught me!
And, hello?
Happily married!
Smiling with my eyes and giggling on cue do not an adulteress make!

I’m worried, though—did Trip have a notion I wasn’t happily married?
Why would he?
Did he know something I didn’t?
Do Dr.
K and I not present a united front?
No, that’s crazy.
We’re fine.
Fine!
We’re great!
Every married couple has ebbs and flows.
This isn’t about my husband.
This is about a man who was so used to getting his way that it never occurred to him someone would say no.
But that raises the question, was Trip a cheater?

“. . .
the
most
adorable fudge shop . . .”

Sure, as much as Trip traveled, he’d have the opportunity to step out on Betsy.
In theory, he could have a gal in every port.
And plenty of women would throw themselves at a rich man.
His assistant Ingrid was always making sausage-eyes at him.
Did he not have the kind of integrity it took to say no to the gold diggers?
What if there really was something going on between him and his assistant?
Had Betsy an inkling?

Oh,
Betsy
.

How am I going to face Betsy this evening?
I’m embarrassed to have this insight into her marriage.
And I can’t say anything about this e-mail because she’d be devastated.
I will
not
make her feel worse just to ease my own burden.
I can’t reveal he was anything short of wonderful.
I’ll take it to my grave before saying a single negative thing about that low-down, dirty, son of a biscuit.

“. . .
I said, ‘Who cares about market price?
Just bring me the damn lobster salad!’”

I’m fixated on his “things are about to change” line, though.
Almost seems . . .
prophetic.
I wish I had a sounding board, someone who might talk me through this.
But I can’t trust anyone around here.
Who’d keep the whole thing quiet?
My neighbor Cecily?
Please.
Brooke Birchbaum?
Ugh.
Ashley?
What kind of insight could that ding-a-ling provide?
I imagine the inner workings of her brain look a lot like those old commercials where monkeys try to open suitcases.
Bash, bash, where’s my banana?

What about Kelly?
She gives great advice.
Then again, she’s so calculating that she’d try to find an angle to exploit the situation to her own advantage and that’s not okay.

I can’t gauge how Dr.
K might react if I shared the e-mail with him.
Truth?
I’m afraid to find out.
What if I told him and he
didn’t
somehow explode in a pique of jealousy, ripping his shirt and beating his bare chest in rage?
Not overreacting would feel worse than overreacting.
Was Trip actually onto something between my husband and me?
Ironic that Betsy’s the one person I can bare my soul to, only to be the same person who’d be devastated by the info.

“. . .
manicure, pedicure, seaweed wrap, hot stone massage . . .”

I
cried
for that despicable philanderer.
Sobbed.
Bawled until my eyes were tiny slits and I had to ice them and breathe into a paper bag to stop hyperventilating.
Mourned over how this loss would impact my best friend.
Yet now I wish he was alive so I could slap his weaselly face.
The nerve thinking he could just dangle the promise of financial security and I’d run to him, screwing over Betsy in the process.
Disgusting.
Contemptible.
Grody.

“. . .
‘tap water?
Did we lose a war or something?’”

Too bad Jack Jordan’s a lunatic because she’s the one person who looks out for Betsy as much as I do.

Would she . . .

No.

Could I . . .

No.

I feel dirty for even considering seeking her input, and yet, it’s not the worst idea in the world.
She
is
smart.
Some might say too smart for her own good.
(Usually me.) But she may have the kind of perspective I so desperately need right now.

“. . .
what would I do with a butler?
What wouldn’t I do is more like it!”

How do I approach her after all this time?
How??
Do I . . .
compliment her?
Discuss a shared interest?
Save for Betsy, there’s no common ground between us.
Is it possible being reasonable and honest would be enough?
Feel like I have no choice but to find out.

“. . .
digest carbs?
Oh, honey, no.”

Okay, new plan.
I’ll get her alone tomorrow.
I’ll kill her with kindness.
She’ll be surprised at first, and likely distrustful—no,
profoundly
distrustful—but I’m really good at this sort of thing.
I worked in PR.
I know how to spin.
I can win over people.
I mean, did I not convince that famous old astronaut to spend the day with Konnor’s fifth grade class?
At my behest, they even were permitted to try on his helmet!
And if it wasn’t for my influence, hundreds of children across the country would be eating brownies without a shred of kale in them.
And my crusade for mandatory skirt and short length enforcement at North Shore Senior High?
You’re welcome, every testosterone-fueled teenage boy who can finally pay attention in class because he’s not too distracted by young, bare thighs.

So that’s it.
I’ll be nice.

I can do it.

“. . .
and I’ll be devastated if you don’t think so, too.”

Feeling vaguely less queasy, I smile at Merritt and pretend to agree with whatever it is she’s just said.
“Of course I do, Merritt!
Of course I do.”

•   •   •

“What in the actual shit was that all about?”
Nana Baba asks from her spot in the backseat next to Kassie’s car seat.

I glance at her in the rearview mirror.
“What do you mean?”

“That party.
Never seen anything like it.”

Brooke Birchbaum spent a mint on this event, starting with the celebrity look-alikes.
I’ve been in such a state that at first I thought Brooke had finagled the
actual
Adele and Leo DiCaprio to serve mocktails to the children.

I’m sure she’ll save that until Avery’s
ninth
birthday.

The Cirque du Soleil–type performances, the screening room at the end of the red carpet, and the salon area with the mani/pedi and blowout stations were all completely over the top, no expenses spared.

Nana Baba is shell-shocked.
“And the statues.
I can’t get over the candy statues.”

Brooke commissioned a European sculptor to create The Avery, a life-sized take on the traditional Oscar statue, only shaped like her daughter and crafted from marble.
A Swiss chocolatier created gold-leaf covered, caramel-filled, miniature Averys, which are just one of the items in the Hollywood-themed swag bag.
Other goodies include a yet-to-be-released DVD of the new Pixar film and related plush toy and a photo frame with A
VERYWOOD
affixed on the bottom right hand corner, fashioned like the H
OLLYWOOD
sign.
There’re professionally decorated sugar cookies shaped like film reels, movie cameras, and popcorn boxes, with mini-cupcakes embossed with Avery’s monogram, as well as a sparkly Swarovski headband and a child-sized Return to Tiffany heart bracelet.
The kit wouldn’t be complete without a glittery eye shadow and lip gloss gift set, as well as a digital camera.

Astounding.

Kassie had handed off the bag to her Baba as soon as she stepped into the car, completely blasé over the contents, having received such largesse more than four times already since the summer began.
(Would it be wrong to list one of the spare iPad minis on eBay?
Asking for a friend.)

“The gift bag!”
Nana exclaims, holding up each item for inspection.
“Must be fifty dollars’ worth of stuff in there!”

“Probably a lot more than that,” I say, doing the math in my head.
“The Tiffany bracelet alone is in the one-fifty range.”

Nana is fuming.
“Christ on a cracker, one hundred and fifty goddamned dollars?
For kids?”

Kassie slaps a hand over her mouth to keep from giggling.

Baba’s on a tear, cat sweatshirt heaving as she draws a breath.
“You spoil them like this now, and what happens later in life?
Are they ever going to be satisfied?
No!
What do they do up here when kids turn sixteen?
Give ’em their own condo?
These kids are going to make shit adults!
Give ’em everything now and it sets an unrealistic expectation for the future.
How do you justify that kind of excess with children?”