Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (9 page)

The female lawyer slips on a pair of tortoiseshell eyeglasses. “Tell us about your relationship with Sebastian Cantwell.”

“I think so highly of him,” I begin. “Under his leadership, the prize money for the Ms. America pageant has gotten really substantial, so many”—I suddenly don’t want to use the phrase
beauty queens
—“contestants consider him quite generous. As I do. He’s been a real boon for the pageant, a terrific owner.” I give myself a pat on the back for that. I prepared it in advance and am pleased I got it out first thing.

The second male lawyer pipes up. “If you don’t mind my asking, how much prize money did you win?”

I hesitate only a moment before I remember that it is public information after all. “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

The lawyers look at each other. “I’m sure that goes a long way in Cleveland,” Antiseptic Wipe says half under his breath.

I can’t help bristling.

“We don’t need to get into the details of the case,” Antiseptic Wipe goes on, “but shall I explain to you why you’re here?”

“I understand why I’m here.” That comes out sort of snappy, but I’m not liking this lawyer. First he’s snobby; then he’s insulting. I temper my tone. “You would like me to provide character evidence for Mr. Cantwell.”

The female lawyer jumps back in, after throwing Antiseptic Wipe a glare I think he very much deserves. “That’s exactly right, Ms. Pennington. In the event this case goes to trial, we’ll be eager to show the jury how honest and forthright Sebastian Cantwell is in his dealings.”

“It goes without saying,” the second male lawyer says, “but please speak frankly with us. It’s important that you be completely honest and put everything out on the table now. If there’s anything lawyers don’t like, it’s surprises.”

We all cough out a laugh.

“So,” he goes on, “can you tell us in what ways you’ve found Sebastian Cantwell to be honest?”

“I’ve always found him to be very straightforward. I know where I stand with Mr. Cantwell. He never tries to put anything over on me.”

“He deals appropriately with you?” the female lawyer asks. “He’s professional and businesslike?”

“Absolutely. I really feel I can trust him. When he says he’ll do something, he does it. He’s helped me out several times,” I add for good measure.

The female lawyer types madly on her laptop keyboard. “It sounds like you knew Sebastian Cantwell before you won your title.”

“Well, only by reputation. Mr. Cantwell is a colorful personality, as you know, so he stands out.”

The second male lawyer frowns at me. “So you’ve known Cantwell only four months? Have you gotten to know him well during that time?”

I hesitate. “I can’t really say I’ve gotten to know him
well
.” That seems to fall flat. I try again. “But we speak to each other at least once a month.”

“That’s only four conversations,” Antiseptic Wipe observes. “But we can make it work. Needless to say, you’ve never known him to engage in any unethical behavior.”

I open my mouth and then snap it shut again as a memory swims into my brain. Silence descends on the conference room. I am keenly aware of six appraising eyes settling on my face as my mind cranks.

“Ms. Pennington?” the female lawyer asks. “
Have
you ever known Sebastian Cantwell to do something unethical?”

I clear my throat. “Well, there was an incident on Oahu, where I won my title, where a person might construe Mr. Cantwell’s behavior as not one hundred percent ethical.” In fact, at the time it put him on my list of murder suspects. But despite Second Male Lawyer’s plea for total honesty, I am going to keep mum on that topic.

A moment later, I realize I have accomplished the rare feat of silencing three attorneys. They’re not even tapping on their keyboards or jotting on their tablets.

“What exactly happened on Oahu?” the female lawyer asks in a pained voice.

“It came to my attention that Mr. Cantwell met with one of the contestants, in private, before the pageant finale. That’s strictly verboten because such a meeting might give a contestant an unfair advantage.”

Antiseptic Wipe leans forward. “You say it came to your attention. Is it possible your information is incorrect? That Cantwell did not have this meeting?”

I shake my head. “We spoke about it later. He admitted it. He said he was curious why she wanted the meeting.”

Spitfire that I am—indeed, that was one of several spicy adjectives with which Mr. Cantwell described me at the time—I used my knowledge of that one-on-one to retain my title when Mr. Cantwell threatened to take it away. Some might call that blackmail. I call it resourcefulness. Anyway, it’s another topic I judge best not to wade into here.

“Please don’t get me wrong,” I add. “I don’t think Mr. Cantwell actually did anything unethical in that meeting. It’s just that pageant rules stipulate he shouldn’t have had it at all.”

I realize a second later that what I refrained from saying hangs in the air nevertheless. In fact, it looms so large I fear it might be spelled out in a cartoon cloud above my head.
Bottom line, Mr. Cantwell fudged the rules.

My heart bangs against my ribcage. But however frantically it beats, it can’t distract me from my brain, where another thought is forming.
I might as well be testifying for the prosecution. Because I just handed these lawyers a story about how Mr. Cantwell fudges the rules when it suits his purposes. For example, when he might want to pay lower taxes.

The attorneys look at each other. The female lawyer removes her eyeglasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. Antiseptic Wipe slams down the lid on his laptop. “We’re done here,” he declares.

Nobody disputes that assertion. The two other attorneys stand up but Antiseptic Wipe remains seated. He doesn’t have to say a word for me to recognize how disgusted he is with the so-called character evidence I have provided.

I rise to my feet. “I apologize if I’ve wasted your time.”

Second Male Lawyer ushers me out. “We appreciate your honesty,” he tells me, though I find myself doubting he really means it.

I wait until my anxiety-ridden self is back on the street to take my cell phone off silent mode. I have a voicemail from my mom, who makes no mention of Bennie as she reports that she landed at LaGuardia and wants lunch ASAP. I also note a text from Shanelle, whom I call first.

“How did it go with the lawyers?” she wants to know. In contrast to me, she sounds quite cheery.

“Let’s just say it was not a success experience.” That’s the understatement of the month. And Mr. Cantwell will hear about it.

“I bet you’re overreacting, girl,” Shanelle tells me.

“I don’t think so. And would you believe the sidewalks were so crowded I had to walk underneath a ladder right before? That couldn’t have helped.”

“You are way too smart to believe in superstitions. Anyway, Trixie and I will cheer you up. We’re free for lunch and so are you. So how about we meet at that restaurant we liked the look of? On 46
th
Street?”

“The one with the brick walls and the Broadway posters? Where was it exactly?”

Shanelle gives me directions. I alert her that my mother is likely to join us and I presume Bennie will as well. In short order, I find out I’m half wrong.

“I’m about to pass out from hunger,” my mother informs me over the phone. “There was so much turbulence on that little plane, they didn’t give us any food. Why the heck pay for that first class if they don’t feed you? Anyway, that Bennie wants to go straight to some used-car lot in the Bronx there. How crazy is that?”

Bennie himself warned me that his secret agenda during his Manhattan getaway was to visit a variety of used-car lots. I predicted that wouldn’t go over well with my mother. “Where are you now?” I ask her.

“In a limo. Where are we?” I hear her ask the driver. “FDR Drive,” she tells me a moment later.

“Give him your phone so I can tell him where to drop you off.”

She obliges and I give the driver the directions. “You’re living large,” I tell my mother, “flying first class and riding a limo.”

“And staying at that Plaza Hotel,” she reminds me. “That Bennie likes to do it up nice.”

Shanelle and Trixie learn just
how
nice when we congregate at the restaurant. Shanelle is styling in a pink and black pencil skirt and pink cowl neck sweater and Trixie couldn’t be more adorable in a navy fit-and-flare shirtdress with a tie waist. But no one has more panache than Hazel Przybyszewski, who no doubt looked right at home in first class. No one would ever guess how thin her dyed red hair has become given the impressive pouf into which it’s been styled. And she is sporting not only lipstick but mascara and eye shadow, too. More to the point, she is dolled up in her new full-length brown sable fur coat.

Yes, you read that right. My mother is now the proud owner of a genuine fur. I’m not sure she takes it off when she goes to bed at night.

“Oh, my Lord!” Trixie holds my mother at arms’ length to better admire the fur. I note that our fellow would-be diners grouped around the maître d’s stand are giving it a gander as well. “Mrs. P, I have never seen anything like this.”

My mother preens. “Russian sable. The very finest. That Bennie gave it to me for Christmas.”

“Animal pelts sewn together may not be the most politically correct gift,” I observe. “But this is certainly beautiful.”

My mother glares at me. “Tell me about it after you order your hamburger.” She strokes the fur. “Feel how soft it is. And I’m never cold. It could be twenty degrees below zero and I could be wearing nothing but my underwear—”

“Mrs. P, you scamp!” Trixie cries, her eyes shining.

“Not that I would ever do such a thing,” my mother hastens to add, “because you could get hit by a car and land at the hospital at any time, but you get my point. I’d be as toasty as a bug in a rug. And get a load of this.” She whips open the coat on both sides. “A hundred percent silk lining. Not that they have polyester at that Saks Fifth Avenue fur salon.”

“They have one of those in Cleveland?” Shanelle asks me.

“In Beachwood,” I report. “On the east side.”

I have walked through that salon in years past to see if perchance any items fit my father’s budget. For you see, my mother has long hankered after a fur. And being my mother, she made no bones about it. My dad, with his cop’s salary, never could see his way clear to making such an extravagant purchase.

But it took Bennie Hana barely two months’ acquaintance to gift my mother with this sable. I don’t know for sure, but I bet it retails for fifteen grand. Of course, Bennie is well-to-do and Pop isn’t. Still, seeing him outshine my father in this regard fills me with a certain melancholy.

“And the lining is exactly the same color as the sable,” Trixie coos, “to avoid an unsightly contrast. And there are eye hooks instead of buttons so as not to mar the fur.”

“I like this.” I point to my mother’s name embroidered in white thread on the inside right silk panel.
Hazel
, it reads in lovely flowing script. I’m glad the seamstress didn’t attempt to spell out Przybyszewski. That probably would’ve cost extra; plus, the odds of getting it wrong are extremely high.

Shanelle shakes her head. “You call this a Christmas gift, Mrs. Przybyszewski, but in my book a pair of slippers is a Christmas gift. This here is a statement.” She lowers her voice to a deeper, more meaningful register. “I’d even go so far as to say this is a statement of intention.”

My mother gives us all a sly smile. “You might be on to something there, Shanelle.”

“Oh, my Lord, Mrs. P!” Trixie squeals. “Are you telling us that Bennie’s proposed?”

“I wouldn’t go
that
far,” my mother admits.

Relief courses through my veins. It’s bad enough fearing that Pop will propose to Maggie on Valentine’s Day. I don’t want also to have to worry that Mom will get hitched to Bennie.

Not that I have anything against the man. In fact, I like and admire him. It’s just that I harbor tender hopes that my parents will reunite. And yes, I realize that makes me about as mature as the average 12-year-old.

“Let’s just say,” my mother goes on, “that this is no fly-by-night relationship. You ask me, that Bennie’s got it all planned out. First he gives me the fur coat. Then he brings me to New York City. Who knows what happens next?”

“So he’s serious about you,” I say. “But are you serious about him?”

She looks away. “Bennie’s got some negatives. But what man doesn’t?”

As that rhetorical question hangs in the air, the maître d’ escorts us to our table. This restaurant looks very New York City to me, which is why I love it even before I’ve tasted a morsel. It’s deep and skinny and perfectly lit—not too light and not too dark—and the walls are red brick and the floor is wide plank hardwood and the tables are draped with white tablecloths. There is one odd feature, though.