The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer Page B

with hypocrisy.
    Even Pruitt’s mother, the venerable socialite, kept yawning into her lace handkerchief.
    Twenty long minutes later, the group was turned out into the rarefied afternoon light of upper Madison Avenue. Blair leaned into Kate, whispered, “Darling, if I should suddenly drop dead, please, say something, anything about me other than my charitable works.”
    “How about Olympic shopper, or . . . fabulous luncher.”
    “Bitch,” said Blair, laughing. Then: “Kate, have you checked all those things for the benefit?”
    Kate ticked them off on her fingers. “Florist, caterer, PR people. Check.”
    “Fabulous.” She air-kissed Kate’s cheeks. “I’m off to Michael Kors. The final fitting for my gala dress. Who’s doing you, darling?”
    “Oh–” Kate hadn’t even thought about it. “I guess Richard, though not often enough.”
    Blair’s trilling laugh was cut short as the driver closed her into the airtight BMW.
    Mrs. Pruitt laid a hand on Kate’s arm. “How lovely of you to come for Bill, dear.” Her frosted-helmet hair glittered with lacquer.
    Kate felt a slight pang of guilt. She’d come purely out of obligation. “Well,” she said, “Bill was always so . . .”
    The older woman waited for Kate to come up with something.
    “. . . neatly dressed,” she finally said.
    The older woman nodded, then sighed. “Care for a drink? I’m only around the corner.”
    Kate hardly felt she could refuse.
    Winnie Armstrong-Pruitt-Eckstein arranged herself on an Empire couch upon which the Empress Josephine would have looked, and felt, perfectly at home.
    The Park Avenue apartment had that Sister Parish look that the late great decorator to the staid old rich made famous: the English manor house in the middle of Manhattan, brocades and chintz, worn Persian rugs, a grand piano with an enormous bouquet of wildflowers, a wall of paintings–all of dogs.
    The maid arranged the tray between them, poured each a martini from a deco shaker.
    “Cheers.” Winnie tipped her glass toward Kate, her eyes, under blue-shadowed lids, sparkled.
    The toast and Winnie’s demeanor were not quite appropriate to the circumstances. The woman had always reminded Kate of an old-time actress, any one of a dozen, but particularly the one who played Cary Grant’s mother in Hitchcock’s North by Northwest –one of Kate’s favorite old movies–a sort of combination heiress/showgirl. How she ever produced a son like Bill was a total mystery.
    “How is that marvelous husband of yours?” asked Winnie.
    “Overworked. But fine.”
    Winnie’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, my mother always said that Jewish men make the best husbands.” She tossed Kate a wink. “I thought I would be married to Bill’s father, Foster Pruitt, forever, but then, well, he was gone, and to be absolutely truthful”–she leaned toward Kate–“he did not leave me quite as well taken care of as I would have liked. Not that I married Mr. Eckstein for money. Heaven forbid!” Her hand fluttered to her bosom. “Larry Eckstein was the most fabulous man in the world!” She sighed, dramatically. “Oh–I miss the man terribly.” Her eyes went moist. She raised a tiny bell from the nearby table, gave it a firm shake. “Another drink?”
    Minutes later, the maid had refilled Winnie’s martini and supplied Kate with a fresh one.
    “My son was the only one who actively showed his disapproval when I married Larry.”
    “Some people find it difficult to accept change,” said Kate diplomatically.
    “Oh, bull! He was a snob. We had a terrible falling-out over my marriage.” She shook her head. “Though, after Larry’s death we had a bit of a rapprochement. I think, to his credit, William now feels a bit guilty.” Mrs. Armstrong-Pruitt-Eckstein pursed her lips. “Oh, my, I’m talking as though he were still alive.”
    “Well, it is hard to believe he’s gone. He’ll be . . .” Kate found it difficult to say the