One Dangerous Lady (37 page)

I asked Mike, “Did you find Mr. Cole?”

“No . . .
Go!
” he ordered me.

I held my breath, then jumped into my greatest fear.

 

Chapter 45

I
t was dawn when the Coast Guard found us drifting in our orange rafts. I now knew how survivors of the
Titanic
must have felt—floating in small lifeboats on a vast sea, trying to comprehend the enormity of what had just taken place. Everyone was silent as we drifted on dark water. We had all retreated into our own little worlds. I replayed the moment on the deck when Carla had lunged for me. If I had not had “prior experience,” as they say, perhaps I would have been the one to perish.

For days after that, we were all questioned about what exactly had happened. It was Rankin's theory that the first time Carla and Jenks tried to kill Russell in Barbados, something had gone seriously wrong. He believed that during “the game,” they thought they had suffocated him, when, in fact, they had not. Apparently, it's possible to appear dead, like a cataleptic, then come to. Rankin surmised that they put Russell into that little room with intention of “chopping him up for fish food at a later date.” But Russell came to and somehow managed to escape. The trauma most likely triggered one of his famous episodes.

Whether Russell got into the scull himself and tried to row ashore, or whether Carla and Jenks launched the scull in order to stage his disappearance, we will never know. In fact, we'll never know if that morning when they both came looking for him at King's Fort they really thought he was missing. It may have all been an act and they may have only discovered he was gone much later, when they went to check on him in the little room. In any case, it must have been quite a shock to Carla when Russell turned up again after so many months. When Russell refused to accompany her back on the plane, she set another plan in motion. Like myself, Rankin was sure that Jenks had sneaked aboard the yacht in San Juan in order to kill Russell Cole—again—and make it look like he'd thrown himself overboard.

But Russell managed to shoot Jenks instead. That became clear when they recovered Jenks's body (he was wearing a life jacket) and found he'd been shot with a .22. Jenks then either fell or was tossed overboard by Russell. Rankin assumed that Russell figured out what Carla had done. Her betrayal was too much for him and, in a mad frenzy, he had killed her, opened the sea cocks, and sunk the yacht.

Parts of this theory were undoubtedly true. Other parts were not. I believed that Carla intended to kill Russell and dispose of his body so he would never be found and so she could be free to steal his fortune. I also believed that when she found out he was alive, she arranged it so Jenks would dispose of him—permanently, this time. I'd heard the shot that either killed or wounded Jenks, and heard the splash when he went overboard. I'd also overheard Russell telling Carla he'd thwarted Jenks's attempt to kill him. However, I kept that to myself, along with so much else. As for the other part of the captain's theory—the part where Russell Cole supposedly killed Carla in a mad frenzy—well, needless to say, I didn't offer an opinion on that, either. I just nodded, agreeing with the explanation Rankin had put forth.

“I guess he just didn't want anyone else to have either of his ladies,” Rankin said, referring to both Carla and
The Lady C.

When questioned by investigators from the Coast Guard who were dissecting the disaster, I said, “Captain Rankin's theory makes perfect sense to me. I heard a shot and then a splash and then I saw Russell Cole running frantically along the deck with a gun in his hand. I didn't see Carla Cole, though, but I assumed he was after her. What a tragedy it all is.”

What I didn't tell them was what I really knew: Russell couldn't bring himself to kill Carla face-to-face. But he knew she had to die. And if she died, so would he. That's why he sank the boat. He couldn't live without her and he was just too far gone to care if the rest of us went with them.

 

Chapter 46

I
n social life, it's always best to give a party
for
someone or something. Society loves a theme. We also love it when one of our own successfully comes through a terrible ordeal. We want to be around survivors, especially if they come through it with their fortune pretty much intact. By that light, Trish Bromire's dinner dance in honor of Dick's release from prison was the hottest invitation in town. Dick's reputation had been slightly tarnished by his conviction and incarceration, but it was nothing that a couple of billion dollars couldn't polish up again in fairly short order. Society has a short memory. It has to.

Betty wondered if Trish had meant the hand-delivered, calligraphed invitation to be intentionally funny, or if she was oblivious to the meaning of the very English wording, which read,

Trish Bromire

At Home

Taunton Hall

“At home in her dreams,” Betty said.

Dick Bromire had rented Taunton Hall to celebrate his release. He was flying friends to London from all around the world. He had booked the whole of Claridges for the occasion so that all his out-of-town guests could stay there together, ready to board the private buses that would convey them to Oxfordshire, where the magnificent house and grounds stood as a monument to bygone grandeur.

It had been almost a year since that horrific night aboard
The Lady C.
A thousand different versions of the story had circulated a thousand different times at a thousand different luncheon and dinner parties. Frankly, I was weary of the whole subject, juicy as it was, mainly because I could never tell the truth about what I knew. It's tiring telling lies, which is one of the main reasons social life is so exhausting a lot of the time. What really happened on board the yacht that night would die with me. However, there still was one big piece of the puzzle that I was anxious to drop into place. And that big piece resided at Taunton Hall.

In the past year, Max Vermilion had all but disappeared from view. He was rumored to be depressed about Carla Cole's death, as they had been seen in each other's company so much before she died, enough to warrant speculation that he had found true love—again. And as that love had not had time to sour, as all his other loves had done, he was in seclusion, holed up in his beloved house. I figured that a visit to “The Hall” might somehow satisfy my own curiosity on the subject.

“Everyone's going, Jo!” June Kahn chirped to me over the telephone. “It'll be such great fun!”

June was seriously debating whether or not to wear a tiara for the occasion, an idea Betty found endearingly ludicrous.

“Just call her June, Queen of Scots,” Betty said.

June had completely recovered from her accident, and was in an especially bubbly mood now that Carla was gone. She and Charlie were talking about buying Carla's apartment, which Courtney Cole had put on the market at a bargain basement price, just to get rid of it and its forty-thousand-dollar-a-month maintenance. Carla had either forgotten or not bothered to change her will, which left everything to Russell. Carla was judged to have died first, which meant that Russell inherited the fortune Carla had stolen from him. His daughter, in turn, inherited her father's fortune. In a byzantine stroke of justice, Courtney Cole had finally received her birthright.

“If June gets her hands on that apartment, take cover,” Betty said. “She really will morph into Catherine the Great.”

Despite her somewhat jaundiced view of the whole affair, Betty was anxious to go to Trish's “At Home” soiree. She pointed out that since the party wasn't for charity, it would be more interesting, given the fact that events you have to pay for are generally less fun than private functions. Plus, as she also pointed out, it would be a rare chance to see Taunton Hall “in all its glory.”

“Trish'll go over the top because this is Dick's coming-out party—literally. This is their bid to start getting invited everywhere again.”

Ever the romantic optimist, Betty still had high hopes for me to become Lady Vermilion, despite Max's dicey history with women.

“I know he's had a weird past, Jo, but he's still available. And let's face it, at our old bat ages, every man's gonna have
some
baggage,” Betty said with an air of authority. “Any man who tells you he's baggage-free is lying. It's all coming in on the midnight flight. At least with Max, the steamer trunks are Louis Vuitton, not Samsonite. Plus, you'd be getting that spectacular house!”

I held my tongue, of course. I couldn't even tell Betty the truth about Max Vermilion and why there was no future for us as a couple. Still, I wouldn't have missed this party for the world. For one thing, there was Taunton Hall, and for another, we all owed it to Dick to support him, particularly now, after jail, when he was naturally feeling so vulnerable. And I admit I was curious to see Max again, in light of what I now knew about him. I was dying to learn: Was he the puppet master or not? And although the odds were against my ever finding out for sure, I was interested to see if Carla's death had changed him in any way that might give me some insight.

T
aunton Hall, an architecturally improbable jewel, was a hodgepodge of styles joined together by unflinching grandeur. Its hundred-odd rooms reflected a minihistory of England. The earliest section was the towering Gothic hall, now home to the famous collection of Chinese bronzes. There were countless other additions, including early-twentieth-century renovations to unify the façade, made by Max's grandfather, the sixth Earl, “the Building Vermilion,” as he was known.

Even the people who had been to numerous balls and parties at Taunton Hall said it never looked more magnificent than it did that night. Trish had pulled out all the stops, opening the mammoth eighteenth-century, wrought-iron gates, which were normally never used, so that guests could arrive in horse-drawn carriages through the old entrance. Rows of flaming torches lit the famously long driveway leading up to that grand fairy-tale castle of a house.

Dick and Trish Bromire stood alongside Max at the head of the Great Gallery, on whose carved wooden panels hung huge ancestral portraits dating back to the sixteenth century. The three of them greeted us guests as we filed by. I'd never seen Dick Bromire looking more fit. He'd lost tons of weight, for one thing, and as we waited in line, Betty opined that he could make a fortune if he came out with a book called
The Prison Diet.

“Think of it,” she said. “It's called having your crime and eating it, too.”

Trish was all decked out in jewels again. Her inner and outer glow had returned.

“Eat your heart out, Queen Elizabeth,” Ethan whispered to me as we neared our sparkling hostess.

Miranda, who was covering the party for
Nous
, said she'd never seen The Hall looking more splendid.

“Max is always too cheap to do anything but hang a ham out the window,” Miranda said. “He thinks the honor of being invited here is enough.”

Dick was thrilled we'd all come. I confess I was surprised to see people there who had pointedly turned down his lugubrious “going away” party in New York, people he swore he would never see again. But he was in a jolly and forgiving mood, and it was infectious. People who famously loathed each other were kissing each other hello and having long conversations. As dear June always said, it was all just “social life,” where the players drift apart and back together again, like flotsam and jetsam on the tide of fortune. Taking it too seriously was always a mistake, from whatever angle one approached it.

Max greeted me with a rueful smile. He looked worn-out. There were dark circles under his eyes and his quirky confidence seemed to have been punctured. Even his “duration” tuxedo appeared moth-eaten and old-fashioned, as opposed to shabbily chic.

“Ah, Jo, how kind of you to come. You're a loyal friend,” he said.

“It was kind of Trish to invite me,” I said.

“Traveled a long way,
what
?” he said.

“In more ways than one, Max. In more ways than one.”

If he noted my insinuating tone, he didn't show it. He moved on to the next guest and I moved on, too, down that celebrated gallery toward the Great Room, as it was called, where so many friends and
amis mondains
had gathered.

M
ax appeared very morose that night and people were saying it was because he'd lost the love of his life. They were not referring to Carla, but to Taunton Hall. This evening was Max Vermilion's swan song to his famous house. Betty heard the news from some English friends who were there. Having rented it to Dick for some enormous sum for this one evening, Max was leaving it for good in two days time. He had finally been forced to sell it because he was no longer able to afford the upkeep, and there was no rich Lady Vermilion to help him out this time. A consortium from Ireland had bought it, hoping to make it into even more of a tourist attraction than it now was by restoring the parts that had fallen into neglect over the years, and by refurbishing those rooms that Max had looted of their treasures.

“He's moving to the Turks and Caicos Islands, if you can believe it!” Betty breathlessly informed me. “Jo, think of it, Max Vermilion is going to become a tax exile! Do you know what that means? He won't be able to stay in any place longer than ninety days. The sun will never set on him for
real
!”

After that, Betty cooled on her idea of my becoming the next Lady Vermilion. To her, Max was no longer the grand Lord of the Rings. He was now merely “the Lord of the Fly-by-Nights,” as she dubbed him.

During the cocktail hour, Betty, Gil, Ethan, and I took a tour of the house, sneaking into all the roped-off rooms.

“It may be our last chance to see them,” Ethan opined, fearing what the new owners might do. “Unrestored antiques are so much better,” he said.

Gil, who basically saw every personal misfortune as an investment opportunity, wandered around wondering what paintings might be for sale. While Ethan and Gil investigated the art, Betty and I sneaked into Max's bedroom. Betty was anxious to see the huge, four-poster bed that had once belonged to Henry the Eighth. We came to a roped-off corridor.

“This must be it,” Betty said.

Undeterred by the blocked entryway, Betty scooped up the skirt of her green silk ball gown and ducked under the thick red rope, beckoning me to follow her. I, too, slid under the decorous barrier and walked with her down a long, dark corridor, at the end of which was a massive, old oak door. Betty cracked it open and peered inside.

“This is it,” she said, opening the door so we could enter.

Betty flicked on a switch, which illuminated eight ormolu wall sconces with twinkly, candlelight bulbs. The enormous room was littered with suitcases and packing boxes. The walls were covered in dark blue silk damask. Over an intricately carved white marble fireplace hung an Old Master painting depicting the Rape of Lucrece. Two Gobelin tapestries hung on opposite walls, both showing hunting scenes. There were four towering windows. Their elaborate curtains hung on golden curtain rods with arrows at either end. Against the far wall, facing the fireplace, was the royal four-poster bed, whose canopy was a tapestry of heraldic shields.

Betty navigated her way through the boxes and baggage to get a closer look at the bed's carved posters and headboard.

“Jo!” she cried. “Get a load of this!”

I walked over to the bed and looked up to where Betty was pointing. The entire inside of the canopy was covered by a mirror so that Max could watch his every move in bed. While Betty was inspecting the headboard's famous hunting scenes, I walked over and looked out one of the windows. There lay the great estate, with its great gardens and pavilions, lit up and splendid indeed.

Poor old Max, I thought to myself. Having to give up all this for a beach.

After our little tour, we came back to the Great Room, where Betty pointed to an old lady sitting alone on an ornately carved chair in the far corner.

“See that old lady over there? That's the dowager Countess—Max's mother, Mimsy Vermilion. I don't see her in a bikini, do you, Jo? That's the Vermilion fire opal around her neck. You have to go have a look. It's the most incredible stone you've ever seen.”

As I drew near the old woman, I was dazzled by the fiery red jewel, surrounded by diamonds, hanging on a diamond chain. It looked like the inside of a volcano, and its wearer looked like the outside of a volcano, her expression was so angry. The old lady caught me staring at her and immediately turned away with a sort of disgusted grunt. I felt sorry for the poor old soul, and I figured the nice thing to do would be to go over and talk to her, particularly as no one else seemed to be making the effort.

I approached her, fully expecting her to be one of those feeble nonagenarians with whom conversation would be somewhat of a chore. All dressed in black, this diminutive woman had heavy, mannish features. In fact, she looked a little like Max in drag. Her white hair was pulled back into a wispy chignon, and her square face was patchy with peach powder, the kind old ladies use too much of, hoping to give themselves a healthy color. Her eyes were slightly cloudy from cataracts, and in her desiccated hand she held an old-fashioned lorgnette, through which she peered at the assembled company with a markedly censorious air.

“Who are
you
?” she said accusingly, as I sat down.

“My name is Jo Slater, ma'am. I know your son.”

“Everybody knows my son,” she said, shrugging.

“I was just admiring your beautiful jewel,” I said.

“Don't want to buy it, do you? I can give you a good deal, as you Americans say.”

She was a feisty old woman, no question about that.

“No, thank you,” I said, laughing.