One Dangerous Lady (18 page)

“Tell him we'll sit down in five minutes no matter what,” I said.

It wasn't polite to keep my guests waiting because Lulu was so late. I excused myself from Betty and went over to Max, taking him aside.

“Max, dear, what exactly did Lulu say when you told her Carla was coming?”

He looked puzzled. “Was I supposed to tell her Carla was coming?”

“Max,”
I said sternly. “You didn't tell either of them, did you?”

He glanced up at the ceiling as if trying to recall, then back at me. “You know, I honestly forget.”

“In other words,
no.
”

“Now, Jo, we're all civilized people here,
what
?”

“That remains to be seen,” I said, stalking off. I was furious.

I found Betty and told her what Max had
not
done.

“Oh, he really is so impossible,” Betty said, shaking her finger at him across the room. “But are we surprised, Jo? This is the man who once switched the place cards at a dinner at Buckingham Palace. It's not exactly a news flash he can't be trusted.”

I should have known. One thing was certain, under no circumstances could I now put Carla and Lulu at the same table.

I was just going in to change the place cards when Lulu appeared at the front door. Acting anxious and distraught, she practically threw her chinchilla coat at Cyril. Her brown satin evening suit was oddly off kilter. One shoulder looked lower than the other. Even her black hair, usually so perfectly coiffed, looked unkempt, with stray strings hanging around her face. I noticed she had two diamond bumblebee pins affixed to the lapels of her suit. A Max Vermilion special, no doubt.

“Jo, dear, I'm so, so sorry to be late.
Please
forgive me,” she said breathlessly. “I'm beside myself, I really am. I was with the lawyers all afternoon and it just went on and on and on. You simply will not
believe
what's happened! It's an absolute scandal. But I won't bore you with all that now. You must be holding dinner. Where's Max? I must apologize to him.”

Before I could stop her, the Chiffon Bulldozer was mowing her way into the living room in search of the guest of honor.

It was one of those social moments that happens so fast that no one thinks anything of it until they realize that in the midst of all the artificial camaraderie, war is about to break out as two arch enemies are brought face-to-face. Lulu paused to look over the crowd before she located Max, who was holding court, standing in the middle of a little knot of admirers—among them, Carla, with her back to the entrance.

Larry and Betty, who were talking privately in a corner, looked out simultaneously and saw exactly what was about to happen. They looked at Lulu, marching toward Max to say hello, then at me, traipsing after her, like a hapless foot soldier following a tank, then back at Lulu, as she reached Max's little group. I veered off and retreated to the corner with them, seeking shelter, dreading the moment when the past and present Mrs. Cole were dragged together by the silken ropes of etiquette.

An ominous hush fell over the room as Lulu, still oblivious to Carla, greeted Max with air-kisses and said in a chirpy voice, “Max, darling,
do
forgive me for being so late!” She had suddenly developed a slight English accent.

“Never complain, never explain, Lulu, my dear,” Max said. I thought I detected a malicious little twinkle in his eye as he motioned to the rest of the group and said, “I believe you know everyone here.”

Lulu said hello to Justin Howard and a couple of others before turning automatically to Carla. When she realized who it was, she gasped. Her jaw dropped and she froze, looking deeply pained, like she'd been punched by an unseen entity. Carla mustered a synthetic smile and graciously extended her hand to Lulu who, still dazed, looked down at it in disgust, as if it were a claw. Looking up again at Carla, Lulu paused for what seemed like an eternity, and then said in a loud, clear voice,
“Thief! Murderer!”

Gasps swept through the room, followed by an electric silence.

“I love a gal who says what's really on her mind,” Betty whispered to me.

In this softly lit setting of antiques and pretty flower arrangements, everyone looked as if they had just witnessed a beheading. All eyes were focused on Carla to see how she would respond.

Carla seemed to be calculating the effects of this encounter. I sensed that she alone among everyone in the room was unmoved by the event. Her cold eyes betrayed her, as if she were merely an interested spectator rather than a main participant. She looked at Lulu with a steely gaze, like a hunter gauging the prey she has cornered, evaluating how best to make the kill. Suddenly, a decision made, her face melted into an expression reflecting a masterly combination of shock, hurt, and disbelief. The face of an actress in a star part, I thought.

Slowly lifting her gaze to Max, who was at a loss, along with everyone else, Carla said, “Max, I think I should go.” There was a tearful tremor in her voice.

Max turned to Lulu and said, “Lulu, m'dear, rather bad form,
what
?”

Lulu shot back. “Don't talk to me about bad form, you horny, old hypocrite!”

“Excuse me,” Carla whispered, edging past Lulu.

“I will never excuse you!”
Lulu said in a loud voice.
“You stole my daughter's fortune! You killed my husband!”

“
Ex
-husband,” someone whispered loudly.

Carla left the living room, giving me an enigmatic look as she passed. Max followed her out, muttering under his breath in French. He trotted back in and said to me, “Jo, just seeing Carla home. Back in a jiffy.”

Lulu waited until Max and Carla had left, then she stalked out of the room. I ran after her.

“Lulu, I am so sorry, believe me. Max promised me he was going to tell you that Carla was coming.”

This seemed to infuriate her even more.

“And you
believed
him?” she scoffed at me.

“I should have called you myself.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“Jo, you once hated me for entertaining your arch enemy. Well, now we're even. What goes around comes around, as they say. But I'd watch out for Max, if I were you,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at my diamond dragonfly pin. “He's not worth it,
believe
me.”

Larry came out into the hall. Lulu looked at him. Tears welled up in her large eyes. She said, “She's done it, Larry! She got control!”

Larry and I looked at each other. The elevator arrived and Larry escorted her downstairs.

I returned to the living room, where the buzz of whispers was deafening. Seeing Gil and Betty, I threw up my hands.

“Well, there goes the party!” I said.

Betty laughed. “Are you kidding? Honey, this party has just been
made.
What a fucking floor show!”

“Dinner is served,” Cyril announced with great solemnity.

“But the main dish just left!” Betty cried.

Uncharacteristically true to his word, Max returned to the dinner after escorting Carla home. He joined us midway through the entrée. He sat down, blasé and charming as always, acting as if nothing much had happened. When I brought up the incident and chastised him for not having told Lulu that Carla was coming, he simply said, “Girls will be girls,” and dug into the beef Wellington.

 

Chapter 20

N
ews of the party spread faster than cellulite. The next morning, I fielded calls from all over the world. Everyone in social life had heard about “the incident.” What they were all dying to know, of course, was why Max had sided with Carla over Lulu. Lulu, who many believed to be romantically involved with Max, was a longtime friend, whereas Carla was a relatively new acquaintance. People wondered: Would Carla soon be wearing a diamond insect pin? And, of course, everyone was curious about me and Max. The rumor now was that he'd jilted me in favor of Carla.

In New York, the best part of any evening is often the day after, when it can be dissected from a distance. In light of that, Larry, Betty, Trish, and I all met for lunch at Pug's in order to conduct the autopsy. Before going to the restaurant, Betty and I had made our daily pilgrimage to the hospital to see our beloved and still comatose June. Betty, who always talked to June as if June could hear her, sat by her bedside and gave her a blow-by-blow description of the party. On our way out, Betty said to me, “Now if
that
doesn't bring her out of it, nothing will!”

Pug's was brimming with pals, as usual, among them Max, who was dining with Charlie Kahn at a nearby table. Charlie usually took friends to his club for lunch, but Max hated club food and he loved Pug's haute boarding school cuisine.

As Larry ate his designer meatloaf, Trish and Betty and I leaned in across the table, speaking in hushed tones so Max wouldn't overhear us. We speculated on the nature of Max's relationship with Carla. Trish was energized by this most recent little scandal because it was a chance to get her mind off her husband's trial. Old New York proverb: Fight scandal with scandal.

“I spoke to Lulu this morning. Obviously, she's upset about the whole money situation. But she thinks it's absolutely disgraceful that Max and Carla are having an affair, given the fact that Carla is still a married woman and she's acting so upset about Russell!”

“Lulu can't have it both ways,” Betty said irritably, spearing lettuce leaves with her fork.

“What do you mean?” Trish asked.

Betty paused with her fork in midair. “Lulu called Carla a murderer, right?”

“Right,” Trish said warily.

“Well, if Russell's dead, then Carla's a
widow
! She's therefore free to fool around with anyone she damn well pleases.” Betty stuffed the lettuce leaves into her mouth and resumed harvesting the rest of her salad plate. “I just think we should be clear about these things, that's all. . . . Sure she's pissed about the money. But I think she's even more pissed that Carla's moving in on Max. Let's face it, Lulu would love to be Lady Vermilion.”

“I thought Lulu was still in love with Russell,” I said.

Betty gave me an incredulous look. “
So
? He's out of her life. She might as well carry her torch around a castle. But my money's on Carla.”

“Why?” Trish asked.

“Because, Trish, my darling, you know as well as I do that powerful men like women who have been involved with other powerful men. It makes them feel like they have something special. Let's face it girls, women are like paintings: the grander the provenance, the more coveted they are.”

“And the bigger their bank account,” I added.

“What about you, Jo? Aren't you and Max kind of involved?” Trish said.

“I know that's what everyone thinks, but we're really not.”

“That's too bad. I'd divorce Dick for a crack at Taunton Hall,” Trish said, then quickly added, “Just kidding!”

“No you're not,” Betty said.

“Yes I am!”

Larry was listening to our conversation, shaking his head in amusement. “You ladies . . . !” he said, chuckling.

“What?”
Betty glared at him.

“I'm here to tell you that the Carla-Max connection ain't about romance,” he said.

“No? So what's it's about, then?” Betty inquired.

Larry put down his fork and lowered his voice. We all leaned in toward him like flowers bending toward the sun.

“The reason those two are so chummy at the moment is because Carla is putting a roof on Taunton Hall,” he said with great authority.

We all exchanged bewildered glances.

“Taunton Hall needs a new roof and Carla is paying for it—to the tune of a cool ten million pounds,” Larry said.

“Can't Max afford to put a new roof on his own house?” Trish inquired, echoing my own sentiments exactly.

“Of course he can,” Larry said. “But why should he when he can get Carla to foot the bill for him?”

“Larry,” I began rather sternly, “Max doesn't strike me as the type who either needs or wants to be in anyone's debt, certainly to that extent.”

“He doesn't think of it as being in her debt, Jo. I think Max thinks of it as rather an honor he's bestowing on her. Taunton Hall is one of the great houses of England. I'm sure there'll be a plaque somewhere which says the roof was made possible by the generosity of Carla Cole. It's a charitable contribution. I gather he's delighted about it,” Larry said.

“Hey, I'd be delighted if someone wanted to put a new roof on our house,” Betty said.

“I'd be delighted if someone wanted to
come
to our house,” Trish said sadly, reflecting, no doubt, on the number of friends who had recently deserted them.

Max and Charlie finished eating before we did and they both stopped by to say hello. We all exchanged cordial greetings. I practically had to pinch Trish to keep her from standing up in deference to Max. Trish's pulse just naturally quickened around aristocrats and she became particularly fluttery around Lord Vermilion. Betty, on the other hand, was one of the few people I knew who wasn't at all impressed by titles. She didn't care two hoots what Max or anyone else thought of her. She referred to Prince Charles as “Chuck,” and the Queen as “Liz.” And probably would have done so to their faces.

“Hey, Maxy, honey,” she said, “we hear Carla Cole's putting a new roof over your head!”

Max guffawed. “My heavens! That was fast.”

“Is it true?” she pressed him.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Isn't that a little tacky-tacky, Maxy-Maxy?” Betty said in her inimitable hand-on-hip way.

Larry, Trish, and I all glanced at each other in amused disbelief. No one dared talked to Lord Vermilion like that—except Betty. Max laughed. If he was offended, he didn't show it. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. Max was the recipient of so much nauseating flattery that I suspected he rather delighted in being kidded from time to time.

“First of all, it's not only
my
house, Betty, dear. It belongs to the National Trust. And despite the millions of pounds I've spent on it and continue to spend on it every year, it always needs a vast amount of work. We have a ball every year to raise money for it. You were kind enough to come to one, if you remember. Carla tells me it's Russell's favorite house in England. She wants to do it for
him.
”

“As what? A memorial?” Betty said.

Max laughed again. “I don't think it's quite that grim, do you? Frankly, I think she's looking for projects to keep herself occupied until he resurfaces.”

“ ‘Surfaces' being the operative word,” Betty said pointedly.

Enough was enough, however. Max furrowed his wide brow and grew serious. “Mrs. Cole is having a rather difficult time, you know—as anyone in her position would be, of course. She's a very nice, very generous person who means very well, I think. So wouldn't it be lovely if all you people here in New York were kind to her—particularly you, Mr. Locket?”

This zinger out of left field perked Larry right up.

“Me?” Larry said, pointing to himself with some astonishment.

“Yes, you. One hears that you are doing an article and that you are only listening to one side of the story,” Max said. “And, as you can see from last night, that side is rather prejudiced, wouldn't you say? Wouldn't it be nice to get another point of view?”

Max may have thought he'd put an end to a conversation with a polite suggestion that had the ring of a royal decree. But Larry, who was no one to trifle with, particularly when it came to his professional integrity, quickly picked up the gauntlet. He straightened himself up in his chair and, pinning Max with a hard gaze, said, “You can tell the present Mrs. Cole for me that I would be delighted to listen to her side of the story if she would be kind enough to tell it to me. I have repeatedly set up interviews which she has repeatedly canceled.”

“She doesn't want to talk to the press, Mr. Locket, which I, frankly, find rather refreshing,” Max said. “However, she did tell me that if she were to talk to any of them, it would be to you. And I agreed with her. I do so admire your work—from a safe distance.”

With that, Max walked off. Charlie shrugged with mortification and followed him out of the restaurant.

“Brrrr . . .”
Betty shuddered as they left. “Well, those two cold fish certainly deserve each other,” she said, referring to Max and Carla.

“Max isn't cold,” Larry said. “He's just very English.” He reflected for a long moment. “And he does make a good point. After last night, anything that Lulu says about Carla is going to be very suspect. If I quote her too much, it's going to look like I'm biased. Plus I only have her word for some of the things she's told me.”

I could see that Larry was troubled.

“Well, you'll have to discover the smoking gun,” Betty said, continuing to eat. “And I ain't referring to Max's third leg.”

W
hen I got home that afternoon, there were many flowers and presents and messages waiting for me, all of them thank-yous for the party. Max sent a lengthy handwritten letter on his coroneted stationery, along with a beautiful old book of French furniture designs to add to my collection. He didn't allude to the incident, but dwelled endlessly on the dessert I'd served, which looked like slices of watermelon, but was, in fact, watermelon sorbet with chocolate pits set in a real watermelon rind so one could easily mistake it for the fruit itself—until one tasted it. It was one of my famous trompe l'oeil desserts, as I called them. Max loved it. He wanted the recipe for his chef.

Carla sent me a large orchid plant in an antique vase. Her note, written on the back of a postcard, read simply,

Dear Jo,

A memorable evening,

So sorry I couldn't stay.

Love,

Carla.

What bothered me was that the postcard was a picture of one of the rooms in the Slater Gallery. These cards were only available in the Muni gift shop. Was she sending me a message?

Someone sent me a cactus plant with no note. I called the florist to find out who it was from. The florist replied, “Lulu Cole.”

I thought so.

The most disturbing note came from Justin Howard, however. Justin thanked me for the party, adding a P.S., which said, “And you will be delighted to know that your dear friend Carla Cole is giving the rest of the money to buy the de La Tour
Judas
, thus making the two of you co-donors.”

I already knew this from Ethan and it delighted me about as much as watching a fungus grow.

B
etty called bright and early the next morning and spoke the five most feared words in New York, “Have you seen Page Six?”

“Listen to this,” she said, reading from the paper: “ ‘Socialite Jo Slater's coveted dinner party for the elegant Earl Vermilion turned into a free-for-all when Lulu Cole, once married to missing billionaire Russell Cole, accused her successor, Carla Cole, of being a thief and a murderess in front of the fancy crowd . . .' ”

She read on: “ ‘The posh gathering was stunned by the first Mrs. Cole's slanderous accusations. At one point, she physically menaced Carla Cole. The much younger woman backed off, not wanting to cause her socialite hostess any further embarrassment . . .' ” Betty paused for a moment, then said, “ ‘The
much younger
woman'? Carla definitely called Page Six herself.”

“I wish they'd stop referring to me as a socialite. It sounds so damn dumb.”

“Jo, better a socialite than a
sociopath
—which is how Lulu sounds.”

“Let's hope she doesn't see it.”

“The odds of that are slim and none,” Betty said.

And indeed, almost immediately after I hung up with Betty, I got a call from Lulu, whose apoplectic rage about the article was directed entirely at me. She hardly drew breath as she ranted at me.

“Jo Slater, you are a
snake
! First you lure me to that party,
then
you feed me to the press!
Page Six!
That was supposed to be a
private
party! And after I apologized to you and let my daughter confide in you . . . I think it's just despicable! I think
you're
despicable! And as far as I'm concerned, you and Carla Cole deserve each other!”

She hung up without even giving me a chance to offer her an explanation—not that I really had one. Aside from the acute embarrassment I felt over the incident and its airing, I was worried that the public perception was that I was Carla's best friend.

Then the mail arrived and with it a calligraphed invitation from the Municipal Museum to attend a gala dinner for the opening of an exhibit simply called “The Old Masters,” the show that Ethan Monk had been working on for years. I was thrilled at first, knowing that this exhibition was the culmination of Ethan's professional career, and that it meant so much to him. I was just about to call and congratulate him when another, much smaller, calligraphed card fell out of the large tissue-lined ecru envelope containing the invitation. It read, “This exhibition has been made possible by the generous gift of Mrs. Russell Cole.”