One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  I knew he was being discreet. It’s never a good idea to announce where you’re going in New York in case the person you’re speaking to hasn’t been invited to the same party. So you do a little verbal minuet before either of you gives out any specifics.

  “I believe so,” I said.

  “The future felon’s house?” he ventured.

  “Bite your tongue,” I said, laughing. “Are you covering the trial?”

  “No. Dick’s too good a friend. Besides, I’m working full-time on the Cole case now. But everyone says he’s guilty. . . . Honey, we have so much to discuss!”

  “I’ll ask Trish to put us next to each other at dinner,” I told him.

  “Great. This is gonna be some party!”

  I hung up with a slightly uneasy feeling. In light of recent events, I was now quite worried to learn that Larry was working so hard on the Cole case. Larry was a brilliant reporter who had solved cases that had baffled the police. I knew that if he leveled his gaze at Carla, there was no telling what he might find out about me—if, indeed, she knew something about me, which she had certainly hinted she did. I tried to put this feeling out of my mind, but it gnawed at me as I got dressed.

  The Bromire dinner that night did not have a festive feel to it, to say the least. Trish had filled their Park Avenue penthouse with so many altar-size bunches of lilies and chrysanthemums it looked like a funeral parlor. The curtains were drawn, thus obscuring the spectacular city views and creating an oddly claustrophobic effect in the huge, boxy white rooms. Trish, usually decked out in sparkling clothes and colorful jewels, was in a long, severe black dress with a high collar that made her look like the abbess in a medieval convent, or an undertaker—I couldn’t quite make up my mind which. She stood at the door, greeting her guests with a thin smile, diluted by worry. Dick Bromire was nowhere in sight.

  “Thank you so much for coming. Thank you so much for coming,” Trish repeated solemnly to each guest, as if we were about to view a body. And in some sense, we were—Dick’s. The only real sign of life about the place was a pair of black miniature schnauzer puppies, who barked and jumped around like little castanets until a maid scooped them up and carried them away. Dick had apparently given them to Trish to keep her company in case things “didn’t turn out well.”

  I walked into the living room where a fairly large crowd seemed to be tiptoeing around one another, speaking in hushed tones, in deference to the somber mood of our hostess. I noticed that not only were all the men in dark suits and dark ties, all the women were in black. In my red silk sheath, I felt like a spot of blood. I saw Betty and Gil standing in the far corner underneath the towering Calder mobile that Gil had sold the Bromires years ago. Betty looked like an expensive coffin in a long, shiny black dress embroidered with ropes of gold on each sleeve. I walked over and kissed them both hello.

  “Where’s Dick?” I said, looking around.

  “Holed up in his room having a nervous breakdown,” Gil said.

  “God, Betty, it’s so hard to believe he’s guilty,” I said. “I mean, why would he do it? Dick’s rich as Croesus.”

  “The rich are greedy by nature. How do you think they got rich?” Betty said.

  Betty always talked about “the rich” as if she, herself, weren’t one of them. In fact, as one of the top art dealers in the world, Gil Waterman was worth a fortune, even more than many of his clients. Betty was kind of like a communist married to the tsar.

  The Watermans both said that Trish was particularly upset because Dick’s lead counsel, Sy Cronenfeld, had barred her from attending the trial. According to Gil, Cronenfeld had tactfully explained to the Bromires that although Trish was a lovely and generous person, he couldn’t be sure how some of the people on the jury, especially the older women, might view Trish, a striking blonde, half Dick’s age, wearing knockout clothes and jewels. Cronenfeld didn’t want to take the chance.

  Betty’s take on it was slightly more direct. “Listen, Sy Cronenfeld knows damn well that the sight of Trish and Dick making goo-goo eyes at each other across a crowded courtroom is just too Damon Runyon—even for New York.”

  A short time later, dinner was announced. Two mirthless butlers stood at either side of the entrance to the dining room, holding identical leather placards to help us locate our seats. The white walls of the large dining room featured two enormous and perfectly hideous abstract paintings by a young contemporary artist. The rectangular, white lacquer dining table was extended to its full length, easily accommodating the thirty guests—fourteen on either side, and one at each end. A single-file column of tall, oddly shaped black vases, each topped with a tight bunch of white chrysanthemums, ran the length of the table. Dozens of black votive candles provided a sort of witches’ sabbath light. The whole setting was macabre. As I sat down and unfolded my black linen napkin trimmed with black lace, I reflected on how misfortune can often seriously impair taste.

  I was seated between Larry and Roland Myers, a Washington insider and the senior partner of one of the city’s most distinguished law firms. Rolly, a handsome African-American in his sixties, was deeply involved in politics, and was referred to as “the Éminence Noire.”

  When Dick Bromire made his entrance, a marked hush swept the crowd. Dick was a tall, portly man, who, despite his bulk, had always struck me as oddly graceful in his movements. Tonight, however, his steps were halting and his eyes were glassy. He looked as if he’d either been crying or smoking a banned substance. Taking his place at the head of the table, he nodded to various people with a forlorn smile on his face. Despite the brave front, Dick was obviously in both physical and emotional pain.

  I was dying to dish with Larry, but since Roland Myers was my dinner partner, etiquette dictated that I talk to him first. And besides, talking to him was always fun. Rolly was an interesting man with far-reaching connections in the highest precincts of power. When people got into trouble, it was Rolly they sought out for advice. He told me that he’d put Dick in touch with a “jail facilitator,” explaining that this was a person who helped “people like Dick” get into one of the better jails. He said he’d done this just as a “superprecaution” in case the worst happened and Dick was convicted.

  “It’s a relatively new area of specialization,” Rolly went on to say with a straight face, “but a fast-growing one now that so many CEOs and people with wealth and influence are facing prison time. Let’s be honest here, Jo, if a guy like Dick Bromire winds up in the wrong jail, all the money in the world won’t protect him.”

  The rack of lamb entrée came and the table turned. Despite the plight of our friend Dick, all Larry and I were interested in talking about was the Cole case. I plunged right in: “Okay, Larry, so do we think Russell’s dead or not?”

  “Hard to tell,” Larry said with a sigh. “The guy in Castries wasn’t him, obviously, although there was a resemblance. I don’t know, Jo, people usually don’t just disappear off the face of the earth. But he has. When I was down in Barbados, I saw everyone, from the governor general to the head of the Coast Guard to the guy who filled the yacht with fuel to the men who picked up their garbage. Everyone’s mystified. Carla’s backed out of all our interviews, as you know. She keeps promising to see me, though. I ain’t gonna hold my breath. But . . .” he leaned in and whispered to me, “guess who is cooperating and talking her head off?”

  “Who?”

  “Lulu.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “And has she given me an earful! Believe me, if half of what she says is true . . .”

  “But can you trust what Lulu says? Isn’t she a little biased?” Despite her apology to me at the opera, I still wasn’t overly fond of Lulu Cole.

  Larry leaned in farther. “Jo, you can’t breathe a word of this. Promise?”

  “I’m the grave, Larry, you know me.”

  He whispered, “Lulu had a spy on board that boat.”
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br />   He registered satisfaction when he saw the stunned look on my face. Suddenly the light dawned.

  “So that’s how she knew he was missing!” I said.

  “Shhh,” Larry said, motioning me to keep my voice down.

  “I always wondered how she found out.”

  “Well, now you know. He’s an Australian named Jeff Martin. He was the sous-chef. He called Lulu the morning Russell disappeared. But he’d been reporting back to her for months. According to Lulu, that boat was a floating nightmare . . .” Larry peered over the top of his glasses and rolled his eyes at me. “Anyway, I’m going back down to Florida tomorrow to interview him. I have to check out Lulu’s story because, as you wisely point out, she’s not exactly an impartial source . . . I’ll see Miguel Hernandez again when I’m down there.”

  “Yes, now how did that go?” I asked him.

  “Well, that’s a whole other fascinating story. Miguel Hernandez is a very attractive guy who lives in regal splendor in Palm Beach. He’s rather shy, but if I said there was no love lost between him and his former stepmother, that would be putting it mildly. I think the only reason he agreed to see me is because he hates Carla so much. He’s none too fond of the press, either. It took him a while to loosen up, but when he started talking . . . boy oh boy . . . !”

  “Oh, tell me, Larry.”

  “Well, apparently, Antonio didn’t leave his grieving widow anywhere near as much money as she thought she was going to get.”

  “Like how much is not much?”

  “Miguel says she only got two million dollars—which, as you know, in that rarified little world isn’t even pocket change.”

  “Jesus, she must have been furious.”

  “Get this,” Larry said with a malicious twinkle in his eye. “A few months before he died, Hernandez showed her a fake will.”

  My mouth dropped. “You’re kidding!”

  “I kid you not. Miguel told me that his ‘wicked stepmother,’ as he refers to her, was positive she was getting at least half a billion dollars from his father’s estate. And when she found out he’d tricked her, she went absolutely bananas.”

  “God, Larry! That’s hilarious!” I thought for a second. “But then, how come everyone thought she was so rich when she married Russell?”

  “She acted rich. She spent her wad on the façade, as they say. Miguel loathes her. Thinks she’s capable of anything.”

  “Murder?” I ventured.

  Larry shrugged. “I don’t think he’d put it past her.”

  “Would you?”

  He considered a moment. “Not sure. Doubt it, though.”

  “So what else did he say?”

  “He’s a very cautious man. I think he trusts me now, and I have a feeling there’s more he can tell me. Anyway, I’m going to hop over and see him again when I interview Lulu’s spy. They’re not far from each other.”

  “Don’t you find all this absolutely fascinating?”

  Larry nodded and took a bite of food. “And there’s a lot more to learn. . . . But enough about the Coles. I want to hear about you, Jo.”

  “What about me?”

  “Oh, a little bird tells me that you have acquired an insect pin!”

  Larry was always up on the latest skinny. I laughed, amused at the idea that this nonexistent liaison between me and Lord Vermilion had already reached his ears.

  “Max and I are just friends, Larry. We really are. No kidding.”

  “I believe you. He’s a rather complicated figure, old Max.”

  “What makes you say that? Just because he’s been married a hundred times?” I said facetiously.

  Larry smiled. “I think old Max has a hidden life.”

  “Don’t we all?” I said.

  Larry nodded knowingly. “Yes, but Max’s is particularly dark, I suspect. You know the English. They always have the grisliest murders and the kinkiest sex scandals.”

  “So which is Max? Murderer or pervert?” I asked, joking.

  Larry chuckled knowingly. “Voyeur, one hears,” he said without hesitation.

  Just then, Dick Bromire tapped his glass with his knife. I hated to break away from our conversation, but the room fell silent. Trish leaned forward a little with nervous anticipation as her portly husband hauled himself up out of his chair and stood with some effort.

  “My dear friends,” Dick began in a halting voice. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that each and every one of you has come here to be with me tonight. . . . My dear friend Jo Slater has a motto, which is, ‘I may not remember, but I never forget.’ Jo, if you’ll allow me, that’s a motto I’m going to adopt for myself from now on.” He took a deep breath and continued on in a stronger voice. “I’ll never forget those who are here with me tonight . . . and I’ll never forget those who are not. And to those who are not, I say, ‘Good riddance!’ So eat, drink, and be merry, because tomorrow it may be baloney sandwiches for all of us. Ya never know!”

  We all laughed politely as Dick sat down, but there was a strange feeling in the air. I remember thinking at that moment, “It’s not you are what you eat so much as it’s you are who you eat with.” I coaxed Larry to return to our conversation about Max, and he told me that when he was living in London, Max had the reputation of liking call girls.

  “ ‘Marries high, fucks low’ is what they always said about him,” Larry said. “A lady I knew told me that among the cognoscenti, there was a joke about Max’s ‘Taunton Hall Balls.’ . . . Apparently, he was into orgies and used to have them regularly at his house.”

  Clearly Max was a more intriguing figure than I had realized. But I was just as happy we had never gone to bed.

  Whispered conversations continued around the table, an indication that the evening was never going to become less lugubrious. Fortunately it ended early, and Larry gave me a lift home, keeping the cab waiting while he escorted me to my door. He made me promise to tell him all about the trial, since he was not going to be able to attend. He pointed his right index finger at me in a very Larry way—that is to say, with an impish gleam in his eye—and said, “I’ll call you the nanosecond I get back from Florida.”

  Chapter 17

  In the theater of social life, the opening day of Dick Bromire’s trial was the hottest ticket in town. People were dying to see the show. Dick had personally made arrangements for his close friends to have seats in the courtroom, having privately confided to me that the humiliation was so great he couldn’t bear for anyone but his oldest and dearest pals to see him under those circumstances. In other words, he wanted to be surrounded by friends who genuinely wished him well, as opposed to people who would dine out on the fact that they had been there.

  No such luck.

  Despite the freezing cold, Betty and I went to the courthouse together to give Dick moral support. Dick’s entrance into the courtroom was dramatic. He looked pained and frightened, like he was walking a gangplank. Several of the people there had been at the party the night before. Betty caught sight of Carla Cole and Marcy Ludinghausen, whom she referred to as “Scylla and Charybdis,” sitting together. I wondered aloud what Carla was doing there since she wasn’t a great friend of Dick’s, to which Betty immediately responded, “Honey, this morning, Forty Centre Street is the place to be. Carla’s playing the game now. You watch.”

  During the recess, Carla made a point of coming up to me and Betty and asking how “dear June” was. I found her inquiry not only disingenuous, but slightly sinister. It was beginning to dawn on me that Carla Cole was going to be a fact of social life from now on.

  Betty and I went directly from the trial to the hospital to see how June was doing. Charlie was there, as usual, keeping a vigil at her bedside. His thin, lined face looked drawn and tired. We told him all about the Bromires’ dinner and the trial, gossiping with him in order to buoy his spirits a little.

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nbsp; “I wish I could be there for Dick, but—” His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted sadly to June. “Oh—they found the car,” he said suddenly.

  Betty and I perked up.

  “Screw the car. Did they get the driver?” Betty asked.

  “No. The car was stolen.”

  “Has there been any change at all?” I asked him, looking at my poor, dear friend who looked uncharacteristically serene in her comatose state.

  He shook his head. “I talked to the doctors. They don’t think there’s brain damage, but they won’t know for sure until she, you know . . . comes out of it.”

  “You should go home and get some rest,” I said.

  Charlie shook his head. “No rest at home. Carla Cole’s started construction.”

  “Construction? It’s only February, for heaven’s sakes. You can only do construction in my building from May to September,” I said.

  “Same with us. But the board granted her a special dispensation.”

  “Why?” Betty asked.

  Charlie bristled. “Hadley Grimes. He’s a stickler for building rules except when it doesn’t suit him. He wouldn’t postpone the meeting for June, but he’s letting Carla Cole do major work off season. She’s built a special freight elevator to handle all the debris. I get woken up at seven every morning with all the hammering and drilling. I feel like I’m living in the inside of a pinball machine. At least the hospital is peaceful.”

  As Betty and I left the hospital, Betty said, “Well, I guarantee you one thing: Someone’s on the take from Carla, and I bet it’s that old Tut-tut Hadley Grimes.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  When I got home that evening, there was a message that Max had called. I didn’t call him back because it was fairly late in London and I didn’t want to disturb him. But he called again at what must have been two o’clock his time. I was just getting ready to have a nice, quiet dinner alone in front of the fire—my favorite kind of evening these days. I was weary of social life, and with June out of commission, a certain spark was gone—exasperating spark though she was.