Читать книгу Private Means - Cree LeFavour - Страница 9

It was less cocktail party than wake. Six strangers in private mourning. But Alice wanted her dog—they all did—so she remained positioned around the vast round glass coffee table, her lanky body perched tensely on the edge of one of two semicircular white leather sofas. Ten exquisitely groomed toenails lay displayed through the glass, magnified as if seen through clear water. Red. Navy. Frosted Pink. Fuchsia. Her own dark camouflage, nearly identical to the rich green coccolithophore, a phytoplankton that had been the subject of her first serious research project in high school. An adjacent pair of amber leather loafers complimented her green.

All but one of the group were slugging back a resinous cabernet sauvignon the color of dried blood. A leathery woman who somewhere along the way had decided overprocessed white-blonde hair, red lipstick, and heavy mascara was the look she wanted, took frequent sips of her conspicuously clear beverage, the fetal lime wedge resting on an ice shelf within a testament to what she suspected was nothing so fun as gin but rather an inefficient gesture to accommodate sobriety in a room of drinkers.

Five desperate women and a token male, each one missing a dog, brought together by a string of Facebook posts on Manhattan-Lost-Dog. After a flurry of public posts, a group had peeled off into a private discussion with the private discussion leading to a gathering on a Memorial Day weekend Sunday evening. The decision to meet in person felt old-fashioned and dangerous. The easily dismissed text on Alice’s screen was embodied before her—each with a face, voice, mannerisms, style, and scent of his or her own.

How had she ended up here, in this impossibly wealthy woman’s apartment, high above the twinkling lights that formed the perimeter of the unlit lagoon of Central Park? Could she ever be friends—or even friendly—with any of them? It seemed unlikely, though she eyed the sole male member of the group, assessing the French cuffs of his Charvet shirt. She felt herself as separate from them all as the neatly white-aproned maid surely felt from the guests she served, discreetly passing the smoked salmon canapés, moving among them as invisibly as possible—eyes down, frequent nods, a flash of a smile and understated nod in place of You’re welcome. Who kept a maid in uniform anymore, anyway? The ensemble, from the white piping on the black shirtdress to the scalloped edge of the linen apron to the lace headpiece, suggested a bawdy bedroom farce. Alice tried not to catch anyone’s conspiratorial eye; she was afraid she’d start laughing. Fortunately—or not—there were none to be found.

Jody, sitting next to the hostess directly across the table from Alice, was telling the story of losing her dog in Central Park two months ago. Alice suddenly had a feeling for how many people she must have bored with her own story.

I let her off leash like always near Sheep Meadow. She loves to run. She’s so good. I mean, she never bothers anyone. And then—

Alice tried to pity her but all she could do was assess the Pucci purse, Thierry Rabotin wedges, asymmetrical Botox effect around the eyes, and jeans that a woman hovering around sixty should long since have handed down to her daughter—or granddaughter. Jody’s dog Pug was not a pug. He was a French bulldog. An expensive one. Everything about this woman was expensive. Alice did not feel sorry for her until she reminded herself that Jody had also lost her dog. She was there for the same reason Alice was—in hopes that someone would offer a fresh strategy to find her dog. But Alice, peering sideways at Jody’s fetching suede navy wedges, could only think, Pay somebody to find your dog. Of course, she noted, that was perilously close to what she was doing with her paltry $2,000.

The chatter of the women’s stories featuring themselves and their exceptional dogs was muted by the baby talk that crept in from the edges. The dogs’ names were invariably babyish, even without the high-pitched and singsong lilt that seeped into the women’s voices. Never mind the dogs weren’t there to perk up their ears. Alice was as guilty as the rest of them. Maebelle: a proper name for a glitter-sprinkled fairy in a Disney film or, at best, for a chubby, rosy-cheeked five-year-old with silky blonde ringlets. What had she been thinking?

Okay, let’s get started, Julie said above the din, straightening her Pilates-tuned back to its full length, putting her formidable breasts on glorious display. She, the venerable hostess of the cabernet, had lost her dog Sebastian ten days ago. The reward offered for returning the golden-haired Tibetan mastiff was a cool $10,000. Alice absently wondered if she’d be given the award if she came across Sebastian. She supposed that would be crass. She’d have to at least pretend not to want it. I couldn’t, she heard herself saying without conviction, as she led the fluffy beast past liveried doormen in the vast, marbled lobby.

Ladies! And gent, Julie said with an affected giggle worthy of Lucy Steele. Alice stared at her, unsmiling, torn between pity and the tiniest glint of embarrassment.

I’ve printed out resources.

She handed a stack of flyers to Jody on her left. Alice took one, passing the last one to Nancy. She’d done her homework—or someone had done it for her.

□ FindShadow.com

□ HelpingLostPets.com

□ LostMyDoggie.com

□ PawBoost.com

□ PetAmberAlert.com

□ Petfinder.com

□ LostDogsofAmerica.org

□ FidoFinder.com

□ craigslist.com

□ Bestfriends.org

At the bottom of the page she’d listed several Facebook groups alongside two private investigators.

I know most of you are familiar with these but I thought it would be useful to be sure each and every one of you checked off all the boxes.

She’d actually printed empty squares to mark next to each source.

Now, there’s International Counterintelligence Services, what I call ICS, which is the only way to go if there’s any chance your dog has been taken overseas. Trust me. But the real star and just a bun of a woman is a Karen Tarnot and her incredible team of sniffer dogs out of Iowa—or is it Idaho? It doesn’t matter. I simply can’t say enough about Karen.

She then paused, appearing to need a moment to stifle a tear before continuing.

Don’t even consider using an unlicensed pet detective. Karen’s just magnificent and would have found Sebastian but the urban environment is so, so difficult—

Alice tried to overlook her sorry performance of a crisp BBC accent. Perhaps the affectation hid shamefully soft, long vowels and dropped consonants originating in obscure Southern roots her husband’s millions had effaced. The fuchsia toe polish, hulking diamond solitaire, and French tips said Yes.

Amid the rustle of papers and low chatter, Alice considered the gathering from above, her disembodied self in a scene it was almost unsporting to despise; the elevator doors had opened on the set of an overproduced Netflix series bent on pillorying New York’s monied elite.

The Christopher Wool and Rudolf Stingel pieces Alice sat staring at as Julie droned on about the advantages of a private detective were just set pieces, but they pulled her in, their astonishing presence in the intimacy of the living room deeply incongruous. She’d never seen a Wool or a Stingel outside of a gallery.

When her mother had died, she’d sold the art—my collection, as her mother had preposterously put it. Alice and Peter had counted on at least a quarter-million dollars from the sale of the forty-some paintings and prints. They had planned to pay off college loans and stash the rest. But then, The market’s just not what it was ten years ago, tastes change, intoned Lawrence, the head of fine art, Bonhams Los Angeles. There wasn’t a single piece worth his time.

To have what seemed like tangible ready money evaporate into nothing felt like a loss. Expectation did that. Oh well. Alice had kept a few of the pieces she’d stared fondly at as a girl, but the gloss had diminished, as if the absence of commercial value had eroded their allure.

Falling into the center of the Wool, Alice released all thoughts of the painting’s worth. She simply wanted the screen print in her bedroom to stare at, to commune with, to study and know until it became hers. She wanted to master its inexplicable potency. There was nothing extraordinary about the fairly plain, inky black blob—except that there was. Similar to a Rorschach inkblot, it evoked psychological complexity with its undefinable shape tapping into iconic sexual motifs. Was she drawn to it as a relic containing a trace of the artist’s essence? She didn’t care: what the image had become to her overflowed the ornate gilt frame, spilling into an unattainable significance that left her raw and empty, longing for the comfort of Maebelle’s warm body and undemanding adoration. Even the familiar presence of Peter would do.

Pulling herself back into focus, she sat up straighter. Revived by a sip of the inky wine, she tried to listen to Julie explain the intricacies of offering a reward.

Of course you can’t wire money or pay anyone who claims to have your dog. Anyone who finds your dog and wants to return it will simply return it. Anyone who wants the money before returning your dog is not likely to have any idea where the dog is. Don’t ever send money or use a third party.

Alice wondered what this meant—a courier? iTunes gift card numbers texted to strangers? Western Union? Julie went on.

Beware. There are all sorts out there who have no idea how valuable these animals are. Even if they want the reward—and I know not all of you have offered one yet—these people don’t know how to take care of a dog and yet they do know a stud when they see one—if you know what I mean.

She laughed at the innuendo as the rest of them stared at her, politely smiling as if quietly amused even if they were not.

Sebastian just looks like a champ—everyone sees it.

It hadn’t occurred to Alice that these dogs were worth money. Julie’s Tibetan mastiff was not quite the Tapit of dogs—with his $300,000 stud fee and the highest thoroughbred earnings in North America for five years straight—but in the dog economy Sebastian did quite nicely at $7,000 per mount.

Alice was not a joiner, but she had elected to be part of this group which, it seemed, was even more wrong for her than she’d known. How typical. She wanted Maebelle back for sentimental reasons. Although that was unfair. Calling her attachment to Maebelle sentimental trivialized it, as if her feelings for her dog were automatically less legitimate than her feelings for a human. The loss and longing felt real enough to her. What made the attachment less significant—the species? Of course, Alice knew. It was the reciprocity—or its complexity and quality—that diminished the relationship. Still, there was something to be said for unmediated, unrestrained devotion, whether it was caused by stupidity or not.

Trying not think about the intensity of her attachment and yet vaguely bored, Alice’s brain began to trail over the biological conditions that, at least in certain species, determined group coordination: defense. Murmurations of starlings were a response to a predator just over 25% of the time—most often a peregrine falcon, merlin, hawk, or owl looking for a snack.

This didn’t tell her much. She wanted to determine the group’s evolving dynamic, its purpose and potential. She wanted to break it down, as if doing so would tell her something definitive about the future. Alice considered the costs and benefits of group membership (she might find her dog, but she might be wasting her time); how information was transferred (low, polite speech and understated gestures); how decisions were made (Julie was in charge). Could there be anything more than the mean sum of the parts given the strained manners of this Upper West Side cocktail charade? Was entertaining the fantasy of a higher-level group mind emerging from this ill-sorted assembly just that: a fantasy?

When it came to starlings, the basics of collective action involved seven factors: density, orientation, polarity, nearest neighbor distance, packing fraction, integrated conditional density, and pair distribution. If only she could unravel the dynamics of the room in the same way she analyzed murmurations of starlings as their kinetic formations twisted, turned, swooped, and spun, creating an electrifying effect as a unified flock of ten, several hundred thousand, or even a million. Unlike the off-putting scene before her, the rapidly changing shapes formed by the clouds of birds appeared paranormal. And yet they were nothing more than birds so common they’d long since been identified as an invasive species. It was legal to shoot, trap, poison, or destroy starlings, their nests, eggs, and hatchlings anywhere in the United States.

So what about density? It hardly applied. They’d formed a small group self-selected by geographical location and therefore by class, excluding those who’d lost dogs in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx. Everyone in the room was upper- or upper-middle class by New York standards. The single male in the room, seated to her left, had that patrician effortlessness (never mind his blindingly expensive-looking clothes) that subtly but clearly signaled the presence of both freshly minted and musty bills.

What about the orientation of bodies? They were not all pointing in the same direction the way a shoal of fish do; rather, they formed a neat circle, as a spherical murmuration might at the crucial midpoint of a sharp turn. This critical transition—when the birds swooped around, impossibly coordinated, turning the whole group with such precision it behaved as a single organism—mesmerized Alice every time she’d witnessed it. There was nothing even close to it happening on the twenty-second floor of Central Park West. Their claims to group membership were ultimately so emotionally disparate that the most they definitively shared were their parts in the pulpy, seething mass of humanity that was the life of the city itself.

Suddenly despairing at her ordinary plight, Alice skipped over the complexities of polarity. Humans exhibited some instinct for direction, one that was likely based on a magnetic mechanism in the eye similar to the starling’s. Surely Maebelle had the same. Maybe she would find her own way home.

Shaking off a wave of self-pity, Alice considered her nearest neighbor distance (NND). She estimated the distance between herself and Nancy to her left. Nancy’s ensemble of silver Birkenstocks, frosty pink toenail polish, white linen pants, and embroidered peasant blouse was roughly sixteen inches away. To her left sat the man with sockless feet in loafers, fine poplin pants in midnight blue revealing a slice of bony, hairy ankle, his razor-sharp shirt with minuscule blue-and-white stripes concealing what appeared to be the hint of a fading winter tan. St. Barts? Guadeloupe? Majorca? He had scooted as far from her as he politely could—right to the edge of the cushion. Perhaps he didn’t want to be suggestive? Sitting too close could imply all sorts of things.

Relaxing into her game, Alice shifted her weight toward the back of the sofa, abandoning the awkward edge-of-the-seat position as she settled deep into the plush down that filled the sofa’s massive white leather seat cushion. Assessing the group for any outliers, she noted the whole was neatly contained in its circular order. If not that, there was always the packing fraction to consider. It was an amusing, if not particularly useful, consideration. Given the vast glass table and the luxurious depth and breadth of the sofas, the packing fraction would be well above the standard for a murmuration. Alice stared at the oversize low vase of pink and white peonies at the center of the table. Using the flowers as her set point, she tried focusing on the overall shape of the group. It was a turbulent mess, really. They were a loose network. Alice froze for a moment, considering how her smallest movement—reaching forward to grab an hors d’oeuvre—would alter the whole. Julie, the hostess, might lean in to help her reach the tray or a cocktail napkin, thus ending her conversation with Jody, which might have led to an idea that would enable her to find Maebelle. Alice refrained.

The ignorance behind serving red wine in late May, when it was still eighty degrees outside at 6 PM, nibbled at the edge of Alice’s good manners until her thoughts were diverted by the prospect of the damage her red wine could inflict on the expensive sofa and white Berber rug should she collide with anyone (or anything). She then sat with the forbidden pleasure she might take in a ghastly spill and the diversion it would offer.

Finally, Julie stopped her talk. People began to chat among themselves. As she considered her next move—whom to talk to as her self-contained silence began to feel conspicuous—she tried to correct her impulse to scoot away from the hint of patchouli wafting her way from Nancy’s direction. Why not talk to the man? After all, he looked almost as awkward as she did. Right next to her, he sat staring straight ahead. He’d been nibbling a single morsel of smoked salmon on toast for quite some time. Maybe it had gone off and he was trying to figure out how to politely get rid of it?

Starting the conversation would be an effort. For the past week Alice had done little other than walk the twenty-block radius around her building taping flyers on scaffolding, building entrances, crossing signs, lampposts, subway stairwells, and trees. She’d called the local precinct, veterinary offices, and regional shelters every day. The rest of the time she spent on the web, either monitoring found dogs or updating her posts about Maebelle. She hadn’t really talked to anyone. In fact, she’d avoided calling Bette and Emile. She and Peter had agreed not to tell the girls the dog was lost—yet. Why upset them? They were just finished with finals and about to start their prestigious summer internships at the Women’s Environmental Network. They had no plans to return to New York before late August.

I’m Alice Foster, she said, haltingly extending her hand and turning her body right to engage what she’d finally determined was an undeniably handsome man. He wasn’t facing her, which forced her to speak louder than she would have liked to. What she hoped was a disarming smile was wasted on the air as he continued to stare straight ahead, studying the pattern of dill sprigs on his bitten canapé. After an awful pause during which she feared she’d need to loudly repeat herself, he sensed her eyes on the side of his head and turned with a tiny start.

Oh—hi. He smiled, showing too-white teeth and extending his hand. George McClintock.

Alice, she repeated as she gripped his cool, positively prissy, smooth palm. This wasn’t just a man who didn’t work in the trades—this was quite possibly a man who didn’t work at all. Just carrying a briefcase or suitcase would produce more callous than this George possessed.

I remember you from our chats. You’ve lost your mutt.

Strictly speaking, Maebelle was a mutt. Although he said it kindly, with a sympathetic warmth that came with a nice crinkle around his fifty-something eyes, she bristled at the word.

Yes. She’s a Chihuahua-Dachshund mix. Tiny. Sweet. Aren’t they all? Then she recalled that he’d lost a German shepherd. Not tiny and likely not at all sweet. Alice couldn’t stand the breed—it always reminded her of Hitler’s believed Blondi. That Hitler showed affection for a dog eroded the humanizing value of her relationship with Maebelle. If a man as profoundly evil as Hitler could love a dog and the dog could love him back, then the capacity for loving a dog said nothing about human character, compassion, or morality. Alice liked to think she was more sensitive to dogs than others were, that her bond resulted from her superior ability to understand animals. Of course, charming Rin Tin Tin was also German shepherd, and J. R. Ackerley’s sexy companion Tulip had also been a shepherd—or an Alsatian, as the Brits called them. What a strangely wonderful story that was. Alice hoped this man hadn’t been quite so handsy with his bitch as Ackerley had so famously been with his.

Yes, well, he said, Slim isn’t exactly tiny. But she is sweet. Ninety pounds of devotion last I checked. I miss her like hell.

Ick, thought Alice. Ninety pounds of devotion. It sounded like a line someone might use in a Tinder profile. A shame. He really was handsome. What a pleasure it was to admire such a man at close range.

Any luck?

Not really. I had a strange call two days ago. Someone said, I saw a big dog in the park. Brown. Red collar. Just like your poster says. Is there a reward? It was disturbing. Of course I’ve put up ten thousand dollars. It says so right on the poster. But, as Julie said, nobody is going to call to ask about it. If they have the dog and they’re decent, they’ll return her and decline the reward. Or, at worst, take it reluctantly. It shouldn’t be the first thing they ask.

Yes. Yes. The world is full of creeps. But what can you do, Alice replied politely, unsure of what to do with much of what he’d said. $10,000? Given her offer of $2,000, someone might assume she didn’t love Maebelle at all. An awkward pause ensued. Finally, Alice asked, Do you have children? It was not particularly appropriate, but what else could she say? Asking what he did was tantamount to asking how much money he made. Surely that was ruder. Alice suddenly saw him as a serial bachelor, a man who regularly whitened his teeth and kept a giant German shepherd to guard his country house or beach house—or both.

No children. You?

Alice launched into her standard explanation of the twins and her empty nest, a phrase she’d grown unbearably tired of but couldn’t seem to stop using. It was useful in conveying a great deal of information rapidly: married, children left for college or out in the world, missing them terribly, lonely, marriage going to hell. Now at least he knew she was married.

He listened and then said simply, I’m sorry.

It was an honest response, one that brushed up against the raw truth of many losses. She paused and, looking up from the inside of her wineglass where she’d been staring at flecks of sediment, felt tears begin to drip down her face.

I’m sorry. Sorry. It’s been a bit rough, right? Lost dogs and all, she said, trying to laugh off the tears as they continued to fall. She’d been embarrassingly weepy lately. Perimenopause?

Pardon me, she said, and abruptly set her wineglass down and unearthed herself from the depths of the cushion.

She found the bathroom only after startling the maid, who was leaning against the wall in the hallway texting, a grin on her surprisingly animated face. Snapping to attention, she appeared stricken, as if Alice were sure to shout at her.