The Golden Girl. Erica Orloff
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floors and original paintings in the common areas—but they were the safest buildings in Manhattan.
When the brass elevator door opened, the elevator operator, Harry, gave a tip of his cap. She smiled at him, stepped into the elevator, and needed to say nothing as he pressed the button for the penthouse. Everyone—from the doormen to housekeeping—knew exactly which apartment belonged to Madison Taylor-Pruitt. The penthouse with the best view of the park.
She got off on her floor and walked to her apartment door, letting herself in and deactivating the alarm. Then she reset for “home,” meaning all doors and external windows were secure, but she could roam the apartment at will.
Maddie pressed a button on the wall, and with a nearly silent whoosh, all the panels of blinds ascended, revealing a bank of windows with the most incredible view of the park. She admired the twinkling skyline. Then she massaged her neck and slipped off her shoes. It had been a long day—and a long and strange night.
She walked in bare-stocking feet over to the telephone and dialed her father.
“Dad?”
“Maddie. You’re safe?”
“Other than being nearly driven off the road by paparazzi. What the hell is going on?”
“Have you turned on the television yet?”
“No.”
“You better sit down.”
“Dad…” He rarely patronized her, and she abhorred when he did. “Just tell me.”
“All right…. It’s Claire. She was found murdered tonight.”
Chapter 2
“Maddie? Maddie? You still there?”
“Yeah…I’m here,” she whispered. She walked to the kitchen and turned on the lights. Custom cherrywood cabinets reflected the halogen lamps hanging from the ceiling. She stepped over to the sink—an immense double one carved from a single piece of granite. Taking a crystal glass from the cabinet, she turned on the tap fitted with a water filter and filled the glass with water.
“Maddie…the police will likely want to interview you tomorrow.”
She sipped the water, then stuck her fingers under the faucet, wet her hand and patted her head, feeling mildly dizzy.
“Me? Why?”
“You were her best friend.”
“Not in a while, Dad. We hadn’t spoken in months.” She didn’t need to add thanks to you.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“No.” She wanted to add, I’ll never be okay again. “How was she…” Maddie couldn’t say the words.
“She was shot in a warehouse. The old abandoned one we were looking to buy for the condo project.”
“What was she doing there?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did she tell you she was going there?” Maddie snapped at her father.
“Is that an accusation?”
“No…” She softened a bit. “I just don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
Maddie heard his voice catch a bit, and she wanted to suggest that maybe she take a walk the five blocks to his apartment—a two-story penthouse world famous for its luxury. Then her anger got the best of her.
“I need to go.”
“You want me to come over?”
“No, Dad. In fact, right about now, you’re the last person I want to see.” She hung up the phone abruptly, her hands shaking slightly.
Maddie walked through the living room to her cavernous master bedroom. She’d furnished it with an immense four-poster antique bed, its headboard intricately carved sometime during the Victorian era. Egyptian-cotton sheets in a pristine ivory shade and modern touches in the room, including a haunting black-and-white photo by Diane Arbus and a painting by Julian Schnabel, made it seem very fresh, though. Maddie moved to an armoire in the corner of the room and opened the double doors, pulling out a drawer. There, nestled in among her silk camisoles, was a small wooden box. She took it out and sat down on her bed, opening the lid.
Her first instinct, all those months ago, had been to rip up her pictures and memories, to pretend she’d never known Claire. Now, her once–best friend murdered in cold blood, she was grateful she hadn’t. She pulled out a photo of the two of them, smiling, on a trip through Napa Valley wine country. They were on horseback—Maddie remembered Claire’s mount nearly bucked her off. Next was a photo of them in Paris, when Maddie’s mother had flown them there for a weekend of art and gourmet meals. It had been unseasonably cold, and Claire’s black hair framed her face in a classic Clara Bow bob. She looked like a 1930s movie star, with her Kewpie doll lips and big black eyes. But woe to anyone who doubted her ability in the courtroom. In the picture, Maddie stood next to Claire, her polar opposite in terms of looks. Both of them had on hats and scarves to ward off the chill. They had asked a handsome Frenchman to snap their photo, and he had captured them midlaugh.
Maddie stared at the photos. Claire had been so much a part of her life—her first friend at boarding school. After high school, they’d gone to Harvard together, roomed together, gotten an apartment together. She hadn’t imagined a time when they wouldn’t be together. But that was before the dinner nearly six months ago that changed her entire world….
“How’s your soufflé?” her father asked her.
“Excellent.”
“And yours, Claire?”
Claire nodded, but despite her friend’s famous sweet tooth, Maddie had noticed how she’d just picked at her dessert.
They were seated in the upstairs dining room of 412—an exclusive restaurant in Manhattan so pricey and discreet that it was simply known by the number on its door, and no other markings delineated it as a restaurant. Its number was unlisted. The upstairs dining room was for the clientele even an establishment like 412 distinguished as the most elite of the elite. Jack Pruitt and his daughter, Maddie, were regulars.
“Maddie,” her father began. “You know I would never hurt you for anything in the world.…” He hesitated and sipped at his Glenfiddich on the rocks. His sandy blond hair was streaked with an elegant silver, though it was still full and thick. His broad shoulders and wrinkleless skin made him appear ten or even twenty years younger. “But sometimes, just like in business, things happen. They’re not personal, but people do get hurt.”
Maddie felt the color drain from her face. Something was very wrong when Jack Pruitt, who prided himself on having the charm of a showman mixed with the coldness of a viper, began talking about feelings. It wasn’t the Pruitt style.
“So,” he continued, “there’s no way to say this gracefully. Claire and I have fallen in love.”
“What?” Maddie looked at Claire. “When? I mean…God…what? Claire, you’ve mentioned nothing to…” But Maddie’s question had stopped as the previous few months swirled around her. All Claire’s late nights with her father, ostensibly going over the latest legal filings. She’d joined Pruitt & Pruitt as in-house counsel, and Maddie had felt relieved at first that there was someone in the legal department she and her father could trust implicitly. Now she felt like a fool. Her supposed best friend had been sleeping with her father. It felt so sordid.
Maddie pulled her chair back from the table, as Claire, usually so eloquent, stammered, “Please, Maddie…we didn’t even realize it was happening at first. It started innocently, I swear to you.”
“Nothing,” Maddie whispered as she rose stiffly from the table, “is innocent. We’re all grown-ups, but don’t insult my intelligence.