Free The Craigslist Murders by Brenda Cullerton Page B

up until this last little hitch, everything had gone like clockwork. Despite the pouring rain, Charlotte had appeared at the townhouse and rang the bell at 4. She was always punctual. “It isn’t just a question of being polite,” her mother had drummed into her. “It’s a sign of respect for the other person, dear.” Dressed in a Searle parka, black leggings and a leotard, and toting a big black bag with her newneon pink yoga mat, she looked just like every other Upper East Side trophy wife returning from a workout.
    “Yes, yes, who is it?” came the scratchy voice from the intercom.
    “It’s Coreen, from Craigslist,” she replied, keeping her head hidden in the hood of her parka.
    “Oh all right,” the impatient voice sounded put out. “Just a minute.”
    Convinced that the house would be fully staffed, Charlotte was relieved to see only the petite, infuriated blonde, dressed in head-to-toe pink Chanel, who opened the massive black door.
    “Everybody, I mean
everybody
, is at the house in Bedford,” she informed Charlotte in a clipped voice. “I’ve had to shut the whole security system down myself.”
    “Oh dear! You poor thing,” Charlotte replied, sidling into the foyer before the young woman could change her mind.
    “You have no idea how complicated the system is … All the zones and cameras and sirens …”
    “Is it off?” Charlotte asked.
    “Yes!” Amy said. “But only after I was forced to spend twenty minutes on the phone with some mentally impaired imbecile at the security company.”
    “I know just how frustrating that can be,” Charlotte said, inching her way past a fabulous 17 th century oak table in the hallway.
    “It’s also the biggest gala of the year for the Fashion Group,” the woman huffed and puffed. “I’m on the committee and my personal stylist called in sick.”
    “Well, I won’t take long, I promise.” Charlotte said.
    “Fine. But I have to be dressed and ready in an hour,” Amy said, turning on her red-soled Louboutins and heading for the marble staircase.
    “I’m just curious, Amy. Why do you advertise on Craigslist?” Charlotte asked as the woman click-clacked her way up the stairs. “I mean, you don’t seem like the type.”
    “My husband asked me the same question,” Amy said with a laugh. “He said, ‘It’s a bit lowbrow, don’t you think, darling?’ But I told him I was setting an example. I’ll give the money to charity, naturally.”
    Naturally
, Charlotte mimicked to herself.
    “I call it recycling,” Amy said. “You know, doing my bit for a sustainable world?”
    “Well, I think it’s admirable,” Charlotte replied, massaging the tiny woman’s mammoth ego.
    Following in Amy’s cushioned footsteps (the museum-quality Persians were priceless), Charlotte swept past a series of cluttered rooms with cathedral ceilings, staid but safe and expensive “brown” or English oak furniture, and chintz. Christ! So much chintz.
    Signature Marietta
, Charlotte sniffed, disdainfully thinking of the designer.
The King of Queens
.
    “My husband’s first wife had the
worst
taste.” Amy said, as if reading her mind. “But she was still,
you know
, ‘in the picture’ when we first got together, so I haven’t been able to change things as fast as I’ve wanted. Richard says his kids need a slower transition. Anyway, we’re redoing everything this summer,” she added smugly. “I’m working with Stephen and we’re thinking about going totally retro. You know, Hollywood Regency?”
    Argh!
    The bedroom was a nightmare of pink and red toile de Jouy—window treatments, canopies, even the walls of the 1,500-square foot dressing room were covered with Jouy. The four-piece Vuitton luggage had been dumped into a corner, near one of the closets under a dry cleaner’s rolling rack.
    “There it is,” Amy said, pointing with her index finger. “I only used it once, on my honeymoon, two years ago. It’s just been gathering dust up