One Dangerous Lady (22 page)

Though I never came right out and said I was against her being on the board, anyone reading between the glasses of fine white wine knew that I was not exactly in her corner. My position was not so much against her, but more of a “let's wait and see” attitude. I knew, of course, that once a person has been blackballed from the board, that's it. No second chances. Conversely, once someone was elected to the board, it was difficult to get them off until their term expired. And even then, it was tricky, particularly if the person in question had great financial means.

Even though all Municipal Museum business was highly confidential and board members took that very seriously, this was, after all, New York. I was a little worried Carla might get wind of my subtle sabotage, so I was always careful to preface all my conversations with the assurance that she was a friend of mine and that I was thinking more in terms of the reputation of the Muni.

“No one—especially Carla—would want to give the impression that a seat on our board can be sold to the highest bidder,” I said, knowing full well that was how more than one of my luncheon companions had secured their positions, though they would never admit it. I appealed to their snobbery, however, by making a seat on the board of the Muni seem like one of the grandest status symbols that there was in New York, an honor conferred only after years of service and scrutiny. When anyone brought up the subject of the Cole collection and Carla's proposed grant, I merely suggested that it would behoove us to hold off and wait and see if Russell returned.

 

Chapter 25

C
arla's party was the very night before the Muni board meeting. Long after the fact, I realized to my chagrin that this was not luck, fate, or a coincidence. It was well planned.

Our little set was all atwitter with excitement. Word had drifted down from various sources that Carla's apartment was the single most spectacular abode in New York, if not the western hemisphere—a not-to-be-missed, once-in-a-lifetime, must-see extravaganza. No one I knew had actually seen it, except Dieter Lucino, the decorator, of course, and his army of assistants who, like members of Marco Polo's caravan, brought back tales of its wealth and luxury beyond measure.

“I can't wait to see this fucking apartment,” Betty said to me on the phone that morning when we were conferring on what to wear. “I hear it makes Versailles look like a Holiday Inn.”

I, of course, was dreading the whole event. I hated going to a party whose hostess I didn't much like or trust. Like Larry, I had the nagging suspicion that Carla was far, far more calculating than anyone could imagine. But I couldn't prove it. Carla Cole was a fact of social life now. I knew I'd have to deal with her unless I stopped going out or else moved away from New York altogether—neither of which I intended to do.

That afternoon I went to the hairdresser, a wonderfully old-fashioned salon called Mr. K's, located in the Waldorf-Astoria. Mr. K himself was a grand old gentleman who had been in business since the days when hats, neat hair, and good manners were the rule and not the exception they are now. In his heyday, he had famously styled the coiffures of queens, socialites, and first ladies. Now, at the age of eighty-one, he still went to work every day to cater to his loyal clientele. I'd been going to him steadily for years, except for that unfortunate interlude of five years when I could barely afford a cut-rate barbershop, let alone an elegant beauty salon. I always ran into at least one or two people I knew at Mr. K's. Like Pug's, it had a precious atmosphere of comfort and security, and a certain antiquated style.

I was just about to sit down and begin my color treatment when I heard a voice at the far end of the room cry out, “Jo!”

I looked around and spotted a woman seated in the corner waving at me. It took me a few seconds to recognize Ellen Grimes, Hadley Grimes's wife. Her hair, standing on end, wrapped in gridlike rows of neatly folded tinfoil, made her look like a hi-tech bride of Frankenstein. I walked over to chat with her for a moment. Ellen Grimes was a chunky, square-jawed woman whose leathery, lightly tanned skin—the product of outdoor sports and sunshine—would have made a rather attractive Birkin bag. She spoke in a kind of boarding school lockjaw, called her mother “Mummy,” her father “Dads,” her husband “Grimesy,” and her children “the brood.” We hadn't seen each other in ages—with good reason.

“I've decided to go platinum blonde,” she announced to me. “Grimesy won't approve, I'm sure, but I need a change. It was either that or another face-lift. I take it you're going to Carla Cole's tonight, aren't you? Of course you are. The whole building is in an absolute uproar with all the catering trucks parked outside and the people coming and going. It's going to be amazing. Isn't it something about Russell Cole? Is there any more news? Hadley just adores Carla. Don't you? And how's poor June? Thank God she's in Southampton! Think if she were here and not invited! Is she okay, by the way? I mean surviving? What are you wearing? Something long, right? I had to go get Mummy's jewels out of the safe deposit box this morning. Vault occasion. Jewelry's so ridiculously expensive to insure these days, isn't it? I wouldn't
dream
of keeping it in the house, would you?”

Ellen hadn't changed. She cruised along at her own altitude, her speech a flowing stream of consciousness, asking questions she either provided the answers for herself or never expected to have answered. But Ellen was a gossip and, as my mother used to say, “Even a blind chicken sometimes finds a kernel of corn.” When asked the right questions, Ellen could spew out interesting information faster than Old Faithful.

That afternoon I learned from Ellen that Carla Cole had spent over a hundred million dollars decorating her apartment, that she maintained an army of servants who lived in the bowels of the building, that she was an extremely stingy tipper, which is why all the doormen and elevator men and building staff loathed her, and that her limousine blocked the entrance of the building so often that the other tenants had lodged a complaint with the board.

“It's amazing how she's gotten the apartment ready so quickly,” I said, just to make conversation.

As is often the case in life, this offhand remark elicited a riveting response.

“Well, she did order everything last year, so it was all set to go,” Ellen said.

Pause.

I looked at Ellen who caught my eye and quickly looked away as if she'd said something she shouldn't have.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “
Last year?
She only bought that apartment five months ago.”

Ellen clapped her hand to her mouth. “Me and my big mouth.”

“
Ellen?
What's going on?”

“Nothing. I got confused.”

“No, you didn't. What do you mean, she ordered everything
last year
?”

Ellen stared at me with scolded puppy eyes. “Oh, Jo, Grimesy will murder—
meurdah
—me if I spill the beans!” She pronounced “murder” the way her husband did in haute mid-Atlantic.

“The beans are spilled, Ellen. Let's get cooking.” Behind her contrite façade, I knew she was dying to tell me.

“Well,” she said at last, breathing a deep sigh and lowering her voice to a confidential tone, “Marcy agreed to sell Carla that apartment almost a year ago. Last spring, in fact. According to Marcy, Carla went over there for tea and absolutely fell head over heels in love with it. And why not? I mean, it
is
the grandest apartment in New York, after all, rundown as it was. So anyway, Carla said to Marcy she absolutely
had
to have it. Marcy said she was ready to plunk down the money right then and there, but that there was a slight problem.”

“What?”

Ellen paused. “Russell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jo—if you breathe a
word
of this—”

“I
won't. Go on.
” I was on tenterhooks.

“Well, apparently, Russell wasn't keen on moving to New York. . . . No, let me put it another way. Russell was
dead set
against moving here. Carla told Marcy she was sure he'd change his mind if he saw the apartment. So they both came and had tea with Marcy. Marcy said that Russell was too polite to say anything, but that she could tell he absolutely
loathed
the place! He kept saying, ‘Isn't it a little big?' as they walked through all the rooms. You know Russell. He's so low-key—even that boat isn't as big as it could have been with all his moolah. Well, anyway, Marcy was upset he didn't like it because, of course, at that point she was
dying
to unload the thing and how many buyers are there at that price? Let's be honest. She thought it was over when they left. But then she got a call from Carla.”

“When?”

“Oh, right after they went to look at it. Carla called her the next day and said that she was going to go ahead and buy the apartment and have it all done up the way she knew Russell would like it. She told Marcy that if Russell could just walk in and ‘put his toothbrush in the cup'—that was her expression, don'tchya love it?—he would adore it. Marcy was a little stunned because she was sure Russell had really hated it. Anyway, it didn't seem to matter because Carla went in there a week later and took measurements and had her architect order doors and windows and cabinets and furniture and everything.”

“
Before
she bought it?”

“Oh, yeah,
way
before. Well, anyway, later Russell disappeared and Carla went ahead and bought the apartment. But then she ran into this snag with poor June and almost didn't get into the building. . . . Jo,” Ellen said, leaning in confidentially. “Can you imagine if Carla
hadn't
gotten in? After ordering—well—
millions
of dollars' worth of stuff made specially for that particular apartment? The mind boggles!”

I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. I needed to make absolutely sure of what Ellen was telling me.

“Okay, let me get this straight. Carla had a deal with Marcy Ludinghausen to buy that apartment months ago?
Before
Russell disappeared?”

Ellen nodded. “Yup. So Marcy says.”

“And she ordered furniture and everything?”

“Curtains, furniture, fittings, carpets, this incredible floor . . . but you
can't
say anything, Jo!
Promise?
”

“Why can't I?”

“Because Marcy told me in
strictest
confidence . . . although I suppose it really doesn't matter now that Carla's got the apartment,” she said with a shrug. “But I mean, who could afford to pay that ridiculous asking price except the Coles? Oh, maybe some drug dealer or a rock star or someone like that. But no one who could actually get
into
the building. So Marcy held out and refused to lower her price—even though all the real estate agents told her to. She knew Carla would come through in the end. I mean, she kind of had to. She'd already spent millions. But I guess when you're that rich you can afford to order things for places you don't own yet.”

“Ellen, let me ask you something. What if June
had
blackballed her?”

Ellen thought for a moment. “Well, that would have been
awful.
She would have had to scrap everything or else buy some other place and have everything refitted. Actually, it would have been a complete
disaster.
Hey, wouldn't it be marvelous to have that kind of money—where you could just throw away millions of dollars without thinking twice? Of course, it's terribly sinful and such a waste,” she added piously. “But still, it would be nice. Anyway,” Ellen went on in a chipper voice, “it all worked out in the end.”

Yes, I thought to myself, in the end of Russell Cole.

 

Chapter 26

T
hat evening, Larry Locket arrived at my apartment, looking spiffy in his tuxedo. It was a balmy May night and we decided to walk the few blocks to Carla's apartment building.

“Let's get as much air as we can before we're stifled by wealth,” Larry said as we strolled arm in arm down Fifth Avenue.

“Larry, dear, I found out something very interesting at the hairdresser's today,” I said as we walked.

“I'm listening.”

“Did you know that Carla had a deal with Marcy Ludinghausen to buy her apartment almost a
year
ago?”

Larry stopped dead, turned to me, and raised his eyebrows. “No. What do you mean?”

“According to my source, Carla took Russell to see the apartment a year ago and he hated it. Carla thought that if she went ahead and bought it anyway and fixed it up the way he liked, she could get him to change his mind. So she ordered millions of dollars' worth of fixtures and fittings and furniture for the place long
before
it was hers.”

Larry narrowed his eyes. “She ordered things for an apartment she didn't own yet?”

“Exactly. Millions of dollars' worth of things. Apparently, Russell didn't want to move to New York. But then he disappeared, so she went ahead and bought the apartment without him. Of course, June was going to prevent her from getting into the building. But then June had an accident.”

Larry was fascinated. We continued walking. “Who told you this?”

“I swore, Larry—”

“Jo, please. The source here is important. I promise I won't betray you.”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly. I trusted Larry. “It was Ellen Grimes, who's married to Hadley Grimes, the head of the board.”

“And how does Ellen know this?”

“She got it from the horse's mouth. She's Marcy Ludinghausen's best friend.”

“That's a primo source,” Larry nodded. “You think she'd talk to me for my article?”

“Oh, no, Larry,
please!
Ellen
swore
me to secrecy.”

“Don't worry. But there must be another way to verify this information. I mean, Jo, this is another one of those what I call ‘rich people motives.' She wants a big apartment. He doesn't. So she kills him, gets a hold of all his money, and buys it herself.”

We both laughed grimly.

Our decision not to take the car was a prescient one. The dozens of shiny black limousines encroaching upon the entrance of 831 Fifth Avenue resembled an infestation of beetles. Each car inched slowly up to the scrolly, wrought-iron doors of the building, egested its human cargo, then crawled off into the twilight. The entrance hall of 831 was a fairly unprepossessing space, given the fact that above its checkered marble floor were grand apartments as big as houses, many of them filled with museum-quality treasures. I noticed three men in dark suits lurking in a corner, eyeing the guests as they entered.

“Security,” Larry whispered.

“Whose?”

“Probably some dignitary or muckety-muck.”

A wave of nostalgia hit me as I entered the lobby. How many times had I been in that building to visit my late friend Clara Wilman and my dear June? I wondered if I could bring myself to shake hands with Carla Cole tonight, harboring this awful feeling that she'd had a hand in June's accident and so much more treachery. But being charming—even to people you suspected of terrible misdeeds—was all just “social life,” as June herself always said.

Larry and I stepped into the elevator with a crowd of
amis mondains
whom we both knew. At first everyone greeted everyone in a fluttery, repetitive way—what Betty called the “Hello Darling Syndrome”—triggered when people are trying to suppress a palpable air of excitement before a big event. The journey to the penthouse, however, was made in relative silence. No one uttered a word as the wood-paneled car whooshed upward. A couple of the men cleared their throats and the women surreptitiously appraised one another's gowns, jewels, hair, and makeup. Someone was wearing too much perfume.

As we approached the top floor, we heard the strains of a string quartet playing classical music. Finally the elevator stopped. Its mahogany door slid open, and one by one we all stepped out of the boxy car into another century. Two footmen in blue velvet livery stood at attention on either side of an arched entranceway leading into a vast reception hall, the floor of which was real lapis lazuli. The deep blue stone was like a little sea, glittering with golden grains of pyrite. There were no electric lights. Dozens of candles burned brightly in the huge, silver Regency chandelier and in antique silver wall sconces sculpted in the shape of shells. The veneer of brilliance created by the candlelight was unlike anything achieved by electricity.

At the far end of the hall, spread across the wall like a mural commissioned just for that space, was the enormous Tiepolo painting Carla had bought from Gil Waterman. In this setting, the mythical ocean scene depicting a golden-bearded Poseidon, holding a golden trident, leering at a bevy of nymphs frolicking away in the foam-tipped waves seemed even more magnificent. A few sea monsters slithered through its painterly water. They reminded me of a couple of the guests. The blue of the ocean deepened gradually toward the bottom so that the lapis lazuli floor appeared to be a continuation of the painting.

In front of this spectacular backdrop stood Carla Cole, in a draped white crepe gown with a diamond moon crescent perched atop her sleek chignon coiffure. She looked like a sea goddess arising from the crest of a wave. Her diamond earrings, practically the size of sand dollars, were like two spotlights on either side of her face. I watched her as she shook the hand of each guest, inclining her head slightly, affecting a regal air of noblesse oblige. Sometimes when she extended her hand to greet a guest, the line of sight that encompassed both her and the painting made it appear as though it were she, not Poseidon, who held the trident. Beside her stood Max Vermilion, looking very fit and elegant in one of his vintage tuxedos. A grieving spouse she definitely was not.

I got a little frisson when I saw Max. Even though he and I were definitely not meant for each other, I didn't particularly like it that he was squiring Carla around. Max was a powerful friend and the two of them made a formidable couple. That didn't bode well for keeping her off the board of the Muni, and the board meeting the next day was very much on my mind that night.

I whispered to Larry, “Just asking . . . do we think having Max here as the queen's consort is in the best of taste, given the fact that her husband is still missing?”

“Well, she's either positive he's coming back, or positive he isn't,” Larry said. “My money's on the latter.”

Betty, who looked like a big carrot in an orange silk gown with green ruffles around the neck, stopped by on her way to the powder room and whispered, “Hey, Jo, you think Russell's buried under this lapis lazuli ocean?” She laughed. “And check out Carla's waist carefully when you shake hands.” She raised her eyebrows knowingly and moved on.

As Larry and I were waiting in the reception line, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw Trish Bromire, who had apparently decided to tone down her look since Dick's conviction. Eschewing her usual loud colors and garish jewels, she looked the best I'd ever seen her, wearing a severe gray velvet dress and a striking antique garnet necklace and matching earrings. Garnets, not rubies. She kissed Larry hello, then kissed me and whispered, “Jo, you don't think Carla invited us here just to snub us in public, do you?”

“No, sweetie. Everyone understands these things happen.”

“You mean people getting convicted of federal crimes?” Trish said ingenuously.

I decided not to elaborate on my remark. “Where is Dick? I want to give him a hug.”

“Oh, he'll be here. He's with the lawyers. They're deciding whether or not to appeal. I came on ahead. I didn't think it was proper to be late, particularly under the circumstances. We have to be so careful now. Of course, if I'd known it was going to be such a zoo, I'd have waited for him,” Trish said, waving to three different people as she spoke. “Most people have said hello to me. Isn't that nice? I guess it means they still like us.”

“We love you, sweetie,” I said, giving her a hug.

“Of course we do,” Larry concurred.

Dick arrived shortly thereafter and joined Trish behind us in the receiving line. Larry shook his hand ostentatiously and I gave him a big kiss. But he seemed wary—even of me. In my view, it was very clever of Carla to have invited the Bromires because, despite Dick's recent travails, they still had a lot of friends in New York.

When Larry and I reached Carla, she seemed particularly happy to see us both. Her face brightened noticeably as she greeted the two of us.

“Ah, my dear Jo, and the brilliant Mr. Locket, how divine of you both to come! I hope you will enjoy all the surprises I have in store for you tonight.”

Why was it that everything Carla said sounded like a threat to me?

I checked out Carla's waist, as Betty had told me to. There, partially hidden underneath the Grecian folds of the dress, were not one, not two, but
five
diamond insect pins on a white satin belt.

Max!

I got one insect pin merely for being his friend. But
five
definitely indicated a deeper relationship.

Larry and I smiled politely and quickly moved on to Max, who also gave us both a warm welcome. Just then Betty waltzed up to us, pointed at the great ocean painting, and said, “Do we think that choice of artwork is, shall we say,
appropriate
, when half the world thinks your husband is fish food?”

Gil, who was just behind her, disparaged her comment. “Betty, that is a
great
painting and you, my good wife, are enjoying the proceeds of its sale.”

“I don't care. The theme is macabre,” she said imperiously. “Couldn't she have picked a forest instead of an ocean? C'mon, kids, let's go snoop around the rest of the palace.” She waved us all to follow.

Trish, Dick, Betty, Gil, Larry, and I all trooped through the apartment, which I had seen in two previous incarnations. When Clara had it, it was an ode to understated elegance. Clara Wilman believed that a kind of grand coziness was the ultimate luxury. She had decorated the apartment as if it were a great English country house, filling it with carved William Kent furniture, large, comfortable couches, and beautiful paintings of landscapes, horses, and dogs. Wandering around the apartment, the eye was constantly amused by oases of beauty: the handpainted trompe l'oeil scenes in the smaller sitting rooms, and precious collections like the tiny, jeweled flowers in real jade or crystal flowerpots or the menagerie of silver animals made by Fabergé for the Grand Duchess Tatiana.

Marcy Ludinghausen's taste ran screaming in the opposite direction. Marcy, once married to an avant-garde artist, was still in her downtown period when she bought the apartment. She and Baron Ludinghausen, an ersatz art dealer among other things, both favored Andy Warhol paintings, neon sculptures, and bean-bag chairs. The place looked like a sixties Soho art gallery and was just about as comfortable, as I remember from the one time I went there.

And now it was a whole other incarnation, one that Betty described as “Late Catherine the Great.” The furniture was all ormolu'd and gilded within an inch of its life. Each room had a plethora of magnificent pieces. Huge tassels dangled from sofa arms, chair seats, and cabinet keys. The silk-brocaded walls were crammed with paintings in ornately carved gilt frames. I recognized some pictures from the Cole collection, but not many; and the ones that were there seemed oddly compromised by the magnificent seventeenth- and eighteenth-century furniture surrounding them. The apartment was a very grand, very expensive mishmash of styles. It lacked what Clara Wilman had called “a presiding eye.” It was just rich-rich-rich.

Fingering a giant tassel, Betty wondered aloud, “Is there a period called rococo-a-gogogo?”

“There is now,” Larry said.

D
inner was served in a miniature re-creation of the Hall of Mirrors. Carla had transformed her dining room into that legendary space in the palace of Versailles, complete with towering torchieres, smoky mirrors, and footmen in livery. The pampered people in our little set are very competitive, and that night Carla Cole raised the bar a good ten notches. For those who prided themselves in large measure on their dwellings, their possessions, and their party-giving, the entire evening was a form of exquisite torture. It was as if at every step of the way, Carla was saying, “Top that!”

Betty walked into the dining room and said, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the richest of them all?”

Larry, who was seated next to me, and who noticed the footmen eyeing one another across the table, said, “What do you bet they're all out-of-work actors? And what must they be thinking?”

“What must
any
of us be thinking?” I said as a bowing waiter presented me with a silver bowl in which a huge tin of fresh Beluga was encased in shaved ice. He handed me a large gold spoon. I dug in.

During the appetizer, the conversation was muted by awe—an unusual occurrence in a group where profligate spending is not exactly unknown. Gradually, however, the great wines and the delicious food loosened everybody up so that by the time the waiters in white gloves had served the main course, we were all chattering away like yardbirds—beginning to focus on the cracks in the façade. The bitchy comments started. No matter how perfect things are, it is the special talent of New Yorkers to be able to find fault with them. A “perfect” evening to us is an evening we can criticize.

At several points during the meal, I found myself looking down the table, thinking that if Carla were trying to buy her way into New York society, she had certainly succeeded that night.