Priceless (9 page)

“Emily, you have some fucking nerve calling me as if appearing on CNN and essentially calling me a spoiled bitch wasn’t a bit, oh, I don’t know, totally uncool and messed up.”

Emily sounded shocked. “Charlotte! I never said you were a bitch.”

“You said I was raised by servants.”

“Which is true. So was I. So was everyone we know.”

“And you said I went off the rails.”

“Which is also true. So did I. So did everyone we know. Come on, Charlotte, I came over to give you moral support, and you weren’t there. The CNN guy was super-hot and told me I
was really photogenic, and I decided to go with it.” She sighed. “My parents weren’t too pleased with me, either, if it’s any consolation.”

“It isn’t.”

“I won’t do it again. Promise.”

“Did you give them those photos?”

“I might have. Look, just think of all the ones I could have given them.”

Charlotte looked at herself. She’d gone Ralph Lauren today. Wide slacks, tightish man’s shirt, blazer. Simple makeup, elaborate hair, no jewelry. It would make a nice counterpoint to the seminaked and completely drunken photos Emily could release if she decided to. Well, live by the sword, die by the sword.

“Emily, I’ll have to call you back once I know what I’m going to be doing today, OK? I have to call Dad’s lawyer.”

“OK, babe, call me back.”

Emily disconnected, and Charlotte hit the hang-up button. She immediately hit it again and dialed Bedford, picked up the phone, and carried it downstairs. Enough hiding in the bathroom. Time to face the world.

GRETA LOOKED AS
if she’d been crying, and Davis didn’t look much better. Both of them avoided her eyes when she walked in, and once she was finished talking to Bedford, she called them on it.

“Hey, guys, what’s going on? You both look mad. I realize this is terrible, but we’ll get through it, OK?”

Davis looked at Greta, who shook her head almost imperceptibly.

He grimaced, then spoke. “Miss Charlotte, Greta thinks I shouldn’t ask you this, but I have to.”

“Don’t.”

Charlotte raised her hand. “It’s OK, Greta. We can’t have secrets from one another now. Please, say what’s on your mind.”

Charlotte sat down at the breakfast table, and her two employees slowly joined her. She realized suddenly that they were her employees; with her dad not there, she was in charge of everything. She didn’t even know where her dad kept the checkbook. Or if they even had a checkbook.

Davis cleared his throat. “Miss Charlotte, both Greta and I invested money with your father, and it appears that it, too, is gone. Neither of us can access our accounts, and when we call the office, we’re just told the fund is under investigation.”

Charlotte’s stomach turned. How could her father have done this? “Was it a lot of money?”

Greta hung her head, a tear plopping off the end of her nose. Davis nodded.

Charlotte got to her feet. “I’ll write you a check right now.” She walked to her dad’s office and then realized it was useless to do so. There was nothing there. She didn’t even know if there was money in their bank account. For a second, she panicked, her hand on the study door. But then she pulled herself together.

“Davis.” She entered the kitchen with a lot more gravitas than she actually felt. “I need to work out exactly what is going on with our finances. Do you have the number for Dad’s banker?”

He nodded, and while he went to get it, Charlotte gave Greta
a hug.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to sort it all out, OK? I know Dad didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Greta looked so old and so broken-hearted. “Do you think so, Charlotte? I didn’t want to invest my money, but he persuaded me it would be better if I did. If he didn’t mean to take it, why didn’t he leave me alone?”

Charlotte wanted to cry but bit her lip until it bled instead. “I don’t know, Greta, but we’re going to push on, OK?”

Davis came back with the number.

Charlotte stood. “On second thought, Davis, why don’t you just drive me downtown? I’ll call on the way.”

CHARLOTTE RECOGNIZED THE
bank as she entered the marble lobby, but it must have been years since she’d been there. It had been designed by Reed and Stern, the architects for Grand Central Station, and it had the same cavernous feeling. Very intimidating. At the age of eighteen she had come into some money her mother had left her and had been brought there then to set up accounts or sign documents or whatever it was. She kicked herself for not paying more attention. What on earth had she been doing for the past few years? She felt as if everything she’d learned until now was utterly useless in this situation. She was starting to feel as duped as everyone else, even though she knew her dad loved her.

Her dad’s personal banker came forward as she entered. Mr. Edelstein was older than God and apparently had bounced a Rockefeller on his knee or something, because he knew everyone and everything about the rich in Manhattan.

He greeted her warmly and then led her to a private room. Davis hesitated as they entered, and he chose to remain outside. She wanted him to come with her, wanted him, in fact, to hold her hand, because she was petrified, but she covered it up well and merely sat down and waited for Mr. Edelstein to speak.

He sighed heavily. “This is a sad business, Miss Williams. I am shocked beyond belief.”

“As are we all, Mr. Edelstein. While my father is awaiting trial, I have to keep going, though, and I realized this morning that I have no idea of our finances or what the investigation means for us. Do you understand it at all?”

He looked at her and felt pity he couldn’t show. Usually, it was wives who sat like this. Abandoned by their husbands, realizing they knew nothing about their own money, they came to him to find out if they could fly to Antibes while the divorce came through or if they had to go get a job at Starbucks. Too often, it was the latter.

“Well, Miss Williams, it’s somewhat complicated.”

She sighed. “I imagined it would be. Many things are turning out to be harder than I anticipated.”

He smiled briefly. “There is some good news, though. You have money of your own, money that is entirely separate from your father’s. Your mother’s will basically left all of her money, money she’d earned in her lifetime, to you in trust. When you turned eighteen it became legally yours—you might remember signing documents?”

She nodded.

“Well, that money has basically been left untouched, quietly growing thanks to the miracle of compound interest, and now amounts to a little more than ten million dollars.”

Charlotte’s heart lifted. She could pay Greta and Davis back, at least.

“However, the investigators have frozen all of the accounts your father had access to. I was planning on calling them today to remind them officially that your account should not have been included, as your father does not have access to it, but they are proving intransigent.” He sighed again. “The FBI and the SEC both can be difficult if they want to be.”

Charlotte swallowed. “So I have no money at all?”

“You have money. You just can’t get it.”

“And how long will that be the case?”

He shrugged gently. “I am working on it.”

Charlotte put her hands on the table. “And can you give me a loan? I need money to live on. Presumably, they can’t prevent you from doing that?”

For the first time, Edelstein looked embarrassed. “I can speak to my fellow bank officers.”

She frowned. “Once the case is over, I presume they will be just as happy to keep our money for us? They, of all people, know I’m good for it.”

He wouldn’t meet her eye. “Yes, Miss Williams. But many of our other customers have invested money with your father, and it is unclear at this time how much this situation is going to cost the bank. It would not be prudent for us to … uh …”

“Help me while your other customers are so angry.” She understood. “Will you keep bothering the FBI and SEC, please, and I will call you at the end of business today to see if you’ve made any progress.” She’d pulled her mask down, and he would never see her vulnerable again. She stood. “I believe I have some jewelry in a safety deposit box, yes? Am I able to access that?”

He coughed as he stood. “Yes, Miss Williams. The investigation overlooked that or, rather, didn’t care about it. You have your mother’s diamonds, of course, and a rather valuable pearl necklace.”

As she followed him down to the vault, Charlotte found herself growing hard inside. She realized that if she was going to get out of this situation, she was going to have to be resourceful. Creative. Bold.

But first? Shopping.

DOES IT REALLY
count as shopping if you’re selling things?
Charlotte wondered. Probably not, but it was a fine distinction. Squashing the horror she felt at doing it, she’d taken her mother’s diamonds, the pearl necklace, and half a dozen other pieces from her Chinese chest and carried them to Mr. Geller.

Mr. Geller’s was a name that, among the rich of the tristate area, had become synonymous with a certain kind of trouble. “She’s gone to see Geller” is all you needed to say to convey that so-and-so was having a little financial difficulty. Charlotte had actually already been to see Geller, when she was eighteen, in order to pay off a foolish bet she’d made with a friend which she’d been too embarrassed to ask her father about.

Mr. Geller was an expert in fine jewelry and discretion, equally important areas of expertise for someone in his position. He worked out of an office in the Flatiron Building, with simply his name on the door, and you never ran into anyone else there. You had the feeling he’d just been sitting there waiting for you, and only you, and that after you left, he would go back to sleep until you returned to reclaim your valuables.

Charlotte had called him as she left the bank, and it was as if he’d been expecting her call. And he might have been, if he watched the news like everyone else.

Davis had made no comment when she gave him the address, although he must have known its significance. Geller had been as gracious and charming as ever and brought her an excellent cup of coffee as they sat in his office.

“I am so happy to see you, Miss Williams. It has been quite a while since you were here last.”

He smiled with every apparent sincerity. He was a dapper gentleman of uncertain age. He could have been forty. He could have been sixty. The gossip was that he spoke many languages fluently and traveled the world extensively helping the wealthy liquidate their assets. He had reputedly never been robbed, leading people to speculate that maybe he also assisted those connected to organized crime, who would hate to lose Grandma’s emeralds while they were under his protection. His office was richly carpeted and incredibly comfortable, with a slowly ticking grandfather clock in the corner. It all looked a bit like Freud’s treatment room in turn-of-the-century Vienna.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “I find myself in a somewhat unusual position.”

Geller inclined his head ever so slightly. “It is not at all unusual, Miss Williams. I have seen many old friends lately, with the economy so difficult. I am always happy to take care of things as best I can.”