One Dangerous Lady (8 page)

The Wilman apartment was once owned by Clara Wilman, my dear late friend and mentor, who was a great philanthropist and patron of the arts and the reigning grande dame of New York until her death some years ago at the ripe age of eighty-seven. Not only was her apartment considered to be one of the most beautiful in New York, it had enormous prestige simply because it had once belonged to Clara. It is a curious fact of New York life that apartments that have been owned by great socialities are forever identified by the names of those figures. Hence, though occupied by at least two successive owners, Clara's apartment was still referred to as “the Wilman Apartment,” and, like the goods at a celebrity auction, its purchase price was inflated on account of its distinguished provenance. It was as if possessing such an abode somehow automatically conferred the style of its most distinguished occupant upon the next owner. Style is something for which people in New York are always willing to pay dearly, despite the conclusive evidence that it can't be bought.

The most recent owner of the Wilman apartment, Marcy Conifer Ludinghausen, a multidivorced heiress whose latest husband had cost her yet another bundle of cash, had put the apartment on the market two years ago for a whopping twenty-eight million dollars. During that time, two separate individuals—one a clothing manufacturer from California, and the other a hotel owner from Colorado—had stepped forward to bid the hefty asking price. Lacking the necessary social credentials and personal connections, however, both parties were summarily turned down by 831's famously stuffy board.

June clearly viewed Carla's attempt to purchase the Wilman apartment as nothing short of a terrorist act. The apartment, with its grand layout and grander history, was widely considered to be a major weapon in any serious social climber's arsenal. June didn't want any competition in that area, particularly not from Carla Cole, who had stolen away the husband of one of her best friends. June was as loyal as she was indiscreet—which was really saying something. She went on:

“The awful thing is that Hadley Grimes, that old fart, who's also on the board, used to be Russell's stockbroker. He likes Carla and he wants her to get in. We have to vote, of course, and it's dangerously close. There's a good chance she'll get in. I'm a complete wreck. This is all I needed. I have so many other things to do. I don't know how I'm going to deal with this. The trouble is, I'm responsible for too many things. I'm on too many committees. I have too many commitments. You girls know me. I never stop working for the benefit of others. Do I?” June looked at us with pleading eyes.

For June, Carla's move into her building was the New York equivalent of Hitler's annexation of the Sudetenland, or the Soviet occupation of Czechoslovakia.

“I don't know what it is about this town that inspires the tsarina in rich ladies. Entertain and let entertain, that's my motto,” Betty said.

“
Oh my God!
” June exclaimed. “You're not going to
see
her if she moves here, are you?”

“Honey, just call me Switzerland,” Betty replied.

“Betty Waterman, you have no standards at all!” June said.

Betty grew serious. “Look, Junie, she may be an enemy of yours. She's
not
—I repeat,
not
—an enemy of mine. In fact, I rather like her. She's married to my daughter's godfather and she's been very nice to me. ‘Nice is nice to me.' It's on my family crest.”

June pursed her lips and said sanctimoniously, “There is a proverb which says, The enemy of my enemy is my enemy.”

After a moment's reflection, Betty said, “I think that one goes, The enemy of my
friend
is my enemy, Junie.”

“Whatever! It's the same thing!” June huffed. “You shouldn't talk to her because I hate her! And you're my best friend!”

Betty just shook her head in exasperation. I tried to diffuse the situation.

“Junie, you're the head of the board. Can't you veto her?”

“I
wish!
No. Unfortunately, we have to
vote.
I hate democracy. Well, it could be worse. I
was
going to resign this year. I've served that building for twelve long years and I thought it might be time to abdicate.
Thank God I didn't!
You never know what's going to go wrong. Let that be a lesson to Queen Elizabeth!”

When June finally paused to draw breath, Betty said, “Okay, let's stop talking about this and order.”

During lunch, June went on, “The only ray of hope is that Carla needs a very good personal reference. Russell's not the problem, but she definitely is. And with him missing or dead or whatever he is, if she doesn't get some great letters of support, well, I don't think the other board members are going to vote with Hadley. They'll have to vote with me.”

“She has lots of friends,” Betty said. “They entertained a lot on the yacht.”

“The international white trash set?” June said dismissively, flinging her hand in the air. “That Eurotrash she hangs out with has no weight here, believe me. No one of any standing in New York will write a letter for her. I'm sure of that. . . . Anyway, enough of all that. How was the wedding? I hear it was a disaster.”

“Thank you for sharing that, June,” Betty said.

“Well, I hear it
was
,” June said defensively. “I mean, it's not your fault there was a typhoon that night.”

“It wasn't a typhoon. It was a storm,” Betty said.

“That's not what I heard. Anyway, I really wish we could have been there though. But this damn ankle.” Betty looked at me and raised her eyebrows. June caught the look. “I know what you're thinking, Betty. You're thinking I made this up because I wasn't invited to the Coles' bridal dinner.”

“I wasn't thinking any such thing,” Betty said unconvincingly.

“Well, it just so happens that my foot doctor told me I would be permanently crippled if I reinjured the ankle. He absolutely forbade me to travel. Otherwise I wouldn't have missed it for the world. You know how much I adore Missy, and I did want to tell her that although Woody Brill is really boring, he's really, really nice. And that's what's important in life. Niceness.”

“Well, we had some fun, despite the moisture,” Betty said. “Jo here had a very good seat at the wedding, didn't you, Jo?” Before I could stop her, she said, “She sat between Sir Arthur Tilden, the governor general of Barbados, and Max Vermilion.”

Betty was about as subtle as an overzealous face-lift. June took the bait.

“Max was there? I love Max!” June said. “He's going out with Lulu, you know.”

“Really?” Betty said. “Is it serious?”

“Oh, yes! Absolutely . . .” June said. She thought for a moment. “Anyway, I think so . . .” She thought for another moment. “Well, I'm actually not sure . . . but I know they're friends!” she said confidently. “Max is
the most
charming man, isn't he? And have you ever been to Taunton Hall? What a
divine
place. The arches, the gardens! Charlie loves the Chinese bronzes. Shang, Tang, Wang—I never can get them straight. They all look like dirty old pots to me. But then, I'm not a scholar. So how is Max? I haven't seen him in ages.”

“He's Max,” Betty said, as if being Max Vermilion was a world unto itself.

“Don't you just love him, Jo?” June asked me.

“Well, I don't know him that well. I met him once years ago, but that's about it.”

June's eyes widened in an almost cartoonish way. I could see the lightbulb going on over her head. “You know, Jo,” she said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “I really should find out just how serious Lulu is about Max. Because if she isn't interested in him, he would be absolutely perfect for
you!
”

Betty pitched me a satisfied smile. “That's exactly what I've been telling her.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I don't know why you girls want to rush me into the arms of a man who's been married umpteen times.”

“Only six,” June sniffed. “Or maybe seven. Possibly eight, if you count the Shady Lady.”

“A multiple marrier, then,” I corrected myself. “But at least a man with a rather dicey reputation where women are concerned.”

“You don't have to
marry
him, Jo,” June said.

“That's what I told her!” Betty interjected. “He'd just be someone fun to pal around with.”

“And he'd take you to Taunton Hall and ravage you under the arches!” June said rapturously.

“Well, I have to hear from him before he can ravage me. And I haven't. So I doubt he's interested.”

“You never know,” Betty said. “Maybe he's shy.”

“Please. Shy men don't have so many ex-wives,” I said.

“I bet he's not in town,” Betty said. “He went straight back to London from the wedding.”

“Last I heard, there were phones in London,” I said.

“Well, I'm calling Lulu tonight,” June assured me. “I have to speak to her anyway. I'll broach the subject tactfully.”

Betty rolled her eyes heavenward. Tact was not only not June's strong suit, it wasn't a single card in her deck.

“Please do
not
mention me,” I said firmly. “There's no love lost between me and Lulu, as you well know. And if she thinks I'm trying to steal her boyfriend, she'll blow me up or something.”

“Yes, if she thinks Jo's after him, even if she isn't interested, she may suddenly
get
interested,” Betty said. “You know how it is. Dog in the manger. You don't want them, but you don't want anyone else to have them.”

“Leave it to me, girls,” June said, getting up from her chair.

June was late for her hairdresser appointment. As she was about to leave, she pointed her finger at the two of us and said, “Now I'm sending you both a list of the people who are on the board of my building. I want you to call the ones you know and tell them that Carla Cole is a murderess, okay? And that she shouldn't be allowed in the building under any circumstances. That it would be very, very bad for the building's reputation. Okay?”

“Oh, okay, Junie,” Betty said in mock earnestness. “Jo and I will get right on that, won't we, Jo?”

“Absolutely, Betts. We'll have a telethon all afternoon,” I said.

June smiled with satisfaction and walked straight across the room to the waiter, who was holding her coat. He helped her on with it and then produced her crutches. Glancing back at us, she suddenly remembered she was supposed to be injured and started to limp. As she hobbled out the door, Betty turned to me and said, “Let's face it, Jo, our friend June is insane.”

 

Chapter 9

L
ate that afternoon I received a package at home. Cyril came into my bedroom carrying the large, white box tied with a black ribbon. I recognized the wrapping. It was from Pianissimo, a pricey Italian cashmere boutique on Madison Avenue.

“This just arrived for you, madam.” His snooty English voice always sounded fake to me. It was my suspicion that if I woke Cyril up in the middle of the night, he would talk just like I did.

Ever correct and expressionless, he laid the package gingerly on the bench at the foot of my bed and walked out. Cyril knew instinctively when to leave a room. I never had to say anything trite like, “That will be all,” a phrase favored by my pal Trish Bromire when she addressed her help.

I untied the black satin ribbon, lifted the lid of the box, and there, on a bed of black tissue paper, was a thick ecru envelope addressed to “Mrs. Slater,” written in black ink in a scrawly hand. For a minute I thought it might be from Max. Wishful thinking. I opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of Carla Cole's stationery with her intertwined initials “CC” embossed in ornate gold script at the top. They looked like a crest. Written in the same scrawly hand on the envelope, the note read,

Dear Jo,

I am back in New York and I wanted to thank you for all your kindness. There is no news and it continues to be a sad time for me. Are you, by any chance, free for luncheon tomorrow? I have something I would very much like to discuss with you. Please call me if you have time.

With fondest regards,

Carla

P.S. Enclosed please find a token of my appreciation, something to keep you warm in this cold winter.

Back in New York already, eh? I thought that was odd, given the fact that her husband was still missing. I wondered if Larry had managed to get his interview with her.

Digging deep into the folds of tissue paper, I uncovered a fawn-colored cashmere and sheared mink throw, trimmed in matching brown suede, embroidered with my initials in dark brown. I was flabbergasted, particularly as I happened to know exactly how much this little item cost because I'd thought of ordering one, but decided it was too expensive.

The phone rang. It was Betty.

“Jo, you won't
believe
what just arrived,” she said breathlessly.

“Let me guess . . . a mink-and-cashmere throw from Pianissimo with your initials on it from Carla Cole.”

“
You, too!
” Betty shrieked. “The woman is crazy. Do you have any idea how much these things
cost
? Ten thousand dollars at least!”

“I know. I'm sending it back.”

“Why?”

“Because it's much too expensive. I can't accept a present like that from someone I barely know.”

Betty sighed. “I admire you, Jo. I really do. You have principles. Fortunately, I gave mine up for Lent in 1975. I wouldn't
dream
of sending this cozy little thing back. I'm sitting here with it wrapped around me as we speak. I love it! And I
adore
Carla! I'd vote her into that building myself if I could.”

“Betty Waterman! Don't let June hear you.”

“Honey, what can I say? I'm easy. I can be bought. I love generous, rich people. And, God knows, there are precious few of them.”

I
called Carla and agreed to meet her for lunch the next day, more out of curiosity than compassion. I had the feeling she was up to something and I wanted to find out what it was—fast. She suggested the Forum, a restaurant more associated with high-powered deal makers than lunching ladies. She said she would make the reservation.

I arrived at the Forum a little before one, checked my coat in the cloakroom on the ground floor, and walked up the split flight of marble steps to the second level where the restaurant was located. The vast, airy space, with its polished wood walls and sleek modern design, was a far cry from the intimate atmosphere of Pug's. At the top of the landing, behind a long, wooden station that served as a kind of barricade against intruders, stood Giovanni, the maître d' who had been there since the Civil War. Giovanni was a rather impish man with a keen eye trained to sort out the great from the near-great, and discard the inconsequentials altogether. He served as a stage director whose job it is to keep the stars up front and the powerless out of sight. Tables were therefore divided into three groups, the Good, the Bad, and the Invisible.

In the old days, I used to lunch there occasionally with Lucius, my late husband, who enjoyed the testosterone-scented atmosphere of the place much more than I did. Lucius had been one of the stars, of course, and he ate there frequently with his cronies, either conducting business or trading gossip, while a hush of waiters hovered nearby waiting to serve him. I hadn't been there in years, however, so I was pleasantly surprised when Giovanni recognized me.

“Ah, Mrs. Slater,” he said warmly. “How nice to see you again. You deserted us.”

I shook his hand. “Hello, Giovanni. It has been a long time.”

Without so much as a glance at the reservations roster, he said, “And you are meeting Mrs. Cole, who just this moment telephoned to say she would be a few minutes late. Would you like to be seated at the table or do you prefer to wait here?”

“I'll go to the table, thank you.”

Giovanni led me to one of the banquette tables against the wall, an excellent seat with a prime view of all the other notable diners. I ordered a mineral water and looked around the room while I waited for Carla. There was the usual sprinkling of billionaires, top CEOs, politicos, and media moguls. But the surprise for me was the number of women who seemed to be there on their own steam rather than as accessories for powerful men. As I sipped my water, I couldn't help overhearing the two women seated at the next table who were talking about something called “the long bond.” I gathered from their conversation that it had nothing whatsoever to do with relationships.

Suddenly, over in the far corner, I spotted Gil Waterman dining with a man whose back was toward me. Even from that angle, the man looked vaguely familiar, and when he turned his head slightly I saw that it was none other than Max Vermilion. I felt an odd combination of elation and disappointment—elation at seeing him again, disappointment at the fact that he was in New York and hadn't called me. I wondered if Betty knew that Gil was lunching with him. I sincerely doubted it, or she definitely would have suggested we come here. I immediately took out my compact and checked myself in the mirror to see if I looked okay, in case Max came over to the table. Unfortunately, it wasn't one of my best days. I had circles under my eyes and I wished I'd chosen my snappy, new red suit instead of the tired old black one I was wearing. I thought of Clara Wilman, who used to say to me, “Always look your best. You never know who you'll bump into.”

After a few moments, Carla arrived looking chic and rich, wearing a sable-trimmed suit, light lens sunglasses, and an air of entitlement. Her thick hair was pulled back in a tight chignon. She exuded the quiet confidence of a woman who is used to getting her way without ever having to insist. Her gestures were mannered, as if she were conscious of being watched. Giovanni scooted out from behind his little bulwark to greet her. She extended her hand to the maître d' with the aloofness of royalty and they chatted. Her cool self-possession made his eagerness to please look slightly manic. He reminded me of a jumping jack, bobbing nervously up and down, unable to keep still. I watched them closely. After a moment or two, I saw Giovanni pick up on the almost imperceptible shift in her body language that indicated she was through talking to him and wanted to be led to the table.

As Carla walked through the room, I felt a certain frisson in the air, as one by one people noticed her. Several prominent diners pitched her fond salutes. Carla graciously acknowledged them, like a great star acknowledging her fans. It wasn't condescension, but more an awareness of her role. She seemed to understand she was at the vortex of an international mystery and, as a result, she projected what I can only describe as a kind of melancholy hauteur, which, paradoxically, made her seem both helpless and invulnerable at the same time. I marveled at the number of influential friends she seemed to have for someone who had spent so little time in New York. I was forgetting, of course, that ultrarich players like the Coles occupy a borderless country, the inhabitants of which are all known to one another, if not to the general public.

In addition to her admirers, however, there were other diners who seemed less entranced with Carla. A few of them gave her the once-over, quickly averted their eyes, or else ostentatiously turned away as she walked by their tables. Indeed, this group seemed to view the lady with suspicion.

Gil and Max were so deep in conversation they didn't even notice her, but she noticed them. I saw her eyeing the two of them as she walked. The maître d' pulled out the table so she could sit down.

“Jo! It is wonderful to see you,” Carla said, sliding into the banquette beside me. She took my hand and air-kissed me on both cheeks. “I cannot tell you how thrilled I was when you called to accept my invitation.” She glanced around the room. “Oh, there's Gil,” she said, pretending she had just spotted him. “Who is he with? Is that Max Vermilion?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I did not know Max was in New York. Have you seen him?”

“No. I didn't know he was here either.”

She peered at me over the tops of her glasses. “Are you sure? A little bird told me that you and Max were seeing each other.”

“Well, that little bird is mistaken. I haven't seen Max since the wedding.”

“If you do not mind my saying so, Jo, Max would be perfect for you.”

I sighed in exasperation. “So everyone keeps telling me. Perhaps someone ought to tell Max.”

“So you like him, do you?”

“I don't really know him. Anyway, isn't he involved with Lulu? Isn't that why he was disinvited to the bridal dinner on your boat?”

“Yes, of course, that was the reason. Not that Russell still cares for Lulu. He absolutely loathes her. However, Max's presence there would have reminded him of her, and he did not want to spoil such a glorious night.”

“A glorious night” struck me as an odd way to describe the evening that her husband disappeared.

“Have you had any news about Russell?” I asked.

Carla shook her head sadly. “No . . . and the press are really awful. They made my life a nightmare on the boat. I was a prisoner, so I left.”

“I know that Larry Locket was going down there to interview you. Did you see him?”

She seemed distressed. “Oh, yes, Larry Locket! I feel so badly about him. I said I would see him and then, well, I just could not. But I will see him here in New York.”

“I heard you sold the boat.”

Her eyes widened. “Where did you hear that?”

“I forget.”

She pinned me with her gaze. “No, you do not. But you are not going to tell me, are you? Never mind. It really doesn't matter. Yes, I sold the boat. There is no point in keeping it now.”

“Aren't you afraid that when Russell comes back, he'll be upset?”

“No,” she shrugged. “We have been talking about getting rid of it for some time now. We are moving to New York. We have bid on an apartment.”

“Really?” I didn't let on that I knew about the Wilman apartment.

“In fact, that is why I asked you to lunch, Jo. I would like very much to talk to you about that.”

I wanted to hear what Carla had to say, of course, but first I felt it necessary to get the Pianissimo throw question out of the way. After the waiter took our orders, I approached the subject as delicately as possible.

“Carla, I don't wish to appear ungrateful, but you know that beautiful present you sent me . . . ? I'm afraid I can't accept it.”

Her face fell. “Oh, but I thought it was so pretty.”

“It's lovely. That's not the point. It's just . . . well . . . unnecessary. It was extremely generous of you, and very sweet, but I feel, well, awkward about it. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but . . . I'm sure you understand.”

Taking a sip of water, she reflected for a long moment. Then she put the glass down decisively, looked me square in the eye and said, “You know, Jo, you are exactly right! I see now that it was a bit vulgar. Perhaps a letter expressing my appreciation would have been more elegant. But my handwriting is so bad. You and Betty were so kind to me in Barbados. I just wanted to show you both how much your friendship means to me.”

“Yes, but you didn't have to give us anything. Particularly not something so lavish.”

She cocked her head to one side. “To be honest, Jo, I did not even ask the price. Is that too terrible? I really didn't think of it. I just saw them in the shop and they were beautiful and I thought of you and Betty. Now I feel badly.”

I shook my head. “No, no. I know you meant well, Carla, dear. You're very thoughtful. But I feel it makes the friendship a little off balance, if you know what I mean.”

Carla knew our little world well enough to understand what I was really saying: She wasn't a good enough friend to give such an expensive present or for me to accept it. It was one thing if Betty or June or Trish or the late Clara Wilman had given it to me. But Carla's and my friendship needed more time to develop on its own without the catalyst of an overly generous act, or a veiled bribe—however one wanted to interpret her kindness.

I went on, “My initials are on it, so I feel rather rude giving it back.”

“Do not give it another thought,” she said. “I completely understand. I will have my chauffeur come around and collect it this afternoon. Perhaps one day, when we are better friends, I will give you a present you will not be able to refuse.”