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  “You call getting it all amply provided for?” Jean says bitterly.

  “There’s still the art, Jean, dear,” Huff says in an audible whisper.

  Lickel holds up her index finger to indicate not so fast. “Sorry. There’s a problem there.”

  “What problem is that?” Jean says through gritted teeth.

  Sklar takes over again. “Honestly…? I told Sun this was a bad idea at the time. But he deemed it prudent to pledge all the art to a donor’s room in the Museum of Modern Art, thus ensuring his legacy and avoiding estate taxes at the same time. I hate to tellya, but the art’s pretty much gone.”

  “That’s just not possible. He would have told me!” Jean says, immediately realizing how ludicrous she sounds.

  What are the odds a man who commits bigamy and gives Burt Sklar his Durable Power of Attorney would be honest with his wife about anything?

  “He gave me some of some of those paintings. They’re mine!”

  “Can you prove it?” Lickel asks.

  “I don’t have to prove it. They were presents! Birthday presents, anniversary presents. We built that collection together.”

  “But he paid for them so we have no way of knowing,” Lickel says. “Bills of sale in Sunderland’s name were provided to the museum when the pictures were pledged. We have them all, if you’d care to examine them.”

  “Oh, we will, Mr. Sklaah,” Huff says. “We will, indeed, be looking into everything.”

  There’s something almost comic about the polished, clubbable Huff, an ivy league lawyer in a Porcellian Club tie and bespoke suit and vest, trying to intimidate Sklar, the hip, black clad, ninja accountant.

  Knowing her side is dangerously out-matched, Jean heaves a deep sigh of resignation. “Fine. I guess we’ll just have to settle all this in court.”

  Sklar raises a conciliatory hand. “Candidly…? I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  “Worked out? How?” Jean snarls.

  “No one wants a long and public legal battle here—with the possible exception of the lawyers, right guys?” Sklar jokes, nodding at Huff and Lickel. “I’m sure we can arrive at some sort of compensation for you.”

  “Compensation? For twenty years of marriage and unimaginable humiliation? I wonder how much that will be? Tell me, Burt, did you and Sun joke about how easy I was to dupe?”

  “Truthfully, Jean…? I feel very bad for you.”

  “Well, here’s how I feel, Burt. You engineered this disgusting, illegal marriage. I wouldn’t be surprised if you and that slut were in this together right from the beginning. For all I know, you introduced her to Sun in order to carry out this…this…theft. Sun may be a bigamist, but I still don’t believe he knew about any of this other stuff. This is exactly what you did to poor old Lois Warner, saying she’d signed a Durable Power of Attorney over to you. I should have believed Maud. We all should have!” Jean rises abruptly. “Let’s go, Squire!”

  A bumbling Huff hurriedly stuffs papers in his briefcase and follows Jean. “You’ll be hearing from us, Mr. Sklar! I promise you!”

  “Can’t wait,” Sklar says.

  At the door, Jean turns, levels a hard gaze at Sklar, and says, “I wish to hell Maud Warner had shot you both!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Greta Lauber is giving a small luncheon when Jean arrives uninvited.

  “I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this, Greta. But I just got through a meeting with Sklar and that Medusa lawyer of his. You’re the only one I can talk to.” Sensing Greta’s unease, Jean draws back. “Am I interrupting something? I can leave.”

  “No, Jeanie! It’s not what you think. It’s that, well…Come join us.”

  Greta ushers Jean into the dining room where Magma Hartz and Lydia Fairley are enjoying their first course. The minute Jean sees Lydia, she knows something’s up. Lydia Fairley is a tall, slim, indigo-eyed blonde who may look like one of the chic “ladies who lunch” but is, in fact, the tough, brilliant lawyer society folk turn to whenever their haute cocoons get rocked by scandal. She’s Clarence Darrow in couture.

  Greta pulls up a chair for Jean at the small round table in front of French doors leading to the terrace. She presses an invisible buzzer. Martyn enters, sets another place, and brings Jean the appetizer: ginger squash soup, served in a paper-thin porcelain bowl shaped like an acorn husk. It’s all very decorous and genteel. Yet a conspiratorial silence hangs over the room like smoke.

  “Are you sure I’m not interrupting?” Jean asks.

  Never one to beat around the bush, Lydia says: “Okay, Jeanie…You may as well know it. I’m going to defend Maud Warner when they catch her.”

  Jean now understands the tension in the air. The women watch Jean digest the news that Greta, her best friend, is hosting a lunch for Lydia, another good pal, who plans to defend her husband’s killer.

  “Do let me know if I can be of any help,” Jean says nonchalantly as she samples the soup.

  “You’re not upset?” Magma says, as if wishing Jean were.

  “May I have some wine, please?” Jean asks.

  Greta pours Jean a glass of white wine from the crystal carafe. Jean savors a few sips, then holds the glass up to the light, admiring the pale gold liquid.

  “Like you, Greta, we only served the very best wines at our parties, remember? Sun was so intent on impressing our guests. I never drank a drop of those thousand-dollar bottles because I knew that alcohol and a hectic social life don’t mix—not if I wanted to look good for the photographers and especially for my beloved husband, who put such store in appearances. Do you know what I wish I’d done with all that fine wine now…? Poured it into a vat and drowned his fat ass in it!” She drains the glass.

  The women exchange uncomfortable glances. “I take it your meeting with Sklar didn’t go well,” Greta says.

  “That would be an understatement. Sklar’s engineered it so he and the slut have stolen most of Sun’s money. I don’t even own my house!”

  Greta is shocked. “Oh, my God, Jean! What happened?”

  “What slut?” Magma says.

  “You haven’t told them, Greta?”

  “Of course not,” Greta says proudly.

  “Told us what?! What slut?!” Magma cries.

  “Well, ladies, turns out my beloved husband had another wife. The great Sun Sunderland was a bigamist.”

  Magma gasps as her hand flies to cover her mouth. Lydia furrows her brow in amused disbelief.

  “How unexpected,” Lydia says wryly.

  Magma is so flustered she can hardly think. “Unexpected? It’s not possible! It’s the most sinister thing I’ve ever heard! Is she anyone we know?”

  “No, dear. Unless you know any twenty-something strippers.”

  “She’s a stripper?” Magma cries.

  “She was. Now she’ll probably buy the club.”

  Greta has been sitting in stunned silence, trying to digest this news. “Wait, Jean. You’re his wife. You have rights to his estate. Where’s your lawyer?”

  “Where’s the estate is the real question. There’s almost nothing left.”

  “Wait a minute! Sun was enormously rich!” Greta says.

  “Was being the operative word. There’s almost no money left in the estate now because Sklar claims Sun gave him his Durable Power of Attorney to—shall we say—rearrange the money.”

  “What’s a Durable Power of Attorney?” Magma asks.

  Jean heaves a weary sigh. “You explain it, Lydia. I need another drink.”

  Lydia shifts into lawyer gear. “A Durable Power of Attorney is the most serious document a person can sign. People only assign them when they’re terminally ill or going off to war or about to do something where there’s a chance they’ll die. Whoever you give this power to will have complete control over your financial life. They can act fo
r you in any way they choose: sell assets, move money around, mortgage property. You have to really trust the person you give it to because, in effect, they are you,” Lydia explains.

  “And you’re saying that Sun gave this power to Sklar?” Greta asks incredulously.

  “Exactly. Sklar also set up something called a tontine with himself, Sun, and the slut as beneficiaries.”

  “What’s a tontine?” Magma says.

  “A partnership where survivors take all. How original. Sleazy, but original,” Lydia says.

  “Sleazy is right,” Jean agrees. “And now that Sun died, it’s gone into effect with two surviving partners. Sklar’s been moving Sun’s money into various offshore entities and LLCs controlled by the tontine for years. It’s sleazy, as you say. But unless we can prove that Power of Attorney’s a forgery, it’s legal.”

  Lydia is nodding her head knowingly. “That’s exactly what Maud says he did to her mother.”

  “I should have listened to her,” Jean says.

  “Jeanie, do you think Sun knew what Sklar was doing?” Greta asks.

  “Who knows? Clearly, he was distracted,” Jean says angrily. “I’m certainly taking the position that he never would have signed such a thing. But Sklar was covering up the bigamy for him. So who knows what that rat made him do? I’m pretty sure that’s why he went into business with Sklar in the first place.”

  “I’m going to fire Burt this instant!” Magma says.

  “You better hope it’s not too late,” Jean says.

  Magma bolts up from the table. “I need to call my lawyer!”

  “Magma! Wait! We have to talk about Maud’s demeanor in the restaurant!” Lydia calls after her.

  “Later,” Magma says, running out.

  Greta shakes her head. “This will be all over town in an hour.”

  “Not that long,” Jean says with a smirk. She sips her fourth glass of wine. “So, Lydia, you’re gonna defend Maud, eh? Maybe they won’t catch her.”

  “I hope they don’t. She’s a heroine,” Greta says.

  “Oh, they’ll catch her. And I plan to help her.”

  The three women sit in quiet contemplation as Martyn clears the table for the main course. After a time, Greta turns to Lydia.

  “You’re the legal eagle here, Lyds. Please tell us Sklar can’t get away with this.”

  “Do you have a good lawyer?” Lydia says to Jean.

  “Screw lawyers. I need a cartel killer.”

  “Well, disputing the Durable Power of Attorney is a good delaying tactic. However, in thinking about it, I do have another suggestion,” Lydia says.

  “Tell me,” Jean says eagerly.

  “Go public.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I have to say, it feels a little surreal to be sitting here with Billy in D.C. about to watch the Wanda Balter Special with Jean Sunderland as her guest, considering I’m the reason for the show. Seconds before the program begins, Billy flings me a guarded glance. Over the past few days, our relationship has grown less chummy. We mostly play heads up poker, which doesn’t require a lot of conversation.

  Sometimes we reminisce about the old days when we used to travel to poker tournaments together and talk about our lives. He said if ever I needed a friend, he’d be there for me. I confided to him that I’d sometimes thought of killing Burt Sklar. I doubt he ever dreamed I’d actually go through with it. That may be the reason he slinks around me like a wary dog. He let me into his house out of the goodness of his heart for old times’ sake. Now he doesn’t know how to get rid of me. He locks his door at night. I don’t blame him.

  Wanda Balter’s aging face is an Impressionist blur on camera. I’m thinking they must use a vat of Vaseline to make the legendary newswoman look this good at her age. Either that, or ruthless ambition actually is the Fountain of Youth. Balter speaks directly to the camera, addressing her audience like she’s talking to a group of friends.

  “It’s been twelve days since billionaire statesman Sun Sunderland was sensationally shot while he was lunching with his close friend Burt Sklar at The Four Seasons Restaurant in New York City. Sadly, he died of a heart attack the next day. His stellar funeral was attended by dignitaries and celebrities from around the world. The shooter, a fifty-six-year-old socialite named Maud Warner, is still on the run. I’m here tonight with Sun Sunderland’s widow, Jean, who is giving her first interview since the tragedy.”

  Jean is sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace, with the gorgeous orange Rothko as a backdrop. She’s wearing a long-sleeved blue dress and pearls. Her hands are clasped on her lap, as if in prayer. Her carefully coiffed blond hair glows like a halo. With her stoic countenance and dignified bearing, she is every inch the saintly, bereaved widow.

  “Jean, thank you so much for allowing us to be with you here in your beautiful home tonight,” Balter says in a cloying voice.

  Jean tilts her head forward in a solemn acknowledgment. Balter leans in and furrows her brow with that air of intrusive concern which has made her famous at eliciting intimate revelations.

  “Jean, where were you when you heard the news that your beloved husband had been shot?”

  “I was in a board meeting at the Museum of Modern Art.”

  “Can you describe that moment?”

  As Jean relives her nightmare with admirable restraint, talking about the shock of it all and her anxious trip to the hospital, I feel Billy’s eyes on me. I just know he’s waiting for me to show some sign of sympathy for this poor woman I’ve made a widow. I pretend not to know he’s looking and just keep staring at the set, poker-faced.

  Balter is taking her time, as usual. She briefly describes the crime, and me, and Burt Sklar, and the whole scene in the restaurant, plus my miraculous escape. Once again, I hear myself referred to as “Mad Maud,” that tired old sobriquet I’ve had to stomach for years. Then Balter slowly leans more forward, zeroing in hard on Jean. Balter fans all know she’s about to deliver one of her signature zingers.

  “So, Jean…What would you say has been the most difficult moment for you during this whole ordeal?” As Jean appears to be thinking, Balter gives her a prompt: “Is it perhaps knowing that your dear husband wasn’t Maud Warner’s intended target? That she most likely was aiming to shoot her old nemesis, Burt Sklar, and that Sun might be alive today had she not accidentally missed?”

  As Balter’s audience knows from close to two generations of watching her, this somewhat tactless question is meant to pierce Jean’s impressive poise and get her to break down on camera and bemoan the injustice of fate. Jean pauses for a long, thoughtful moment, then speaks in a halting but clear voice.

  “Well…no, actually, um, I think by far the most difficult moment was finding out that the man I loved…the man to whom I’ve devoted my life for more than twenty years was…”

  Balter leans in further. “Was…?”

  “A bigamist,” Jean says firmly.

  “I’m sorry. What?” Balter grimaces, like she misheard.

  “Sun was secretly married to another woman for years. I think that’s called a bigamist.”

  Blindsided by this explosive revelation, Balter looks like she’s been slapped in the face. Her jaw drops into a comically startled expression and for the first time in her long career, she’s at an embarrassing loss for words. But her reaction is nothing compared to poor Billy’s.

  “WHAAAAAAT?” he screams at the set. “Sun Sunderland, a bigamist? Maudie, did-did-did you hear what she just said?”

  I shush him. “Listen!”

  Balter plays for time by clearing her throat and sitting up very straight.

  “Well…so, Jean, you’re saying that Sun Sunderland, the Pope of Finance, was a bigamist?”

  “Correct.”

  “And when did you find this out?” Balter asks, now seeming truly interested as opposed to script
ed.

  “In the hospital. At his bedside. When he thought he was dying.”

  “Whew!” Balter gasps unwittingly, then recovers. “Okay, then! Please describe that moment to our viewers!”

  I listen to Jean describe the scene in the hospital like she’s like she’s talking about the weather. She’s doing great. She’s wearing blue. I’m proud of her.

  “And you had absolutely no inkling?” Balter says, her face contorted into a permanent incredulous expression.

  “Obviously not.”

  “Do you know who this woman is?”

  “I do now, yes.”

  “Who is she?” Balter says with glee.

  “I’d rather not say. There’s a lawsuit pending. But I’m sure the media will find out very shortly. You always do.”

  The program concludes with a breathless wrap-up by Balter who is giddy with the knowledge she’s added another delicious scoop to her resume.

  Billy turns off the set and collapses back on the couch with a grand sigh. “Wow…I’m in total shock. Aren’t you?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You didn’t know about this, did you, Maudie?”

  “Why? Would it matter?”

  “Are you kidding? People are gonna be effin’ outraged that your victim isn’t the great man everyone thought he was. Hell, I’m outraged! Fuck it! Sunderland’s just another prime example of the high level hypocrisy that goes on in this country without anyone knowing about it until it’s exposed! The guy’s a billionaire, so he thought he could get away with any goddam thing he wanted.”

  “Including murder?” I venture.

  “Yeah, sure! Who knows with these people? But you don’t seem that surprised. Please tell me the truth, Maudie. Did you know Sunderland was a bigamist? Look at me. Did you?”