One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  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 perp
lexed 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.

  For the rest of the dinner, we talked more about Russell, speculating on what might have happened. Max said he hardly knew Russell at all. He just knew Lulu. I got the feeling that he and Lulu might once have been involved, but that they weren’t now. Several times during our conversation, I glanced over at Carla. Every single time I looked at her, she was already looking at me, staring at me with a knowing little smile. I couldn’t figure out if she was smiling because of what she’d told me about Russell, or because of some other reason. Her observation earlier that we were “sisters under the skin” echoed in my brain. It was almost as if she knew something confidential about me.

  Suddenly, a woman from another table got up and approached a man at the opposite side of our table. She leaned down and whispered something into his ear. The man’s face registered shock and he immediately craned his neck to peer around one of the orchid-plastered columns. The object of his gaze was Carla Cole, who was seated at a neighboring table in my direct line of sight. That man took a good look at Carla and then whispered something to his dinner partner. The woman who had whispered something to him moved on to another table. Pretty soon I felt the whole room simmering with curiosity as people whispered to one another and shifted in their seats in order to get a glimpse of Carla. I knew that word about Russell Cole was out, prowling the tent like a hungry dog. It was no surprise. A secret that big has the lifespan of a mayfly.

  Despite the infusion of gossip, the dinner quickly deteriorated, and long before the dessert plates were cleared away, everyone had just basically given up. Instead of dancing or lingering around to talk, people got up in droves, desperate to get back to their hotels, houses, private planes—wherever they could get some rest. No one stayed for coffee. Max kissed my hand, looked deep into my eyes, and said, “Dear lady, I hate to leave you after all we’ve been through together. I will call you very soon.” He left. I couldn’t help wondering where he was going.

  On the way out, several people stopped to ask me if I’d heard the “news” about Russell Cole. I just nodded, knowing that by this time tomorrow the whole western world would know. Carla had disappeared. I had no idea where she went.

  While waiting for Betty and Gil, I stood at the door with Miranda, who looked a true fright with her ruined gold sandals slung over her right shoulder, her strawberry hair a frizzy halo, her undereyes blackened with mascara, and her red caftan streaked with mud. God only knows what I looked like. We just stared at each other.

  When her car, driven by Ethan, finally pulled up, she gazed at it for a moment as though it were the Holy Grail. Before getting in, she air-kissed me good-bye and said in a weary voice, “Well, at least now we all know how it felt trying to get out of Saigon.”

  I just smiled, wondering how she was going to muster the energy to give this wedding a positive spin in her column.

  Missy and Woody spent the night in the honeymoon suite of the Sandy Lane Hotel. It was past three when Betty, Gil, and I got back to King’s Fort. Gil looked as if he’d drowned. So did Betty. I knew how utterly exhausted she was when she didn’t even ask me about Max. We all just stared at one another in utter defeat. Finally, Betty said, “Russell Cole had a choice between attending that wedding or disappearing. And, honey, he made the right decision!”

  With that, we all slogged off to bed.

  Chapter 7

  Russell Cole never did tu
rn up. The media soon got hold of the story and the tabloids had a field day. The world was eager for news, and, as is usual in such cases, a torrent of rumors swept through the factual wasteland. Theories as to what had actually happened to the Oklahoma billionaire flooded international social circles. The Coles were already well-known figures in that miniscule province of privilege, which made this ongoing mystery just too tantalizing for its inhabitants to ignore.

  Everyone had an opinion about the case. Was Russell really dead? And if so, was Carla involved? Was it a kidnapping, a Mob hit, a terrorist act, suicide, murder, or just a plain, old, boring accident? Wild stories were rampant, but there was no hard evidence to support any of the speculation. Just about all the wedding guests left the island the next day. Carla remained in decorous seclusion aboard The Lady C, which became a floating target for enterprising paparazzi until Carla again used her influence with Sir Arthur. He ordered the Coast Guard to keep leering lensmen at bay.

  Everyone who was at the wedding dined out on the story as soon as they returned home. It was one of those moments in social life when close proximity to a scandal made even the dullest of souls sought-after dinner guests. People who didn’t even know Carla Cole were now claiming to have had heart-to-heart conversations with her in Barbados. As a result, many ridiculous falsehoods emerged, such as the conflicting rumors that Carla had actually seen Russell fall overboard and jumped in to try and save him, or that Carla had actually seen Russell fall overboard and didn’t jump in to try and save him. As Betty said, “If everybody claiming to have spoken to Carla had actually spoken to her, she’d still be talking.”

  I arrived back in New York on a steely, cold January day. The slushy streets were dotted with dirty snowdrifts. I was thrilled to be home again. I could hardly wait to get back inside my cozy apartment which overlooked Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Caspar, my chauffeur, picked me up at the airport. Few chauffeurs were either as dependable as Caspar, or as dull-witted—which meant I could rely on him without having to talk to him.