One Dangerous Lady (6 page)

For the rest of the dinner, we talked more about Russell, speculating on what might have happened. Max said he hardly knew Russell at all. He just knew Lulu. I got the feeling that he and Lulu might once have been involved, but that they weren't now. Several times during our conversation, I glanced over at Carla. Every single time I looked at her, she was already looking at me, staring at me with a knowing little smile. I couldn't figure out if she was smiling because of what she'd told me about Russell, or because of some other reason. Her observation earlier that we were “sisters under the skin” echoed in my brain. It was almost as if she knew something confidential about me.

Suddenly, a woman from another table got up and approached a man at the opposite side of our table. She leaned down and whispered something into his ear. The man's face registered shock and he immediately craned his neck to peer around one of the orchid-plastered columns. The object of his gaze was Carla Cole, who was seated at a neighboring table in my direct line of sight. That man took a good look at Carla and then whispered something to his dinner partner. The woman who had whispered something to him moved on to another table. Pretty soon I felt the whole room simmering with curiosity as people whispered to one another and shifted in their seats in order to get a glimpse of Carla. I knew that word about Russell Cole was out, prowling the tent like a hungry dog. It was no surprise. A secret that big has the lifespan of a mayfly.

Despite the infusion of gossip, the dinner quickly deteriorated, and long before the dessert plates were cleared away, everyone had just basically given up. Instead of dancing or lingering around to talk, people got up in droves, desperate to get back to their hotels, houses, private planes—wherever they could get some rest. No one stayed for coffee. Max kissed my hand, looked deep into my eyes, and said, “Dear lady, I hate to leave you after all we've been through together. I will call you very soon.” He left. I couldn't help wondering where he was going.

On the way out, several people stopped to ask me if I'd heard the “news” about Russell Cole. I just nodded, knowing that by this time tomorrow the whole western world would know. Carla had disappeared. I had no idea where she went.

While waiting for Betty and Gil, I stood at the door with Miranda, who looked a true fright with her ruined gold sandals slung over her right shoulder, her strawberry hair a frizzy halo, her undereyes blackened with mascara, and her red caftan streaked with mud. God only knows what I looked like. We just stared at each other.

When her car, driven by Ethan, finally pulled up, she gazed at it for a moment as though it were the Holy Grail. Before getting in, she air-kissed me good-bye and said in a weary voice, “Well, at least now we all know how it felt trying to get out of Saigon.”

I just smiled, wondering how she was going to muster the energy to give this wedding a positive spin in her column.

Missy and Woody spent the night in the honeymoon suite of the Sandy Lane Hotel. It was past three when Betty, Gil, and I got back to King's Fort. Gil looked as if he'd drowned. So did Betty. I knew how utterly exhausted she was when she didn't even ask me about Max. We all just stared at one another in utter defeat. Finally, Betty said, “Russell Cole had a choice between attending that wedding or disappearing. And, honey, he made the right decision!”

With that, we all slogged off to bed.

 

Chapter 7

R
ussell Cole never did turn up. The media soon got hold of the story and the tabloids had a field day. The world was eager for news, and, as is usual in such cases, a torrent of rumors swept through the factual wasteland. Theories as to what had actually happened to the Oklahoma billionaire flooded international social circles. The Coles were already well-known figures in that miniscule province of privilege, which made this ongoing mystery just too tantalizing for its inhabitants to ignore.

Everyone had an opinion about the case. Was Russell really dead? And if so, was Carla involved? Was it a kidnapping, a Mob hit, a terrorist act, suicide, murder, or just a plain, old, boring accident? Wild stories were rampant, but there was no hard evidence to support any of the speculation. Just about all the wedding guests left the island the next day. Carla remained in decorous seclusion aboard
The Lady C
, which became a floating target for enterprising paparazzi until Carla again used her influence with Sir Arthur. He ordered the Coast Guard to keep leering lensmen at bay.

Everyone who was at the wedding dined out on the story as soon as they returned home. It was one of those moments in social life when close proximity to a scandal made even the dullest of souls sought-after dinner guests. People who didn't even know Carla Cole were now claiming to have had heart-to-heart conversations with her in Barbados. As a result, many ridiculous falsehoods emerged, such as the conflicting rumors that Carla had actually seen Russell fall overboard and jumped in to try and save him, or that Carla had actually seen Russell fall overboard and
didn't
jump in to try and save him. As Betty said, “If everybody claiming to have spoken to Carla had
actually
spoken to her, she'd still be talking.”

I
arrived back in New York on a steely, cold January day. The slushy streets were dotted with dirty snowdrifts. I was thrilled to be home again. I could hardly wait to get back inside my cozy apartment which overlooked Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Caspar, my chauffeur, picked me up at the airport. Few chauffeurs were either as dependable as Caspar, or as dull-witted—which meant I could rely on him without having to talk to him.

I was met at the door by Cyril, my English butler, a gray-haired older man with a military bearing and a thick English accent. He had worked for enough royalty and rich people in his time to understand the value of silence both inside and outside his place of employment. Cyril had excellent references and had even offered to sign one of those ludicrously self-important “non-disclosure” agreements before coming to work for me (I told him that would not be necessary).

I thought of my apartment as a little oasis in the hurly-burly of modern life. It was on a lower floor than my old apartment just down the street. I had sold that one because among a host of glorious memories, there was one glaringly unpleasant one of which I didn't care to be reminded. But that's another story. The new apartment was larger, but much less fussy than the old one. Some said it was more stylish in its way. In addition, I wasn't so wedded to eighteenth-century France in my choice of décor as I'd once been. Grand furniture requires a lot of upkeep, and I got rid of a lot of stuff simply because I couldn't be bothered with the maintenance. I was at the point in life where I didn't want the things I owned to own me. I wanted to be freer. The ups and downs of life had changed me, and I wanted my surroundings to be more relaxed.

I branched out and even acquired some interesting contemporary paintings—like the Francis Bacon portrait of a screaming cleric, for example. Gil Waterman had sold it to me to go above the fireplace in the library. However, people found it so disturbing that I moved it to an out-of-the-way corridor where only I could see it from time to time, to remind myself that the universe is not the well-ordered old master triangle I once envisioned, but an insane, godless place that will drive us mad if we are unlucky, or if we fail to take care.

A pile of mail and a long list of messages were waiting for me. I scanned the names quickly to see if Lord Vermilion had called. He hadn't. I was frankly a bit disappointed, but I decided there was no point in dwelling on it.
Qué sera, sera
, I thought to myself.

I saw that Larry Locket had called and I immediately called him back. He picked up the phone on the first ring, sounding distracted.

“Larry? Jo . . . I'm back.”

“And I'm going,” he said. “I'm just on the phone with the airline. Hold on. . . . No, wait, listen . . . Jo, can I come over for a drink? I have to talk to you about Barbados. And besides, I haven't seen you in ages.”

“Sure. I'm right here. Come when you want.”

About an hour later, Cyril showed Larry Locket into the library.

“Jo,” he said, beaming at me through his trademark tortoise-shell glasses. “Don't you look great!”

“You look pretty swell yourself there, my friend!”

The image of Larry seated at his desk, holding a pipe, his thick silver hair swept back from a kind, comfortable face, staring at the camera with an aloof little smile, was familiar to readers throughout the world. In person, he was much more intense. His bushy eyebrows hung over his brown eyes like little black canopies. He had the impish charm of a leprechaun. I loved his company, his humor, and the interest that he took in everything. His fierce intelligence was amplified by intuition. In the twenty-odd years since his first book had appeared, Larry Locket had become more than a celebrity, he was a force to be reckoned with, loved and respected by his friends, feared by his enemies.

There was a time when I had been afraid Larry might level his sharp, investigative gaze at me, and the prospect made me very worried, I can tell you. But that time passed and since then we had enjoyed many a jolly meal together, discussing the vicissitudes of New York—how it had changed over the years, the threat of terrorism, social and otherwise, how so many people had come and gone, reigned for a time, then gone broke or been indicted, and the fact that the new ante to play the game of social life in Manhattan had steadily increased to national deficit proportions.

I fixed Larry his usual drink, a Diet Coke, and poured myself a white wine. We sat down and chitchatted about the wedding for a few moments. Of course, Larry already knew all about it from a variety of sources.

“I hear it was rather moist,” he said.

“It was a monsoon. Poor Betty, I felt so sorry for her. She didn't want to have it in Barbados in the first place. She wanted to have it in New York. But Missy insisted.”

“Well, I want to hear about the bridal dinner on the Cole yacht and the morning Russell went missing. I'm going down there tomorrow for a couple of weeks. Tell me
everything
. Tell me who I should see. I've already lined up the head of the Coast Guard and the governor general.”

I gave Larry a brief recap. He was particularly fascinated by the green monkey story. I debated whether or not to tell him what Carla had told me, namely, that Russell had disappeared before. Carla had sworn me to secrecy, but Larry was an old and dear friend, and we often told each other things we'd been sworn not to tell. Then he said, “Carla's agreed to talk to me.”

“Do you know her?”

“Not well, no. But we've met a few times over the years. I've seen her in a few of her various incarnations. She's made quite a transformation from the first time I ever laid eyes on her.”

“Oh,
tell
me, Larry,” I said.

Larry leaned back in the burgundy velvet chair and lit his pipe. The aroma of sweet tobacco filled the room.

“Let's see,” he said, puffing away. “I first ran across Carla years ago when my wife and I were living in London. Carla was called Carla Corelli or Corallo—or something like that. Some Italian name. She was one of those jolly good-time, girls-about-town on the London party circuit. She was living with another woman, actually.”

“Living with, as in having an
affair
with?”

“No, I don't think so. Maybe. Who knows? They were roommates. I remember she had long, blonde hair then and quite a voluptuous figure. She laughed a lot.”

“Long, blonde hair? I can't picture it.”

“
Bright
blonde hair,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Nearly to her waist. Very sexy. My wife called her a ‘three-bottle blonde.' She made no bones about wanting to marry money. Everyone knew she was looking for a good catch. Then, of course, she struck gold. She married Antonio Hernandez, as you know, and they went to live in Mexico. Now she's thin and chic and very—
propah
,” he said with a wry smile. “Last time I saw her, I hardly recognized her.”

“Did you know Hernandez?”

“I met him once at an an amazing party they gave in Acapulco. Hernandez had this huge villa down there and I was staying with a friend who had the villa next door and she took me. ‘This is not to be missed,' she said. And, honey, she wasn't kidding.”

“What was it like?”

“Oh, my dear. Well, for starters, as you came in you had to pass by this huge tower with turrets at the top and there were about a dozen men with machine guns peering down at you, ready to open fire if you so much as sneezed the wrong way. Then you walked through this kind of mazey tropical garden and suddenly, there was Yankee Stadium—the biggest, most vulgar house you've ever seen in your life! It had two Olympic-size swimming pools on two different levels, and a terrace the size of a football field, studded with life-size plaster camels.”

“No!”

“And that was the tasteful part. That's where we had cocktails. The place had its own disco with a big, blue dolphin in the center, spouting rainbow-colored water. Worst-looking thing you've ever seen. No expense had been spared except, I gather, in the guest rooms, which everybody complained were cramped and dark. Hernandez spent the money where it showed and not for the comfort of others.”

“So what was Hernandez like?” I was fascinated.

“A shy, exceedingly uncomfortable man. Hardly spoke to anyone. Just lurked in a corner, looking furtive and miserable the whole entire time.”

“Maybe he hated parties.”

Larry shook his head. “No, I think it was much more than that. He was a very strange man. A famous depressive. I made an effort to talk to him because I felt sort of sorry for him and also because I was curious about Mexico's ‘pharmaceutical king,' as he was always referred to. Most stilted conversation I've ever had, Jo. Filled with aborted takeoffs. He'd start to talk, then stop dead right in the middle of a sentence. He couldn't focus on anything but Carla. He was obsessed with her. Watched her like a hawk. I remember how those beady little eyes of his darted around after her wherever she went. Of course, she was much younger than he was, and very flirtatious. It was kind of touching in a way.”

“So is it true that he committed suicide by shooting himself twice in the chest? Miranda told us that.”

Larry laughed. “No, I think he just shot himself once. As I said, he had a history of depression. That was well known.”

“Then why do people say he was murdered?”

“People love scandal.” He took another puff of his pipe and smiled at me through strings of blue smoke.

“Okay, so is it true that the reason Russell gave Lulu such a big settlement is because Lulu found out that Carla used to be a call girl and they were afraid she would broadcast it to the world?”

Larry shook his head in amusement. “Well, first of all, the world thought Carla
was
a call girl. So if Russell gave Lulu a big settlement to keep her mouth shut about
that
, I'd say he wasted his money, wouldn't you? And besides, who
cares
anymore? That's one scenario we're all quite used to by now among the ranks of rich men's wives . . . I won't name names, of course,” he quickly added. “But just think of old Madame Celeste.”

Madame Celeste ran a famous French bordello whose international call girls were renowned for their looks, their charm, and their fabled ability to marry or otherwise insinuate themselves into the precincts of power all over the world. Over the years, a few international socialites and wives of powerful men were reputed to be former Madame Celeste girls. But it was one of those associations that is tough to prove—secrecy being as closely guarded a commodity in the courtesan trade as certain exotic sexual techniques.

“Do you think Carla was a Madame Celeste girl?” I asked Larry.

“Not literally. Madame Celeste must be long gone by now. But do I think Carla was once a ‘lady of the night'?
Yes.
Do I care?
No.
Would I like to find out the exact reason Russell paid Lulu all that dough?
You bet.
But I know it wasn't simply because Lulu found out his new wife was a pro or a semi-pro.”

“I wonder why, then?”

Turning to me with a mock grin, Larry said sarcastically, “Maybe Russell's just a
really nice guy.
”

“So you're definitely going to see Carla when you're down there?”

“It's the main reason I'm going. Though I do want to check out the whole scene.”

I was aching to tell him what I knew, but since I'd been sworn to secrecy and he was going to see Carla anyway, I restrained myself. I knew Larry would get it out of her himself. He had that strange power that made people want to tell him things. We talked for a few more minutes, then Larry got up to leave.

“Early plane to catch,” he said. “Call you when I get back.”

“Keep me posted, will you? Tell me everything Carla says.”

I walked him to the door and just before the elevator came, I casually asked, “By the way, Larry, what do you know about Max Vermilion?”

“The Lord of the Rings?” he said with a little laugh. “Just that he likes the low life but only marries the high born. Except for once when he supposedly married the so-called Shady Lady Vermilion. But that's just a rumor no one can prove. Why?”