Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew
if you decide to proceed with this conversation, I will need to tell you something.”
I nod, as if she’s making sense to me and long for another sip of wine. Somehow I know that this would be the wrong thing to do.
“Porsche, believe me, if I were to learn that one word of what we discuss tonight becomes public knowledge, I could bring forces to bear that would ruin your family and end all possibility of you ever becoming a psychologist. Do you understand me?”
I can hardly believe what I am hearing. Ruin my family? Who the hell is this woman? I know better, but still a frisson of fear ignites deep inside my chest. Do I really want to hear what she has to say?
I swallow, hard. “You have my word,” I promise.
Renee nods, reaches into a small wooden box that sits on the end table beside her and withdraws a small, handheld tape recorder.
“I’ll need to make a record of this,” she says, and clicks on the tiny machine. “Discussion with Porsche Dewitt Rothschild.”
“You know my middle name?”
Renee stops and smiles. “It’s not exactly a state secret, Porsche. But, yes, before speaking with you, I had a thorough background investigation completed. As I said, Emma placed your name before me for consideration some months ago. We just didn’t have need of your talents until recently.”
Talents, what talents?
“The foundation, the Gotham Roses, operates on two levels,” Renee begins. “On the lower level, we are a group of talented and wealthy women who do good works in the New York area, promoting worthwhile causes for women. But on another highly exclusive and top secret level, we work to help certain government agencies fight crimes perpetrated against, and sometimes by, the very wealthy.”
Renee watches me, to see if I am following her, and so I nod even if I don’t fully get it yet.
“Because of our family backgrounds and names, we are sometimes able to gain access to a level of society that regular law enforcement rarely permeates. Because your name is so instantly recognized, Porsche, and because of your reputation as a party girl…” Renee holds up her hand as I begin to protest. “Deserved or not,” she adds, “we have a need for your help.”
I am thrilled. I am so excited suddenly to be a member of the team that I almost jump out of my seat and kiss the woman, and yet, a little voice inside my head says, Be careful what you ask for!
“A situation may be arising,” Renee continues, “in which we could use someone with your skills in the psychological arena. I mean, I know you’re by no means a trained psychologist, but you do have a certain understanding of these sorts of issues. And the situation I have in mind requires a certain delicacy and, shall we say, name recognition. We need a very high-profile socialite for this case, an ‘It’ girl, someone everyone knows and watches and yet, doesn’t take seriously.”
Doesn’t take seriously? Now wait a minute!
Renee ignores the frown on my face and keeps right on going. “We have a little bit of training that you’ll need to undertake, as a precaution. You probably won’t need it, but it’s always nice to have a few tricks up your sleeve just in case. It will certainly be nowhere near as risky as the situation Emma was involved with, but still, it’s nice to be able to take care of yourself in a pinch.”
Of course, I had no idea then what Renee was talking about. And here it is, almost two weeks later and I still feel like Renee hasn’t told me everything. However, I’m realizing Emma Bosworth and Renee Dalton-Sinclair had this all mapped out long before I flew in from Paris with Marlena and decided it might be lovely to have my ferret’s nails manicured. Renee’s investigators have done their homework, too. How else could she know so much about me? That I have an almost photographic memory? Or that I grew up thinking Victor Rothschild was my real father, right up until I found my mother’s old marriage certificate saying she’d been married to some man named Lambert Hughes when I was born? How else would she seem to know every secret I’ve ever told that devious Emma if they hadn’t been plotting to get me into Renee’s elite little club?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask Emma the next afternoon. I am hoping she will think I know more than I actually do and tell me the rest of the story, the real guns-and-ammo part of the story.
She has the nerve to play dumb. “What?”
“The Gotham Roses? How could you be involved in something so secret, so dangerous, so…”
“We try and help others,” Emma began, but I cut her off.
“Bullshit! Renee says you work with the FBI, the CIA and God knows who else. And this training, my God—self-defense, secret communication devices, and yet you two just keep saying it’s really not dangerous? Renee says it’s more of a psychological assessment than a real mission. What are you guys, superspies?”
Emma looks at me like I just don’t get it, sighs and shakes her head. “Bug, this is not a game and it’s not all glamour. We are not Charlie’s Angels. Renee works for a woman she calls the Governess on cases that involve the top layer of society that others just don’t have access to because they don’t have the right contacts. We do the training because Renee feels it’s better to be prepared for anything, even if the danger doesn’t materialize.”
“Oh, Emma, please!” I say. “Next thing you’ll be saying ‘It’s dirty work but somebody’s gotta do it!’”
Emma nods. “Well, it is. It’s unfortunate that there’s so much crime among the rich and privileged, but that’s the way the world is now. The Governess is not without her enemies, either. There is someone she and Renee call ‘The Duke,’ who is just as determined to bring down the Governess and the Roses as we are to stop his nefarious influence in the top echelon of society. The Gotham Roses are not dilettantes trying on crime-fighting for a hobby.”
I don’t believe a word of it, but two weeks later, after personal trainers and coaches have done their best to work me over and prepare me for anything, I’m actually relieved to be leaving town. So what if my assignment isn’t exactly dangerous? No matter how it turns out, it’ll still be better than riding the endless party circuit and listening to dull stories told by dull people. I’ll actually have a life, even if I can’t tell anyone about it!
The night before I am due to leave Renee calls me into her study and tells me all about my assignment.
“Jeremy Reins, the actor, says someone’s trying to kill him,” Renee says. “But the evidence indicates it’s just another one of his publicity stunts.”
She tells me this right after I come in from a grueling sparring match with her self-defense expert, Jimmy “The Heartbreaker” Valentine. I’ve broken four nails, had half my extensions pulled out and have the beginnings of a nasty bruise forming under my right eye. And here is Renee, telling me she doesn’t think it’s even a true assignment?
“So, why not blow the idiot off?” I ask. “It’s not like he’s really anybody. Besides, he’s been getting himself into a lot of trouble lately. The talk is that he has an attraction for kinky sex with very young men.” I shrug. “He’s just an actor.”
“Just an actor?” she says raising that eyebrow of hers.
“Okay, okay, so he’s golden at the box office, but who cares? I mean, if he’s faking it, why not just let him hire extra bodyguards?”
Renee shrugs. “The Governess feels he’s a national treasure and Jeremy’s agent, Mark Lowenstein, is married to a woman who has done us many favors in the past. Andrea Lowenstein is saying she feels a stalker or even a terrorist could be behind these attacks. Reins has done several commando, patriotic, action-adventure films in the past and could be the object of a terrorist vendetta. The Governess feels Andrea Lowenstein’s concern is credible. Anyway, it’s just not good to ignore such a visible and beloved member of the public. If something really did happen, it would make