One Dangerous Lady (36 page)

That evening we set sail for Puerto Rico. Carla and I dined alone together. Russell stayed in his cabin. As the yacht chugged along the dark, open sea, she and I sat inside in the candlelit dining room, eating a gourmet dinner the chef had prepared. Carla began the meal by saying again how odd she felt being back on the boat.

“I never thought I would be sitting here again,” she said, arranging her napkin on her lap with exaggerated care. “It is so very strange. But then, life is so very strange, is it not?”

I interpreted this to mean that she never in a million years expected things to go so wrong.

She also said, over and over, how relieved she was to have Russell back and how she prayed he would “be all right.” She kept asking me if there had been any “significant change” in him since he first got on the boat, another sign she was worried he might indeed recover. If she had any inkling that Russell had told me everything, she didn't show it. And yet, she was such an intuitive person, she must have sensed I knew more than I was letting on. At dessert, she fired the shot that I figured was designed to derail me.

“And how are you coping with the death of your good friend Larry Locket, dear Jo?” Carla said, slipping a spoonful of homemade mango ice into her mouth.

I wanted to reach across the table, grab her throat, and yell, “You had him murdered, you bitch!” But instead, I finished chewing the sugar cookie I was eating and said, simply, “I'm doing the best I can. It's very kind of you to ask, Carla. Thank you so much.”

We were like two lionesses trapped in the same golden cage, each waiting to make our move. Our conversation was as stilted as it was decorous, a mini version of social life where people so often pretend not to know what other people are really up to. However, our polite banter could not hide the fact that we loathed each other. I said good night to Carla, and before I went downstairs to my cabin, I walked out on deck and stood alone for a long moment in the dark and windy night, wondering when and how I would make my move.

 

Chapter 43

I
doubt that any of us got much sleep that first night, except perhaps the off-duty crew, who were happily tucked into their bunks in their quarters below the foredeck. I, for one, lay awake most of the night, listening to the sound of the engines chugging through the black water, thinking about Carla and Russell in their grand suites on the deck above me. I doubted that either of them had found peace in the lap of luxury. But I was a little worried that Carla might try and influence Russell, working in the territory she knew best—the bedroom. The night finally passed and we sailed into a misty dawn. I dressed for breakfast, and when I went upstairs, I saw Russell standing out on the deck with Carla at his side. They were holding hands and gazing out at the choppy, gray sea.

“Good morning,” I said, tentatively.

Carla turned around. “Good morning, Jo!” she replied with ominous buoyancy. “And what a morning it is!
Bellissima!
Not the weather, of course. But I have my darling husband back.” She put her head on his shoulder and playfully stroked his arm.

Russell avoided my gaze, which made me suspicious that she had somehow gotten to him in the night. It didn't take a genius to figure out how she might have swayed him over to her side again. The woman was a pro.

“Good morning, Russell,” I said purposely.

“Morning,” he mumbled.

“We are just taking a little walk before breakfast. Excuse us, won't you, Jo?” Carla said.

I watched them as they strolled up the narrow side deck of the boat. Carla ran her hand along the polished wood railing. Russell turned to her, laughing, and hugged her close. He wasn't acting. On the contrary, he looked relieved and happy, as lovers do when they are reunited with the object of their obsession. Carla was watching over him like a bird of prey and I knew she wasn't going to let him out of her sight from now on. They would always be together and that would make things significantly more difficult for me.

J
ust as I predicted, Russell and Carla ostentatiously avoided me. They ate by themselves, took long walks together on the deck, holding hands and cuddling like they were on their second honeymoon. Carla read aloud to Russell in the grand salon. They drank white wine constantly—although I noticed that Carla diluted hers with ice cubes. During this period, I got an inkling of just how Carla worked. She was a total geisha, always watching Russell with adoring eyes, laughing at his jokes, agreeing with everything he said, catering to his every whim, and constantly telling him how handsome and brilliant he was. She was the perfect tonic for an insecure man. She was also very seductive and very entertaining, telling funny stories and relating the gossip of social life with the style of a skilled raconteur.

However, the main bond between them was that they had found a common enemy in me. Carla's delight in the surreptitious persecution of me added spice to the saccharine stew of affection she showed Russell. I heard her talking about me, and whenever I came into view, there were whispers and stifled laughter. Nothing bonds people faster than a shared love or a shared hatred. And they both clearly loved each other and clearly hated me.

There seemed to be no hope of separating them. One morning, however, I saw Russell standing alone on deck, leaning against the railing, gazing out at the sea. I grabbed my chance to talk to him, but as I approached him, he said, “I don't want to talk to you, Jo,” and turned away. I refused to leave.

“What has she been telling you, Russell?” I asked him. He didn't answer. I went on. “Can't you see how she's manipulating you? She's going to get rid of you, you know. One way or the other. You mark my words. We'll land in Miami and she'll slap you into a hospital so fast you won't know what hit you. You'll see.”

He wheeled around and faced me in a rage.
“No!”
he cried. “
She loves me!
She's the only one who's ever
really
loved me. She knew you'd try to turn me against her. You hate her because she knows all about you, Jo. You're being blackmailed for something terrible. Carla told me. She says you're a very bad person and that I can't trust you.”

I shook my head in dismay. “Russell, you're forgetting everything we talked about.”

“You twisted everything around. The fact is, I don't really have a good recollection of what happened to me. But Carla does. She told me we were playing the game and I blacked out. I had an episode. She sailed all around searching for me. She was desperate to find me.”

“Didn't you once tell Captain Rankin he was not to move the boat if you ever disappeared? Why did she set sail almost immediately and then sell it? Because she didn't want to find you!”

“No! That's not true!”

“Okay, what about the money then? How does she explain that?”

He broke into a gloating smile. “For your information, she intends to give
back
all my money when we get to New York.”

“And you believe her?”

“More than
you.
She told me
why
she had to use the powers of attorney . . . because Courtney, my greedy daughter, was trying to get her hands on my fortune—just like I suspected. She was trying to have me declared dead so she could inherit everything. Lulu put her up to it. I knew she would. They're only after my money, those two. Carla always told me that. And I told
you
that. I knew it. Carla was terrified that when I came back there'd be nothing left. That's why she did it.”

Russell rambled on, twisting every fact so that Carla looked like a savior.

“What about your collection? Why did she give it away?” I asked him.

“Courtney was trying to get her hands on that, too. Carla donated it to the Municipal Museum because they were powerful enough to fight her. She says they'll give it back to me the minute they know I'm alive. There's no question about that. See, Jo, what you don't understand is that Carla's done all this to protect me from my greedy daughter and my vindictive ex-wife. Carla's the only one who's ever had
my
interests at heart. The only one,
ever.
She says she always knew in her heart I'd come back to her. She is my tigress, protecting me.”

“What about Max?” I said, playing my trump card. “Why did she give him millions of dollars to put a roof on his house?”

Russell scoffed at this. “Oh, that's a complete fabrication!”

“You read it yourself in the papers. Why would they make something like that up?”

“Max fed it to them, that's why. Carla told me that when she read it she was outraged. See, it's all part of his obsession with her. She explained the whole thing.”

“How did she explain going out with him?”

“She wasn't
with
him. They were just at the party and the press made it look like they were together. She loves me, not Max,” Russell said firmly. “You're just trying to confuse me.”

“Why, Russell? Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you hate her. And you hate her because she knows all about you. And because you're jealous of her. You tried to have her blocked from going on the board of the Municipal Museum, which she was doing for my benefit.”

“For your benefit?” My eyes widened. His naïveté knew no bounds.

“
Yes.
So she'd be sure that they'd give me my collection back when I came home. But they knew what you were up to and they expelled you from the board in a humiliating way. Carla and I read all about it on the Internet.”

It was no use. If I hadn't been so outraged, I would have felt sorry for poor old Russell, whose mind was so porous, he was constantly a victim of his last conversation. Carla had managed to twist everything around in that inimitable way of hers. I wouldn't have minded so much, except that Russell's attitude made things much more risky for me and my plan to get rid of her.

 

Chapter 44

I
t was raining hard when we docked in San Juan to refuel. The process took several hours. Despite the weather, Carla wanted to go into the city to shop. According to Rankin, shopping was one of the main things she and Russell had always loved to do together. I suddenly had a terrible thought: What if they went into San Juan and Carla persuaded Russell to fly back to the States with her from there, instead of waiting for us to sail to Miami? My fears proved to be unfounded, however. Russell refused to leave the boat. I stayed in my cabin, wondering if I would get the opportunity to expose Carla to Russell before our journey ended. Time was growing short.

When we finished refueling, it was raining harder. Rankin warned us a bad front was moving in and unless we got under way in a hurry, we were liable to be marooned in San Juan for a couple of days. Carla was very anxious to get going. She pushed Rankin to set sail. The sea grew choppier as we headed west, and it was rough sailing. The boat was rocking back and forth and every so often the swells would send it up, then down with a slap. Everything was anchored down or put away so objects wouldn't go careening when we hit a wave. I was too seasick to eat. I went to my cabin to lie down. I must have dozed off because when I awoke, the sea was calm, and we were sailing steadily through the water.

Still vaguely seasick, I changed into a sweatsuit and headed up to the main deck to get some fresh air. The storm had passed. Leaning on the railing of the aft deck, taking deep breaths to counter my nausea, I gazed out at the vast darkness all around us. In the distance, a misty moon hung in the sky, casting a pale reflection on the calm, black velvet sea. I remember thinking how small the yacht seemed in that immense setting, how vulnerable. Feeling better, I wandered up to the bridge where Captain Rankin was on duty with the first mate. Rankin was drinking coffee, looking over charts of the area. The glass-enclosed room, surrounded by night, glowed with the lights and sweeping green radar screens of the large control panel.

Rankin was surprised to see me. It was very late. He offered me a cup of coffee and we sat and talked for a while, seated on the long blue leather banquette. We talked about the Coles. I had told him how Carla had manipulated everything to suit her purposes, and how Russell now believed her wholeheartedly. He said it didn't surprise him. “She could always twist him around her little finger,” he said.

I stared out at the open water. “God, it's dark out there, even with the moon, it's so enormously black and forbidding.”

“I love it,” Rankin said. “We're over the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean right now . . . the Puerto Rican Trench. Ten thousand feet straight down. Sink here and you're really sunk. They'll never find you.”

“I find sailing at night a little frightening somehow,” I told him.

“Night's my favorite time on a boat. You can really
feel
the sea.”

“That's just it. You feel how puny and insignificant you are.”

“Don't worry.
The Lady
's a good old gal. Very seaworthy. Still, I can't say I'll be sad when this trip is over.”

Famous last words.

A
fter an hour or so, I grew drowsy and left Rankin and the first mate on the bridge to go back to bed. I went down the two flights of stairs and walked out on deck for one last breath of air before returning to my room. I gripped the railing hard as a strong wind whipped the hair around my face. There were no stars in the sky, just scattered clouds and a hazy ring around the moon. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a cry above the hum of the engines. I turned toward the sound and listened. After a moment or two, I could have sworn I heard a shot and splash, but it was very difficult to tell. The engines were loud. I walked up to the foredeck to investigate, but there was no one there. I looked out at the sea rushing past. Nothing. Just wavy currents of sparkling, black water lit by the night lights on the lower sides of the boat.

I suddenly had a very bad feeling. My first instinct was to go and check on Russell. I was still out on deck, heading toward my cabin, when I saw Carla, fully dressed in jeans and a windbreaker, coming out of the automatic sliding doors of the grand salon. It was dark and she didn't see me. I followed her as she walked up the narrow side deck toward the outside stairway leading to the bridge.

I heard her calling out softly, “Jasper . . . ? Jasper . . . ? Where are you?”

Jasper Jenks!
Was
he
on board?

I kept out of sight, my heart racing.

Was it possible that Jenks hadn't flown to Miami? Had he flown to Puerto Rico instead and slipped onto the boat during the refueling in San Juan? Was that what he and Carla had planned before he left the boat in St. Maarten? I recalled the conversation the two of them had in the hall. As Russell himself had proven, it was easy enough to sneak on a vessel of that size, particularly if you knew its workings. As the former captain, Jenks certainly knew the yacht well enough to get himself aboard and then to hide out in the secret passages. It would be relatively easy for him to get rid of Russell and keep out of sight until we reached the shore, where he could sneak off again when we reached port, with no one the wiser.

The thought occurred to me: Was Carla preparing the way for it to look like Russell had committed suicide by throwing himself overboard?

We were in the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean. The odds were that a body would never be found. I was beginning to think that the cry, shot, and splash I'd heard earlier were not figments of my imagination, but the real end of Russell Cole.

But if Jenks was aboard, that meant I was in danger, too. I knew way too much.

As Carla stood waiting out in the night, I ducked into the grand salon and grabbed one of the perfectly hideous reproduction stone rain god statuettes from its secure niche in the bookshelf. I went back outside where Carla was still standing, softly calling out Jasper's name with more urgency.

After a few moments, a shadowy figure stepped in front of her.

“Jasper!” I heard her say with evident relief.

I gripped the statue harder and backed away instinctively, thinking that if Jenks had killed Russell and they knew I was nearby, I was almost certainly next. But then I heard raised voices. Something was wrong. I drew closer to listen to what they were saying. A shard of light from the interior of the boat hit their faces. The shadowy figure wasn't Jenks. It was
Russell.
He was holding a gun to Carla's head. I assumed it was the .22 from the safe room. He was in a fury, shouting that Carla had sent Jenks to kill him. She denied it, of course, sobbing that she didn't even know Jenks was on board.

“Well, he's not on board anymore!”
Russell said with a maniacal laugh.

Carla was pleading with Russell not to hurt her when, suddenly, Russell caught sight of me. And there it was: that sharp, murderous sparkle in his eye. His face was a jumble of glee, hurt, and confusion—the very picture of a madman.

“Jo!”
he called out.
“You were right! You were right!”

“Jo! Help! Auitami! He's mad! È pazzo! . . . Don't let him hurt me!”

“She thought I was Jenks,” Russell said. “She called his name. She wanted Jenks to kill me so she can marry Max. . . . Just like you said, Jo . . .
just like you said.
 . . .”

He turned back to Carla and raised the gun, pointing it directly at her heart. The roar of the engines muted her cries. Russell's hand was shaking. I was sure he was going to shoot her.

“Do it!”
I urged him.
“It's your only chance!”

The night, the wind, and the sound of the engines stopped time. Russell raised the gun higher, pointing it at her face. He winced as if in great pain. His hand was shaking so badly now, I feared he would drop the gun. He either couldn't or wouldn't decide what to do. After a few tense and interminable seconds, he lowered the gun and stalked off. Not everyone is a killer.

Carla turned to me. A sly smile of satisfaction crept over her face. The shadow play made her look demonic. With that, she lunged at me. I was so startled, I dropped the statue I'd been clutching. She was fit and young and strong, and she had me pinned backward over the railing before I could stop her. I managed to grab her by the hair and pull her sideways, but still she had me up against the rail. As we struggled, she must have stepped on the little statue because she suddenly pitched forward with a strangled cry. She was off-balance. A vision of Monique on the balcony flared up in my head.

This has happened to me before.

This is familiar.

I don't want to do this,
but
 . . .

As in New York, nothing counts until after the “but.”

Larry's face materialized in my mind's eye, egging me on, making me realize that unless I seized the moment, it would never come again. I dropped down, grabbed her knees, and lifted her over the side of the boat, simply helping her complete her forward trajectory. She fell into the sea. I watched her disappear into the churning foam of the hydro engines. When I looked back at the wake, there was no sign of her.

Shaken and exhausted, I just stood there, looking down at the water for God knows how long. Carla was dead. Larry was avenged. Yet, oddly, it didn't feel like a victory. It felt vaguely sickening, and I threw up over the side of the boat. After a time, I started walking back down to my cabin to find Russell. I, too, nearly tripped on the little rain god statue. I picked it up and threw it into the water, feeling sure that the hideous reproduction, along with Carla Cole, would not be missed.

D
isasters happen in slow motion, and my recollection of this one is just like the recollection of a dream, filled with disjointed shapes and images. As I wandered around searching for Russell, I noticed that the boat felt different somehow, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Then suddenly all the lights went out. Seconds later, chaos erupted. The first mate, holding a flashlight, hurtled past me on the deck.

“What's happening?!”
I cried.

“I think we're sinking,”
he yelled back.
“Get up to the sun deck!”
He kept running.

Rankin was on the bridge sending out SOS calls and also talking to the first mate with a handheld radio. I heard Rankin say, “Who is it?” to which the mate's staticky voice replied, “The engineer, sir. Jesus, he's been shot . . . he's bleeding . . .”

Rankin wheeled the beam of his flashlight on my face. “Get up to the sun deck, Mrs. Slater,” he said. “Nancy's up there.”

“Mr. Cole's got a gun,” I told him.

Rankin rubbed his forehead. “Listen, Steve, be careful, will you? Mr. Cole's got a gun. If you see him, just get away . . .
Christ
. . . Mrs. Slater,
please
go up top!” he ordered me.

I climbed up to the sun deck, where Nancy was unhooking the lifeboats from their cannisters.

“Nancy!”
I cried.

She shone her flashlight in my direction. “
Mrs. Slater—thank God!
Grab a life jacket!”

I pulled out a life jacket from the the large chest container and put it on, strapping it tight.

“Are we sinking?” I asked.

“Feels like it. Mike sent the first mate down to the engine room to check it out.”

I helped her unhook the lifeboats. We got the first one done. It rolled off the side of the boat and hit the water, inflating into a big, orange raft tethered to the yacht by a cord. We were working on the others when one by one, the crewmembers, startled out of their sleep, made their way up to the sun deck wearing their life jackets and holding flashlights, looking a little dazed and confused.

Nearly the whole crew was up top, including the first mate, who had carried the wounded engineer up on his back. The wounded man told us that he had tried to stop Mr. Cole, but that Russell had shot him in the arm, then disabled the bilge alarm, and opened the sea cocks. The engineer had managed to escape, but Russell was still down there.

“The engine room's completely flooded! We're going down!” he cried.

Nancy ran down to see her husband on the bridge and came back shortly with more news.

“Mike says we're definitely gonna have to abandon ship,” she cried out. “We're sinking too fast to go from the main deck, so he says prepare to jump off from up here.”

“Oh, wonderful,” I said, thinking that I was about to find out just how Monique de Passy and Carla Cole felt hurtling to their deaths. There was such a thing as poetic justice and this was it.

“Don't worry, Mrs. Slater, you'll be fine,” Nancy assured me, sensing my anxiety.

“When do we go?” I asked.

“We'll wait for Mike. He's just gone down to see if he can find Mr. Cole.”

I was amazed at how calm everyone seemed under the circumstances.

“Nancy, Mr. Cole is insane . . . Mike could be in danger!”

“You don't know my husband,” she said. “He's got to try and find him!”

We were listing badly now. All the lifeboats were in the water and there was talk about getting the tenders off when the boat sank as there was no power to launch them from their cranes. Most of the crew was assembled up top. No one said much. We were all too nervous to talk. People held their flashlights and huddled together for warmth and comfort. I could just imagine what we looked like with our pathetic little circles of light pricking the darkness of that vast, watery universe.

Finally, Mike came up on the deck.

“All right, everyone . . .
prepare to abandon ship!
” he cried. “When you hit water, swim for a lifeboat, and when the boat's loaded, get as far away from the yacht as possible!”