Free Never Too Rich by Judith Gould

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!
    “ 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