One Dangerous Lady (21 page)

 

Chapter 24

T
he next afternoon, I went to the Municipal Museum for an executive committee meeting of the board. Unfortunately, the meeting turned out to be one of the most disturbing experiences of my life—and, believe me, if you know my life, that's really saying something.

Everything started off extremely well. About fifteen of us—the chairmen of the standing committees, such as myself, plus key staff members, plus the chairman of the board himself and Edmond Norbeau, the director—all gathered in the main boardroom. Everyone was in an upbeat mood because the previous night's dinner had been such a great success. The
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
had both called the exhibition “spectacular.” People were lined up around the block to see it. We all chatted among ourselves before taking our seats around the long, mahogany conference table. I had a particularly nice conversation with Justin Howard, the new chairman of the board. My old friend, Roger Lowry, had retired and Howard was now head of the museum.

The scion of an old and prominent New York family, Howard had first distinguished himself as the president of his family's publishing empire and then gone on to dedicate himself to philanthropy and other eleemosynary activities. In his early sixties, his puggish face bustled with energy and purpose. He was a real charmer, as well as being an astute businessman and a man of culture. In the relatively short period of his leadership, the museum had prospered. Justin and I were not great friends, but I respected him and I believe he respected me. When his appointment was announced, I had given him one of my small dinners. He and his wife, Regina, said it was one of the most elegant evenings they'd ever been to, which pleased me to no end. And they had both been extremely supportive after my now infamous dinner for Max, at which they had both been present.

Just before we sat down, Justin said to me, “I have some very exciting news, Jo. I hope you'll be pleased.”

“How wonderful. Can't wait,” I said in a polite, chipper voice. Taking a seat beside Ethan Monk, I whispered to him, “What's going on?”

Ethan shrugged. “Don't ask me.” He seemed as perplexed as I was.

As chairman of the acquisitions committee, I knew it had to be something very big indeed mainly because I was not privy to it. I was usually privy to all museum business, as was Ethan. And even if Ethan wasn't informed outright, or consulted, as I generally was, he always heard the scuttlebutt through the gilded grapevine. I simply couldn't imagine what was up.

The meeting was called to order and we whipped through routine business a bit faster than usual, I thought. Justin seemed eager to get to his “news.” Finally he rose to his feet—a rare occurrence at one of these events, signaling a matter of great weight was at hand. He cleared his throat, adjusted his stance, and before he began, glanced conspiratorially at Edmond. The atmosphere crackled with expectation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a very important and exciting announcement to make. It is my great honor, privilege, and pleasure to inform you that Mrs. Russell Cole has graciously donated the Cole collection to our museum.”

Little gasps of astonishment rippled through the boardroom, followed by nods and murmurs of approval, then a round of solid applause. Justin and Edmond looked at each other and preened. For years, every museum of note in the country had courted the Cole collection. This was a major coup for the Muni, and a major blow for me—mainly because I sensed all too well what was coming next.

Justin continued: “As all of you here know, the Cole collection is perhaps the finest of its kind in private hands. Over the years, many museums have coveted it, and it gives me great pleasure to be able to tell you that our beloved Municipal Museum will be the beneficiary.”

There were more mutterings of approval. Amid the palpable excitement, I tentatively raised my hand.

“Yes, Jo,” Justin said, beaming down at me.

“This may be a rather stupid question,” I began. “But as I understand it, Russell Cole is still presumed to be missing, not dead. Is it conceivable, Justin, that if he were to turn up one day, he might possibly contest this gift?”

“That's certainly not a stupid question, Jo. Edmond and I had exactly the same concern,” Justin gallantly replied in his patrician voice. “The fact is that Mrs. Cole has told me that Russell had already made up his mind to give us the collection shortly before his tragic disappearance. Still, we're very cautious, as you know, and we've gone over this thing thoroughly with Bart Jehovie. Bart, here, has assured us we're covered on all fronts, no matter what happens, haven't you, Bart?”

Bart Jehovie, the dark-haired, long-faced, brilliant lead counsel for the museum, who Ethan said looked like an El Greco, was seated on Justin's left. He looked up and gave his chairman a solemn nod. Everything the Municipal Museum did or ever got involved in was always vetted by Bart Jehovie and his able team of lawyers. Normally, at this point in the meeting, Bart would have been asked to get up and explain the particulars of such a bequest. However, it was clear that Justin was so excited by this triumph, he wanted to keep the floor all to himself for the time being.

Justin went on, “Mrs. Cole will finance the new wing that will house the collection.” Again, he paused for effect. “She is donating one hundred million dollars to the museum for that purpose.”

One hundred million dollars.

More gasps as that figure hung in the air like a blazing chandelier for all to admire.

I felt sick.

Suddenly, Seymour Heffernan, the slick billionaire businessman who was chairman of the finance committee, piped up. I had never much cared for Seymour or for his pushy, third trophy wife, Tiffany. I suspected they had no real interest in the Muni except as a social catapult. His too-polished hair, fingernails, shoes, and manners only heightened by contrast a kind of innate crudeness. Heffernan measured everything by money—arguably a valuable trait for a finance committee chairman, but one that didn't particularly appeal to me. He claimed to be knowledgeable about “paintings and art,” as he always said, but Ethan took him to lunch once and told me that Heffernan could stuff what he knew about art through the boutonniere of one of his too-loud English suits. Betty, who knew him as an erstwhile client of Gil's, told me, “Gil simply refuses to deal with him anymore mainly because he loathes his taste in art. Victorian paintings of horny cardinals are not exactly Gil's thing. You should see their apartment. It looks like a bordello.”

Today, however, good old Seymour Heffernan asked the billion-dollar question.

“Justin, if I may be so bold,” he began in that fake, solicitous, diamond-in-the-rough voice of his. “We only have her word for it, right? What happens if the guy turns up one day and says he never said anything like that?”

I could have kissed him, his spoiled wife,
and
his horny cardinal paintings.

Justin was cool under fire.

“I'll let Bart elaborate on all this a little later on. But let me just give you the headline, Seymour. The one hundred million dollars that Mrs. Cole is giving us for the wing comes directly from her own private funds. The Cole collection, some of which they acquired together, is in a separate trust, over which Mrs. Cole has discretion. Bart, that's about right, isn't it?”

Justin glanced at Bart Jehovie, who was shaking his head in mild amusement. “It's slightly more complicated than that, Justin. But you're doing fine. Go on.”

Murmurs of approval.

“Thanks, Bart,” Justin said with a smile. “To make a long story short then, if Russell Cole does indeed come back home safely—and God knows we all hope and pray that he will—and for some reason, he doesn't agree with his wife's decision and he wants his collection returned, we will return it.”

Murmurs of disapproval.

Justin held up his hand. “No, no, hear me out, please! In the hundred and forty-seven years of its existence, the Municipal Museum has never had a scandal. And we're not going to have one under my watch. It's my understanding that if such an unfortunate event were to occur—and I don't mean Russell's return, of course! That would be wonderful—I mean if he wants his collection back,” he quickly added, “then we would simply give it back to him. Particularly because all of this has cost us absolutely no money. The worst that could happen? We have a beautiful new
empty
wing, which we can easily fill with treasures from our storerooms or with another collection, for that matter.”

Murmurs of approval.

Justin went on: “Mrs. Cole has made only one stipulation and one request . . .”

I braced myself.

“The stipulation is that she be involved in choosing the architect who will design the wing and in the final design of the wing itself. She's not insisting on final approval, but she does want to be involved . . .”

Murmurs of approval.

Then came the bombshell.

“The request is that she very much wants to join the board of the museum.”

Murmurs of disapproval.

Justin put his hand up to quell the apparent discontent. Each and every person there at least imagined they had paid their dues to the museum and no one likes an upstart, no matter how much money she is prepared to give.

The group was like some sort of Miss Manners mob—politely swaying this way and that with each new snippet of information. They were against Justin now, but at least he had their attention. Justin swept his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and threw his head back, preparing to use his eloquence to convert everyone to his point of view. I knew he couldn't risk losing such a coveted collection.

“Granted, this request is a little unorthodox. But ladies and gentlemen, the gift is magnificent! The generosity is
unparalleled
—particularly in this day and age when, as all of you here know only too well, both private and corporate giving to institutions—even great ones like ours—is at an all-time low.”

There was a lull signaling that the sympathies of the mob could go either way.

“The Cole collection is a chance for us to enrich this great museum even more in an area where we could, quite frankly, use some improvement,” Justin went on. “And I think Mrs. Cole's request to join our board is certainly not unreasonable under the circumstances—to say the least. But, as we all know, under our own peculiar rules of governance here at the Muni, we need unanimous approval. One no vote and . . .” He raised his eyebrows and gave a little shrug. He didn't have to finish the sentence.

By charter, the Municipal Museum operated under an antiquated election process, much like the old clubs in New York and London, where the term “blackball” originated. One no vote and the candidate was vetoed. It was generally accepted, however, that if someone was good enough to be proposed—particularly by the chairman or the director—he or she would automatically be elected. In fact, in the twenty-odd years I'd served on the board of the Muni, only one proposed candidate ever failed to be elected, and that was because on the eve of the vote he was indicted for fraud.

Justin went on, “I've taken the liberty of telling Mrs. Cole that she will be proposed as a board member at our next meeting—in a month's time. That will give you all ample opportunity to think about this. It's an important decision, so I know you'll think seriously. Also, please bear in mind that if we don't approve her, we will possibly—probably—lose the collection.”

“She's a shoo-in,” Ethan whispered to me.

Bang!

The shot through my heart.

Carla Cole was going to sit on the board of my beloved Municipal Museum.

Next thing I knew she would probably want to be on the acquisitions committee. And then chairman of the acquisitions committee—my job. And then, knowing her, chairman of the museum. The top was not high enough for this gal's ambition. She was climbing that “ladder with limitless rungs,” as Larry called it, with a vengeance.

I couldn't protest, even though I was dying to. There were too many big mouths in that room and I knew that if word ever got out that I'd said anything against her, it might be quite unpleasant for me. I just gritted my teeth and smiled politely, hoping someone else would point out what a controversial and divisive figure she was—definitely not the sort of person the Municipal Museum wanted on its board. I decided to bide my time. I had a month to lobby against her behind the scenes.

The meeting concluded and we all got up. Ethan and I walked out of the boardroom together. He knew me well enough to know that I was upset.

“What's wrong, Jo?” he asked.

“Well, quite frankly, I'd always thought of the Muni as one of the last places you couldn't buy your way into.”

“Oh, come on, Jo. You know that's not true. Money's the only thing that really talks in this town.”

“I understand. And I wish it would shut up for once.”

T
hat evening, I came home to find a calligraphed invitation with a blue velvet ribbon threaded through the top. It looked like a royal proclamation. It read,

Carla Cole

requests the pleasure of the company of

Mrs. Jo Slater

at a small dinner dance

on Saturday, May the twelfth

at eight thirty o'clock p.m.

831 Fifth Avenue

I saw this as the beginning of a long reign of a rival queen in whose court I might very well become a prisoner. A little handwritten note at the bottom of my invitation read, “I know you will be with me on this glorious night, dear Jo.” I took it not as an invitation, but as a command.

F
or the next couple of weeks, I did some not-so-subtle lobbying of my own. I took every single Muni board member out to lunch at Le Poisson, or the Fish Tank, as it was affectionately called by regulars, the last of the truly luxurious French restaurants in New York. The old-world atmosphere of the place, with its soft, flattering lighting, towering flower arrangements, delicious food, discreet service, and shiny, well-heeled patrons, offered a convivially formal setting for those who like that sort of thing and who can afford it. I felt it was the perfect venue to bring up the subject of Carla Cole.