One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  However, I was not being entirely honest with Mr. Millstein. I didn’t actually keep the diamonds I bought from him. I wrapped them and sent them along in an unmarked envelope to a post office box in Las Vegas. The investment I was actually making had nothing to do with a hedge against inflation or anything of a prudent economic nature. I was investing in my own future, making sure that a blackmailer I hadn’t seen in a very long time kept her mouth shut.

  I went directly from Mr. Millstein’s establishment to Pug’s for a lunch with Betty and June. Pug’s is a clubby little bistro in the East Seventies, which basically serves gourmet school food, and where one is always bound to run into someone one knows. Betty was sitting at the table when I arrived. She was wearing a bright red wool suit that clashed with her red hair, which, though neatly coiffed, looked a little brittle and dried out from the sun. Her skin, however, was a healthy bronze color, making her look more robust than the washed-out, winter-weary faces around her. June was uncharacteristically late, so Betty and I each ordered a glass of white wine and settled in. Betty was still smarting over the disastrous wedding.

  “When we got home I said to Gil that we should have just flushed the four hundred thousand dollars down the toilet. God knows it would have been less painful—and less wet.”

  “How are the honeymooners?” I said, trying to be upbeat.

  “In Paris. No word. A good sign,” she said.

  “Have you heard from Carla?”

  “Gil spoke to her. She’s still down there cruising around. She’s offering a million-dollar reward to anyone with any information.”

  “If that doesn’t work, nothing will.”

  It was all I could do not to tell Betty what Carla had told me about Russell having disappeared before. But I was determined to respect my promise to Carla not to say anything about that. The last thing I wanted was to get a reputation like our friend June Kahn.

  “So, any word from Lord Viagra?” Betty said, referring to Max Vermilion.

  “Nope.”

  “I thought you two had hit it off,” she said, disappointed.

  “We kind of did. It’s difficult to tell with Max. Besides, I think he’s sort of involved with Lulu, even if he says he’s not.”

  “That’s never stopped him before, believe me. Junie’s close to Lulu. We’ll ask her when she comes.”

  “No we won’t. I don’t want it broadcast to the world that I’m even vaguely interested in Max Vermilion, thank you very much.”

  “Are you interested in him, Jo?”

  I thought for a moment. “I’m not sure, actually. There’s something odd about him that I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  “Listen, I’ve known Max for twenty years, okay?” Betty said. “He’s a law unto himself. Max loves women and women love Max. He’s marvelous company. Very cultivated. And he likes grand ladies. I just know you two would have fun together. You and he have so much in common.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, you both love art. You both love to travel. You know a lot of the same people. And wouldn’t it be nice to be with a man whose ticket you didn’t have to pay for? Someone who might actually give you a good-night kiss? Or more? Frankly, I don’t understand what’s holding you back, Jo.”

  “Holding me back from what, may I ask?”

  “Calling him. You should just call him up and invite him to something. Or, better yet, give a party for him. Someone’s always giving a party for Max and he loves them. Trust me, Jo, he’s the type who needs that little extra push.”

  “Absolutely not! I realize we live in an age where the rules of courtship have been burned at the stake, but I’m too old to pursue a man in every sense of that statement. You start off on that foot and it never changes, believe me. He’s got to make the first move.”

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous. Jesus, if I’d waited for Gil to call me, we never would have hooked up.” She paused to reflect. “Of course, then we never would have gotten married, Missy never would have been born, and we never would have given that ghastly wedding. So on second thought, maybe you’re right.” She gulped down the rest of her white wine and signaled the waiter for another.

  Just then, June Kahn, aided by a waiter, hobbled through the front door on crutches. A dark-haired, birdlike woman in her early fifties, June was obviously still maintaining the fiction that a sprained ankle had prevented her from going to Missy’s wedding. However, Betty and I both strongly suspected the real reason June had stayed away from Barbados was because she hadn’t been invited to the glamorous bridal dinner aboard the Cole yacht. June hated to miss a party—especially one to which she was not invited. But being one of Lulu Cole’s best friends, there was no way Carla would have included her. And, as everyone knew, for June Kahn to be excluded from a festivity was an oblivion worse than death. It was better to feign an injury.

  June was so agitated that when she saw us, she practically threw her crutches at the waiter and strode over to the table, forgetting all about her ankle.

  “Welcome to Lourdes,” Betty said under her breath.

  We both loved June. She never changed.

  “You’ll never guess what’s happened!” she announced, plunking herself down on one of the wooden chairs. “God, I need a drink. Waiter!”

  June ordered a martini—an impressive drink for lunch and very uncharacteristic of our friend, who usually had iced tea even when the two of us had wine. Betty and I just looked at each other, wondering what on earth was up.

  “I’ve just heard the most ghastly thing,” June said. “I can’t believe it. I cannot believe it! And I’m going to fight it. You just watch. If she thinks she’s going to get away with this, she has another think coming. I won’t let this happen and that’s that!”

  “What?” Betty and I cried in unison.

  June took a deep breath and leveled the two of us with one of her parakeet-impersonating-a-hawk gazes. “Carla Cole has bid the asking price on the Wilman apartment in my building.”

  Betty and I looked at each other.

  “What about the yacht?” I said.

  “Oh, she’s selling the yacht,” June said dismissively.

  “How do you know?” Betty asked.

  “I just know,” June said.

  Betty, who knew how easy it was to pry information out of our gossipy friend, said in a threatening tone, “Juuune, how do you know?”

  June leaned in. “Well, this is to the grave, right?”

  “Right,” we both said. After years and years of hearing secrets June was sworn to keep, this was just a formality.

  “Lulu told me,” she said.

  “And how does Lulu know?” Betty inquired.

  “Oh, Lulu knows everything about those two,” June said with an offhand air, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for an ex-wife to keep tabs on her ex-husband and the wife for whom he had left her.

  “Well, Carla told me she always hated that boat,” I said, recalling her chilling comment on the day Russell had disappeared. “And she mentioned something to me about coming to New York at the wedding.”

  “Is she giving up the search for Russell?” Betty asked.

  “Apparently,” June said. “Of course, Lulu’s positive she killed him, so why would she hang around searching for someone she already knows is dead? Lulu warned Russell about Carla way before he married her. What they do to one, they’ll do to another. She killed her first husband, after all.”

  Like all June’s friends, Betty and I had long ago come to the realization that the world according to June Kahn was about as reliable as an alien sighting.

  Betty sighed in exasperation. “You know, June, we’ve all heard that rumor about Hernandez shooting himself twice. But there’s absolutely no proof that Hernandez was murdered. He committed suicide.”

  “I talked to Larry Locket, who says it isn’t tru
e, either,” I said.

  “Well, Lulu knows it for a fact,” June insisted.

  I could see Betty getting irritated.

  “Has Lulu seen the autopsy report?” Betty asked.

  June hesitated, as she always did before she told a lie. “Yes.”

  “Oh, June, Hernandez never had an autopsy!” Betty said. “That was the whole point. If you ask me, that entire story is a myth, probably concocted by Lulu. It’s just one of those facts that’s too good to check.” Betty leaned back in her chair and thought for a second. “But if she really is selling the boat . . . now that’s pretty interesting.”

  “And pretty quick, don’t you think?” I said. “What do you think it means?”

  “I think it means she knows he’s not coming back,” Betty said.

  “Of course he’s not! I’m telling you. He’s dead,” June said. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Carla wants to move into my building.”

  June always said “my building” when referring to 831 Fifth Avenue, despite the fact that there were many other tenants. Having been president of the cooperative’s board for twelve years, she considered it her own personal fiefdom. June Kahn was the iron fist in that white-glove building and everyone knew it. We both waited for her to elaborate, but her thunderous silence indicated that this maneuver by Carla was the entire basis of her fury.

  Finally Betty said, “So what?”

  “So what?” June cried, throwing up her hands in indignation. “How you can even ask that question is beyond me! You think I want to run into a murderess in the lobby?”

  831 Fifth was one of the most fashionable co-ops in the city—a building so notoriously difficult to get into it was dubbed “Versailles” by savvy real estate agents. Indeed, the politics and snobberies of the entire cooperative apartment market in New York made life at the ancient French court seem sunny and simplistic by comparison. It was almost impossible to get into certain buildings—particularly a luxurious prewar like 831 Fifth. Its famously tough board of directors had a mandate to keep “undesirables” out. Even having pots of money didn’t automatically guarantee admittance. Movie stars, newly minted billionaires, and all show-business types were told by real estate agents that they need not even bother to apply there because they had no hope of getting in. In order to be numbered among the very rich and very social tenants, one needed hefty amounts of both cash and cachet.

  The Wilman apartment was once owned by Clara Wilman, my dear late friend and mentor, who was a great philanthropist and patron of the arts and the reigning grande dame of New York until her death some years ago at the ripe age of eighty-seven. Not only was her apartment considered to be one of the most beautiful in New York, it had enormous prestige simply because it had once belonged to Clara. It is a curious fact of New York life that apartments that have been owned by great socialities are forever identified by the names of those figures. Hence, though occupied by at least two successive owners, Clara’s apartment was still referred to as “the Wilman Apartment,” and, like the goods at a celebrity auction, its purchase price was inflated on account of its distinguished provenance. It was as if possessing such an abode somehow automatically conferred the style of its most distinguished occupant upon the next owner. Style is something for which people in New York are always willing to pay dearly, despite the conclusive evidence that it can’t be bought.

  The most recent owner of the Wilman apartment, Marcy Conifer Ludinghausen, a multidivorced heiress whose latest husband had cost her yet another bundle of cash, had put the apartment on the market two years ago for a whopping twenty-eight million dollars. During that time, two separate individuals—one a clothing manufacturer from California, and the other a hotel owner from Colorado—had stepped forward to bid the hefty asking price. Lacking the necessary social credentials and personal connections, however, both parties were summarily turned down by 831’s famously stuffy board.

  June clearly viewed Carla’s attempt to purchase the Wilman apartment as nothing short of a terrorist act. The apartment, with its grand layout and grander history, was widely considered to be a major weapon in any serious social climber’s arsenal. June didn’t want any competition in that area, particularly not from Carla Cole, who had stolen away the husband of one of her best friends. June was as loyal as she was indiscreet—which was really saying something. She went on:

  “The awful thing is that Hadley Grimes, that old fart, who’s also on the board, used to be Russell’s stockbroker. He likes Carla and he wants her to get in. We have to vote, of course, and it’s dangerously close. There’s a good chance she’ll get in. I’m a complete wreck. This is all I needed. I have so many other things to do. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with this. The trouble is, I’m responsible for too many things. I’m on too many committees. I have too many commitments. You girls know me. I never stop working for the benefit of others. Do I?” June looked at us with pleading eyes.

  For June, Carla’s move into her building was the New York equivalent of Hitler’s annexation of the Sudetenland, or the Soviet occupation of Czechoslovakia.

  “I don’t know what it is about this town that inspires the tsarina in rich ladies. Entertain and let entertain, that’s my motto,” Betty said.

  “Oh my God!” June exclaimed. “You’re not going to see her if she moves here, are you?”

  “Honey, just call me Switzerland,” Betty replied.

  “Betty Waterman, you have no standards at all!” June said.

  Betty grew serious. “Look, Junie, she may be an enemy of yours. She’s not—I repeat, not—an enemy of mine. In fact, I rather like her. She’s married to my daughter’s godfather and she’s been very nice to me. ‘Nice is nice to me.’ It’s on my family crest.”

  June pursed her lips and said sanctimoniously, “There is a proverb which says, The enemy of my enemy is my enemy.”

  After a moment’s reflection, Betty said, “I think that one goes, The enemy of my friend is my enemy, Junie.”

  “Whatever! It’s the same thing!” June huffed. “You shouldn’t talk to her because I hate her! And you’re my best friend!”

  Betty just shook her head in exasperation. I tried to diffuse the situation.

  “Junie, you’re the head of the board. Can’t you veto her?”

  “I wish! No. Unfortunately, we have to vote. I hate democracy. Well, it could be worse. I was going to resign this year. I’ve served that building for twelve long years and I thought it might be time to abdicate. Thank God I didn’t! You never know what’s going to go wrong. Let that be a lesson to Queen Elizabeth!”

  When June finally paused to draw breath, Betty said, “Okay, let’s stop talking about this and order.”

  During lunch, June went on, “The only ray of hope is that Carla needs a very good personal reference. Russell’s not the problem, but she definitely is. And with him missing or dead or whatever he is, if she doesn’t get some great letters of support, well, I don’t think the other board members are going to vote with Hadley. They’ll have to vote with me.”

  “She has lots of friends,” Betty said. “They entertained a lot on the yacht.”

  “The international white trash set?” June said dismissively, flinging her hand in the air. “That Eurotrash she hangs out with has no weight here, believe me. No one of any standing in New York will write a letter for her. I’m sure of that. . . . Anyway, enough of all that. How was the wedding? I hear it was a disaster.”

  “Thank you for sharing that, June,” Betty said.

  “Well, I hear it was,” June said defensively. “I mean, it’s not your fault there was a typhoon that night.”

  “It wasn’t a typhoon. It was a storm,” Betty said.

  “That’s not what I heard. Anyway, I really wish we could have been there though. But this damn ankle.” Betty looked at me and raised her eyebrows. June caught the look. “I know what you
’re thinking, Betty. You’re thinking I made this up because I wasn’t invited to the Coles’ bridal dinner.”

  “I wasn’t thinking any such thing,” Betty said unconvincingly.

  “Well, it just so happens that my foot doctor told me I would be permanently crippled if I reinjured the ankle. He absolutely forbade me to travel. Otherwise I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You know how much I adore Missy, and I did want to tell her that although Woody Brill is really boring, he’s really, really nice. And that’s what’s important in life. Niceness.”

  “Well, we had some fun, despite the moisture,” Betty said. “Jo here had a very good seat at the wedding, didn’t you, Jo?” Before I could stop her, she said, “She sat between Sir Arthur Tilden, the governor general of Barbados, and Max Vermilion.”

  Betty was about as subtle as an overzealous face-lift. June took the bait.

  “Max was there? I love Max!” June said. “He’s going out with Lulu, you know.”

  “Really?” Betty said. “Is it serious?”

  “Oh, yes! Absolutely . . .” June said. She thought for a moment. “Anyway, I think so . . .” She thought for another moment. “Well, I’m actually not sure . . . but I know they’re friends!” she said confidently. “Max is the most charming man, isn’t he? And have you ever been to Taunton Hall? What a divine place. The arches, the gardens! Charlie loves the Chinese bronzes. Shang, Tang, Wang—I never can get them straight. They all look like dirty old pots to me. But then, I’m not a scholar. So how is Max? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “He’s Max,” Betty said, as if being Max Vermilion was a world unto itself.

  “Don’t you just love him, Jo?” June asked me.

  “Well, I don’t know him that well. I met him once years ago, but that’s about it.”