The Rise and Fall of Matt Wheeler

“If you would understand anything, observe its beginning and its development.” ~ Aristotle

In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve considered ever since. “When you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “remember that all the people in this world haven’t had your advantages.”

In the summer of 1922, I seized an opportunity to move out to King’s Point, Long Island. King’s Point was only a slick, polished stone’s throw away from the far more fashionable town of Sand’s Point. My cousin, Madeleine Lynch lived in one of Sand’s Point’s glittering white castles.

My delightful, beautiful, vain cousin Maddie had married Lynch several years ago.

They were careless people, Lynch and Maddie - they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money of their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together and let other people clean up the mess they had made.

And it was in that modest little cottage, I first became aware of Matthew Wheeler.

Wheeler believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.
One of the reasons Wheeler had become so famous around New York were the garish, gaudy, elaborate parties he threw every weekend at his mansion.

I watched the parties unfold from his back yard with a kid in the candy store kind of wonderment. So many limos and drivers and fancy women abounded in our village of King’s Point, Long Island. Women who wore long strands of pearls, high heels, and large cloche hats invaded the atmosphere of the mansion lined street. Dapper young men in well-tailored suits and polished Spectator shoes milled about with champagne glasses full of pale gold bubbles.

There was music from my neighbor's house through those summer nights. In his enchanted gardens, men and girls came and went like moths, among the whispering and the champagne and the stars. I believe that few people were actually invited to these parties. They just went. They got into automobiles that bore them out to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Wheeler's door. Come for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission.

I often looked at the glittering jewels and compared them to my special girl back home in Sleepyside-on-Hudson upstate with her big blue eyes and floaty lace dresses. One day, I vowed, I would have enough money to go back and marry her.

I was startled from my musings by the sharp rap of a knock on his door.

“Peter Belden?” the liveried driver said.

“Yes,” I said, cautiously.

“I’m Tom Delanoy – Mr. Wheeler’s chauffeur. He’s asked me to deliver this to you.”

I took the crisp white card from the young man and opened it. “An invitation to this weekend’s party?” I asked. How had Wheeler even noticed me enough to send an invitation?

“Mr. Wheeler would be honored if you’d attend his party.”

“Oh,” I replied, stunned. “Thank you! Oh!”

The chauffeur nodded before turning smartly on one heel and returned to the Rolls-Royce.

“Fortune is like glass--the brighter the glitter, the more easily broken.” ~ Publilus Syrus

I approached Wheeler’s grand estate that weekend with some trepidation. These too beautiful people were as foreign to me as if I had been dropped into the middle of a Paris night.

Snippets of conversation reached my ears.

“I never care what I do, I always have a good time,” a delicate glamorous blonde said as she sipped Champagne.

“Oh, Katie, when I was here last, I tore my gown on a chair and he asked my name!” a pretty brunette said.

“Who’s he?” Katie asked, adjusting her flower headband.

“Wheeler, of course! And inside of a week, I got a package from Croirier’s with a new gown!”

“Did you keep it?”

“Sure. I was gonna wear it tonight, but it had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads.”

“There’s something funny about a fellow like that.”

“He doesn’t want any trouble with anyone.”

“Who?”

“Wheeler!”

“Somebody told me they thought he’d killed a man once.”

“Killed a man?”

“I heard he was connected with the government during the war, a spy.”

“I heard he was in oil, from a man who grew up with him in Texas.”

“I knew somebody he grew up with in St. Paul.”

“Look at him sometime, when he doesn’t know anyone’s looking. You can see it in his eyes. I bet he did kill a man!”

“Which one is he?”

“He never really goes to his own parties. Just looks in to see who’s here then disappears.”

“God knows where he is!”

I was nothing more than a fly on the wall, observing these beautiful shallow people as they enjoyed a good gossip at their host’s expense. I found myself simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by these beautiful ugly people.

The pretty little blonde approached me. “I’m Katje,” she said, looking up at me coyly over the rim of her coupe champagne glass. “But my friends call me Katie. Who are you?”

“I’m Peter,” I said. “I live in the little cottage across the lawn,” I explained.

The beginnings of our tryst were disturbed by a gentleman in a white tuxedo with a crisp black bow tie. “Excuse me, sir. Would you mind following me?”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Just follow me, please,” the young man said.

“Excuse me,” I said, feeling defensive. “I was invited. Wheeler sent a man over with an invitation. I live right across over there, right across the lawn. Are you sure you’ve got the right person?”

“Yes,” the young man said with simple authority.

I found myself in the presence of a very large man with icy green eyes and rich, dark, slicked back auburn hair.

“Excuse me...,” I said.

“How do you do, old sport? I'm Wheeler.” He raised an exquisite Steuben Champagne glass in salute.

I was stunned. This was Wheeler? “Belden,” I said. “Peter Belden. It's a pleasure,” I replied politely.

“You live in the cottage across the lawn. I tried to buy it once.”

I nodded, unsure if I was required to respond or even how to respond.

“I've been trying to find you, but - I'm afraid I'm not a very good host. Truth of the matter is…I don't much like parties. I thought we should get acquainted, since we're neighbors.” He let his voice trail off. “I hope you're enjoying yourself?” he asked with renewed vigor.

“Yes. Thank you,” I replied.

“If there's anything you want...”

“No, everything's fine.”

“Good.”

“It's a lovely night for the party,” I said, searching around my brain for conversational starters.

“Yes.”

I became uncomfortable with this lack of conversation from my host. He had sought me out, after all. “Was there anything else?” I inquired, trying to take my leave.

“No, no,” Wheeler said, “I just thought perhaps... we should meet.”

A gentleman approached Wheeler with a telephone extension.

“Excuse me,” Wheeler said, curtly.

“Shall I...?” I indicated the door. Perhaps this was my time to escape this awkward encounter.

“No, no,” Wheeler replied.

Since my escape was blocked I settled in to watch the glittering party from my perch by the window.

Into the phone Wheeler said, “Yes.” Pause. “What?” Pause. “I don't give a damn what Philadelphia wants.” Pause. “If that's his idea of a small town, he's no use to us.”

“I'm sorry, old sport, it was business,” Wheeler said, brushing off the phone call.

I tried for another escape. “Yes. Well, I've taken up too much of your time as it is.”

“Any of my guests you'd like to meet?” Wheeler asked.

“No, thank you,” I replied. The light hit Wheeler in an odd fashion and I had a sudden flash of memory. “I’m sorry – you seem rather familiar to me for some reason. Did you serve in the war?”

Wheeler squinted at me and nodded. “I was in officer training in Louisville,” he announced.

“1917,” I said, and shook his hand.

“Friendship marks a life even more deeply than love. Love risks degenerating into obsession, friendship is never anything but sharing.” ~ Elle Wiesel

“Listen, I have the most astonishing thing to tell you!” I said to Katje VanDerHeiden later that week. “He wants to know if you'll ask Madeleine to your house and let him come over.”

“Who?” Katje asked, signaling the waiter for another glass of champagne.

“Wheeler,” I said impatiently.

“If that's what he wanted, why didn't he ask me himself?” Katje asked.

“I think he was afraid. He's waited so long, he thought you might be offended,” I offered.

“Why me? Why didn't he ask you to arrange the meeting? She’s your cousin,” Katje pointed out.

“He wants her to see his house,” I explained.

“You live next door,” she said.

“I think he expected her to wander into one of his parties. But she never did. Then he began asking people if they knew her. I was the first one he found. He says he's read the papers for years, just to catch a glimpse of her name.”

“How odd,” Katje said. “I wonder why? Does Madeleine want to see him?”

“She's not to know about it,” I explained. “You're just supposed to invite her to tea.”
“But does she want to see Wheeler?” she asked.

a/n: standard disclaimers apply: I don’t own the characters and I don’t earn any money playing with them. This is my way to pay

homage to some of my best friends growing up – the Bob-Whites of the Glen.
For CWE#6 “Trixie as…” I wanted to utilize a canon character that didn’t get “picked” very often. I think it’s terribly obvious what movie this is, but I hope you enjoyed it, anyway. I tried to stick with an iconic scene, setting up the tragedy of the story.

Spectator shoes are a typically an Oxford style shoe with two contrasting colors. The style of shoe dates from the nineteenth century but reached the height of popularity during the 1920s and 1930s.

Steuben is an expensive brand of glassware started in Corning, NY in 1903. A “coupe” Champagne is the shallow, broad bowled styled stem glasses. This style of glass was more fashionable than the current fluted style Champagne glass.

A huge thanks to Jo and Cindy for their proof reading skills. Any errors are, naturally, my own.