One Dangerous Lady (12 page)

Lulu was clearly annoyed. “You ran into June! Trust June Kahn to turn a dubious sighting into an absolute certainty. Look, this man hasn't been reliably identified. We don't know for sure it's Russ. The media is grasping at straws because that's what sells papers. But I'll bet you the price of that tacky yacht of theirs it's
not
Russell,” she said, angrily confident.

“It would be nice if it were though, wouldn't it?” I said softly.

“Yes,” she said. “It would be.”

Max excused himself, ostensibly to go say hello to some pals in a neighboring box. Ethan and I were left standing with Lulu.

“The Bromires and the Kahns are joining us,” she said. “And my daughter, Courtney.”

“Little Courtney. I haven't seen her in ages,” Ethan said.

“She's not so little anymore, dear. She's in business school.”

“God, time flies, doesn't it?” Ethan said.

Silence.

I didn't trust Lulu as far as I could throw her. She had been downright cruel to me once, and I wasn't going to let her off the hook so easily by being charming and helping make conversation. It was clear that she had no idea what to say to me, and with Max off talking to someone else, Ethan was left holding the ball. Shy by nature, the Monk's discomfort was palpable. I just knew he was going to put his foot in his mouth in an effort to allay his anxiety. In fact, I even saw the lightbulb go on over his head as he suddenly thought of something to break the silence. The Imp of the Perverse was about to take control when Lulu looked at me directly and said, “Listen, Jo, I want to say something to you.”

“Yes?” I was wary.

“I know I behaved badly toward you in the past, and I owe you a profound apology. But believe me when I tell you that I didn't do it out of malice. I just wasn't thinking. I don't know, I guess I felt sorry for Monique because everyone was so against her. And she convinced me that she had absolutely no idea that Lucius was going to leave her all his money. But I understand that doesn't excuse the fact that I was disloyal to you. I know I was and I deeply regret it. You ask June. I've wanted to say this to you for years. I apologize to you, Jo, I really do.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Ethan tugged nervously at the droopy collar of his tuxedo shirt, looking as if he were about to crawl under his seat with embarassment.

“I'm not even hoping you could forgive me, because I'm sure that's too much to ask,” she went on. “But I do want you to know how truly terrible I feel. If I could go back and do things differently, I would.”

When Lulu said this, I softened slightly toward her. Who among us wouldn't do certain things differently if we could go back in time? I had to admire her courage in apologizing to me after all these years, particularly in front of Ethan.

“And I think at this time, when a certain person is moving to New York, we should all band together and take a stand,” she said pointedly.

I knew the person she was referring to was Carla Cole. I felt June Kahn's not-so-subtle hand behind this. June was busy circling the wagons, trying to unite old antagonists against a new enemy. Ethan, obviously unnerved by all this, pulled out the wrinkled, white handkerchief stuffed in his breast pocket and patted the perspiration off his brow.

Thank God for the Bromires!

Trish and Dick's timely entrance into the box broke the tension. Trish gave us all a fluttery wave hello. Lulu went to greet them.

When Lulu was out of earshot, Ethan said, “Now you know why I prefer paintings to people. Paintings can't talk.”

Trish seemed all recovered from her lunch. An athletic former beauty queen from Florida, fifteen years younger than her husband, she looked appropriately seasonal in a red-and-green satin evening suit and a parure of big emeralds and rubies to match. Betty affectionately referred to Trish as “the Shabanou of Park Avenue,” on account of Trish's penchant for wearing much too much gaudy jewelry at any given time.

Dick Bromire, a beefy man in his mid-sixties with thinning hair and the jowly face of a hound, had put on a good deal more weight since I last saw him, due in part, I imagined, to all the tension he was under as he awaited his trial. Like many husbands, Dick Bromire was dragged to cultural events by a wife who enjoyed them more than he did. He viewed them as a chore, like washing the dishes, only they went on longer. I'd observed Dick nodding off though more ballets, operas, and concerts than I could count. The year that Trish was the chairman of the Municipal Ballet's gala evening, Dick had unwisely confided in a reporter, who had asked him what he thought of the ballet, “I only like it when they jump.” The remark had caused a minor uproar, but I suspect many men secretly agreed with him. And though Dick may have dozed off during performances, he always came alive for socializing at the intermissions.

The Bromires had been invited to Missy Waterman's wedding, of course, as well as to the coveted bridal dinner aboard
The Lady C.
But because Dick was under a court order that prevented him from leaving the country, he couldn't travel to Barbados. There was a moment when Trish toyed with the idea of going without him—just a quick trip, down and back in their private plane—but Betty persuaded her this was not a good idea.

“Stand by your man, kiddo. Otherwise you look like shit,” Betty had advised her.

Trish wisely took Betty's advice, and the Bromires had laid low in their house in Southampton over the holidays, inspiring everyone at the now infamous wedding to say how devoted Trish was to Dick and how fortunate they were to have missed the event from hell.

Dick Bromire made a beeline for Max, who was still engrossed in conversation down front. The moment the two men clapped eyes on each other, however, they shook hands warmly. I later learned that Dick and Max were old shooting buddies in England. On several occasions, Dick had rented the shoot of Max's aristocratic neighbor, Sir Edward Wiloughby—pronounced “Wilby.” Max was always invited to stroll over and help “the Americanos,” as Sir Edward termed the renters, divest the skies of hundreds of fowl. Trish, of course, preferred what she called the “après-shoot,” which included all the fancy lunches and dinners that leavened the slaughter and gave her a chance to parade her couture outfits.

Max made a point of telling me that he liked Dick Bromire from the little he knew of him on the field, though he did it in a backhanded way: “Clothes, too new. Aim, too bad. But other than that, he's a rather nice chap,
what?
”

There were air-kisses all around and a smattering of polite conversation before June and Charlie finally showed up just as the curtain was about to rise. I braced myself for a scene between Trish and June on account of the now notorious lunch, but they barely said hello and studiously avoided each other for the rest of the night. Carla was already having an effect on our close-knit little set.

“Junie,” I whispered as she came to greet me, “I think you owe Trish an apology.”

“Well, that's very interesting because I think she owes me one,” June said loudly so Trish could hear.

Trish ostentatiously turned her back on June. I was sorry I'd brought it up, but I felt I had to make the effort. I hated to see two of my close friends fighting.

Charlie Kahn, a thin, shy, aristocratic-looking man with gray hair who expressed his individuality by wearing garishly colorful cummerbunds and matching bow ties, gave my hand a timid little squeeze, as was his wont. I was much indebted to Charlie. He'd helped me out once upon a time when I was in dire straits, and I knew him to be a loyal, discreet soul who was much cannier than people thought. He kept silent as his wife nattered on. He adored June despite her flightiness, accepting her unthinking behavior with the tolerant air of a long-suffering vicar who accepts yet another cross to bear—in this case, his wife. But I think he believed she was a little nuts on the subject because he leaned in and said to me, “I don't know what's gotten into June lately. She's obsessed about Carla Cole. I wish she'd let this whole thing drop.”

“Can't you try and reason with her, Charlie?” I said.

“Reason with June?” he said as though the very idea were an oxymoron. “Jo, you know what she's like when she gets a bee in her bonnet . . .” He shrugged.

What I knew was that June Kahn's bonnet was basically the whole hive. Carla Cole was just the latest in a long line of June's obsessions.

As the lights dimmed, Max and I sat down front together. Max enjoyed the opera, I could tell. Leaning back with arms and legs crossed, he focused on the stage, moving his foot up and down in time to the music, occasionally mouthing a word or two of an aria he knew. My own attention for singing intrigue was short, however, and I grew restless. Glancing behind me, I noticed a young woman slipping quietly into a seat at the back of the box. The light from the stage cast a glow on her pale face and glinted off a pair of gold, wire-rimmed glasses. I was right in assuming this was Courtney Cole. During the first intermission, Lulu introduced her daughter to us.

“Everybody, please, your attention! This is my daughter, Courtney. Courtney, darling, this is Mr. and Mrs. Kahn, Mr. and Mrs. Bromire, Mr. Monk, Mrs. Slater, and, of course, Lord Vermilion. . . .”

Courtney Cole took no pains to enhance her looks. In contrast to her famously chic mother, she purposely played down every aspect of her physical appearance, wearing no makeup, granny glasses, and an ill-fitting, high-necked black dress. She could not, however, hide a pair of keen brown eyes, which, despite the unflattering spectacles, projected a sharp intelligence.

As the shy, thoughtful young woman went around the box shaking hands with each of us, it was clear from the way she self-consciously looked down, avoiding eye contact, that she could barely tolerate her mother's social enthusiasm. Lulu treated Courtney almost as if she were an obedient pet, patting her after the social ordeal was through. With the introductions over with, everyone filed out of the box to get some refreshments and mingle with friends in the opening night crowd. Max and I were walking out together when Courtney hesitantly approached me and said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Slater, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course, dear.”

“I'll go on ahead and get you a glass of champagne,” Max said, tactfully retreating.

Courtney and I sat down in the back of the empty box. Courtney cleared her throat and said, “Mrs. Slater, I'd like to talk to you about my father, if I may.”

“How can I help you, dear?”

Like everyone else in New York, I'd heard that Russell Cole and his only daughter, Courtney, had been estranged since her parents' breakup. Word was that Courtney was none too fond of her new stepmother and that her refusal to accept Carla had caused a terrible rift between her and her father. Of course, that was all rumor, and I had no real way of knowing whether it was true or merely another instance of false “inside information” spread around for want of new gossip.

“I know you were down in Barbados when my dad disappeared. I was just wondering if you got a chance to talk to him at all.”

I felt real sympathy for this young woman and I decided to be frank with her.

“Courtney, I don't know your father very well. We were social friends years ago when I was married to my late husband. I always liked him. And since you ask me, we did have a conversation that strikes me as odd, particularly in light of what's happened.”

Her attention sharpened and she leaned in closer to me. “Oh, please tell me.”

I told her the green monkey story, including Russell's haunting line to me: “Sometimes I think I get a glimpse of myself, and then I disappear.”

Courtney let out an inadvertent little gasp. “He
said
that?”

“Yes.”

She stared off into the distance for a long moment, then snapped her dark eyes back onto mine.

“Did he say anything to you about my stepmother?”

“No.”

“Look, Mrs. Slater, I know my mother's nuts on the subject of Carla. And that's partly because I think she's still in love with Dad.” I was dying to ask her about her mother's relationship with Max, but I decided that would be too tacky. She went on. “I took my mother's side in the divorce because, well, she's my mother. But the truth is, I never thought Carla was bad. I actually liked her. I knew how unhappy my parents were together. I'm not stupid. I was probably the only one who wasn't surprised when my father left. Carla always made a huge effort with me. She made my dad very happy. And that made me happy. She was really fun and nice—at least in the beginning.”

“But that changed?”

“And how.” She nodded emphatically. “See, before they got married, Carla kept telling Dad how much she hated New York and social life and how she really just wanted to be alone with him. That's why he built her the yacht.”

“For people who hated social life, they certainly entertained a lot on that boat.”

Courtney snickered. “Yeah, well, sure. Carla lied. Now my dad—he truly does hate social life. He hated it when he was married to Mom. He never even wanted to move away from Tulsa. It was all Mom's idea to come to New York. So then he met Carla and she convinced him she wasn't interested in social life—despite all evidence to the contrary, I have to say. But he was in love with her so he believed anything she told him. When they first got the boat they kept to themselves. But then she started entertaining, nonstop. I remember being on the yacht a couple of times when Carla gave these huge parties and Dad would just retreat to his cabin and go on his computer. All he really wanted to do was sail. He just got more and more unhappy as time went on, and he realized that Carla wasn't the person he thought she was when he married her. Far from it.”

“So why didn't he leave her?”

“My dad is obsessed with Carla. He'd never leave her. Plus, he was probably afraid the whole world would laugh at him again. People thought he was crazy to divorce Mom and marry her in the first place. Carla has this weird hold on my father. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but it's very strong. You're certain he never said anything about her to you?”