One Dangerous Lady (25 page)

 

Chapter 28

T
he news that I had resigned from the board of the Muni ripped through New York faster than a stocking run. Charlie Kahn called to offer his condolences to me. He also had an ulterior motive. He wanted me and Betty to break the news to June that Carla had moved into their building. Having been forbidden a telephone or stimuli of any sort, including
Nous
magazine, June was reduced to listening to classic books on tape, blissfully unaware of this horrible development.

“I haven't dared tell her yet, Jo,” Charlie confided. “I don't want to upset her progress. She's doing so well—recovering by leaps and bounds.”

When Betty heard this, she said, “Yeah, she's leaping to conclusions which are bound to be wrong!”

Betty and I knew the real reason Charlie didn't want to take on the task of telling June the bad news.

“Let's face it, he's scared stiff of her,” Betty said.

I knew also that he hated scenes of any kind. Charlie Kahn was the last of a dying breed: a native New Yorker who was “to the manner born,” a gentleman and a truly courtly being who loathed publicity and disruption of any kind. He also had a streak of mischief in him—but that's another story. I knew him to be both utterly devoted to and terrified of his flighty wife.

Betty agreed to go with me to see June. The two of us drove out to Southampton just for the day, charged with informing our volatile friend that Carla Cole had successfully moved into her territory and was now a firm fact of all our lives. Quite frankly, I was thrilled to be getting out of the city. The whole Muni “ex-communication,” as Betty called it, had left me feeling very low indeed. It was just one more example of how absolute money corrupts absolutely—not just the person who has it, but the people around it. The fact that my beloved museum, for which I had worked for nearly twenty years, had succumbed to the wiles of this financial Circe was devastating. I relished the idea of going out to the country and seeing some green that didn't have to do with money, for a change.

Betty and I felt like two envoys on a “delicate diplomatic mission,” as I called it. As I fought the endless traffic on the Long Island Expressway, we debated the best way to tell June about her new neighbor. We tried out all kinds of subtle approaches, everything from sneaking it into the conversation as an aside, to throwing it away as a parting shot. Quickly wearying of the tactful approach, however, Betty finally said, “Hell, Jo, why don't we just come right out and say it: ‘Junie, there's a new queen in town and she's in your palace in a much grander apartment!' ”

Somehow, I thought not.

Halfway there, we grew tired of talking about June. Betty segued on to me. We went over the earring debacle ad nauseum, then Betty chastised me for quitting the board of the Muni.

“What in hell were you thinking, Jo? Are you nuts letting them force you out like that? Carla obviously set you up. How could you have let her get the better of you?” Betty asked incredulously.

“First of all, they didn't force me out, Betts. I resigned. Maybe I was hasty, but invoking the Marchant Exception—?”

“What the fuck's that?”

I explained to Betty exactly what had happened. Naturally, that was not what she had heard. She'd heard that Justin Howard had gotten up and banged his fist on the table, demanding my resignation, and that all the other board members had hounded me out of the room with catcalls. Typical New York: Things aren't bad enough that people can't wait to make them sound much worse.

“Listen, Betts, let's get one thing straight here, okay? Justin did not
demand
my resignation. I resigned on my own. But I have to admit, it was bad. My God, he compared me to that swindler brother-in-law of Marchant's by using an obscure rule that hasn't been invoked in eighty years. I couldn't just sit there and take that, could I? Anyway, I don't want to be on the same board as that woman. Let them all stew in their own juices, as far as I'm concerned.”

“But Jo, the Muni! The Slater Gallery . . . that's your baby. Are you gonna abandon your baby?”

“I've dropped off that board before, Betts, as you well know.” I was referring to the unfortunate time I'd been subtly asked to resign by the former president, Roger Lowry, because my fortunes had dipped so low. “I'll be on it again one day, once this interloper derails.”

“Don't bet on that train wreck anytime soon,” Betty said. “I can't tell you the number of people who've called asking me how they can get in touch with her so they can invite her to things just so she'll return the favor. Everyone is
dying
to see that ghastly apartment of hers. New York is so shameless. Of course, when anybody asks me if I've got her number, all I say is, ‘And
how.
' ”

Betty was nothing if not loyal.

We arrived at the Kahns' house at around one. They had a large, gray-shingled “cottage,” as they're called, just down the road from the beach near the Southampton Beach Club. Though the grounds were beautiful, with a great view of the ocean, inside the house was inappropriately decorated with overgilded furniture, overstuffed couches, and an endless array of knick-knacks. Every available surface was covered with carved ivory elephants and pink quartz pigs and other similar dust magnets. I remembered Lucius's description of the Kahns' house as “the Ile St. Louis on Mott Street.”

“It's the only house you go to where you have to put your drink down on your lap,” Betty said, referring to the lack of space on any table.

But it was June's penchant for nineteenth-century china figurines of monkeys dressed as clowns and jesters that had always been a mystery to me. Her vast collection of costumed simians looked particularly out of place, not to say ridiculous, on the living room mantel of a summer house. But that was our June.

I remember dear Clara Wilman once told me that the essence of great taste was “the appropriate made supremely comfortable.” By that she meant you didn't decorate, say, a beach house with marble and gobs of gilt. June rode roughshod over this dictum, for in each of her abodes the inappropriate was made supremely uncomfortable.

Betty and I knew the house well and when Charlie opened the door for us, we barged right in, said fond hellos, then immediately headed upstairs to June's bedroom, where Charlie told us she'd been confined on doctor's orders. We were a bit cautious about entering the room, fearing we would disturb the patient. Betty knocked gently on the door a couple of times and got no answer.

“Maybe she's asleep,” I said.

Betty turned the doorknob slowly and cracked the door so we could peer in. If we had walked into that frilly pink-and-white bedroom expecting to see a woman subdued by her near brush with death, we were sorely mistaken. Far from resting, June was propped up on a hospital bed, barking into the phone, taking notes on the yellow legal pad resting against her knees. Though still pale and thin from her ordeal, she nonetheless seemed quite feisty.

“Well, that's just not acceptable!” she was saying as she scribbled furious circles over the notes she'd been taking. “And if you can't help me, I'll find someone who can. . . . No, no, no, I
will
listen to reason. I just won't listen to
you
! . . . Because you're not being reasonable, that's why! . . . Yes, yes, I understand . . . but you're a lawyer, for heavens's sakes! You're
supposed
to be amoral! . . . Yes, and the same to you, too! Thank you! Good-bye . . . and good riddance!”

She hung up the phone and turned to us as if she'd just seen us an hour ago.

“Well, that was my lawyer,” she announced, still flushed with rage. “Or my
ex
-lawyer, I should say. Do you know that Carla Cole got into my building! The board voted her in when I was on my deathbed. My deathbed! How dare they?! I intend to sue. And you know what he just had the nerve to tell me? If I sue the board, I'll be suing myself because I'm the president of the board! He says he can't handle the case in good conscience.
In good conscience!
Can you
imagine
? A lawyer with a conscience?! So I said, ‘Then handle it in
bad
conscience! Just help me!' He won't . . . he refuses . . . silly little man!”

“So much for our delicate mission,” Betty said in an aside to me.

“What mission?” June said, overhearing.

Betty and I gathered around her bed and we both kissed her hello.

“Junie, it's so wonderful to see you,” I said.

“You, too, sweetie. Hi, Betty, dear . . . what mission are you talking about?”

Betty glanced at me, then said, “Charlie asked us to break the news to you that Carla got into your building.”

June threw up her hands. “Don't tell
me
! I know
all
about it! In fact, I may call Carla and ask her where I can find a hit man to rub out that rotten old Tut-tut Hadley Grimes! A hit man is just the sort of person
she'd
know, don't you think? She'll probably have hit man parties once she gets started,” June said, only half joking. June thought for a moment, then heaved a great sigh. “Oh, well, I suppose I have to be realistic . . .”

“It would be a nice change,” Betty muttered under her breath.

“I heard that, Betty Waterman!” June snapped. “We're just going to have to start looking for a new apartment. I will
not
share my lobby with that murderess.”

When June had first hurled that accusation at Carla, I'd been skeptical. Now I was inclined to agree with her assessment of her new neighbor.

Colleen brought us up a tray of sandwiches and coffee for lunch. The three of us sat in the bedroom, gossiping. Betty and I filled June in on all that had happened since she had been “out of commission,” as she now liked to put it. She sat there seething as we gave her the blow by blow about Carla's grand apartment, the famous party, the egregious earring incident, Carla donating the Cole Collection to the Muni, and my resigning from the board. Fresh and juicy as the sliced white champagne peaches that Colleen brought us for dessert, the conglomeration of bad news seemed to completely restore June to both the pitch and color of her old self.

“This woman must be exposed!” she cried.

Betty and I wholeheartedly agreed. I told her that Larry Locket was on the case and that was some comfort to both of them.

“Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of this rotten barrel, it's Larry,” Betty said.

I also confessed to them that I was a little afraid of Carla, and I asked June what, exactly, she remembered about being hit by that car.

“That's the awful thing,” she said. “I don't remember anything about it. The last thing I remember is running off that stage when I saw Carla coming up to accept her prize. Charlie tells me they found the car and it was stolen. So I guess we'll never know who did it.”

“Maybe not . . . but I have my suspicions,” I said.

“You think Carla . . . ?” June said.

“I just find it interesting how she manages to dispose of people who get in her way, that's all.”

An hour later, Charlie Kahn said good-bye to us at the door and thanked us profusely for our visit. On the way back to the city, I said to Betty, “Well, it's good to see Junie getting back to her old self, isn't it?”

To which Betty replied, paraphrasing Shakespeare, “ ‘Age cannot wither, nor comas stale her infinite anxiety.' ”

 

Chapter 29

T
he travails of the rich being far more fun to contemplate than the real threats of life, the scandal involving Carla and myself became a subject of great speculation, at least in New York. Just how Carla Cole's four-million-dollar D-flawless diamond earring came to be in my evening bag, whether I'd really taken it or whether it had been planted, Carla's unorthodox election to the Muni board, and my own abrupt resignation, were ongoing subjects of conversation at the various breakfasts, lunches, and dinners around town. Items about Carla Cole's party were featured in every gossip column in town, using the egregious earring incident as a peg.

“Grande Dame Dethroned” was the way Page Six headlined their article:

Jo Slater, New York's reigning queen, is having some trouble hanging onto her tiara these days. At what insiders are calling the “coming out” party of Carla Cole, the wife of still-missing billionaire Russell Cole, Mrs. Slater was caught trying to pocket one of Mrs. Cole's pricey diamond earrings. The next day, Mrs. Slater tried to block Mrs. Cole's election to the ultraprestigious board of the Municipal Museum, claiming she'd been framed. In a major upset, however, Mrs. Cole was elected to the board and Justin Howard, the chairman of the museum, repeatedly demanded Mrs. Slater's resignation. Mrs. Slater refused at first, but then, after a fractious and tense hour, she reluctantly agreed to resign from the board to the relief of all concerned . . .

When I read this wholly fictitious account of what had happened, my only thought was that accurate reporting, like old-world craftsmanship, was definitely a thing of the past.

Nous
magazine, being a monthly, carried the story sometime later. This was the account of Carla's party that everyone had been waiting for. To her credit, Miranda Somers was the only one of all her colleagues who failed to mention the earring debacle when describing that infamous evening. Her “Daisy” column concentrated instead on the sumptuousness of the apartment and the guest list. She described everything in detail—from the footmen to the décor to the food, and, of course, what everybody was wearing. She wrote about Carla Cole's “stunning diamond earrings, the size of plover's eggs,” mentioning in passing that one had been “accidentally misplaced” during the night, but was later “mercifully recovered in front of the glittering crowd, which glided like gods and goddesses atop the breathtaking lapis lazuli floor, whose golden flecks are sprinkled like fairy dust over a deep blue sea.” Okay, Miranda. I was so grateful she didn't mention my humiliation and resignation from the Muni board that I forgave her the hyperbole.

Betty called me to laud Miranda's restrained coverage.

“Writing about Carla's party without mentioning the earring thing is like writing about my daughter's wedding without mentioning the rain. Miranda's such a good egg,” Betty said. “If only people like her could write the news. Life would be so sunny and we'd never be troubled by terrorism, plagues, and poverty. Just bad outfits—which is terrorism of a sort, come to think of it.”

That being the case, I thought, Betty was the Osama bin Laden of fashion.

S
hortly thereafter, Carla Cole flew off to London in her private plane to attend the Taunton Hall Ball, an annual spring event where rich Americans paid dearly to hobnob with English royals and continental aristocrats. By invitation only, the cheapest ticket was five thousand dollars, which only got you to the ball itself, not to the coveted dinner beforehand. Dinner tickets were ten thousand dollars apiece and rumor had it that Carla bought four tables—in Russell's name—which came to a little less than half a million dollars. The proceeds from the ball went to the Taunton Hall Trust, of which Max Vermilion was the chairman. The purpose of the trust had always been the upkeep of the grand house itself. In recent years, however, in the wake of terrorism, war, famine, disaster, and waning revenues, the trustees started providing scholarships for art and music students, in an attempt to show they were as interested in human beings as they were in gardens, grounds, and furniture.

Betty, Gil, and Ethan all traipsed off to Los Angeles for the opening of a new museum. They invited me to go along with them up to the Auberge du Soleil, a splendid inn in the Napa Valley, where the three of them always stayed for a couple of weeks in the spring, but I begged off. Betty called me from the inn to tell me that she had just spoken to Trish Bromire, who told her Dick was not going to appeal.

“Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to jail he goes,” she sang in her inimitable Betty way.

I was stunned. “You're kidding!”

“Nope. Trish told me that Dick did a lot of soul-searching in Southampton.” She paused to reflect. “
Soul Searching in Southampton
by Dick Bromire. Think that would sell? Just kidding . . . anyway, he's decided that he wants to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. His lawyers apparently told him not to waste his money on an appeal. Rather a novel concept for the legal profession—don't you think?”

“I know, but why not appeal? What's he got to lose?”

“They convinced him that in their opinion there were no grounds for reversible error.”

“Whatever that means.”

“It means he's guilty,” Betty said tersely.

“Oh.”

“Plus the fact, he's watched all these other CEOs stay out on appeal, just marking time until they finally have to go to the slammer. Let's face it, Jo, is there anything more depressing than trying to make dinner conversation with a man who has a jail term hanging over his head?”

“You have a point.”

“It won't be that long a stretch. A few months max. Trish told me she's going to get an apartment near the jail, wherever it is, and visit him every day. The only thing she's worried about is that he might die or get raped. But I don't think they'll send him to that kind of prison, do you?”

“Let's hope the jail facilitator does his job. How the mighty have fallen, eh, Betts?”

“Look on the bright side. The fallen are still mighty if they have a lot of money.”

I hung up thinking what a perfect needlepoint pillow that would make for Dick Bromire.

Trish called me herself to tell me the news. She said that she and Dick were staying in Southampton to savor Dick's last few weeks of freedom.

“Dick's fate is in the hands of a higher power,” Trish said.

“Right. The judge.”

“No,” she said sanctimoniously, “the Judge of judges.”

Oh, dear. I dreaded to think of Trish Bromire being born again.