money writing sexy stories about rich divas and had
either become one herself or started out that way. A very
unpleasant person to deal with, unless you happened to be
a fellow celebrity, in which case it was kiss-kiss-oh-I-
missed-you- so -much.
Anyhow, Kelly’s eyes got big when she saw the house
and the beautiful setting on the grassy dunes, and I could
tell she longed to live in a place like this rather than in
boring old suburban Valley Stream. Couldn’t blame her.
Trapped
93
The writer’s cottage looked like a Laura Ashley catalog
cover, the one where Ralph Lauren is visiting, and all the
children are perfectly chic. Not that there were any children
present other than Kelly. The rich bitch had kids from
earlier marriages, but they were all grown-up and not
speaking to her.
Kelly wandered from room to room as the bride-to-be-
again checked out flattering designs and bosom-enhanc-
ing brocades. As I soon discovered, the lady liked to vent
on the “little people,” meaning employees or contractors,
and she included me as one. Contractors were scum,
painters were scum, plumbers and electricians were scum.
Everybody who worked on her house was scum or stupid
or worthless. She said so on David Letterman. Failing to
mention that she changed her mind every other minute,
made ridiculous demands, then complained when it took
longer, cost more. I had already decided that I’d have a
scheduling conflict that would prevent me from adding her
to my client list, but didn’t quite know how to get out of
there without having my head bitten off. So I went along,
going through the motions, suggesting possible ensem-
bles that might work—most every suggestion dismissed as
“stupid”—absorbing abuse from a woman I’d just met and
hadn’t said boo to.
When we finally escaped, a mile or so down the road, Kelly
touches me on the hand and asks why that lady is so horrible.
All I can do is shake my head and tell her that for some people
money is like a poison. It makes them sick in the head. Kelly,
ten years old, she looks me in the eye and goes, “That woman
was always horrible, Mom. She was born that way. Tell her to
take her wedding gown and put it where the sun don’t shine.”
Ten. I laughed till I cried. Right now, exhausted and shaky
94
Chris Jordan
and ready to fall apart for at least the third time, I’m won-
dering if she ever set foot on the Manning estate, and if so,
what she thinks of it, of them.
“Are you alone, sir?” Shane wants to know.
We’ve entered something like a glass hut with a high, ca-
thedral ceiling vented with skylights. Canvas-bladed ceiling
fans hang like monstrous white bats. Manning staggers to the
right, bringing us to a living space. Cherry floors set in a her-
ringbone pattern, stark leather couches, steel-and-strap
chairs, lots of bookcases filled with books. Look like real
books, too, not designer touches.
“Anybody here?” Shane asks, persisting. “Family, staff?
Anybody at all?”
Edwin Manning has collapsed into one of the custom
designer chairs, buried his face in his hands. When he looks up
again he seems to have gained some resolve. His voice is
hoarse, froglike, as if an invisible hand is gripping his throat.
“Nobody,” he croaks. “Sent everyone away. I’m entirely alone.”
“Where’s your wife? Seth’s mother, where is she?”
The little man snorts, shakes his head. “Dead. Died when
he was twelve. I never remarried.”
“Other children?” Shane asks.
“Just Seth.” He looks up, focuses on Shane. “If you call
the FBI, or anyone else, he’ll die. Is that understood? He’ll
die quite horribly. That’s really all I can tell you.”
Shane indicates that we should both sit. Put us on a level
with Edwin Manning. Have a look into his sad, red-rimmed
eyes, see what we can see.
“Has your son been abducted?” Shane asks, point-blank.
“Is he being held for ransom? Is this about
either become one herself or started out that way. A very
unpleasant person to deal with, unless you happened to be
a fellow celebrity, in which case it was kiss-kiss-oh-I-
missed-you- so -much.
Anyhow, Kelly’s eyes got big when she saw the house
and the beautiful setting on the grassy dunes, and I could
tell she longed to live in a place like this rather than in
boring old suburban Valley Stream. Couldn’t blame her.
Trapped
93
The writer’s cottage looked like a Laura Ashley catalog
cover, the one where Ralph Lauren is visiting, and all the
children are perfectly chic. Not that there were any children
present other than Kelly. The rich bitch had kids from
earlier marriages, but they were all grown-up and not
speaking to her.
Kelly wandered from room to room as the bride-to-be-
again checked out flattering designs and bosom-enhanc-
ing brocades. As I soon discovered, the lady liked to vent
on the “little people,” meaning employees or contractors,
and she included me as one. Contractors were scum,
painters were scum, plumbers and electricians were scum.
Everybody who worked on her house was scum or stupid
or worthless. She said so on David Letterman. Failing to
mention that she changed her mind every other minute,
made ridiculous demands, then complained when it took
longer, cost more. I had already decided that I’d have a
scheduling conflict that would prevent me from adding her
to my client list, but didn’t quite know how to get out of
there without having my head bitten off. So I went along,
going through the motions, suggesting possible ensem-
bles that might work—most every suggestion dismissed as
“stupid”—absorbing abuse from a woman I’d just met and
hadn’t said boo to.
When we finally escaped, a mile or so down the road, Kelly
touches me on the hand and asks why that lady is so horrible.
All I can do is shake my head and tell her that for some people
money is like a poison. It makes them sick in the head. Kelly,
ten years old, she looks me in the eye and goes, “That woman
was always horrible, Mom. She was born that way. Tell her to
take her wedding gown and put it where the sun don’t shine.”
Ten. I laughed till I cried. Right now, exhausted and shaky
94
Chris Jordan
and ready to fall apart for at least the third time, I’m won-
dering if she ever set foot on the Manning estate, and if so,
what she thinks of it, of them.
“Are you alone, sir?” Shane wants to know.
We’ve entered something like a glass hut with a high, ca-
thedral ceiling vented with skylights. Canvas-bladed ceiling
fans hang like monstrous white bats. Manning staggers to the
right, bringing us to a living space. Cherry floors set in a her-
ringbone pattern, stark leather couches, steel-and-strap
chairs, lots of bookcases filled with books. Look like real
books, too, not designer touches.
“Anybody here?” Shane asks, persisting. “Family, staff?
Anybody at all?”
Edwin Manning has collapsed into one of the custom
designer chairs, buried his face in his hands. When he looks up
again he seems to have gained some resolve. His voice is
hoarse, froglike, as if an invisible hand is gripping his throat.
“Nobody,” he croaks. “Sent everyone away. I’m entirely alone.”
“Where’s your wife? Seth’s mother, where is she?”
The little man snorts, shakes his head. “Dead. Died when
he was twelve. I never remarried.”
“Other children?” Shane asks.
“Just Seth.” He looks up, focuses on Shane. “If you call
the FBI, or anyone else, he’ll die. Is that understood? He’ll
die quite horribly. That’s really all I can tell you.”
Shane indicates that we should both sit. Put us on a level
with Edwin Manning. Have a look into his sad, red-rimmed
eyes, see what we can see.
“Has your son been abducted?” Shane asks, point-blank.
“Is he being held for ransom? Is this about
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