The Golden Girl. Erica Orloff
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gentility, quiet wealth. She loved the building—had since the first time she laid eyes on it a year before.
While she and her father prided themselves on some of the most spectacular high-rises and lofts in New York, she did love the feeling of the old brownstones near embassy row, an area of New York where many consulates and embassies quietly maintained their headquarters. The streets were quieter, tree-lined, and seemed from another time.
Charlie got out and held open the door for her. She patted his arm and smiled at him as she got out, reassuring him she’d be okay. She went to the gate and pressed a buzzer. When she gave her name, she was buzzed in immediately after looking up at the security camera.
Entering the club made the bustle of New York seem even more distant than the tree-lined street on the Upper East Side had. In the immense entrance hall, Debussy was piped in through hidden speakers, and immediately Maddie felt a tiny bit of tension leave her shoulders. The floors were polished parquet in an intricate pattern, the workmanship definitely from the Roaring Twenties. A grand staircase swept up to the second floor, curving, with a carved banister in rosewood. Curtains covered the windows and puddled on the floor, creating an ambience that was elegant yet relaxed, with sunlight streaming through their filmy whiteness. A fireplace huge enough to stand inside took up a portion of the wall to the left, and as always in the fall, a toasty fire glowed.
Olivia Hayworth, Renee’s personal secretary, greeted her warmly, kissing her on each cheek. “So glad you could make the trip in these circumstances, Madison. Please let me know if there’s anything we can do. We’ve sent over flowers to the funeral home, and the Shipley family listed a charity—”
“Yes, they give a great deal to the Children’s Museum in Philadelphia. Claire had a niece who had leukemia—since recovered. The museum was Amy’s favorite place during treatment and afterward.”
“Well, we’ve sent a sizable donation, in the Club’s name.”
“Thank you, truly. That’s very thoughtful. I’ll let my father know. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your gesture.”
“Renee’s waiting for you in the sunroom. Tea will be served in just a few minutes now that you’re here.”
Madison nodded and made her way down the hallway to the sunroom in the back of the brownstone. The French doors were open and there sat Renee Dalton-Sinclair, her auburn hair in an elegant bun, and dressed to perfection in an Oscar de la Renta suit. She rose and extended her hand. Though Madison knew she was in her forties, her beauty was timeless in a Grace Kelly sort of way.
“Hello, Madison. Thank you so much for coming.” Renee leaned forward and kissed Madison’s cheek as the two women clasped hands.
“Good to see you.”
“Again, I am so sorry…terrible, terrible crime.”
Madison nodded. It was difficult accepting condolences when she knew that as much as Claire had hurt her, she had wounded Claire in return by refusing to forgive her.
“Sit down. How are you feeling?”
Madison was unused to making more than small talk with Renee, but she was also weary. She opened up a bit.
“To be honest…awful. I haven’t slept.” Madison ran her fingers through her long golden-blond hair. “And…Claire and I had a falling-out over her relationship with my father. They had hidden it for months, and…well, it was hard to accept. So I feel terrible that she’s gone and things hadn’t been right between us.”
Renee nodded, her royal-blue eyes conveying empathy.
“Anyway,” Madison said, waving a hand, “the Pruitts are nothing if not tough. It’s just going to be rough going for a little while.”
Renee pursed her lips and clasped her hands together. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod and one of her staff wheeled in a tea cart with a beautiful bone china tea set on it. Madison was always amazed at how Renee’s crew forgot nothing. There were two hundred members of the Gotham Roses, but Maddie assumed the staff kept a catalog of each member’s likes and dislikes, because without asking, she got a cup of Earl Grey tea with lemon, no sugar, no cream—exactly as she liked it. The woman also handed her a plate with two scones on it, and raspberry jam as opposed to strawberry—also her preference.
After the woman had served Renee, she retreated from the sunroom, shutting the French doors behind her.
“Madison, perhaps you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here in the midst of your crisis.”
Madison nodded, ready for the worst.
“Well, the police are making vague references to ‘persons of interest.’ Of course, your father heads that list.”
“I know,” Madison said softly.
“Well…I consider myself an excellent judge of character. If I wasn’t, I couldn’t have created this charitable organization. In the year you’ve been a Gotham Rose, you’ve always struck me as a bit aloof, a shrewd negotiator. Cautious, perhaps, in your personal life. You stay out of the headlines—except when you think it counts, namely well-executed business deals. You are absolutely driven, the kind of person who thrives on putting in a hundred and fifty percent and the thrill of the deal.”
“I think that’s a fair assessment.”
“And my guess is being the by-product of the most famous divorce in New York history is part of that. At twelve, your life was an open book, wasn’t it? That’s why you guard your privacy.”
Maddie sighed. “They fought over every detail. My mother had to have a private chef shuttle between my father’s household and mine so that she could control what I ate—macrobiotic. When I got to college, I had my first taste of caffeine and loved it.” She smiled at the memory, but then shook her head. “I had matching wardrobes at her apartment and his. My father was required to send me on vacations tallying no less than twenty-five thousand dollars a year. I had to have two nannies at each home—a morning nanny, who also got me from school and oversaw homework—and a night nanny. It was insane. I was branded the Poor Little Rich Girl. They used to snap pictures of me getting out of my limo at school, with the headline Hundred-Million-Dollar Baby.”
Renee nodded. “Then there was that brilliant IQ of yours. Skipping grades. Private tutors to challenge you. Fluent in three languages. And finally, there are the things no one knows…like your training.”
Maddie looked at Renee, puzzled. “My training?”
Renee smiled enigmatically. “You can fire a .44 better than an FBI sharpshooter. And I believe you know the correct technique to break a man’s nose—or even kill him—with just the right palm-to-face blow.”
“I don’t understand…that stuff isn’t anything I would ever discuss with anyone. No one knows outside my father and the men he had train me.”
“I know. And why did he train you?”
“Well,” Maddie said coolly, “you seem to know so much about me, why don’t you tell me?”
“Trust me in that this all will make sense in a few minutes. From what I understand, your father and his brother Bing were actually two of three brothers. And the middle brother, William, was kidnapped and died in a botched rescue attempt. Though that was covered up by the family so that their failed security wouldn’t seem like an invitation to every kidnapper in the world back then to try again.”
Maddie stared incredulously. “Yes, though I’m…I don’t know what to say. Yes, that’s true. Understandably, my father has a security obsession. He wanted me to be safe, but then he knew that even a personal-security detail could have failings—namely, traitors. So he wanted me to be able to defend myself. It might seem a bit extreme, but I was trained by former Black Ops. Two of them who own a private security firm…Look, Renee, what is all this about?”
“It’s about me wanting to know what makes Madison Taylor-Pruitt tick. Madison, do you believe your