As always with Max, there was a vaguely seductive tone to his voice. He said he missed New York and he missed me and he was coming back to town in a couple of weeks. He wondered if we could get together for a drink, or dinner, “or a little something more amusing.” I intuited that “a little something more amusing” did not mean romance. It meant he was asking would I give him a party. When I suggested it, he jumped at the idea. Max made no secret of the fact that he adored parties—particularly those given in his honor. Betty was the one who said, “Somewhere someone is always giving a party for Max Vermilion.”
Max and I made up a guest list. He asked me if I wouldn’t mind asking Lulu Cole. I told him I wasn’t crazy about the idea, but since she’d been kind enough to invite me to the opera where she and I had declared a truce, I would.
“I’ll do it for you, Max,” I said. “Just for you.”
“Jo, you are a star,” he said.
I suggested some friends of my own—several of whom he’d never met. He said he was delighted to meet “new people.” I thought of Betty, who was always saying how she couldn’t stand new people because, as she put it, “You meet them, you get friendly with them, and then when they get indicted, you have to stick by them. New people today are riskier than unprotected sex.”
Fortunately, Max didn’t have that view.
“I collect friends the way my ancestors collected bronzes—in great quantity, but with some discrimination,” he said.
We completed the list, fixed a date, and I told him I’d get right on it.
“Please wear your little pin,” he said flirtatiously.
“Of course—social butterfly that I am,” I said.
“Dragonfly,” he corrected me.
I went to bed fairly early and was awakened out of a fitful sleep by the phone. I picked it up and said a groggy hello. It was Larry calling from Florida. I glanced at the clock—just past eleven.
“Jo, Larry. I’m so sorry to wake you up,” he said apologetically. He obviously wanted to talk.
“No, that’s okay, honey. What’s up? Where are you?”
“Palm Beach.”
“How’s Lulu’s spy?” I asked him, slowly coming to life.
There was a brief silence.
“Dead,” Larry said.
That woke me up.
“What?! You’re kidding! What happened?”
“The Palm Beach police just paid me a visit at my hotel. I was supposed to meet him for dinner tonight and he didn’t show up. I went back to The Breakers and called him several times. There was no answer. They found him and his car in a ditch.”
“How come they called you?”
“My name and telephone number and the details of our meeting were in his pocket. He was obviously on his way to see me when he went off the road.” He paused for a moment, then said, “It strikes me a little odd.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Martin was on his way to confirm some unpleasant stories about our friends the Coles, and he dies. Our friend June was about to veto them from getting into her building and she winds up in a coma. Both car accidents. Maybe it’s just my old reporter’s instincts, but it kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
I sat up in bed. “Oh, Larry, you don’t think that Carla—”
“I don’t know,” he interrupted me, anticipating my thought. “Right now, all I’m willing to say is that it’s odd. Jeff Martin was a problem for Carla and so was June. Well, they’re not problems anymore.”
“She couldn’t have done it. She was at the trial today.”
“Money may not buy happiness, Jo, but it can buy damn near anything else.”
“You’re saying she hired someone?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just thinking out loud.”
“You suspect her, Larry. I know you do.”
“Well, I do have a little motto, ‘Don’t rush past the obvious.’ ”
Larry told me he was going to stay down in Palm Beach for a couple of days to see if he could find out anything more about Jeff Martin’s death and also to see Miguel Hernandez again. We made a dinner date for the Thursday he got back. Needless to say, I didn’t rest easily that night. Though I was wary of Carla for my own personal reasons, it was hard to believe she was somehow responsible for June’s accident. And yet, as I lay awake in the dark, unable to sleep, I wondered if Larry’s instincts might indeed be correct. Was Carla Cole merely a social interloper, or was she a person of considerably more unnerving ambitions?
Chapter 18
The night Larry returned from Palm Beach, he took me to dinner at Pug’s. Larry couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, and as we followed the maître d’ through the crowded little restaurant, he was hailed by several friends and fans. We sat across from each other at a secluded table in the back room where we could talk privately. A waiter in a long, white apron took our orders. We quickly got down to business.
Larry had no further information on Jeffrey Martin’s death, which the Palm Beach police were now treating as an accident. But he did have some riveting news. He leaned forward, rested his arms on the table, and said, “Jo, I’m taking you into my confidence here. I’m putting all this in my article, but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything before it comes out, okay? Do I have your word?”
“Of course,” I assured him.
He leaned in farther and said in a low, measured voice, “Courtney Cole has petitioned the court to have her father declared what they call ‘presumptively’ dead.”
I was amazed. I remembered talking to Courtney at the opera that night and thinking how desperately she was clinging to the hope that her father was still alive.
“Why?” I asked, perplexed.
Larry got one of those gleaming expressions on his face that denote gossip of the first order. “Because her stepmother is attempting to plunder her father’s fortune.”
I cocked my head to one side, uncomprehending. “Carla? How can she do that?”
“Okay, follow me closely here, Jo,” he said, using his hands to punctuate his explanation. “Nearly all of Russell Cole’s wealth is tied up in a holding company in Tulsa called the RTC Corporation, of which he—Russell Taylor Cole—is the principal stockholder. This company has multiple subsidiaries and vast holdings in real estate and businesses all over the world. Now it turns out that Russell gave Carla both his general power of attorney and his durable power of attorney—”
“Why would he do that?” I interrupted.
“It’s not uncommon for husbands and wives to give each other their powers of attorney. However, in this case, it could be catastrophic. Apparently, Carla wants to make a gift to herself of the shares Russell owns in the RTC Corporation. If she succeeds, it will mean that with one stroke of the pen, she will become a multibillionaire. Courtney’s trying to stop her before she gets control of everything.”
I thought back to my conversation with Courtney Cole.
“Larry,” I said excitedly, “that night at the opera, Courtney told me that she thought Carla was up to something. This is it! She told me that under the terms of the will, Carla only gets ten million dollars.”
“That’s right. There’s a prenuptial agreement in which Carla waived her rights to Russell’s estate. The will leaves everything to Courtney except the ten mil. . . . Remember how she got screwed by Hernandez? Well, she ain’t gonna let that happen again. Jo, if this works, it’ll be the fanciest finagling I’ve ever seen in thirty years of covering finaglers.”
“But, Larry, how can she sign over his fortune to herself, just like that?”
“She can do anything she wants if she has his powers of attorney. I’m no expert, but I think it’s all perfectly legal. Naturally, Courtney’s trying to stop it. But, frankly, I don’t see how she’s going to succeed.”
I slumped back on the banqu
ette. “Jesus, Larry. Are you sure this is true?”
“I called Lulu from Florida to tell her about Jeff Martin and she told me. Of course, I had to confirm it with two of my Park Avenue Regulars,” Larry said. “And they say it’s what’s happening.”
Whenever Larry didn’t want to identify a source by name, he would say the information came from his “Park Avenue Regulars”—a spin on Sherlock Holmes’s army of urchin informants known as the “Baker Street Irregulars.” Larry’s group included spies in high and low places—everyone from court clerks, who called him when there were interesting cases on the docket, to maître d’s at posh restaurants, who called him when celebrities booked reservations, to socialites who called Larry just to gossip. It never ceased to amaze me how Larry seemed to know things that were going on in the city way before anyone else—sometimes even before they happened.
“Is Lulu upset?”
Larry looked at me askance. “Upset?! She’ll spontaneously combust if she’s not careful. This is her absolute worst nightmare—Carla getting control of her daughter’s fortune. She’s got a battery of lawyers working on it. She told me she’s going to sue the board of directors if they let it happen. Some of them are threatening to resign. But we’ll see if they do. Anyway, if Carla gets away with this maneuver, she’ll be a multibillionaire. No one on the board will want to alienate her then. You know how it works in this town: He or she who has the most money wins. Isn’t it fascinating?”
I loved the way Larry said “fascinating,” with a southern drawl and a big, impish grin.
“Oh—and there’s another thing,” he said just as our food arrived.
“Jesus, what?”
“Well, apparently, there’s something in the wind about his collection.”
“Oh, right. I forgot all about those glorious paintings. My God. They’ve got to be worth at least a billion.”
“More,” Larry said, as he cut into one of his miniature sirloin hamburgers.
I thought for a moment as I watched tiny rivulets of steak blood run out over his plate.
“Maybe the court will declare him dead and she’ll be stopped in time,” I said.
Larry shook his head. “Jo, think about it. It’s tough enough to get a normal person declared dead. But any court looking at a man who’s been diagnosed with Dissociative Fugue Disorder—a condition where people can disappear for months and sometimes years at a time and then show up again . . . well, they’re just not going to risk it. If she succeeds, if they ever do find poor old Russell, he’ll be broke. . . . Six billion dollars . . . now that’s what I call a motive.”
I cocked my head to one side. “You know, you kind of have to hand it to her, it’s a pretty grand scheme,” I said with grudging admiration. “So do you think Russell’s dead?”
“I do now,” Larry said flatly. “But let me ask you something else, Jo. Don’t you find it odd that Carla married two men with well-known, diagnosed psychiatric conditions? Both very vulnerable men. Solitary men. Shy men. One dead. One missing. I find it really . . .” he paused, as if searching for the word. “Coincidental,” he said at last.
“Larry, are you saying she planned all this?”
“I don’t know, Jo. You tell me.”
I thought for a moment. “Well, if the Manolo Blahnik fits. . . .”
Chapter 19
My party for Max Vermilion promised to be a glittering occasion, although not a huge one because I could only fit forty people into my dining room comfortably. Max being Lord Vermilion, the eighth “Oil” Vermilion, as Betty irreverently referred to him, everyone wanted to be invited. The final list was a combination of Max’s and my friends, a sprinkling of inevitable amis mondains, and a few new and interesting people I thought it would be fun for Max to meet. Naturally I hired Trebor Bellini to do the flowers, telling him I wanted to create the atmosphere of a “wild English garden.” To which Trebor wisely replied, “No point in competing with Taunton Hall, Jo. What say we stick with a tame New York apartment?”
The day before the party I was in hostess hell, trying to pull all the loose ends together, as one does before such a big event. In the middle of dealing with everything, Max called and asked me if he could bring along a guest.
“Jo, m’dear, if this is the slightest imposition, you must tell me,” he said in his cheerfully clipped English accent. “We’re too good friends now for you not to be completely honest.”
His polite request was merely a genteel formality as we both knew I could not refuse him anything.
“It’s no imposition at all, Max, dear. Who is it?”
“Carla Cole,” he said. I blanched. “Ran into her at a luncheon at Bootsie Baines’s today and we had a jolly time together. She spoke so well of you.”
I hesitated for a moment in an effort to gather my thoughts.
“Max, Lulu’s coming to the party, remember? You specifically asked me to invite her.”
“So what?” he said blithely.
“You can’t be serious. Lulu loathes and despises Carla.”
“Oh, Lulu loathes and despises so many people it’s difficult to keep track,” Max said, dismissing the idea. “It’s just her way, you know. She doesn’t really mean it half the time.”
“Max, dear, I really think she means it this time,” I said, trying to remain calm. “May I remind you that Carla is the woman who stole her husband away from her? And the woman who Lulu now believes has killed him?”
“A bit dramatic, what?”
“Sweetie, we’re not just talking amis mondains here,” I said, making a reference to the people in social life one tolerates but doesn’t really like. “We’re talking arch enemies.”
Remembering my promise to Larry, I bit my tongue to keep from telling him that Lulu was currently suing Carla because Carla was looting Russell’s fortune.
“All my ex-wives loathe each other, but they behave in public,” Max sniffed. “I have children who don’t speak to each other—or to me, for that matter. On their mothers’ orders. But we all kiss and act friendly in public. That’s life. One’s bound to run into someone one loathes here and there. One simply controls oneself, what?”
“I think it’s a bad idea.”
A long silence ensued. “That puts me in rather a bind,” Max said at last. “I’m afraid I’ve already invited her.”
“Don’t tell me!”
“I was sure you’d be delighted to have her. I know you two are friends. I saw you lunching together at the Forum, remember?”
“Okay. You can bring her under one condition.”
“Name it, m’dear.”
“You call Lulu and tell her that Carla is coming and you call Carla and tell her that Lulu is coming. That way they can back out if they want to. I’m serious. I’m not going to do it. And I don’t want my apartment to become a crime scene.”
“Oh, my dear Jo,” he said, chuckling, “I assure you there won’t be a problem.”
I hung up with a sinking feeling. I immediately rang Betty and explained the situation.
“So you’re depending on Max to tell each of them the other is coming?” she said incredulously.
“Well, I’m sure not going to do it, and I think they should both be warned.”
“Honey, one thing everybody knows about Max is that he’s full of mischief. He loves social scenes the way sports fans love playoffs. I bet he doesn’t tell either of them.”
“Oh, Betty! What do you mean? I can’t have them showing up here unprepared. That’s like having Churchill and Hitler to the same party—although in this case, it’s hard to tell which is which.”
“ ‘Witch’ being the operative word,” Betty said. “And lest you forget, Max Vermilion is the man who invited all of his wives and a few of his current girlfriends to his fifty-fifth birthday party. Gil and I were there. It was like walking into a ring of jeweled pit bulls.
The only thing Max likes more than women fighting is women fighting over him.”
“Do you think I should call them?”
“You could—for all the good it would do.”
“I’m sure if Lulu hears Carla’s coming she won’t come. And vice versa. With any luck, both of them will decline.”
“Dream on,” Betty said. “Max Vermilion is the biggest social catch around. If you think either of those gals is going to fold in the stretch, think again.”
“So you don’t think calling them would do any good?”
“Max said he’d handle it, didn’t he? So let him,” Betty said. “Just hide the good china.”
The morning of the party, I sat at the desk in my bedroom with the placement placards spread out in front of me, trying for the hundredth time to seat the damn dinner. I got an inkling of what Metternich must have gone through trying to seat the Congress of Vienna. No matter what I did, someone was bound to be insulted. Rich people are like monarchs, used to absolute rule within their own spheres. Seating a dinner like this one was always bound to give offense to someone. For example, the only way not to offend Lulu was to seat her at Max’s table. But Max had called again to ask if Carla could be at his table. Since I couldn’t very well seat Carla and Lulu anywhere near each other it meant that if I honored Max’s request, Lulu would be offended. And if I put Lulu at Max’s table and Carla at another table, Max would be offended. Finally, I split the coveted baby—a.k.a. Max Vermilion—in two. I put Carla on his right and Lulu on his left. That way no one could complain, and they could all kill each other if they felt like it.
That night, I put on a long white silk dress and pinned Max’s diamond dragonfly high up on my shoulder. I didn’t look my best because I was a nervous wreck. I went around the apartment lighting all the candles myself to help steady my nerves. Larry was the first guest to arrive. We had a drink and he informed me that the Wall Street Journal was doing a big article on Carla Cole and the RTC Corporation.
One Dangerous Lady Page 18
