she simply didn’t trust. “She was fake,” says Becky. “We could see it. We just wished Dad could have seen it.”
If he sensed his daughter’s apprehension, Steve didn’t acknowledge it. That day, he exuded happiness. He must have believed he had good reason to be proud. Dressed in a cream brocade suit cut to show off her trim waistline, with her blond hair swept up in a sophisticated French twist, Celeste looked truly lovely. She was dressed with exquisite care and taste. Her jewelry was simple, a strand of pearls around her neck with matching earrings, and on her left-hand ring finger a beautiful diamond solitaire. “It wasn’t flashy big, but it was stunning,” says a friend.
After the ceremony, the group dispersed to tables adornedwith rose centerpieces for a four-course dinner as waiters circulated with trays of crystal flutes bubbling with champagne. As they mingled, Steve grinned so broadly one friend said that a young wife must be the road to happiness.
Still, many of his friends had a sense of impending trouble. In the men’s rest room one asked another, “What the hell is Steve doing?”
“I’ve got no damn clue,” the other answered.
At the wedding, Kristina was delighted for her mother. Celeste was exuberant, flushed with excitement, and Kris wondered if this, perhaps, would be it—the match that gave her mother everything she’d ever wanted, the marriage that would finally make her happy. Halfway through dinner, Kristina left for softball practice. At the door, as she walked out, she took one last look at the happy couple. “I hoped it worked,” she says. “Steve seemed like such a nice man.”
Jennifer learned the way she had always did about Celeste’s wedding. “I got a postcard,” she says. “I just threw it away. I figured, well, here’s another new guy.”
On March 3, 1995, after they returned from a New Orleans honeymoon, Celeste and Steve signed a postnuptial agreement confirming the terms of their prenup. It must have made Celeste pause, realizing she hovered so close to wealth and all it could buy, but it still wasn’t hers. Even as Steve’s wife, she had no claim to his money. Only if he died while they were married would she be entitled to any substantial portion of his fortune.
That same month, Kristina saw her mother do something odd. Steve, who fashioned himself a gourmet cook, made dinner, but she and Celeste set the table and served. That night, Celeste ground up pills in a bowl, then mixed the powder into Steve’s food.
“What’s that?” Kristina asked.
“Sleeping pills. I can’t stand being here all night with that fat fuck,” she said. “This way, he’ll have a couple of drinks and pass out. Then I can go out.”
When she put the food on the table, Celeste beamed at Steve, from every appearance the dedicated wife. Kristina would later say that she was so used to her mother doing odd things, she thought little of it, never thinking the pills could be dangerous.
About that same time, little more than a month after the wedding, Ray heard rumors around the television station. A friend had seen Celeste out on Sixth Street, partying at night. “I figured it was true,” says Ray. “But it wasn’t my business. I never told Steve.”
Celeste had made it amply clear to Kristina that money was the reason she was with Steve, and she lived the part. As his wife, she had a wallet full of credit cards and spent with abandon. She had a beautiful home, and he bought her jewelry and presents. Yet, it must have troubled her that she had little she could truly call her own. That summer, Steve was furious when she overdrew the checking account, and an incident from her past loomed—Celeste still owed the $20,000 in Arizona.
In June, Steve went to his safe deposit box at the Bank of America, where he’d banked since the eighties. When he opened the box, he called out for an officer. In moments he was complaining to a teller and the branch manager that his
If he sensed his daughter’s apprehension, Steve didn’t acknowledge it. That day, he exuded happiness. He must have believed he had good reason to be proud. Dressed in a cream brocade suit cut to show off her trim waistline, with her blond hair swept up in a sophisticated French twist, Celeste looked truly lovely. She was dressed with exquisite care and taste. Her jewelry was simple, a strand of pearls around her neck with matching earrings, and on her left-hand ring finger a beautiful diamond solitaire. “It wasn’t flashy big, but it was stunning,” says a friend.
After the ceremony, the group dispersed to tables adornedwith rose centerpieces for a four-course dinner as waiters circulated with trays of crystal flutes bubbling with champagne. As they mingled, Steve grinned so broadly one friend said that a young wife must be the road to happiness.
Still, many of his friends had a sense of impending trouble. In the men’s rest room one asked another, “What the hell is Steve doing?”
“I’ve got no damn clue,” the other answered.
At the wedding, Kristina was delighted for her mother. Celeste was exuberant, flushed with excitement, and Kris wondered if this, perhaps, would be it—the match that gave her mother everything she’d ever wanted, the marriage that would finally make her happy. Halfway through dinner, Kristina left for softball practice. At the door, as she walked out, she took one last look at the happy couple. “I hoped it worked,” she says. “Steve seemed like such a nice man.”
Jennifer learned the way she had always did about Celeste’s wedding. “I got a postcard,” she says. “I just threw it away. I figured, well, here’s another new guy.”
On March 3, 1995, after they returned from a New Orleans honeymoon, Celeste and Steve signed a postnuptial agreement confirming the terms of their prenup. It must have made Celeste pause, realizing she hovered so close to wealth and all it could buy, but it still wasn’t hers. Even as Steve’s wife, she had no claim to his money. Only if he died while they were married would she be entitled to any substantial portion of his fortune.
That same month, Kristina saw her mother do something odd. Steve, who fashioned himself a gourmet cook, made dinner, but she and Celeste set the table and served. That night, Celeste ground up pills in a bowl, then mixed the powder into Steve’s food.
“What’s that?” Kristina asked.
“Sleeping pills. I can’t stand being here all night with that fat fuck,” she said. “This way, he’ll have a couple of drinks and pass out. Then I can go out.”
When she put the food on the table, Celeste beamed at Steve, from every appearance the dedicated wife. Kristina would later say that she was so used to her mother doing odd things, she thought little of it, never thinking the pills could be dangerous.
About that same time, little more than a month after the wedding, Ray heard rumors around the television station. A friend had seen Celeste out on Sixth Street, partying at night. “I figured it was true,” says Ray. “But it wasn’t my business. I never told Steve.”
Celeste had made it amply clear to Kristina that money was the reason she was with Steve, and she lived the part. As his wife, she had a wallet full of credit cards and spent with abandon. She had a beautiful home, and he bought her jewelry and presents. Yet, it must have troubled her that she had little she could truly call her own. That summer, Steve was furious when she overdrew the checking account, and an incident from her past loomed—Celeste still owed the $20,000 in Arizona.
In June, Steve went to his safe deposit box at the Bank of America, where he’d banked since the eighties. When he opened the box, he called out for an officer. In moments he was complaining to a teller and the branch manager that his
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