One Dangerous Lady (15 page)

“
Et tu
, Jo?” she said at last.

Her grand display of indignity was severely compromised by the white fur around her face and her 1930s snow queen outfit. The elevator door slid shut. If she hadn't looked quite so ridiculous, I would have felt more sympathetic.

 

Chapter 15

B
etty called me early the next morning. I was dozing in bed, unable to sleep. I knew exactly why she was calling, of course, and was rather amazed at her restraint. I'd expected her to ring me from the party to tell me that June had refused to speak to her and made a huge scene.

“Jo? I'm sorry to wake you.” Her voice sounded very shaky indeed.

“Are you kidding? I didn't sleep a wink all night. I take it you've heard.”

“Yes. It's too awful. I just can't believe it. I can't believe it. Charlie just called Gil. He's beside himself.”

“Betty, I tried to reason with her, I really did. Don't you think everybody's overreacting just a bit?”

“Overreacting?!”
Betty cried.
“June's in a coma! Goddamn right, I'm overreacting!”

When people say someone is in a coma in New York, it usually means they've been demoted to the C list. But this time I had the ghastly feeling that Betty meant coma in the cosmic sense, as in no longer functioning.

“What are you talking about?”

Her tone became conciliatory. “Oh, Jo, you haven't heard, have you? Junie was hit by a car last night. She's in a coma in Carnegie Hill Hospital.”

Betty started to cry. I listened to her soft sobbing, thinking this was a bad dream.

“
Oh my God, no.
That's not possible. I just saw her.”

“When?”
Betty sniffled.

“Last night, I told you. She came by to see me before the ball. She was upset because of the letter you wrote for Carla.”

“Oh, Christ! I was at her table. She tried not to speak to me, but then we got into a fight. And guess who was there? Carla!”

“
Oh my God.
Who was she with?”

“Bootsie Baines, who else? June threatened to bolt like she did at Trish's lunch. I told her she absolutely couldn't
think
of leaving because she was the chairman. Anyway, Gil and I managed to calm her down. And Carla was at another table pretty far away. We got through the meal, at least—ghastly as it was. God, I loathe knockwurst. Then came time for the door prizes. Because she's the head of the thing, June draws the tickets and gives out the certificates. So she goes up to the microphone, starts the drawing, and the third winner is—guess who?”

“Carla.”

“You got it.”

“Jesus, Betty. What are the odds of
that?
”

“They're good if you buy
five hundred fucking chances!
Which is apparently what Carla did.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, I mean, Carla probably thought she was doing it to be nice to June because she wants so desperately to get into that building. I mean, the more chances they sell, the more money the hospital makes, after all. But when June announced the number and then saw Carla coming up to the stage, she lost it. Just turned on her heel and walked off. I thought she'd come back, but she didn't. She up and left the party.”

I shook my head in dismay. “Oh, June, June,
June
. . . !”

“Everyone felt sort of sorry for Carla because June had acted so badly. . . . Anyway, when Junie didn't come back, Gil and I figured she'd probably gone home. I called to check on her. No answer. So I thought, okay, she's just not picking up her phone. Jo, I was so pissed off at her for making a scene with me, I didn't care where the hell she was,” Betty said, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Did they catch the driver?”

“No . . . hit and run. But you know June. She was so angry, she probably just bolted out into the middle of the street. I'm sure it was nobody's fault. Oh, Jo, now I wish I hadn't written that damn letter!”

Betty broke down, unable to continue. I listened to her sobbing for a few moments. Finally, she went on. “Anyway, this morning Colleen called me. She said the police were there and that June was in the hospital in a coma, hit by a car. Poor Colleen was hysterical. Charlie isn't getting back until this afternoon. Think of Charlie! He has no idea what's happened. Anyway, they wanted Colleen to come down and see her. But Colleen can't cope. Anyway, she has to get the apartment ready for when Charlie comes home. She called me and I'm going there now. Want to come?”

“I'll be dressed in ten minutes. Meet you there.”

A
New York definition of irony: June had fled a benefit for the very hospital in which she was now fighting for her life. On our way to the special wing of Carnegie Hill, where rich patients supposedly enjoyed medical care along with all the amenities of a first-class hotel, Betty commented, “All I can say is they better treat her like the fucking queen, she's raised so many millions for them.” It crossed my mind that had June not been so rash, she might not have been hit by a car, and consequently she might not be lying in a coma now. But history does not disclose its alternatives and it was heartwrenching to see her there, lying in bed with the diamond sparkles still in her hair and bruises on her narrow, pale face, breathing with the aid of a respirator.

Betty and I stayed together in a silent vigil at June's bedside for most of the morning. The bleeping and humming of many machines, plus the antiseptic smell pervading the atmosphere, made the confined room feel a little like a space ship. For once in our lives, we were both too stricken to speak.

T
hat afternoon, Charlie Kahn arrived back from Europe. Betty and I were waiting for him in his apartment. We broke the news to him gently, trying to put a positive spin on the situation, telling him what the nice, young doctor at the hospital had told us—namely, that June had a good chance of coming out of the coma, that she had sustained no other serious internal injuries, and that only time would tell. Charlie stared at us with almost total incomprehension, fueled by the fatigue of a long flight. He didn't utter a word. He sank down into a chair in slow motion and stared at the ground for a long time. Then he looked up at us and said, “There must be some mistake. It can't be June. Not
my
June,” as if there were someone else's June it might be.

We then took him over to the hospital where he stayed, camping out in her room, refusing to leave her side.

“Charlie would die without her,” I said to Betty as we left the hospital.

“That's what you think. Rich men all mourn for about a week and then they become merry widowers with every woman in the world calling them.”

“I think Charlie's different.”

“I doubt it. But let's pray we never find out,” Betty said.

H
adley Grimes, old stickler for protocol that he was, refused to postpone the meeting of the co-op board that afternoon, despite the fact that June was in a coma.

“That whole board's been in a coma for years, so how would he know the difference?” Betty said.

According to Betty, who got it from Trish, who got it from Hadley's wife, Ellen, Hadley maintained that as president of the board, June would have wanted things to go on “as usual” in her absence. This was a fiction, if ever there was one. Everyone who knew June knew that she was the kind of person who wanted to be in on everything—even funerals. Betty once observed that June was the only person she knew who wasn't altogether against nuclear war.

“Let's be honest here, Jo, June doesn't want the party to go on without her—even if it means blowing up the whole world,” Betty said.

That night, Betty called to tell me that the Coles had passed the board. Carla was now an official resident of 831 Fifth Avenue. And June was an official resident of the Carnegie Hill Hospital.

A
few days later, Page Six in the
New York Post
confirmed the sale in an item that said that Carla and “the missing Russell Cole” had successfully purchased the Wilman apartment—“a sprawling triplex that mouthwash heiress Marcy Ludinghausen has been trying to unload for two years”—for the third-highest price ever paid for an apartment in Manhattan, twenty-eight million dollars. After a brief sketch of the Coles' scandal-ridden marriage and the current mystery involving Russell's disappearance, the article said that the co-op was notoriously difficult to get into, but that the “controversial Coles” had “breezed through the building's stuffy board” because the board's president, June Kahn, was in a coma and had not been there to veto their approval. Page Six really got it right this time.

Betty called me and said, “Come to think of it, Jo, I think June's much safer in a coma because if she comes out of it and finds out Carla's passed the board, she's going to kill herself.”

“Or Carla,” I added.

“Gil now refers to that building as the Gaza Strip,” Betty said.

“With less chance of a peace agreement,” I added.

 

Chapter 16

T
here are memorable moments in social life when a convergence of scandals and bad news cause what Betty Waterman terms, “the perfect shit storm.” This was such a moment. Russell Cole was missing, presumed murdered or mentally impaired, depending on your like or dislike of Carla Cole. June Kahn was in a coma. Carla was moving to New York. The wags had it that Max Vermilion had jilted Lulu Cole for me. And now, to top it all off, Dick Bromire was finally going on trial for income tax evasion and other money-related crimes. Expressions of supposed deep concern dominated all conversation. But as Betty said: “You can't cut the Schadenfreude with a chainsaw!”

The night before Dick's trial, Trish gave a dinner party at their apartment on Park Avenue. There were those, however, who didn't think that Dick Bromire should be either having parties or going to them, given the disgrace of being indicted. In New York, one is guilty until proven innocent, even if one hasn't been formally charged with anything, not to mention when one has. And even if one is charged and acquitted, the odor of some scandals never entirely fades. It was quickly pointed out by his loyal friends that Dick hadn't killed anyone, like some erstwhile members of New York society. But that didn't seem to mollify those who discover their own piety in the sins of others. There was a lot of talk about the dinner and how inappropriate and shameful it was—particularly among those who hadn't been invited.

L
arry Locket called me to tell me he was back in town. He'd heard about June, of course, and about Carla buying the Wilman apartment.

“How's poor June doing?” he asked me.

“The same.”

“I'm so sorry, Jo. I know how close you two are,” he said.

“Thank you, Larry. It's been awful, I must say.”

“Will she pull through?”

“It's impossible to tell. Betty and I go visit her almost every day. We just keep praying. Tell me how
you
are. Did you see Hernandez's son?”

“Did I ever! I had a riveting time with him and I'm dying to tell you about it, Jo. By any chance, will I be seeing you later tonight?” he asked me.

I knew he was being discreet. It's never a good idea to announce where you're going in New York in case the person you're speaking to hasn't been invited to the same party. So you do a little verbal minuet before either of you gives out any specifics.

“I believe so,” I said.

“The future felon's house?” he ventured.

“Bite your tongue,” I said, laughing. “Are you covering the trial?”

“No. Dick's too good a friend. Besides, I'm working full-time on the Cole case now. But everyone says he's guilty. . . . Honey, we have so much to discuss!”

“I'll ask Trish to put us next to each other at dinner,” I told him.

“Great. This is gonna be some party!”

I hung up with a slightly uneasy feeling. In light of recent events, I was now quite worried to learn that Larry was working so hard on the Cole case. Larry was a brilliant reporter who had solved cases that had baffled the police. I knew that if he leveled his gaze at Carla, there was no telling what he might find out about
me
—if, indeed, she knew something about me, which she had certainly hinted she did. I tried to put this feeling out of my mind, but it gnawed at me as I got dressed.

T
he Bromire dinner that night did not have a festive feel to it, to say the least. Trish had filled their Park Avenue penthouse with so many altar-size bunches of lilies and chrysanthemums it looked like a funeral parlor. The curtains were drawn, thus obscuring the spectacular city views and creating an oddly claustrophobic effect in the huge, boxy white rooms. Trish, usually decked out in sparkling clothes and colorful jewels, was in a long, severe black dress with a high collar that made her look like the abbess in a medieval convent, or an undertaker—I couldn't quite make up my mind which. She stood at the door, greeting her guests with a thin smile, diluted by worry. Dick Bromire was nowhere in sight.

“Thank you so much for coming. Thank you so much for coming,” Trish repeated solemnly to each guest, as if we were about to view a body. And in some sense, we were—Dick's. The only real sign of life about the place was a pair of black miniature schnauzer puppies, who barked and jumped around like little castanets until a maid scooped them up and carried them away. Dick had apparently given them to Trish to keep her company in case things “didn't turn out well.”

I walked into the living room where a fairly large crowd seemed to be tiptoeing around one another, speaking in hushed tones, in deference to the somber mood of our hostess. I noticed that not only were all the men in dark suits and dark ties, all the women were in black. In my red silk sheath, I felt like a spot of blood. I saw Betty and Gil standing in the far corner underneath the towering Calder mobile that Gil had sold the Bromires years ago. Betty looked like an expensive coffin in a long, shiny black dress embroidered with ropes of gold on each sleeve. I walked over and kissed them both hello.

“Where's Dick?” I said, looking around.

“Holed up in his room having a nervous breakdown,” Gil said.

“God, Betty, it's so hard to believe he's guilty,” I said. “I mean, why would he do it? Dick's rich as Croesus.”

“The rich are greedy by nature. How do you think they got rich?” Betty said.

Betty always talked about “the rich” as if she, herself, weren't one of them. In fact, as one of the top art dealers in the world, Gil Waterman was worth a fortune, even more than many of his clients. Betty was kind of like a communist married to the tsar.

The Watermans both said that Trish was particularly upset because Dick's lead counsel, Sy Cronenfeld, had barred her from attending the trial. According to Gil, Cronenfeld had tactfully explained to the Bromires that although Trish was a lovely and generous person, he couldn't be sure how some of the people on the jury, especially the older women, might view Trish, a striking blonde, half Dick's age, wearing knockout clothes and jewels. Cronenfeld didn't want to take the chance.

Betty's take on it was slightly more direct. “Listen, Sy Cronenfeld knows damn well that the sight of Trish and Dick making goo-goo eyes at each other across a crowded courtroom is just too Damon Runyon—even for New York.”

A short time later, dinner was announced. Two mirthless butlers stood at either side of the entrance to the dining room, holding identical leather placards to help us locate our seats. The white walls of the large dining room featured two enormous and perfectly hideous abstract paintings by a young contemporary artist. The rectangular, white lacquer dining table was extended to its full length, easily accommodating the thirty guests—fourteen on either side, and one at each end. A single-file column of tall, oddly shaped black vases, each topped with a tight bunch of white chrysanthemums, ran the length of the table. Dozens of black votive candles provided a sort of witches' sabbath light. The whole setting was macabre. As I sat down and unfolded my black linen napkin trimmed with black lace, I reflected on how misfortune can often seriously impair taste.

I was seated between Larry and Roland Myers, a Washington insider and the senior partner of one of the city's most distinguished law firms. Rolly, a handsome African-American in his sixties, was deeply involved in politics, and was referred to as “the Éminence Noire.”

When Dick Bromire made his entrance, a marked hush swept the crowd. Dick was a tall, portly man, who, despite his bulk, had always struck me as oddly graceful in his movements. Tonight, however, his steps were halting and his eyes were glassy. He looked as if he'd either been crying or smoking a banned substance. Taking his place at the head of the table, he nodded to various people with a forlorn smile on his face. Despite the brave front, Dick was obviously in both physical and emotional pain.

I was dying to dish with Larry, but since Roland Myers was my dinner partner, etiquette dictated that I talk to him first. And besides, talking to him was always fun. Rolly was an interesting man with far-reaching connections in the highest precincts of power. When people got into trouble, it was Rolly they sought out for advice. He told me that he'd put Dick in touch with a “jail facilitator,” explaining that this was a person who helped “people like Dick” get into one of the better jails. He said he'd done this just as a “superprecaution” in case the worst happened and Dick was convicted.

“It's a relatively new area of specialization,” Rolly went on to say with a straight face, “but a fast-growing one now that so many CEOs and people with wealth and influence are facing prison time. Let's be honest here, Jo, if a guy like Dick Bromire winds up in the wrong jail, all the money in the world won't protect him.”

The rack of lamb entrée came and the table turned. Despite the plight of our friend Dick, all Larry and I were interested in talking about was the Cole case. I plunged right in: “Okay, Larry, so do we think Russell's dead or not?”

“Hard to tell,” Larry said with a sigh. “The guy in Castries wasn't him, obviously, although there was a resemblance. I don't know, Jo, people usually don't just disappear off the face of the earth. But he has. When I was down in Barbados, I saw everyone, from the governor general to the head of the Coast Guard to the guy who filled the yacht with fuel to the men who picked up their garbage. Everyone's mystified. Carla's backed out of all our interviews, as you know. She keeps promising to see me, though. I ain't gonna hold my breath.
But
. . .” he leaned in and whispered to me, “guess who
is
cooperating and talking her head off?”

“Who?”

“Lulu.”

“I'll bet.”

“And has she given me an earful! Believe me, if
half
of what she says is true . . .”

“But can you trust what Lulu says? Isn't she a little biased?” Despite her apology to me at the opera, I still wasn't overly fond of Lulu Cole.

Larry leaned in farther. “Jo, you can't breathe a word of this. Promise?”

“I'm the grave, Larry, you know me.”

He whispered, “Lulu had a
spy
on board that boat.”

He registered satisfaction when he saw the stunned look on my face. Suddenly the light dawned.

“So
that's
how she knew he was missing!” I said.

“Shhh,”
Larry said, motioning me to keep my voice down.

“I always wondered how she found out.”

“Well, now you know. He's an Australian named Jeff Martin. He was the sous-chef. He called Lulu the morning Russell disappeared. But he'd been reporting back to her for months. According to Lulu, that boat was a floating nightmare . . .” Larry peered over the top of his glasses and rolled his eyes at me. “Anyway, I'm going back down to Florida tomorrow to interview him. I have to check out Lulu's story because, as you wisely point out, she's not exactly an impartial source . . . I'll see Miguel Hernandez again when I'm down there.”

“Yes, now how did
that
go?” I asked him.

“Well, that's a whole other fascinating story. Miguel Hernandez is a very attractive guy who lives in regal splendor in Palm Beach. He's rather shy, but if I said there was no love lost between him and his former stepmother, that would be putting it mildly. I think the only reason he agreed to see me is because he hates Carla so much. He's none too fond of the press, either. It took him a while to loosen up, but when he started talking . . . boy oh boy . . . !”

“Oh,
tell
me, Larry.”

“Well, apparently, Antonio didn't leave his grieving widow anywhere near as much money as she thought she was going to get.”

“Like how much is not much?”

“Miguel says she only got two million dollars—which, as you know, in that rarified little world isn't even pocket change.”

“Jesus, she must have been furious.”

“Get this,” Larry said with a malicious twinkle in his eye. “A few months before he died, Hernandez showed her a
fake
will.”

My mouth dropped. “You're kidding!”

“I kid you not. Miguel told me that his ‘wicked stepmother,' as he refers to her, was positive she was getting at least half a billion dollars from his father's estate. And when she found out he'd tricked her, she went absolutely
bananas.
”

“God, Larry! That's hilarious!” I thought for a second. “But then, how come everyone thought she was so rich when she married Russell?”

“She acted rich. She spent her wad on the façade, as they say. Miguel loathes her. Thinks she's capable of anything.”

“Murder?” I ventured.

Larry shrugged. “I don't think he'd put it past her.”

“Would you?”

He considered a moment. “Not sure. Doubt it, though.”

“So what else did he say?”

“He's a very cautious man. I think he trusts me now, and I have a feeling there's more he can tell me. Anyway, I'm going to hop over and see him again when I interview Lulu's spy. They're not far from each other.”

“Don't you find all this absolutely fascinating?”

Larry nodded and took a bite of food. “And there's a lot more to learn. . . . But enough about the Coles. I want to hear about
you
, Jo.”

“What about me?”

“Oh, a little bird tells me that you have acquired an insect pin!”

Larry was always up on the latest skinny. I laughed, amused at the idea that this nonexistent liaison between me and Lord Vermilion had already reached his ears.

“Max and I are just friends, Larry. We
really
are. No kidding.”

“I believe you. He's a rather complicated figure, old Max.”