Page 34 of Murder on the Upper East Side

Six months ago

Edward Beaumont stepped out of the unmarked black car and onto the sidewalk on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens. It was a busy corner in a busy Brooklyn neighbourhood, but less so at a quarter after two in the morning. He would have preferred an even more out of the way meeting spot – Flatbush or Sunnyside – but this would have to do. It was nowhere he was likely to be seen by anyone who mattered.

And no one could know about the meeting that was about to take place.

He quickly looked over each shoulder before taking the three steps up to the faded brick storefront. Peeling black paint flaked from the concrete below. He knocked twice on the heavy door sheltered beneath a green metal awning. From inside came a gruff voice.

‘Your name?’

‘Edward Beaumont. I’m to meet Madison DuPont on the premises.’

For a moment, there was silence. Then the harsh sound of a buzzer and the sharp click of the door latch.

Inside, the sweet musk of cigar smoke filled his nose. Beneath it, the rich aroma of very good coffee.The main room of the social club was dim, and it took Edward’s eyes a minute to adjust. At card tables set up around the large rectangular room, greying men in slacks and short-sleeved button-downs were hunkered over briscola and poker. Cracked vinyl chairs squeaked softly beneath them. A few looked up, taking in Edward’s briefcase and pressed suit.

On the Formica-topped bar at the front rested an ageing espresso machine, a steaming pot of tar-black coffee and a tray of chipped brown mugs. Above the bar, an ancient wall-mounted TV showed a classic soccer match, AC Milan versus SSC Napoli, on mute. Beside it was a large crucifix and a faded Italian flag, one corner flapping loose from the wall.

Edward passed through the main room, the soles of his dress shoes clicking softly against the worn linoleum floor, towards a cigar-smoke-darkened door at the back. A small bronze plaque readPrivate. Without knocking, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

The back room was harshly lit by a too-bright overhead fixture, and he blinked. As in the main room, sheer café curtains had been drawn against the street-facing windows. Along one wall, a row of sausages hung to dry. Against the adjacent wall sat a row of scuffed grey lockers, a collection of laminated funeral cards taped to their fronts. In the corner was a small shrine to St Paul of the Cross. Madison DuPont sat in a worn leather chair beside the shrine, casually dressed in black cigarette pants and a fitted,short-sleeved sweater. Her long red hair hung loose around her shoulders.

Edward strode briskly over to her. There was nowhere else to sit in the small room, and she didn’t get up. Typical.

‘Circolo St Paul?’ he asked. ‘How did you even get access to this place?’

Madison tilted her head to the shrine. A framed picture of St Paul of the Cross rested in the centre, and a saint candle flickered beside it. ‘Did you know he was a mystic? He could levitate, and once, he even raised a child from the dead.’

Edward rolled his eyes. ‘Since when did you find religion?’

Madison crossed, then recrossed her legs. ‘Henry is Italian on his mother’s side. He was raised in the church.’

Edward straightened at the mention of Madison’s husband. Rumours had recently begun to swirl of Winslow’s political aspirations, a possible run for mayor on the horizon.

‘So, Henry’s a member?’ It was difficult to imagine suave Upper East Sider Henry Alcott Winslow rubbing elbows with the heavily cologned Italian gentlemen in their worn-in sports jackets and soft-soled walking shoes over shot glasses of espresso. But Edward had come to expect the unexpected when it came to the King and Queen of New York.

Madison shrugged noncommittally. ‘His grandfather was, and his great-grandfather. He makes anappearance from time to time. Tradition is important to Henry.’ She raised her hand to her chest and touched two red-lacquered fingertips to a tiny gold cross on a fine gold chain. ‘And before you ask, no, women are not permitted inside the club, and yes, Henry’s friends have been known to make the occasional exception.’

On the opposite side of Madison’s chair from the shrine, a skinny table stretched along the wall. Edward placed his briefcase down and paused, fingers on the buckle. He, too, had been raised to enjoy a life of frequent exception and privilege, something his father had taught him to value at all costs.

From his briefcase, he removed a thin manila folder. He slid it across the table to Madison.

‘A new opportunity,’ he said simply. ‘We should speak again soon.’

Without waiting for Madison to open the envelope and view its contents, Edward spun on his heel and crossed the room to the door. In moments, he was outside the social club and walking briskly down the sidewalk, to the stretch of kerb where his sedan sat waiting.

15 December 2016

Instagram

Image: A gorgeous winter scape on New York’s Montauk. On a tall bluff overlooking the Atlantic sits a private estate in greyed cedar with white trim. The steep gables are capped in soft, lovely snow.

TheUpperEdgeWinter break is right around the corner, but the event of the season won’t be on Fifth Avenue this year. Wedding bells are set to chime this Christmas at Bellport House on Montauk Point for Caleb DuPont, the dashing cousin of our very own Madison, and British society darling Mary Fairfax.

Naturally, the guest list is intimate, only the crème de la crème from both sides of the pond. Who will snag Madison’s coveted plus-one?

@Alice_in_the_City@MsMadz I’ve just had a cancellation for that evening, DM me!

@PrescottPeach@Alice_in_the_City Thirsty much?