Deadly Rich by Edward Stewart

I’m here whenever you need me, day or night. And I make housecalls.”
    “Look,” Leigh said, “I haven’t got the strength right now to be tactful.”
    “Of course not, you poor thing.”
    “Let’s be honest. You detested Oona, you fought like a dog with her, and so far as I know you never reconciled, so please, let’s not make this any harder by pretending you can comfort me. I’m sorry if that sounds awful.”
    “It sounds tremendously human, hon, just like you. Believe me I do understand. But I wasn’t phoning about Oona. Good God, I’m the first to admit I couldn’t stand that broad’s guts. And if you think I’m going to even try to pretend with you—”
    She felt that old familiar rush of certainty beneath her skin. When Dick Braidy took this tone, he wanted something.
    “You and I just haven’t got the kind of relationship where pretending plays any role at all,” he said, “and that’s what I think is so great about you and me.”
    “Dick, if you didn’t phone me about Oona, what have you been talking about for ten minutes?”
    “Dizey, of course.”
    Hiding in her heart was a sick little fascination that Dick Braidy knew so well how to arouse. She realized that if she gave in to it, she would end up furious at herself. “What about Dizey?”
    He let a moment crawl by. “Her column.”
    “Today?”
    “You bet your sweet tush today—would I be phoning you about yesterday’s column?”
    She understood that for Dick Braidy and his hundreds of think-alikes, nothing was real or mattered till it was on TV or in the gossip columns or whispered at Park Avenue dinner parties—if you could call the level of communication at those dinners whispering. Volcanos could be blowing up in Honduras and killing three hundred people at a spurt, but for Dick Braidy the true hot poop of the hour was apt to be that a ved dee famous pop singer’s toupee had been found in the Jacuzzi of a junk-bond mogul’s mistress.
    Leigh knew she should pull back, end this conversation now. But she couldn’t. He’d hooked her—just as he had so many times before. “What has Dizey got in today’s column?”
    “You don’t know? You honestly haven’t seen it?”
    “Of course I haven’t seen it.” She had to fight to control her voice now. “Would we be having this conversation if I had?”
    “Then do me a favor—do us both a favor—above all do yourself a favor. Please, please , I’m sincerely begging you—don’t, do not look at Dizey’s column today. Promise.”
    “Will you please just tell me straight out what Dizey has put in her column?”
    “You don’t want to know.”
    “If you’re not going to tell me,” she burst out, “if all you’re doing is playing one of your goddamned games with me, then … go to hell!”
    “Now, hon, just take it easy.”
    “I will not take it easy.”
    “Now listen to me—”
    “I will not listen to you. You’re not helping, not one bit. You’ve never helped. You’ve always made things worse.”
    “Now, hon, you’re understandably excited. I know you don’t mean that.”
    “You know shit ! I do mean it! Why the hell do you think I divorced you?” Leigh threw the phone receiver into the cradle.
    For the next minute and a half she sat perfectly still on the edge of the bed, listening to the weightless sigh of the air conditioner as it stirred the point-lace curtains at the bedroom windows.
    Then she rose and went into the hallway.
    The button beside the elevator door was glowing like a ruby caught in a sunbeam, which meant the maid was still cleaning.
    Leigh stared over the carved banister down into the stairwell.
    Nothing moved.
    As she hurried down the two flights of carpeted stairs, she had a sense of perfumed airlessness, like the ventilation on the Concorde. Around her the town house had the quiet of a secret wrapped in cotton.
    On the first floor morning sun streamed into the living room, turning beveled shelves of rare-book bindings gold. She moved