Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

1971.
    According to the social columns, he had met his wife-to-be at the 1973 Spinsters Ball. Within months, he was savoring the delights of pool parties in Atherton, brunches on Belvedere and ski treks to Tahoe.
    The Halcyon-Day courtship had been whirlwind. DeDe and Beauchamp were married in June 1973 on the sunlit slopes of Halcyon Hill, the bride’s family estate in Hillsborough. At her own insistence, the bride was barefoot. She wore a peasant dress by Adolfo of Saks Fifth Avenue. Her maid of honor and Bennington roommate, Muffy van Wyck, recited selections from Kahlil Gibran, while a string quartet played the theme from Elvira Madigan.
    After the wedding, the bride’s mother, Frannie Halcyon, told reporters: “We’re so proud of our DeDe. She’s always been such an individualist.”
    Beauchamp and DeDe moved into a fashionable Art Deco penthouse on Telegraph Hill. They entertained lavishly and were frequently seen at philanthropic extravaganzas … by almost everyone, it seemed, but Mary Ann Singleton.
    Mary Ann had chatted with DeDe once at an interagency softball game (Halcyon vs. Hoefer Dieterich & Brown). Mrs. Day didn’t strike the secretary as snobby, but Mary Ann concluded that a Dina Merrill hairdo looks ridiculous on a twenty-six-year-old.
    Beauchamp, on the other hand, had looked magnificent that afternoon, transforming the pitcher’s mound into a miniOlympus.
    Blue eyes, black hair, brown arms glistening under a faded green Lacoste …
    She was right. He was drinking coffee in Production.
    “His Majesty requests your presence in the royal chambers.” She didn’t hesitate to use that kind of irreverence with Beauchamp. She was sure he was a kindred spirit.
    “Tell him the Bastard Prince is on his way.”
    Within seconds, Beauchamp was standing next to her desk, flashing his self-assured post-preppie grin. “Don’t tell me. I screwed up the Adorable account, right?”
    “Not yet. There’s a conference at nine. He was nervous, that’s all.”
    “He’s always nervous. I didn’t forget.”
    “I know you didn’t.”
    “You think I’m O.K., don’t you?”
    “As an account executive?”
    “As anything?”
    “Not fair. Want a Dynamint?”
    Beauchamp shook his head and slumped into a Barcelona chair. “He’s a real fart, isn’t he?”
    “Beauchamp …”
    “How about lunch tomorrow?”
    “I think he’s booked.”
    “Not him. You. Will he let you out of your cage for an hour?”
    “Oh … sure. Dutch?”
    “Italian.”
    Mary Ann giggled, then jumped as Halcyon buzzed her. “I’m ready for him,” said her boss.
    Beauchamp rose, winking at Mary Ann. “Well, it ain’t bloody mutual.”

Edgar Blows Up
    E DGAR GLARED AT HIS SON-IN-LAW, WONDERING HOW anyone so well-groomed, articulate and generally presentable could be such a royal pain in the ass.
    “I think you know what this is about.”
    Beauchamp leaned forward and brushed a speck of dust off his Guccis. “Yeah, the pantyhose pitch. I think we might as well forget about the Bicentennial angle.”
    “I’m talking about DeDe and you know it!”
    “I do, huh?”
    Edgar’s eyes narrowed. His fist tightened around the neck of a mahogany decoy Frannie had bought him at Abercrombie’s. “Where were you last night, Beauchamp?”
    Silence.
    “I don’t get a big bang out of this, you know. It doesn’t thrill me to remember that my own daughter called me up last night, crying her eyes out …”
    “Frankly, I don’t see what business this …”
    “Goddammit! Frannie spent two hours on the phone with DeDe, trying to calm her down. What the hell time did you get in last night, anyway?”
    “Why don’t you ask DeDe? I’m sure she wrote it in the log!”
    Edgar spun his chair around and faced the wall. He studied a hunt print and tried to calm himself. He spoke quietly, deliberately, knowing that tone implied the greatest menace.
    “One more time, Beauchamp. Where were you?”
    The answer was addressed to the back of his head. “I had a committee meeting at the club.”
    “Which club?”
    “University. Not quite as grand as PU, but Nob Hill nonethe …”
    “You were there till midnight?”
    “We had a few drinks afterwards.”
    “We? You and some chippie from Ruffles?”
    “That’s Ripples. And I didn’t pick up any … what’s that quaint word? I was at the club. Ask Peter Cipriani. He was there.”
    “I’m not running a detective agency.”
    “You could have fooled me. Is that all?”
    Edgar massaged