One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “Well, she’s not exactly obsession-free herself,” I said. “Social climbing seems to be her obsession of choice.”

  “Social climbing . . . the ladder with limitless rungs,” Larry reflected. “One of the most fruitless and ridiculous obsessions of them all.”

  “But an obsession nonetheless,” I said. “And it certainly traps a lot of extremely intelligent people.”

  “Yes, it does. I’m always amazed at the strange magnetism of the rich, and what people—even the most brilliant ones—will do to get to a certain party or be part of a certain set. And, of course, as you and I know only too well, what’s the one thing you need above all else in New York to get to the top of the heap?”

  I glanced knowingly at Larry as I drove. “Money.”

  He nodded. “Right . . . but in Carla’s case, the marrying, the money, the social climbing—they may all be alibis for a deeper need.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like killing,” he said matter-of-factly. “Maybe that’s what she really enjoys. After all, social climbing and murder are both processes of elimination, are they not?”

  Chapter 23

  Betty called me up three days later and said hello in such a tearful, tremulous voice that I was certain she was going to tell me that our dear friend June had died. I, too, burst into tears when she said, “Oh, Jo, she’s going to be okay! She’s out of the coma and she’s going home!”

  I was thrilled and relieved. It was the one bright spot of news in an otherwise desultory climate. I literally got down on my knees and thanked God for saving my dear friend’s life.

  Betty and I raced over to the hospital, where Charlie was busy checking June out. The doctors had told him that she needed plenty of rest and absolutely no excitement, and to that end Charlie was taking her directly out to Southampton to recuperate. We all made a pact not to tell her that Carla Cole had gotten into her building, agreeing that the news might literally kill her.

  Betty and I flanked June’s wheelchair as a nurse pushed her down the hospital corridor to the elevator. Her legs covered with a blanket, she looked very thin and fragile. Her core of energy was gone. This was a mellow, gentle June, a woman who spoke softly and hardly moved at all, a shadow of her former, twittery self. As Charlie and the nurse helped her into the back of the limousine that Charlie had amazingly sprung for, June paused, looked up at Betty and me, and said, “Will I see you at the party?”

  Betty and I both nodded. As they drove away, Betty said, “Well, some things never change.”

  Three weeks later, Larry Locket escorted me to the opening night of “The Old Masters” show at the Municipal Museum. It was one of those stellar New York occasions where the social and cultural worlds come together in a glittery mix. Gentlemen in tuxedos and ladies wearing couture gowns and “jewels of mass destruction,” as Betty called them, prowled the rooms, ogling each other as much if not more than the extraordinary paintings. After the preview, there was a gala dinner in The Great Hall.

  It was an extraordinary exhibition, even by Municipal Museum standards. Ethan Monk had spent three years persuading some of the greatest museums in the world to loan the Muni some of their most valuable treasures: Da Vinci’s La Gioconda, on loan from the Louvre; Botticelli’s Venus and Mars on loan from the National Gallery in London; Giorgione’s The Judgment of Solomon, from the Uffizi; Titian’s sensual portrait of Danae, and Raphael’s The Holy Family, from the Hermitage; a Velasquez portrait from the Prado; a series of Dürer drawings from Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum—to name a few of the most impressive works.

  Though far from being the greatest painting there, the Cinderella of the night was unquestionably Judas and the Thirty Pieces of Silver. Recently authenticated by the greatest living de La Tour scholar in France, the painting was now definitely attributed to Georges de La Tour. It was Ethan Monk’s great find worth many times what the Muni had paid for it. And Ethan was the brilliant, self-effacing, very popular curator who had put the whole show together.

  I knew Carla was going to be there because she had underwritten the cost of the entire exhibition. I figured she would be with Max. Their names were now linked in every gossip column and the rumor was that he had jilted me for her. Max called me occasionally, “just to check in,” as he put it. But I never saw him. I began to understand that Max collected people the way his ancestor had collected bronzes, just as he said. He strung his ladies together on an invisible necklace that he wore around his ego.

  That night, however, Max wasn’t there, which surprised me. Carla was standing in the receiving line between Ethan and Edmond Norbeau. She was dressed in a long gown of black satin, wearing a huge emerald cross on her neck. When Larry and I spotted her, he whispered to me excitedly, “My God, Jo, she’s wearing it!”

  “Wearing what?”

  “The famous de Vega cross,” he said. “Hernandez’s wedding present to her. If you look at it closely, you’ll see it’s cut from one single emerald, the other four corners of which were made into rings by Louis Cartier in the twenties and sold for about a million dollars each. Staggering prices at the time. It’s so big and fragile that no insurance company will touch it. It’s supposed to have a curse on it.”

  “The curse is wearing it,” I said.

  Neither Larry nor I were particularly anxious to greet Carla that night. Larry was still working on his article and our visit to Golden Crest had planted too many suspicions in both our minds. Ethan spotted us, and in one of those Ethanesque bursts of enthusiasm, he waved us over to say hello. He was generally oblivious to social intrigue.

  “Might as well get it over with,” Larry said, mustering a party smile.

  “Yes, in a place where there are no concealed weapons,” I said jokingly.

  “Carla Cole is a concealed weapon,” Larry said under his breath.

  Ethan Monk’s frazzled, professorial air was muted that night by a dapper new tuxedo and stylish, high-tech glasses that made him look less myopic than his old horn-rims. Ethan was an admitted party hound and hosting tonight’s event had spun him into a state of turbo excitement. This triumphant show reflected not only his scholarship, but his consummate diplomatic skills, as well. It was no mean feat getting foreign museums to part with their treasures—particularly in today’s climate of danger and suspicion. Little beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead as he enthusiastically pumped Larry’s hand and hugged me three times. Wild-eyed and slightly crazed, Ethan reminded me a little of Alice’s Mad Hatter.

  “Oh, Jo, isn’t it a marvelous evening! Everyone’s here! I can’t believe it’s finally happened. This is the dream of a lifetime. Thank you so much for all your support!”

  Ethan and I chatted for a moment about the de La Tour, and how wonderful it was that Jacques Sebastien, the world’s foremost expert on Georges de La Tour, had given it his imprimatur. Sebastien apparently came across an old inventory from a French château that backed up Ethan’s belief that the painting was indeed by de La Tour père, not fils. Because the painting itself was impressive and because de La Tour was such a great artist, the story of the reattribution had made the front page of the Arts section of the New York Times that very day.

  “And here is the other lady who made it possible!” he said, indicating Carla.

  I felt a knot in my stomach as Carla extended her hand to me.

  “Jo, dear, how lovely to see you,” she said, giving me two air-kisses, one for each cheek.

  I was put off by her unctuousness, but tried not to show it. She then turned to Larry and said, “My dear Larry, how are you?”

  “Very well, thank you, Carla. Still hoping for that interview,” he said with edgy cheer. I was amazed at how good he was at hiding his true feelings.

  “Don’t tell me you have not finished with your article yet? Are you writing a book about me?”

  “One day, perhaps. I want to be thorough,” Larr
y said. “And unfortunately, your husband is still missing, so there’s no great rush, is there?”

  “You know, I am not very good at interviews,” Carla said, sighing. “But I am inclined to think you are a fair person and I really do not want you to have any sinister misconceptions about me. I would like for us to get to know each other better, Larry. Off the record, as you say. After all, we have been ships that cross in the night for so many years.”

  “I’d like that, too,” he said.

  “I am going to give a little party in my new apartment quite soon. It’s nearly ready. Will you come?”

  “Only if you invite me,” Larry said.

  “You will have the first invitation, I promise.”

  “Let me give you my address,” Larry said, pulling out a small, white calling card from his pocket.

  Carla refused it. “Oh, I know precisely where you live,” she said.

  I sensed a threat in her tone of voice, and from the look on Larry’s face, I knew he sensed it, too. As we moved on down the receiving line, Larry looked at me and I looked at him. We said nothing. We didn’t have to.

  Later on in the cocktail hour, Larry and I drifted apart as we each said hello to various friends and acquaintances. It was nearly dinnertime and I was talking with Edmond Norbeau, who had dragged me off into a corner to tell me how wonderful Carla Cole was and how she had expressed an interest in being on the board of the museum.

  “She’s already given us a great deal of money, as you know, Jo. This exhibition tonight, underwritten by her,” he said in his soft, smooth voice, which had just a hint of a French accent, “and, of course, the de La Tour. You and she are the godmothers. But as you well know, Jo, it’s not merely a question of money. What I would like, as you might imagine, is for the museum to become the beneficiary of the Cole collection one day. It’s a superb collection. If she could arrange that, then I think you would agree we must at least entertain the idea of electing her to the board. What do you think, Jo?”

  Over my dead body, is what I wanted to say, but I was afraid that might be a little too close to the truth. I absolutely hated the thought of Carla Cole slithering into my world like this. With what I was starting to learn about her, I thought she might be quite dangerous. Bearing in mind Talleyrand’s famous rule of life, “Above all, not too much zeal,” I forced myself to act nonchalant about the whole thing.

  “You know, Edmond, I really think we must wait and see, don’t you? After all, Carla might agree to something which—if Russell turns up—he might not agree to. And then we’re stuck with her and no collection—not to put too fine a point on it.”

  “But she is giving us a great deal of money, after all,” he said.

  “Yes, but if you elect her because of that, it looks like anyone with a billion dollars can just buy their way onto the board of the Muni. Not the best image for us, do you think, Edmond?”

  Edmond lifted his long-fingered hand and stroked the side of his thin Gallic face reflectively. “One sees what you’re saying, of course.”

  “Not that we shouldn’t elect her eventually,” I added, wanting to cover my tracks in case Carla somehow got wind of this conversation. “But I doubt Carla herself wants to create the impression that she’s using her money like some sort of a tool to jimmy her way into New York, do you?” I said this knowing that was exactly what she was trying to do.

  “No,” Edmond agreed. “But we certainly would like to get that collection if we could. The whole world is after it.”

  “I understand.”

  A soft gong sounded. Edmond and I continued to debate the issue as we started strolling toward The Great Hall, where dinner was about to be served. Carla joined us and as the three of us walked to the glowing dining area, she said, “So, Jo, darling, have you spoken to Max lately?”

  “No.”

  “He is in London. He was simply devastated he could not be here tonight, and he told me to be sure to give you his love.”

  “Did he?”

  “This is Max’s favorite museum, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I said.

  “Yes, he admires it so much. Actually, Edmond, Max is the one who told me I should be on the board.”

  I glanced up at Edmond, who was nodding with approval. And why not? Lord Vermilion was a very powerful ally.

  Dinner in The Great Hall that night was smallish by Muni standards, in keeping with the exclusivity of the occasion. As opposed to the usual forty or so tables, only twenty round, candlelit tables of twelve floated like little sparkling islands on the dark stone floor. Each table was named for an artist in the exhibition. Larry and I were at the Botticelli table. Trebor Bellini, who usually did all the museum’s party decorations, was away in Europe doing a major party for a minor royal. He’d left a new assistant in charge and, unfortunately, the results were less than stellar. The centerpiece of our table, for example, was a naked doll with long blonde hair cascading down her body, standing on an enormous scallop shell—a questionable homage to Botticelli’s most famous work, The Birth of Venus. As Betty passed by and took a gander at the kitschy display, she remarked, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t The Birth of Barbie.”

  Dinner was pleasant enough, as always, Muni dinners being renowned for good food and good service. There were toasts in which I was mentioned along with Carla Cole. Our names being linked together didn’t thrill me, to say the least. Ethan thanked us both for our “supreme generosity.” Edmond Norbeau called us both “great patronesses of the arts.” It was all very decorous—except for the spectre of Russell Cole, hanging over the The Great Hall along with the medieval banners.

  Chapter 24

  The next afternoon, I went to the Municipal Museum for an executive committee meeting of the board. Unfortunately, the meeting turned out to be one of the most disturbing experiences of my life—and, believe me, if you know my life, that’s really saying something.

  Everything started off extremely well. About fifteen of us—the chairmen of the standing committees, such as myself, plus key staff members, plus the chairman of the board himself and Edmond Norbeau, the director—all gathered in the main boardroom. Everyone was in an upbeat mood because the previous night’s dinner had been such a great success. The New York Times and the Washington Post had both called the exhibition “spectacular.” People were lined up around the block to see it. We all chatted among ourselves before taking our seats around the long, mahogany conference table. I had a particularly nice conversation with Justin Howard, the new chairman of the board. My old friend, Roger Lowry, had retired and Howard was now head of the museum.

  The scion of an old and prominent New York family, Howard had first distinguished himself as the president of his family’s publishing empire and then gone on to dedicate himself to philanthropy and other eleemosynary activities. In his early sixties, his puggish face bustled with energy and purpose. He was a real charmer, as well as being an astute businessman and a man of culture. In the relatively short period of his leadership, the museum had prospered. Justin and I were not great friends, but I respected him and I believe he respected me. When his appointment was announced, I had given him one of my small dinners. He and his wife, Regina, said it was one of the most elegant evenings they’d ever been to, which pleased me to no end. And they had both been extremely supportive after my now infamous dinner for Max, at which they had both been present.

  Just before we sat down, Justin said to me, “I have some very exciting news, Jo. I hope you’ll be pleased.”

  “How wonderful. Can’t wait,” I said in a polite, chipper voice. Taking a seat beside Ethan Monk, I whispered to him, “What’s going on?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Don’t ask me.” He seemed as perplexed as I was.

  As chairman of the acquisitions committee, I knew it had to be something very big indeed mainly because I was not privy to it. I was usually privy to all museu
m business, as was Ethan. And even if Ethan wasn’t informed outright, or consulted, as I generally was, he always heard the scuttlebutt through the gilded grapevine. I simply couldn’t imagine what was up.

  The meeting was called to order and we whipped through routine business a bit faster than usual, I thought. Justin seemed eager to get to his “news.” Finally he rose to his feet—a rare occurrence at one of these events, signaling a matter of great weight was at hand. He cleared his throat, adjusted his stance, and before he began, glanced conspiratorially at Edmond. The atmosphere crackled with expectation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a very important and exciting announcement to make. It is my great honor, privilege, and pleasure to inform you that Mrs. Russell Cole has graciously donated the Cole collection to our museum.”

  Little gasps of astonishment rippled through the boardroom, followed by nods and murmurs of approval, then a round of solid applause. Justin and Edmond looked at each other and preened. For years, every museum of note in the country had courted the Cole collection. This was a major coup for the Muni, and a major blow for me—mainly because I sensed all too well what was coming next.

  Justin continued: “As all of you here know, the Cole collection is perhaps the finest of its kind in private hands. Over the years, many museums have coveted it, and it gives me great pleasure to be able to tell you that our beloved Municipal Museum will be the beneficiary.”

  There were more mutterings of approval. Amid the palpable excitement, I tentatively raised my hand.

  “Yes, Jo,” Justin said, beaming down at me.

  “This may be a rather stupid question,” I began. “But as I understand it, Russell Cole is still presumed to be missing, not dead. Is it conceivable, Justin, that if he were to turn up one day, he might possibly contest this gift?”