Too Rich and Too Dead (5 page)

O-kay, Mallory thought. Aloud, she asked, “Casper Ranch? Is that Casper as in Casper the Friendly Ghost or as in Casper, Wyoming?”

“Ees C-A-S-S-B-E-R,” Juanita explained crossly. “Cass-Ber. Ees a combination of Meester and Mees's last names—Cassidy and Berm. Mees Berm, she make eet up.” She rolled her eyes, as if looking toward heaven for understanding. “She theenks giving a place a fancy name makes it more high-class or something.”

“I see.” Mallory wondered if Carly's housekeeper's deliberate mispronunciation of her employer's last name was due to her faulty English or one more way of asserting her independence. Or would scorn have been a more appropriate word?

She kept her questions to herself as she followed Juanita inside, noting that the house's interior was as impressive as its dramatic exterior promised. The cavernous living room's A-Frame configuration was emphasized by exposed beams made of uneven dark wood that looked as if it had been stolen from Abe Lincoln's birthplace. The same shape was echoed in the tremendous windows that dominated three of the walls, each of them five-sided so that their tops also formed peaks. All that glass did an effective job
of making the spectacular landscape part of the décor. At the moment, the scenery happened to include the pale yellow sun setting against a darkening blue sky streaked with oranges, pinks, and purples that in any other context would have looked downright garish.

If I lived here, Mallory thought, I don't think I'd ever leave this very spot.

That feeling was reinforced by the furnishings, which like the room itself were striking enough to be featured in a glossy design magazine. They incorporated an array of amazing textures: the ragged gray stones of the fireplace that jutted up between two of the gigantic windows, two Three Bears-style chairs made from rough-hewn wood but softened with buttery leather cushions in a deep shade of red, a long comfy couch upholstered in shaggy white fabric that reminded her of a polar bear.

As she stepped farther inside the room, a poodle suddenly stuck its head up in the air. Mallory realized that even though the dog was in plain sight, draped comfortably across the couch, its fluffy white fur had caused it to blend in with its surroundings so well that she hadn't even noticed it. But the dog noticed her, leaping off the couch and bounding toward her enthusiastically.

“Get away, Bijou!” Juanita insisted crossly. “Bad dog!” But aside from glaring at the animal, she made no move to rescue Mallory.

“It's all right,” Mallory assured her. “I love dogs.” She bent down to let the poodle lick one of her hands while scratching her behind the ears with the other.

Mallory was still admiring the house that Rejuva-Juice built, along with the pet she suspected had been chosen because her fur matched the décor, when she heard a familiar voice cry, “Mallory? Is that really
you?”

Mallory turned and saw Carly loping toward her. Her long strides, unencumbered by ridiculously high heels, sent the silky fabric of her brightly colored print dress swirling around her knees as if she were a dancer.

Mallory's first impression was that the Carly Cassidy of today was a considerably more sophisticated version of her earlier self, her youthful exuberance replaced by cool elegance. In fact, Mallory decided that the photograph in
The New York Times
hadn't done her justice. While the flattering shot had made it seem Carly hadn't put on any weight en route to her forties, in person she actually looked slimmer than she'd been in high school, if that was humanly possible. Somehow she'd managed to fend off the effects of both the years and the carbs, both of which had taken their toll on the waists, hips, and thighs of most of the other middle-aged women Mallory knew.

Her hazel eyes were bright, and she simply exuded energy. Just as the
Times
had claimed, Carly Cassidy Berman was the best possible advertisement for Rejuva-Juice's effectiveness.

“It's
so
good to see you again!” she cried, sweeping toward Mallory with her arms spread wide. Bijou jumped out of the way, as if the savvy poodle had just realized that a tidal wave was approaching.

Mallory braced herself for a big bear hug—which left her totally unprepared for the kiss on each cheek she got instead.

“How long has it
been?”
Carly squealed once she'd stepped back. “I've always been much too busy to make it to any of the reunions, so we probably haven't seen each other since—wow, could it really be graduation?”

No doubt, Mallory thought, still amused by Carly's warm reception. After all, it's not as if either of us went out of our way to keep in touch afterward.

“I think you're right,” she replied. “I don't remember us running into each other since then.”

“No matter how long it's been, it's great that you're here now.” Carly suddenly froze. “You're not going to tell anyone how old we
really
are, are you?”

Mallory chuckled, then stopped herself when she saw she was serious.

“But you look fabulous, Carly!” she insisted. “Maybe you should tell people you're actually ninety—but that Rejuva-Juice keeps you looking so young!”

Carly let out a merry, high-pitched laugh. “Mallory, you're so funny! I should hire you as my marketing director.” Her smiled faded. “Seriously, let's not mention our age to anyone, okay?”

Mallory blinked. “Of course not.”

Carly's smile returned. “Now let me take a look at you.” She ran her eyes up and down Mallory as if she were appraising a used car. Which was exactly what Mallory felt like as she stood there, enduring her
scrutiny. In fact, once again she traveled through a time machine, back to gym class—and a very vivid memory of Carly and some of the other girls clustered in the locker room, eyeing her and tittering. When she'd glanced down self-consciously, she'd discovered she was wearing two different colored socks. Somehow, in tenth-graders’ eyes, that was the equivalent of forgetting to put on any clothes at all.

Still, there was such a thing as good manners, and Mallory expected Carly to come up with a line about how terrific Mallory looked, too. Something about how she hadn't changed a bit since their days together at JFK High—or at least that she hadn't changed
much.

Instead, Carly drew her perfectly lipsticked mouth into a straight line, then actually allowed a second line to appear on her face—this one smack in the middle of her forehead.

“I'll be sure to send you home with plenty of Rejuva-Juice,” she said earnestly. “Fortunately, there's finally something to help all of us face the ravages of time.”

Mallory opened her mouth in astonishment. But before any words of protest managed to make their way out, Carly shrieked, “Juanita? Pack up a case of Rejuva-Juice—no, make that two cases—for my old friend. And make sure you get her address so it'll be waiting for her when she gets home.”

Old? Mallory thought crossly, not at all confident that Carly was referring to the length of their acquaintance.

“Now come sit down,” Carly insisted, perching
on the couch and patting the seat cushion next to her. “Tell me all about what you've been doing for the last, oh, however many years it's been. I want to hear about everything: husbands, children, careers, whatever.”

Mallory sat down on the couch and folded her hands in her lap. When she realized that that particular posture might make her look prim—and, heaven forbid, possibly even
old
—she instead draped one arm across the back of the sofa.

“Let's see,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose I should start with the reason I'm here. I recently embarked on a brand new career as a travel writer.”

“How exciting!” Carly cooed. “Do you travel to exotic spots like Paris and Cairo and Dubai?”

“Actually,” Mallory replied, clearing her throat, “so far I've stuck to U.S. destinations. My first trip, back in January, was to Orlando. My mission was to find out whether the ‘old Florida’ still exists, and I went to places like alligator farms and the Ripley's Believe It or Not museum—”

“I'm sure that whoever you work for will eventually come up with some
interesting
places for you to visit,” Carly cooed, reaching over and patting her knee. “Things are already looking up, aren't they? After all, you were lucky enough to get sent to Aspen!”

Mallory forced a smile. Good old Carly, she thought. Even after all these years, she hasn't lost her talent for putting someone down while making it sound as if she's trying to be nice.

“I actually enjoyed Florida,” Mallory told her.
“The other places I've covered, too. And it turns out that I'm actually a pretty decent writer. At least that's what my editor seems to think. He likes the fact that I—”

“What about your personal life?” Carly interrupted. “Are you as happily married as I am?”

“I was.”

“Divorced?”

“My husband, David, passed away almost two years ago.”

“Poor Mallory!” Carly exclaimed. “I am
so
sorry. So you're all alone now?”

“Not exactly. I'm lucky enough to have two of the greatest kids in the world. Amanda is twenty. She's a junior at Sarah Lawrence. And my son, Jordan, is a freshman at Colgate. They've both had kind of a rough time since their dad died, but they're strong and independent and I know they'll do just fine. I'm really proud of—”

“They say children are a blessing,” Carly said vaguely. “Personally, I never had an urge to be a mother. Somehow, it just doesn't fit with how I see myself. Instead, I've made my marriage my focus.

“In fact,” she went on with a deep sigh, “I can't even
bear
to think about the possibility of something happening to Brett. I can't imagine how I'd ever manage without
my
adorable husband.”

“It's been tough,” Mallory admitted. She wasn't sure if Carly was being sympathetic or once again playing a game of one-upsmanship.

“Well, I'm glad that you'll at least have a little male companionship at dinner,” Carly said brightly.
Winking, she added, “It just so happens we have a special guest joining us tonight. And who knows? Maybe you two will hit it off.”

Once again, Mallory was uncertain of Carly's motivation. She was still trying to decide if her attempts at playing matchmaker were well-meaning or simply insensitive when she added, “Speaking of dinner, I'm afraid we have to eat dreadfully early.” Her eyes sparkling, she added, “I'm giving a talk at the Wheeler Opera House tonight, and I can't keep my public waiting! By the way, Mallory, you
must
come!”

Mallory forced a smile. While she remembered Carly having had a big personality back in high school, it seemed to have ballooned into one of rock-star proportions.

But she hadn't forgotten for a moment that she was here on a mission. And while she had yet to broach the subject of an in-depth interview, she hoped that seeing Carly in action would add one more dimension to her article.

“Ah, here come the menfolk,” Carly announced abruptly.

Two men had just ambled into the room, each clutching a martini glass. It was hard not to focus on the taller one. He was lean and unusually well-built, as if he treasured his gym membership card as much as his platinum American Express card. His navy blue cashmere sweater flattered his frame, as did the dark jeans that looked as if poor Juanita had actually ironed them.

Yet even more riveting than his fit torso was his
face. The man was dazzlingly handsome, with well-proportioned features, bright blue eyes, and what looked like a year-round tan. When he smiled—something he appeared to do easily and often—he revealed two rows of perfect, dazzlingly white teeth. From his thick, gleaming silver hair, carefully styled into place, Mallory suspected that he was in his mid-fifties, implying that he had enlisted the aid of a cosmetic dentist somewhere along the line to obtain the million-dollar-smile effect. And given the Bermans’ taste in cars, he might even have spent that much.

“Brett, my love, I'm dying for you to meet my good friend from high school,” Carly gushed, sweeping toward him. She linked her arm in his and gazed into his eyes adoringly. “This is Mallory MacGregor—oops, sorry, I mean Mallory Marlowe. Do you believe that Mallory and I have known each other for—well, I'm not even going to tell you how many years!”

Mallory smiled wanly. All this talk about the passage of time was making her feel ancient. “Nice to meet you, Brett.”

“Pleased to meet you, too,” he boomed, his eyes sweeping over her as he reached out to shake her hand. Not surprisingly, his handshake was as hearty as his voice. “It's always a treat to meet one of Carly's friends.”

“And this is Gordon Swig,” Carly said, gesturing toward the man standing next to her husband.

Gordon wasn't nearly as tall, as lean, as young, or as handsome as Carly's husband. In fact, the short, slightly balding man in a dark brown jacket and
khaki pants seemed about as far away from Brett Berman on the Impressive scale as anyone could get.

But there was an even more striking difference between the two men. While Mallory got the feeling Brett was assessing her, looking her over in the same way his wife had, Gordon was smiling at her in a warm, friendly way that she decided made him much more appealing than the taller, better-looking man beside him.

“Gordon is only in town for a few days,” Carly noted.

Not a very revealing introduction, Mallory noted. But she just smiled and said hello.

“Can I get you a drink, Mallory?” Brett offered congenially. “Gordon and I are having martinis.”

“Nothing for me,” Carly chirped. “I never drink before one of my public appearances.”

“But I do.” Brett grinned wickedly. “And hopefully you do, too, Mallory. So what'll it be?”

“A glass of wine might be nice,” she said. Remembering Astrid's warning about the devastating effects of alcohol at high altitudes, she added, “But please, just a little. I only arrived a few hours ago.”

“I've got a Colorado wine that'll knock your socks off.” Brett swooped an open bottle off an end table with a top made of slate. “It's from Desert Moon Vineyards in Palisade. Their clever marketing people came up with the name Altitude Bordeaux Blend. Now tell me: how could a wine with a charming name like that hurt anybody?”