The Celebutantes (21 page)

It was nearly five a.m. Ordinarily, Poppy van Lulu would have been in bed, but sleep hadn't touched her all night. She had lain awake for several hours, tossing and turning, trying to dispel the aches and pains shooting through her legs and back. She hadn't done the tango in months, let alone the tarantella. And the last time she'd danced to hip-hop music, Lil' Kim had been sitting in the spirit room, asking Poppy how long her incarceration would last.

Now Poppy was walking around her bedroom. She slipped into her favorite Missoni jumpsuit and went to the mirror. She ran a hairbrush through her short locks. Her face looked fatigued, so she applied some blush to her cheeks and tied a colorful vintage Camerino scarf around her neck. She stepped back to inspect her appearance. Not as good as she'd like, but it would have to do. At five o'clock in the morning people generally don't look their best.

It felt strange moving around the apartment at this odd hour. But then again, she really didn't have much of a choice. The phone call had come just a half hour ago, rattling her nerves and shattering the silence of the apartment.

The voice on the other end of the line had sounded frantic:
I need to see you. It's a desperate situation. May I please come over?

Poppy had agreed to the meeting immediately. She would never have done so under ordinary circumstances, but nothing about the past forty-eight hours was proving to be ordinary.

The doorbell rang.

Poppy ran out of the bedroom, through the living room, and into the foyer. She pulled open the door and smiled. “Hello—or should I say good morning? Please, come in.”

“Thank you for seeing me.” The figure walked past her and into the apartment, head bowed, blazer collar pulled up high around the ears.

“I'm actually very glad you called,” Poppy said. She closed the door behind her and went around the sofa, turning on a lamp. “There's so much to tell you, dear. So much that's happened. Don't be scared. Elijah is here. He's ready to speak again.”

Silence.

“Dear, are you all right?” Poppy turned around. “Can you hear me?”

The tall, powerful figure standing before her didn't respond.

Poppy's eyes widened in horror as she saw the steel barrel of the gun emerge from inside the blazer. She didn't have time to move. She didn't have time to scream. The shot came out in a quick spit of fire, and a few seconds later, Poppy van Lulu caught her first true glimpse of the Other Side.

17

On the Run

I
n the gritty blue of dawn, Ina Debrovitch slipped the key into the lock of her hotel room door and turned it. She realized that her fingers were trembling. In fact, her whole body felt as if it were running on nothing but adrenaline. That made perfect sense: she hadn't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, nor had she slept. It would be a long time before her life returned to normal.

She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. Sunlight bled through the musty curtains, illuminating the drab furnishings, the scarred wood floor, the yellowed walls. The little hotel on Houston Street in Greenwich Village was flat-out ugly; it was dingy and small and smelled of cat pee, but here she had a tiny slice of peace, a space in which to gather her thoughts and make sense of her plans. She wouldn't have been able to do that in Connecticut. Ghost Ranch wasn't her home anymore. She would never again stare out of that second-floor bay window and glimpse deer sprinting through the trees. She would never again sit at the breakfast nook and share a pot of coffee with Tallula. Those days, while so achingly wonderful, were long gone.

She shrugged out of her linen blazer and tossed it onto the bed, glad to be rid of the sweaty material that had been clinging to her arms all night. She tore off her pants as well. She kicked off her shoes. Her feet were swollen from all the walking she'd done, but it had been necessary. All part of the plan. Had she taken a cab or bus, someone might have recognized her, and that would have created countless problems. She unclipped her hearing aid from her ear and tossed it onto the bed. In the blazer pocket was her airline ticket, and just seeing it made her feel a little calmer.

She stepped into the small bathroom. She flung on the light and winced when she saw the grimy tub with its brown rust stains around the drain. It didn't matter. She needed to stand under the hot jets of water. She needed to cleanse herself thoroughly. Pulling back the plastic curtain, she turned the knob and stood beneath the shower-head, letting the heat cut through her hair and cascade down the length of her body. Late last night she had wandered in disguise into one of the small local bodegas and bought soap, tissues, and bottled water. Now, as she reached for the scented bar and worked it into a thick lather, she couldn't help but smile. She was thinking of the disguise and of how easy it had been to walk into the Waldorf-Astoria; what made her angry, however, was how quickly she'd lost her nerve. She'd planned on riding that elevator back up to the penthouse suite, but at the last possible minute, she chickened out and busted out of the hotel. Her nerves had gotten the best of her. But she hadn't panicked. She'd gotten off on the twelfth floor, hung a sharp right, and taken another elevator right back down to the lobby.

She turned around and let the hot jets splash over her body a second time. She shampooed her hair, scrubbed the grit from under her nails. She even lashed the soap across the soles of her feet. Exhausted, she turned off the water and toweled herself dry. Back in the main room, the sunlight was streaming through the curtains. Dawn. A new day. Her last day here in the United States. Soon she would be boarding a plane for home, jetting across the ocean and away from the mess her life had become. She had no intention of returning to the little village where she'd been raised. Instead, she was going to head to the capital and get lost in the teeming mass of people. With a new name and a whole new identity, she would be able to start over. If the cops ever came looking for Ina Debrovitch, they would find little more than a crumpled blazer and a big turban.

She hadn't wanted to take such drastic actions. But she was young and intelligent and ambitious. She had a whole life ahead of her. And a new life growing inside of her.

Ina lowered herself onto the bed and gently stroked her belly. The baby wasn't due for another seven months, but already she could feel its energy coursing in her blood. She had spent the past several weeks wondering if it would be a boy or a girl, if it would sleep through the night, if it would eat all its vegetables. If it would look like its father.

Elijah,
she thought, pulling up an image of him on the screen of her mind. She closed her eyes against it. She held back her tears as she mentally stroked his cheeks, his chin, his lips. She chided herself for still missing him, for still loving him. After all the heartache and the pain, why did she feel the need to mourn him?

Throughout their brief but passionate affair, Elijah hadn't once shown her the slightest bit of affection. He had seduced her on that chilly April night while Tallula worked in her studio. A warm touch, a long kiss, a sweet nothing whispered in her ear, and Ina had simply melted into his embrace.

She had known that Elijah was attracted to her. She had caught him staring her down on several occasions, his eyes squinted, his gaze almost predatory. There'd been times when he'd even shot her coy little winks right behind Tallula's back. At first, Ina was shocked and angered by his overt passes. But then, little by little, she found herself waiting for those startling little communications, for the steamy excitement that roiled in her stomach. It was wild. It was reckless. It was completely unlike anything she had ever done. All her life, she'd been the good girl, the proper pupil, watching from the perimeter as life happened to other people. But Elijah had ignited a secret circle of fire, and Ina willingly stepped into it and stoked the flames.

She asked herself all the pertinent questions—
Am I pretty enough for him? He doesn't mind that I wear a hearing aid? Does he like me more than Tallula?
—and realized that maybe she
did
possess the qualities a famous young man like Elijah looked for in a girl. Tallula was beautiful and talented, but Ina knew perhaps better than anyone how bitchy she could be, how superficial and cold she acted when things didn't go her way. It seemed to Ina that Elijah was slowly but surely falling out of love with Tallula. And that, of course, was no one's fault. People fell out of love all the time. Relationships cracked and crumbled and people went their separate ways no matter how long they'd known each other.

And in the beginning, following that first night of heated seduction, Ina had believed that simple equation to be true. She believed Elijah wanted
her
and not Tallula. That he was piecing together in his mind a plan that would one day allow them to live openly as lovers. Maybe even husband and wife. He had spoken of those things every time they ran off for one of those secret meetings. Telling Ina he loved her. That soon things would be different. That she had to keep quiet about their affair no matter what. And Ina had believed him. Like a stupid, mindless, inexperienced junior high girl, she had fallen into his deceptive hands and allowed herself to be betrayed.

Last month, when she told him she was pregnant, Elijah panicked.
You can't have that baby,
he'd said.
You can't do this. It's not the right time.
Days of anger and resentment and fear followed, the hardest days Ina had ever endured. Elijah didn't look at her, didn't so much as acknowledge her presence when she walked into a room. Ina worried every minute whether or not he was going to break down and confess his sins to Tallula. Ina would have lost everything in a single instant—her job, the roof over her head, her security. It had never occurred to her not to have this baby, but without Elijah and his support—his money—Ina couldn't imagine what her life would amount to. And when she finally confronted Elijah about it two weeks ago, telling him the baby was as much his responsibility as hers, he whirled around and glared at her coldly.
You're the slut who let it happen,
he said.
You're the stupid one. And if you want to have that baby, you'll do it without anyone knowing. As soon as you start to show, you quit this job and get the hell out of here. End of story.
Ina hadn't been able to protest his cruelty. Before she could say a word, Elijah threatened her in the worst way possible, reminding her that she was working in this country illegally and that one phone call would have her deported.

Initially, the thought of going back home frightened Ina. Such a bad economy. No chance of finding a job. And with a baby on the way, her life in Romania would have been nothing short of disastrous. So she swallowed her anger and kept quiet. Avoided Elijah completely. Started looking for housekeeping jobs when Tallula wasn't around. Ina had planned on quitting and leaving, just as Elijah had instructed her to do. But the rage in her blood grew stronger, and whenever she glimpsed him walking through the house, she gave herself over to the secret, silent fantasies. How quickly feelings of love turned to visions of murder.

She could never have imagined he would die by way of the sky. But he had, and he had deserved every last second of that free-falling fear.

I hate you, Elijah,
she thought now, letting the tears streak her face.
I hate you and I still miss you. And I know the guilt I'm feeling will kill me one day.

But today wasn't that day. Today, Ina knew she had to continue with the next phase of her plan.

Wiping her face with a tissue, she got up and started reviewing her list. She didn't have much time. It would be difficult and dangerous, but her choices, at this point, were few.

She got dressed, making certain to put the gun in her purse.

18

A Secret at the Society

“Y
ou don't have to do this,” Madison said for the tenth time in as many minutes. “I really am fine.”

Coco sighed and shook her head vehemently. “I know I don't
have
to do it, but I want to. I don't care what you say—you need a friend right now.”

They were sitting in the Hamilton limo, headed south. It was shortly after nine a.m. and the traffic had let up. Coco was in a light disguise: cowboy hat, sunglasses, a white polo shirt, and her favorite pair of Sass & Bide jeans. Despite the stress of the past two days, she looked good, if not a bit Western.

Madison, on the other hand, looked like a washed-up runway model. Her hair was thick and flowing as usual and she was dressed impeccably in an A.P.C. minidress and belt. But behind her sunglasses were red-rimmed eyes and an altogether tense expression. She had spent most of the night riding the roller coaster of emotions: crying, screaming, getting angry, getting depressed, punching the pillows on her bed, pretending to dance with a broom, pigging out on champagne and chocolate milk and a bowl of leftover spaghetti. She hadn't slept much. And when she woke up, the first thing she thought about was the headline:
Playboy Theo Cheats on Madison!

Even now, it was enough to make her puke.

But she had showered and changed and decided, against everyone's better judgment, to keep her mind occupied. She, Park, and Lex were trying to clear their friend's name, and that deserved the utmost attention.

She took off her sunglasses and stared at Coco. “You really shouldn't be outside your apartment,” she said. “I know you're out on bail, but it's best to stay behind closed doors.”

“My lawyer is on the phone with the DA right now,” Coco said confidently, tossing her head back. “And after the charges against me are dropped, we're going to sue the police department
and
the hotel.”

“Why the hotel?”

“Are you kidding me?” Coco said. “I had to walk down a million stairs in heels because that elevator was broken—if that isn't emotional distress, I don't know what is. I could have died in that stairwell.”

Madison frowned. “Well, I'm glad you're here, but I just want you to know that I don't need a chaperone. I'm feeling fine.”

“That's total bullshit, but I'll ignore it right now.” Coco stared out the windows as the limo drove down Fifth Avenue. “The fact is, you
can't
feel fine. The science of that little thought just doesn't compute. You've just found out, along with the rest of the world, that your boyfriend is a cheap whore in a well-made suit. A snake with nice hair and a good stylist. An aardvark with a—”

“I get the picture, okay?” Madison snapped. She folded her arms over her chest and glanced out the opposite window. “You're as bad as Lex with this whole name-calling thing. I wish the both of you would just give it a rest.”

“How can we give it a rest? We happen to care about you.”

“I understand that, but calling Theo names doesn't make me feel any better.”

Coco shrugged. “It makes
me
feel better. And just for the record, I agree with Lex.”

Madison stayed quiet. Then she turned to Coco and said, “What gets me is that Theo didn't even have the decency to call me in the past two days. And standing on the beach with that model, throwing his arms around her like that when he
knew
someone would eventually snap a pic of him and sell it to the tabloids…that's what
really
pisses me off. That he didn't even try to hide it.”

“Pigs will always be pigs,” Coco answered. “They roll around in the mud all day and don't care. Incidentally, did you know that pigs eat and relieve themselves at the same time?”

“Thanks for the visual,” Madison snapped. “I really needed to know that.”

“It's a metaphor.” Coco took off her sunglasses and looked at her friend earnestly. “I know it's still too new and everything, but as soon as Theo gets back, you need to dump him in a very public and humiliating way. Lex and I are going to coordinate that.”

Madison stared down at her hands. “Nothing like that is going to make me feel better,” she said quietly. “After it's all said and done, I'll still be the dumb girl who was cheated on by the stud.”

“Has Theo even called you yet?”

“He left me three messages this morning,” Madison replied. “Along with everyone else.”

That was certainly true. Madison's cell had started ringing at dawn. First it was her father, Trevor, calling to tell her that he was sorry to have read the story, that she would be okay, and that she should never have gotten mixed up with a West. Trevor Hamilton was flying back to New York on Saturday night and promised to bring Madison a great big present to help make her feel better. But this time around, Madison knew that not even a five-million-dollar Picasso sketch—like the one he had bought her last year—would lift her spirits. And after Trevor, there had been messages from Angie, from Cate, from the other Kate, from Hayden and, shockingly enough, even from Paris. The consensus was all the same: guys totally sucked.

Madison had saved every message—except the ones Theo had left. She'd deleted them without even bothering to hear them completely. What was the point? Theo had no damn excuse. He was frolicking in the sand with seventeen-year-old French model Collette Deneuve and probably loving every freakin' minute of it. Holding her. Kissing her. Running his hands through her hair…

“Madison.”

She blinked back to reality. “Yes, Donnie?”

“I can't make a left onto the street,” Donnie told her. “Construction crews are blocking it off. Should I leave you girls at the corner?”

“That's fine.” Madison reached for her purse.

Coco pushed the cowboy hat farther down on her head, tucking in a few loose strands of hair, then climbed out of the limo and followed Madison onto the street.

The Royal Crown Society of the Americas was located in a turn-of-the-century brownstone in Gramercy Park. Ivy wound up the front of the building, and the small plaque beside the door read:
RCSA, SUPPORTING ART FOR OVER A CENTURY.
Madison rang the bell and removed her sunglasses. Then she patted at the dampness under her eyes, hoping the swelling had gone down some.

“I suddenly feel totally underdressed,” Coco said nervously.

“Don't worry about it,” Madison assured her. “We're meeting with Gunilla O'Hara Miskin. She's totally old but very sweet and classy. She's been a member of the society for sixty-nine years, and she knows everything about art.”

“I've heard of her. She's the one who owns those two islands near Capri?”

“That's her.”

“And you think the society is going to solve this whole mystery? I still don't get it.”

“I'll explain everything,” Madison promised. “But I'm hoping to get some answers first.”

The door opened and a man dressed in a tuxedo smiled down at her. “Ambassador Hamilton,” he said with a respectful nod of his head. “Please come in.” He moved to one side and ushered her into the spectacular two-story foyer. “My name is Geoffrey, and I'll be your guide for the duration of your visit. May I show you to the parlor?”

“Yes, thank you,” Madison said. She gestured her head at Coco. “This is my friend—”

“Anne,” Coco said quickly. She smiled up at Geoffrey, relieved to be hiding behind the sunglasses and cowboy hat. “And actually, if it's okay, would you mind if I just toured the grounds while Madison has her meeting? I'd totally love to check out all the art in here.”

“If Madam Ambassador wishes.” Geoffrey looked at Madison.

“Why?” Madison whispered. “You're more than welcome to sit in on my meeting.”

“I just feel more comfortable not being there,” Coco said honestly. “I don't want anyone recognizing me. I don't feel like having to explain myself. Really. I'll be out here waiting for you.”

“Okay,” Madison answered with a shrug. “I'll try not to be more than a half hour.” She followed Geoffrey through the foyer and the two large front rooms. Though she had been here before, she couldn't help marveling at the extraordinary works of art hanging on the walls: paintings from the Renaissance, medieval, and neoclassical periods; Impressionist paintings, Baroque paintings, even Pre-Raphaelites. It was like stepping into a vortex of art history.

“Right this way,” Geoffrey said. He stopped on the threshold and extended his arm.

Madison walked into the parlor. Sitting in a chair in the center of the room was Gunilla O'Hara Miskin—New York socialite, international patroness of the arts, and self-avowed historian of all things elitist. Gunilla was nearly ninety and looked every bit her age. There were deep wrinkles in her small face and liver spots on her hands, but her brown hair was meticulously coiffed and her nails perfectly manicured. She was dressed in a colorful red and white patterned Chanel suit, signature magnolia pin and all. A multicarat diamond ring sat on the forefinger of her right hand like a pet.

“Oh, Madison, my sweet child!” Gunilla said dramatically. “Come here and let me take a look at you.”

Madison leaned down and kissed Gunilla's cheek. Then she stepped back and modeled her outfit.

“Just extra
oooordinary,
you are, darling! Extraordinary.”

“Thank you,” Madison replied. She sat down across from Gunilla, resting her hands in her lap and assuming a proper, professional posture.

“What a lovely afternoon we had at the luncheon,” Gunilla said. “You and your sisters looked delicious. But oh—I was so sorry to hear about that brilliant young man Elijah Traymore falling from that penthouse.” She shook her head; her hair, of course, didn't move. “Just devilish how things happen! And what a shock, that Coco McKaid would be charged with the crime.”

Madison fidgeted her thumbs in a nervous gesture and cleared her throat. “Coco McKaid is innocent,” she said, gently but firmly. “My sisters and I have uncovered evidence that the district attorney is viewing right now. Please believe me, Mrs. Miskin. She's innocent.”
And she happens to be walking around the first floor right now.

Gunilla's lips curled up slowly in a smile. “Well! This
is
surprising! But I don't doubt you, darling—you and your sisters know about crime.”

“We pretty much do, yes.”

“Extra
oooordinary,
darling. A rare breed you three are. Intelligent. Beautiful. Knowledgeable about the world. Quite like myself when I was your age.” Gunilla chuckled. Then her eyes fell to the round English coffee table and, realizing there was nothing on it, she gasped and quickly clapped her hands.

Geoffrey came striding into the room. “Madam?”

“Geoffrey,” Gunilla said in a chiding tone, “when you are in the presence of ambassadors, you
must
remember to bring about refreshments
immediately.
We
don't
like to be kept waiting, dear.”

“Yes, madam.” He turned around and disappeared into another room. Less than a minute later, he came back holding a gleaming golden tray; on it were two gold espresso cups with matching spoons, and two delicately folded napkins.

Madison took a quiet sip of her espresso. She knew exactly what she had to ask Gunilla, but there was an appropriate way to do things here at the society. You didn't just blurt out questions or make demands. You never gave the impression that you were in a rush, or that the society's mission didn't come first and foremost in the world. What you
did
do was schmooze, and Madison had plenty of experience in that area. “How are your islands, Mrs. Miskin?” she asked pleasantly.

“Oh, my love, they're simply
paradise.
” Gunilla drank the last of her espresso, leaned forward, and set her cup down on the tray. “You must come and stay for a while. Your mother visited with me last year, and I've just finished building the new compound. Right on the Mediterranean. Sweeping views.”

“How big is the new compound?”

“It's roughly twenty thousand square feet. Twenty-one bedrooms, love, so the whole family can vacation at the same time.” Gunilla paused and studied Madison with a hard, practiced eye. “I'm extending an invitation to you, darling, because I suspect you need a bit of respite. It's always stressful when the tabloids start putting your name on the front page.”

Madison held her breath. Inwardly, she felt a tremor of shock pass through her. She hadn't expected Gunilla to bring up Theo's cheating ways and the brewing scandal, but then, she and Theo had been a favorite of the tabloids for a few months now. Everyone knew their tumultuous story. She went rigid in the seat. She didn't say anything.

Gunilla kept her gaze steady. “You're no longer just another little rich girl,” she said firmly. “You're a young woman of special breeding and uncommonly high social status. You must choose your private passions more judiciously.”

Madison looked down again. “I understand, Mrs. Miskin. And you're very right. I haven't been very smart about this whole relationship. The truth is that I love Theo West, but I know now that he doesn't feel the same way about me. He doesn't take us seriously—maybe he never has. It's my own fault, I guess.”

Gunilla leaned forward and put her gnarled hand over Madison's. “Most young women in this world say that you can't help who you fall in love with, but that cannot be true for you or your sisters, darling. Because of your wealth, your fame, your status, every action you take—every decision you make—the mind must lead the heart. The world will be watching you girls forever. You cannot afford to be slandered in public, especially by men.”

“I understand, Mrs. Miskin,” Madison said quietly, feeling better about the whole mess as the seconds ticked by. That was the funny thing about emotional pain—the more you confronted it, the less it hurt.