One Dangerous Lady (5 page)

“I am just so thrilled that Missy wanted to get married at Cockleshell—endless trouble though it is. That flower man you sent me knows nothing about flowers,” Mina Brill said. “And we really do need to go over the seating again, Betty.”

“No problem,” Betty said with clenched teeth. “The only thing I insist on is that we seat Jo next to Max Vermilion.”

Mina Brill got a beatific look in her eye. “Oh, Lord Vermilion! Isn't he the most charming and handsome man in the whole, wide world?”

“I thought
I
was the most charming and handsome man in the world, darling!” Freddy Brill said with a cartoon wink.

Mina, who related everything to horticulture, responded, “Yes, but there's something so . . . so rare and elegant about Lord Vermilion. He's like a black tulip.”

“More like a Venus flytrap,” Betty muttered under her breath.

During lunch, I noticed that the air, so cool and pleasant in the morning, was growing humid and heavier by the minute. Betty obviously felt it, too, for she casually remarked, “Christ, I hope it's not gonna rain.”

“
You
hope!” Mina Brill cried. “Good Lord, if it rains, we're
ruined! Ruined!
”

“Now, now, ladies, don't fret. It's not going to rain,” Freddy Brill assured us all, raising his hands as if he were pushing back our fears.

“No? What are those, then, Freddy?” Betty pointed out to sea at the pile of lead ingot clouds stacked up on the horizon.

“Nothing to be concerned about, Betty, dear,” Freddy Brill said. “Just a slight afternoon buildup. Happens all the time down here. They'll all clear away by evening. You watch.”

“They look pretty dark,” Ethan observed.

“Trust me, Mr. Monk, this old Bajan here knows his Barbados weather. Been coming down here since I was a lad. It's going to be a splendid evening . . .
splendid.
Bet you a hundred American dollars.”

Freddy put his arm around Betty to give her a reassuring little hug. Miranda leaned into me and whispered, “Honey, I'll take that bet.”

 

Chapter 5

L
ater on that afternoon, the sky turned to slate. Intermittent gusts of wind ruffled the still air as an ominous restlessness pervaded the atmosphere. Thunder growled in the distance. I was getting dressed when Larry Locket called me back.

“Jo! Larry!” he said in his southern-accented voice. “I can't believe you're right there in the eye of the storm!” He didn't mean the weather.

“God, Larry, isn't it just incredible what's happened? How did you find out?”

“Oh, I have my sources,” he said evasively.

“Are you coming down here?” I asked him.

“I can't right now. I'm working on two other stories. But as soon as I get through, I'm on this one. Any news?”

“No, but I'm staying with the Watermans, and Carla arrived here at nine this morning looking for Russell.”

“Jo, we've got to talk the minute you get back. I want you to take notes. Wear a videocam and tape recorder!” he said, only half-jokingly.

Though Larry Locket and I saw each other only intermittently, we had one of those close, enduring friendships that always takes up where it left off. Our conversation was brief because I had to finish getting dressed for the wedding, but I promised to call him the minute I returned to New York. Larry was the mystery lover's Santa Claus who, each year, brought his fans the present of a book on a tantalizing new case. And there was no case that promised to be more tantalizing than this one.

I walked out on the veranda, dressed for the wedding in a brand-new long, strapless yellow chiffon gown. I knew it was becoming, and I confess I was looking forward to seeing Max. Gil Waterman, just back from the boat, was at the bar fixing himself a drink. He looked dapper, as usual, in his custom-made tuxedo.

“Any word?” I asked him.

“Nothing. Want one?” he said, offering me a scotch.

“No, thanks.” I thought I detected a slight air of exasperation about him.

Gil took a long swig of scotch. “Why in hell they hired a kid captain who knows fuck all about procedure to run that luxurious tub is beyond me.”

“He's cute,” I said, recalling the fresh good looks of Captain Jenks.

“With all that money, couldn't they have afforded a captain who was cute
and
competent? The kid's a joke. ‘Captain Jenks at your service, sir!' ” he said, mimicking the young man's stance and Australian voice. “
I
know more about boats than he does, for Pete's sakes! They used to have a great captain. Mike Rankin was his name, I think. An American. Russell used to sing his praises all the time. I wonder what happened to him.”

“Jenks does seem a little out of his depth, pardon the pun,” I said. “You know, Betty was the one who suggested calling the Coast Guard.”

Gil rolled his eyes. “Doesn't surprise me. You can't believe how disorganized it is out there.” Gil drained his glass and poured himself another drink.

“How's Carla holding up?” I asked him.

“Fine, under the circumstances. Oh, she sends her love to you, by the way. She said you were wonderful to her this morning. She's coming to the wedding.”

“You're kidding. I'm surprised.”

He paused for a moment. “Why? You think she shouldn't? I was kind of wondering about that myself.”

I thought for a moment. Unfortunately, no etiquette book covers what to do if you're invited to a wedding when your husband has just vanished off the face of the earth.

“When people find out Russell's disappeared, and then they realize that she went to the party. . . . Well, let's just say, it won't look great.”

“I know,” Gil said. “But sitting out there all alone on the boat waiting for news is too depressing. I told her she should come if she felt like it.”

“I certainly wouldn't feel like going to a party if
you
were missing, darling!” cried a voice behind us. “Jo's right. It looks like shit!”

Betty burst onto the terrace in a long, pale green caftan hand painted with red tropical flowers that looked like little penises. Her voluminous red hair has frizzed up in the humidity and her makeup was too heavy. There was a hint of Bozo the Clown about her.

“Oh, don't you look pretty, sweetheart,” Gil said right away. It was hard to tell whether Gil's reaction was stunned or serious. He certainly was a courtly husband.

“Fix me a drink, will you, Gil? I need one. . . . Actually, fix me three. Might as well get a head start. I can't tell if I'm homicidal or suicidal. Missy can't get into her wedding dress. She refuses to let me help her. And will you please just
look
at the weather!”

“Freddy Brill may lose his bet,” I said.

“
May
lose his bet?
A fucking monsoon's coming!
” Betty cried, looking up at the sky. “And Freddy's the one who persuaded us
not
to put in any walkways, even though Trebor kept insisting. That man is a complete idiot. I hope Woody hasn't inherited his brain.”

Though the wedding was at Cockleshell, the Brill villa, Betty had imported Trebor Bellini from New York to handle the décor. Bellini, an alchemist of the visual, was one of the best in the business for designing opulent parties. He was a genius at transforming pedestrian spaces into palaces, but his fees were as imperial as his vision and I was impressed that Betty was using him. Betty was quite the tightwad when it came to decoration. In her own art-laden house, she never had any fresh flowers around, saying, “What would you rather look at? A bunch of blooms on the table, or my Monet
Water Lilies
on the wall?” Still, this was the wedding of their only child, and Betty and Gil wanted nothing but the best for Missy. Also, as Betty pointed out, it was good business for Gil, who had invited all of his best clients down for the occasion.

“Oh, Jo, you're gorgeous!” Betty said.

“You, too, sweetie. I hope Max likes this color,” I said, glancing down at my pale yellow dress.

“Max likes skin color,” Betty said.

We were still waiting for Missy when Dermott came in to announce that I had a telephone call. “It's Mrs. Kahn from New York City,” he said in his basso voice.

“Jo, for God's sakes, don't breathe a
word
to June about Russell!” Betty said.

I rolled my eyes at Betty in disbelief that she would even have to mention such a thing, considering that everyone knew June Kahn was a human Internet when it came to dispensing information. Picking up the phone in the living room, I heard June's terminally chirpy voice at the other end say, “So, Jo, sweetie, have they found poor Russell yet?”

There's an old saying in New York that if you don't want a secret to get out, you can't repeat it—not even to yourself.

I cupped my hand over the receiver and called out to Betty, “She knows!”

Betty skittered across the terrace in her high-heeled sandals and grabbed the phone away from me.

“
June, Betty. Who the fuck told you about it?
” Betty listened for a minute and then cried, “
You're not serious!
” Betty put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to me, “
Lulu
told her.”

“How does
Lulu
know?” I said.

Catching Betty's eye, Gil pointed to his watch, indicating that we were now seriously late.

“Listen, Junie, I gotta go,” Betty said. “I'll call you later . . . I promise I will . . . no, look . . . I promise . . . listen, Junie, you know more than we do, for heaven sakes! I'll call you the minute I hear anything! I
will.
I gotta go!” Betty said, hanging up. The promise of future gossip was the only way to get June off the phone.

Betty looked at Gil and said, “How the hell did
Lulu
find out? Do you think Larry told her? Or did she tell Larry?”

“Who knows? And what does it matter?” Gil said, unimpressed.

“Gil, it
matters!
They knew practically before we did! And we're
here!
” Betty said. “It's just incredible.”

“I'll tell you what's incredible—the time,” Gil said, pointing to his watch again. “Now let's get a move on. Where
is
Missy?”

“Well, that's it, then. It's out,” Betty said. “Lulu had a choice between calling a live press conference or telling June. And she knew June would get it out there faster.”

Just then, Missy swept through the arch of the veranda, looking like an exotic flower in her sleek white satin wedding dress and the same diamond-and-sapphire necklace she had worn to the bridal dinner the previous night. She stood for a long moment as both Betty and Gil stared at her in sentimental awe.

“Sweetheart, you're gorgeous,” Gil said with a crack of emotion in his voice.

Betty was at an uncharacteristic loss for words. She and Gil walked over and hugged their daughter. It was a sweet moment that brought tears to everyone's eyes, including my own. But it was short-lived. After Missy thanked her parents and told them she loved them—“You guys are just the best!”—we all hurried out the door to the awaiting limousine and into the arms of disaster.

 

Chapter 6

T
wo months after the fact, in her column in the large, glossy pages of
Nous
magazine, Miranda Somers would describe Missy Waterman's wedding at Cockleshell as “a tropical dream . . . an orchid-filled paradise . . . a luscious occasion. . . . The highlight of the social season.” Miranda's gracious account notwithstanding, I think I speak for everyone who was actually
there
when I say that in the annals of social fiascos, that wedding took the five-tiered cake. “The wedding from hell,” “a tropical nightmare,” and “misadventure in paradise” were some of the milder of the disparaging comments I heard expressed during the course of a long, stormy evening. If not the absolute worst, expensive wedding ever endured, it was certainly the wettest.

Almost immediately following the private ceremony, there was a brief but brutal thunderstorm, which Freddy Brill, in his infinite knowledge of Barbados weather, predicted would “clear the air.” After that, rain poured down in buckets. The enormous tent, which had been set up in the garden for dinner and dancing, decorated from floor to ceiling with orchids, was located at least twenty yards away from the main house and there was no walkway covering the flooded grounds.

Gil Waterman and Freddy Brill made the rounds, apologizing to everyone for the ghastly weather, while Mina and Betty and I scurried around frantically searching for extra umbrellas. There were only five of any decent size, all belonging to the valet parkers, two of whom were enlisted to help shepherd guests from the house to the tent—an interminably slow process. In desperation over the long wait, some people made a dash for the tent. They arrived in sopping wet clothes and shoes, looking as bedraggled as shipwreck survivors.

I heard one woman exclaim rhapsodically upon entering the tent, “My God, a sea of orchids!” To which her husband snapped back, “Screw the orchids, where's the ark?”

The tent was damp and chilly. The storm had cut the power so that none of the crucial spotlights hidden in the columns were lit. Low votive candles amid the orchids on each table provided the only light, and while their soft glow made everyone look slightly less awful, it was difficult to actually see anything. People tripped over the flower garlands festooning the long tablecloths as they tried to locate their seats. The initial camaraderie naturally engendered by adverse conditions gradually curdled into irritation, then anger, then grim resignation, as it dawned on people that this was an evening to be endured, not enjoyed.

In the midst of the mayhem, I spotted Carla standing by herself in a far corner of the tent. She was chicly dressed in a long coral sheath and dazzling coral-and-diamond jewelry, clutching a bag that looked like a gold brick. Unlike the rest of us, she was surprisingly unwilted from the rain. Though Gil warned me she was coming, I still wondered what in hell she was doing there, why she wasn't out on the boat waiting for word of her husband. She seemed pleased to see me and flashed me a warm smile as I approached her.

“You are surprised to see me here, are you not, Jo?” she said intuitively.

“Well, kind of.”

“I must admit I feel a bit strange being at a party. But I knew that if I stayed on that boat another minute waiting for news, I would go mad, so I have come. No one here knows about Russell so, hopefully, they will not think too badly of me.”

“How about later on when they find out?”

“I am not worried. I have never been worried about what people think of me. They always think the wrong thing anyway.”

“Well, that's a good attitude, I guess.” Under the circumstances, her toughness amazed me.

“But you know, Jo,” she began in a gentler voice, “I do care what
you
think of me. So I am going to tell you a big secret. But you must swear to me on your life you will not breathe a word of this to anyone else.”

“I swear,” I said warily.

She leaned in and whispered, “Russell is alive.”

I pulled back. “Where is he?”

“Shhh! Not so loud.”

“But where is he?”

“I don't know exactly. But I do know that he is alive. I know it inside,
here.
” She put her hand on her heart. Her eyes burned with conviction.

“But you haven't actually heard anything?”

“No.”

I mustered a halfhearted smile, thinking this was merely wishful thinking on her part. My assumption was that if they hadn't found Russell Cole by now, he'd most likely drowned. But I didn't want to dash her hopes.

“Okay, well, let's pray he is then.”

“Do not look so skeptical, Jo. You do not understand. Russell
is
alive,” she said emphatically. “This has happened before.”

“What do you mean?”

“You swear you will keep this in confidence?”

“I swear.”

She gave me a single, solemn nod. “Russell has disappeared before, Jo. And not just once.”

“You're kidding. How?
When
?”

“I can not go into it. But I will tell you that my darling husband is not a well man. He has a terrible psychological affliction. We will find him sooner or later. We always do.”

“What kind of affliction?”

She raised her palm like a traffic cop. “That is all I can tell you, I am afraid. But I have been through this before and I know it will all turn out well in the end.”

I was dying to ask more questions, but she clearly wasn't going to talk, and the steady stream of wet, cranky guests filing into the tent started to intrude on our space. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Max, looking amazingly dry and handsome in an old-style double-breasted tuxedo.

“I believe you're my dinner partner,” he said.

I confess that I felt a little frisson of real attraction.

“You know Carla Cole, don't you?” I said, trying not to forget my manners.

Max mock-kissed Carla's hand, as was his wont. “We have indeed met,” he said. “Terribly sorry to have missed your party last evening.”

“Yes, I am so sorry, too,” Carla said. “You were supposed to be sitting next to Jo, but you will make up for it tonight.”

With that, a gong sounded and harried waiters made pleas for all of us to be seated.

“Come, dear lady,” Max said, taking my hand. “I believe they want us to sit down before the tent falls in on us.”

As we were walking to our table, Carla said to me, “I know you are going to be my great friend and mentor in New York, Jo, because we are sisters under the skin.”

It was an odd thing to say. Was Carla going to be spending more time in New York I wondered? When I glanced back, Carla was staring at Max and me with a strange look on her face. When she saw me, she smiled as if she were embarrassed I'd caught her, and turned away.

At dinner, I was seated between Max and Sir Arthur Tilden, the governor general of Barbados, a lean, bespectacled black man with wiry, salt-and-pepper hair and a grave countenance. Sir Arthur had performed the marriage ceremony. He, of course, knew that Russell Cole was missing, because it was he who Carla had called for help, at Betty's insistence. He'd helped get things mobililized. He didn't say a word to me about Russell, however. Sir Arthur was very discreet—an admirable if dull trait. I wondered if Max knew, because if he was going out with Lulu, perhaps she'd phoned him, as well as Miranda. In any case, I wasn't going to be the one to bring it up with either man. I kept thinking about what Carla had said about Russell and wondered what kind of “psychological affliction” she could have been talking about.

The woman on Max's other side, some European countess of no account I didn't know, monopolized him from the moment we sat down—which was just as well. I didn't want to appear anxious. Max was very laid-back and polite, but he did assume an almost cartoonishly defensive posture, tilted way back away from her with his arms crossed in front of him. The more she leaned in toward him, the more he tilted backward. Still, it didn't stop her from trying to make an impression.

Sir Arthur and I talked during the appetizer. We had a nice conversation about Barbados and his career (he had started out as a lawyer, then became a magistrate). There was no mention of Russell Cole. As drenched waiters served lukewarm entrees, Max managed to extract himself from the overattentive woman on his right. He turned to me and said, “Well, dear lady, finally we get to sit together. How was the dinner last night?”

“It was really extraordinary. I'm so sorry you weren't there.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” he said with a flirtatious air.

Since he seemed to be somewhat interested in me, I then asked him a question to which I thought I knew the answer, just to see what he would say.

“Why weren't you there, if I may ask?”

Max sighed. “Well, apparently Russell thinks I'm a rather good friend of his ex-wife, whom I'm sure you know.”

“Lulu. Yes, I know her,” I said coldly.

“You don't sound as if you like her.”

“I can't say I'm her greatest fan, no.”

“Oh?” He cocked his handsome head to one side. “Why not?”

“Well, let's just say that when I was down on my luck, Lulu wasn't exactly supportive. I have a little motto in life, which is, I may not remember, but I
never
forget.”

Max chuckled. “That's rather good. I'm going to remember that one.”

“So are you and Lulu an ‘item,' as they say?”

“An item? What does
that
mean?”

I couldn't figure out whether Max was genuinely perplexed or whether he just wanted me to elaborate because he was mischievous.

“Uh . . . are you dating Lulu?”

He leaned in, put his hand under his chin, and gazed at me intently. There was a twinkle in his cool eyes. “What are you
really
asking me, Jo?” he said, with a sly nuance to his voice.

I got a little flustered. My little ruse had backfired.

“I don't know. I was just wondering if you two were involved.”

“Involved?”

“You know . . . romantically.”

“I see. And why were you wondering that?” he pressed me.

“I guess because New York is a very small town. I know Lulu. I sort of know you. It's a point of interest, that's all.”

“A point of interest,” he said, and nodded. “Like a stop on a sightseeing tour . . . no other reason?”

“What other reason would there be?” I asked him.

He considered a moment. “Oh, I don't know. I could probably think of a more congenial one if I put my mind to it.” He gave me a warm smile. I couldn't figure out whether he was flirting with me or just being coy. “Lulu and I are merely good friends,” he went on. “But it seems that in New York, if one is seen with a person more than once, people think you're engaged. The fact is, I happen to be footloose and fancy-free at the moment. A fairly rare occurrence in my life, I must say.”

In other words, he was available—or so he seemed to be indicating.

I decided to change the subject and we talked a little about Taunton Hall, his ancestral home. He obviously adored the place and took great pride in it.

“It's a Herculean task to keep the thing up and running,” he said. “Something's always falling down. This year, it's my roof.” There was a pause. Max looked around the room, then said, “Pity about Russell Cole. I wonder if he'll turn up.”

“So you
know
,” I said, marveling at his coolness. “How did you find out?”

“Lulu called me this afternoon, actually.”

Lulu—with whom he wasn't involved.

“The whole town seems to know. Larry Locket called us this afternoon. I wonder if Lulu told him.”

“Larry Locket, the writer . . .” Max shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Well, June Kahn knows, which is like posting it on the Internet.”

“June Kahn, yes. And her husband—that funny little man who always wears the matching cummerbunds and ties . . . what's his name?”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie Kahn. That's right. I've met them. They came to my house one year for the ball.”

“How do you think Lulu found out?” I asked him.

“No idea. But I suspect she keeps rather close tabs on the two of them—Russell and Carla. She's a bit obsessed with her successor, you know. . . . Tell me, what do people in New York think of Carla Cole?”

“She's not around New York much,” I demurred.

“No, but you know what I mean. What's the
scoop
on her, as you say? I'm curious because Lulu goes on and on about how Carla Cole used to be some sort of lady of the night. Do we think that's true?”

“Well, I've heard that, yes. I mean, it was a huge scandal when they ran off together.”

“I remember. I didn't know them at the time, but I heard all about it. Of course, most people in Europe thought that Russell was rather foolish to run off and get divorced the way he did. Particularly with a woman who wasn't anybody,
what?
English and European men simply don't get divorced. They get mistresses, 'Cept me, of course. But I'm considered a bit bonkers,” he said with a laugh. “I just don't see why one shouldn't move on if one feels like it. You know what Louis the Fifteenth said when he was asked what the greatest aphrodisiac in the world was . . . ?”

I did know, but I pretended not to. “No, what?”

“Change,” Max said with a grin. I smiled appreciatively. “I think people should do exactly as they please in life, don't you? Provided they can, of course,” he quickly added.

“I guess that depends on what pleases them,” I answered.

“Well, what would please me is to call you when I come to New York. May I?”

“Yes. You may indeed.”

I had no idea what to make of Max. His antithetical combination of aloofness and flirtatiousness was slightly disconcerting. I didn't know whether he liked me or—more to the point—whether I liked him. But there was something very intriguing about him, and I definitely wanted to see him again.