One Dangerous Lady (4 page)

 

Chapter 4

T
he handsome young captain of
The Lady C
finally informed the Coast Guard. At Betty's insistence, Carla Cole personally telephoned the governor general, who had been a guest at the bridal dinner the night before, to apprise him of the situation.

“Honey, this ain't the moment to be shy about using your connections,” Betty assured her.

Almost immediately following that call, two officers from the Barbadian Port Authority were dispatched to the villa. The Coast Guard searched the yacht and patrolled the area. Carla told everyone she was anxious to keep news of her husband's disappearance under wraps for as long as possible. She argued that in the event he'd been kidnapped—a distinct, if remote, possibility—the utmost secrecy was imperative. Carla took the officers and some members of the Coast Guard out to the yacht so they could all look around. Both Betty and I offered to go with her, but Carla assured us she would be all right on her own. It was close to noon by the time everyone left.

“If my daughter's wedding turns into a funeral, I'm going to kill somebody,” Betty said. She took a deep, disgruntled breath and added, “Well, I don't know about you, Jo, but I'm going swimming!”

Betty went inside the pool cabana and changed into the black “neck-to-knee” bathing suit she had ordered from an online swimwear catalogue. Designed for women who are self-conscious about their figures, the suit achieved the opposite of its purpose, drawing maximum attention to the areas she wished to hide. It covered her thighs to just above her knees and with a bouffant bathing cap on her head, she looked like a hi-tech, middle-aged Bloomer girl.

“Pray I don't bump into Russell,” she said just before plunging in.

I was watching Betty swim when I suddenly remembered the moment in Mina's garden yesterday when Russell had compared himself to the green monkey. I recalled his exact words, “Sometimes I think I get a glimpse of myself . . . and then I disappear.”

Then I disappear.

I'd laughed politely at his macabre little joke, not thinking much of it at the time. But now it seemed prophetic.

As I watched Betty swim back and forth, completing her daily ritual, I wondered if Russell had been trying to tell me something, or if he'd perhaps had some sort of premonition. Did he know he was going to vanish?

Finally, Betty slogged up out of the water, dried herself off with a towel, and said, “I've been thinking, do you think we should set a place for Russell at the wedding dinner or not? I mean, in case he does show up?” She looked at her large, red waterproof watch. “Christ, look at the time! People will be coming in twenty minutes! I've got to go put on my face!”

“S
ocial life goes on,” as the saying goes, so Betty didn't cancel the lunch—although she would have had a perfect right under the circumstances. The party was mercifully small, however, compared to previous festivities, being pretty much a family affair, just Betty and me and the Brills and Miranda and Ethan. Gil Waterman would not be there. He was aboard
The Lady C
, helping Carla cope. Betty planned to tell everyone he'd gone to play golf. Missy and Woody were off having lunch at a local restaurant with their friends.

Betty changed into a stiff beige-and-white caftan with a brick design that made her look like the Great Pyramid. I put on a pair of white pants and a T-shirt. She and I waited anxiously for the guests to arrive, slurping down a couple of rum punches in the process, reiterating over and over how vital it was to keep our mouths shut about Russell.

“If anyone finds out, it will ruin the wedding,” Betty said.

“Right. It's crucial we tell no one,” I concurred.

“Plus the fact that Carla's afraid he might have been kidnapped, so if we tell anyone, it could put his life in danger.”

“Right.”

We were both trying hard to convince each other not to spill these golden beans, however tempting it was.

“So we're agreed, right?” Betty said. “Not a word. Not one single word.”

“Not even a hint. My lips are sealed,” I said, running my fingers over my mouth as if to zipper it.

Miranda and Ethan were the first to arrive. They were staying just down the road at the Sandy Lane Hotel. Miranda was wearing a yellow muumuu, a rather chic gold turban, and sunglasses. Her pale skin appeared even paler in the harsh sunshine. Ethan, a scholar and a very professional type, looked surprisingly fit in a pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt. He had great legs, buff arms, and he obviously worked out. Betty and I steeled ourselves as they walked in.

“Remember—not a word,” Betty whispered.

We all air-kissed each other hello as Dermott passed around a trayful of his wicked rum punches.

Miranda raised her glass to us and said, “Well, here's hoping they find poor old Russell Cole!”

Betty's jaw dropped. She looked at me, then at Miranda, and said, “How the hell did
you
hear about it?”

“Oh, darling,” Miranda said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I hear
everything
! Remember, I was the one who first broke the news that Carla and Russell had run off together, for Chrissakes. You think I'm not going to hear about it when he vanishes off the face of the earth?”

“Tell me how you found out about it!” Betty demanded.

“Now, Betts, you know I'm never going to tell you, so why ask?”

Miranda never revealed her sources. People had begged her for years to write a book about all the dirt she knew, to which her double-edged reply was always, “Oh, honey, I want to live a little longer.” No one was ever quite sure if that meant she wasn't yet ready to hunker down and write her memoirs, or if she thought such a revealing exercise would surely get her killed. One thing was clear. If any person knew where all the bodies in New York society were buried, it was Miranda Somers, who had been reporting on the parties, pastimes, and peccadilloes of the rich for close to four decades. And part of the reason she knew as much as she did was because she was discreet—at least in print.

We all knew of Miranda's long and complicated history with Russell Cole and his two wives. When Russell Cole first arrived in New York married to Lulu, Miranda had elevated the couple to the social pantheon in
Nous
magazine. But it was also Miranda who broke the story when Russell ran off with Carla and the two of them holed up in the Hassler Hotel in Rome. In fact, word was that Lulu actually learned of her husband's affair by reading Miranda's column, the headline of which was “Cole Comfort.”

Miranda had steadfastly refused to tell a soul who had tipped her off about the fugitive couple, and many suspected that the informant was, in fact, Carla herself, who may have cannily calculated that bringing the affair out into the open would force Russell's hand. Whoever told Miranda, the strategy worked. Lulu was so upset over the public humiliation, she behaved extremely badly, thus ruining any chance she might have had at a reconciliation. This was all old news, of course, but of considerable current interest in view of recent developments.

“You've
got
to tell us,” Betty pleaded with her. “I mean, if Russell's been kidnapped, it could be a matter of life and death.”

Miranda hesitated for a moment. “Well,” she said, obviously dying to tell us. “Just this once. Larry Locket called me.”

Larry Locket, a lanky southerner whose books about low crime in high places had all become international bestsellers, was a great friend of all of ours. He had made a brilliant career hunting down rich reprobates and turning their stories into long magazine articles or else thinly disguised works of fiction.

“And how the hell did
Larry
find out?” Betty asked.

“Who knows? Larry always knows things practically before they happen. He's already on the story,” Miranda said. “He called me to find out what I knew. Of course, I hadn't heard a word until he told me. I do know one thing for sure, though. Lulu won't be a bit surprised. She always said Carla would kill Russell one day.”

“Oh, Lulu's obsessed,” Betty said. “Hell hath no fury . . .”

“Still,” Miranda went on, “Carla seems to have rather bad luck with husbands. Remember poor old Mr. Hernandez.”

“Oh, that's right,” Ethan recalled. “He committed suicide, didn't he?”

“If you call shooting yourself
twice
suicide,” Miranda said. She nonchalantly examined her manicured red fingernails with the air of one who is no longer impressed by the horror of such stories.

Ethan said, “How could it possibly have been a suicide if he was shot twice?
Bang!
” he joked, pointing his index finger at his head as if it were a gun. “Oops, I'm not quite dead yet! Bang again? I don't think so.”

“I think that's the point, Sweets,” I said, amused at how dense my brilliant friend could be at times.

“Oh. Wait. Do we think Carla
killed
him?” Ethan said, wide-eyed.

“Or had him killed,” Miranda said. “I don't know for sure, of course, but the rumors were certainly flying around at the time. Of course, there was no proof. The body was cremated and there wasn't an autopsy, so we'll never know what really happened. You know how it is—people will believe what they want to believe, depending on whom they like or dislike. It's just social life.”

“God, you sound exactly like June,” Betty said.

Betty was referring to our close friend June Kahn, who dismissed almost all interaction between people, from minor spats to armed conflict, as being “just social life,” as she put it.

Betty shuddered. “Jesus, what if Russell washes up on the beach during the wedding?”

“The wedding's at night. No one will see,” Miranda said dryly.

Since the cat was out of the bag, Betty and I told Miranda and Ethan all about Carla showing up earlier that morning, and how Gil was on the boat as we spoke, helping her coordinate the search.

“I'm telling everyone—including Missy—that Gil is playing golf,” Betty said.

“They'll certainly believe that,” Miranda said.

“Under
no
circumstances can we tell Missy or Woody or the Brills,” Betty said firmly. “In fact, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention this to another soul. I really don't want my daughter's wedding to be remembered as a missing person's case.”

At that precise moment, the Brills arrived. Betty plastered a smile on her face and sailed over to greet the arriving party.

“Mina! Freddy! Welcome! Let's all have another rum punch!”

“Greetings, everyone,” Freddy Brill said, waving a hairy arm. “I remember when Michael Duncan used to own this villa,” he said.

Freddy, a beefy English stockbroker who had inherited Cockleshell from his father and who had vacationed in Barbados as a child, was always full of island trivia.

“Yes, dear Michael Duncan!” Miranda exclaimed. “I knew him quite well. He was such a ladies' man. And, of course, you know he was ‘excused shorts' in the British army because his schlong was so long, it dangled down to the middle of his inner thigh.”

Betty and I laughed out loud, but Freddy and Mina Brill both looked completely mystified, and I really did wonder what on earth these clean-cut, shiny-faced people were thinking. I was well aware of just how insulated and wrapped up in ourselves our little social set was. Like sixteenth-century Paduans, the New Yorkers in my rarified group believe and behave as though we are the center of the universe. But the truth is, despite the fact that we live like kings and queens and our real estate is a thousand times more expensive than most anywhere else in the world, we're quite a provincial bunch. So it's always fascinating for me to see people from the outside world reacting to us.

“Did you all know that this villa was designed by Oliver Messel?” Ethan asked, obviously hoping to break the slight tension. Oliver Messel was the late, great English set designer who had settled in Barbados in the 1950s and been responsible for creating some of the most famous houses on the island.

“Oh, yes,” Mina Brill said. “Messel green. Such a lovely, soft color. The color of sage . . .”

During all this polite banter, I could feel Betty rumbling with consternation, like a volcano ready to explode.

“Well, listen, everyone, we have a big day ahead, so let's eat!” she said.

As they all headed for lunch, I made an excuse and sneaked back to my room to call Larry Locket. Larry and I were great friends. We loved dishing the latest gossip with each other and I wanted to tell him I was on the scene. There was no answer, though, so I left a message on his answering machine.

“Larry, Jo Slater. Guess where I am? Barbados, staying with Betty and Gil Waterman. I'll be your stringer!”

I left a number where he could call me.

L
unch was served in the lattice gazebo a short walk from the main house. A large, round table was set with flowered linens, green-and-white china, green-tinted glasses, and in the center, a shallow glass bowl filled with tropical flowers. It was a cool spot in the middle of the day.

“Wasn't last night simply divine? And by the way, where
are
Russell and Carla?” Mina Brill asked as the six of us sat down.

“Yes, Russell and Carla,” echoed Freddy Brill in his huffingly British voice. “And Gil. Where's Gil?”

“And Gil, of course!” Mina said. “Where are they all?”

Miranda, Ethan, and I all exchanged surreptitious looks. I knew that Betty was champing at the bit to tell the Brills that Russell was missing, but she wisely refrained, answering Mina's question nonchalantly.

“Oh, Gil's playing golf and Russell and Carla are resting on the boat. They said they wanted to conserve their energy for tonight.”