One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “That’s certainly not a stupid question, Jo. Edmond and I had exactly the same concern,” Justin gallantly replied in his patrician voice. “The fact is that Mrs. Cole has told me that Russell had already made up his mind to give us the collection shortly before his tragic disappearance. Still, we’re very cautious, as you know, and we’ve gone over this thing thoroughly with Bart Jehovie. Bart, here, has assured us we’re covered on all fronts, no matter what happens, haven’t you, Bart?”

  Bart Jehovie, the dark-haired, long-faced, brilliant lead counsel for the museum, who Ethan said looked like an El Greco, was seated on Justin’s left. He looked up and gave his chairman a solemn nod. Everything the Municipal Museum did or ever got involved in was always vetted by Bart Jehovie and his able team of lawyers. Normally, at this point in the meeting, Bart would have been asked to get up and explain the particulars of such a bequest. However, it was clear that Justin was so excited by this triumph, he wanted to keep the floor all to himself for the time being.

  Justin went on, “Mrs. Cole will finance the new wing that will house the collection.” Again, he paused for effect. “She is donating one hundred million dollars to the museum for that purpose.”

  One hundred million dollars.

  More gasps as that figure hung in the air like a blazing chandelier for all to admire.

  I felt sick.

  Suddenly, Seymour Heffernan, the slick billionaire businessman who was chairman of the finance committee, piped up. I had never much cared for Seymour or for his pushy, third trophy wife, Tiffany. I suspected they had no real interest in the Muni except as a social catapult. His too-polished hair, fingernails, shoes, and manners only heightened by contrast a kind of innate crudeness. Heffernan measured everything by money—arguably a valuable trait for a finance committee chairman, but one that didn’t particularly appeal to me. He claimed to be knowledgeable about “paintings and art,” as he always said, but Ethan took him to lunch once and told me that Heffernan could stuff what he knew about art through the boutonniere of one of his too-loud English suits. Betty, who knew him as an erstwhile client of Gil’s, told me, “Gil simply refuses to deal with him anymore mainly because he loathes his taste in art. Victorian paintings of horny cardinals are not exactly Gil’s thing. You should see their apartment. It looks like a bordello.”

  Today, however, good old Seymour Heffernan asked the billion-dollar question.

  “Justin, if I may be so bold,” he began in that fake, solicitous, diamond-in-the-rough voice of his. “We only have her word for it, right? What happens if the guy turns up one day and says he never said anything like that?”

  I could have kissed him, his spoiled wife, and his horny cardinal paintings.

  Justin was cool under fire.

  “I’ll let Bart elaborate on all this a little later on. But let me just give you the headline, Seymour. The one hundred million dollars that Mrs. Cole is giving us for the wing comes directly from her own private funds. The Cole collection, some of which they acquired together, is in a separate trust, over which Mrs. Cole has discretion. Bart, that’s about right, isn’t it?”

  Justin glanced at Bart Jehovie, who was shaking his head in mild amusement. “It’s slightly more complicated than that, Justin. But you’re doing fine. Go on.”

  Murmurs of approval.

  “Thanks, Bart,” Justin said with a smile. “To make a long story short then, if Russell Cole does indeed come back home safely—and God knows we all hope and pray that he will—and for some reason, he doesn’t agree with his wife’s decision and he wants his collection returned, we will return it.”

  Murmurs of disapproval.

  Justin held up his hand. “No, no, hear me out, please! In the hundred and forty-seven years of its existence, the Municipal Museum has never had a scandal. And we’re not going to have one under my watch. It’s my understanding that if such an unfortunate event were to occur—and I don’t mean Russell’s return, of course! That would be wonderful—I mean if he wants his collection back,” he quickly added, “then we would simply give it back to him. Particularly because all of this has cost us absolutely no money. The worst that could happen? We have a beautiful new empty wing, which we can easily fill with treasures from our storerooms or with another collection, for that matter.”

  Murmurs of approval.

  Justin went on: “Mrs. Cole has made only one stipulation and one request . . .”

  I braced myself.

  “The stipulation is that she be involved in choosing the architect who will design the wing and in the final design of the wing itself. She’s not insisting on final approval, but she does want to be involved . . .”

  Murmurs of approval.

  Then came the bombshell.

  “The request is that she very much wants to join the board of the museum.”

  Murmurs of disapproval.

  Justin put his hand up to quell the apparent discontent. Each and every person there at least imagined they had paid their dues to the museum and no one likes an upstart, no matter how much money she is prepared to give.

  The group was like some sort of Miss Manners mob—politely swaying this way and that with each new snippet of information. They were against Justin now, but at least he had their attention. Justin swept his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and threw his head back, preparing to use his eloquence to convert everyone to his point of view. I knew he couldn’t risk losing such a coveted collection.

  “Granted, this request is a little unorthodox. But ladies and gentlemen, the gift is magnificent! The generosity is unparalleled—particularly in this day and age when, as all of you here know only too well, both private and corporate giving to institutions—even great ones like ours—is at an all-time low.”

  There was a lull signaling that the sympathies of the mob could go either way.

  “The Cole collection is a chance for us to enrich this great museum even more in an area where we could, quite frankly, use some improvement,” Justin went on. “And I think Mrs. Cole’s request to join our board is certainly not unreasonable under the circumstances—to say the least. But, as we all know, under our own peculiar rules of governance here at the Muni, we need unanimous approval. One no vote and . . .” He raised his eyebrows and gave a little shrug. He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

  By charter, the Municipal Museum operated under an antiquated election process, much like the old clubs in New York and London, where the term “blackball” originated. One no vote and the candidate was vetoed. It was generally accepted, however, that if someone was good enough to be proposed—particularly by the chairman or the director—he or she would automatically be elected. In fact, in the twenty-odd years I’d served on the board of the Muni, only one proposed candidate ever failed to be elected, and that was because on the eve of the vote he was indicted for fraud.

  Justin went on, “I’ve taken the liberty of telling Mrs. Cole that she will be proposed as a board member at our next meeting—in a month’s time. That will give you all ample opportunity to think about this. It’s an important decision, so I know you’ll think seriously. Also, please bear in mind that if we don’t approve her, we will possibly—probably—lose the collection.”

  “She’s a shoo-in,” Ethan whispered to me.

  Bang!

  The shot through my heart.

  Carla Cole was going to sit on the board of my beloved Municipal Museum.

  Next thing I knew she would probably want to be on the acquisitions committee. And then chairman of the acquisitions committee—my job. And then, knowing her, chairman of the museum. The top was not high enough for this gal’s ambition. She was climbing that “ladder with limitless rungs,” as Larry called it, with a vengeance.

  I couldn’t protest, even though I was dying to. There were too many big mouths in that room and I knew that if word ever got out that I’d said anything against h
er, it might be quite unpleasant for me. I just gritted my teeth and smiled politely, hoping someone else would point out what a controversial and divisive figure she was—definitely not the sort of person the Municipal Museum wanted on its board. I decided to bide my time. I had a month to lobby against her behind the scenes.

  The meeting concluded and we all got up. Ethan and I walked out of the boardroom together. He knew me well enough to know that I was upset.

  “What’s wrong, Jo?” he asked.

  “Well, quite frankly, I’d always thought of the Muni as one of the last places you couldn’t buy your way into.”

  “Oh, come on, Jo. You know that’s not true. Money’s the only thing that really talks in this town.”

  “I understand. And I wish it would shut up for once.”

  That evening, I came home to find a calligraphed invitation with a blue velvet ribbon threaded through the top. It looked like a royal proclamation. It read,

  Carla Cole

  requests the pleasure of the company of

  Mrs. Jo Slater

  at a small dinner dance

  on Saturday, May the twelfth

  at eight thirty o’clock p.m.

  831 Fifth Avenue

  I saw this as the beginning of a long reign of a rival queen in whose court I might very well become a prisoner. A little handwritten note at the bottom of my invitation read, “I know you will be with me on this glorious night, dear Jo.” I took it not as an invitation, but as a command.

  For the next couple of weeks, I did some not-so-subtle lobbying of my own. I took every single Muni board member out to lunch at Le Poisson, or the Fish Tank, as it was affectionately called by regulars, the last of the truly luxurious French restaurants in New York. The old-world atmosphere of the place, with its soft, flattering lighting, towering flower arrangements, delicious food, discreet service, and shiny, well-heeled patrons, offered a convivially formal setting for those who like that sort of thing and who can afford it. I felt it was the perfect venue to bring up the subject of Carla Cole.

  Though I never came right out and said I was against her being on the board, anyone reading between the glasses of fine white wine knew that I was not exactly in her corner. My position was not so much against her, but more of a “let’s wait and see” attitude. I knew, of course, that once a person has been blackballed from the board, that’s it. No second chances. Conversely, once someone was elected to the board, it was difficult to get them off until their term expired. And even then, it was tricky, particularly if the person in question had great financial means.

  Even though all Municipal Museum business was highly confidential and board members took that very seriously, this was, after all, New York. I was a little worried Carla might get wind of my subtle sabotage, so I was always careful to preface all my conversations with the assurance that she was a friend of mine and that I was thinking more in terms of the reputation of the Muni.

  “No one—especially Carla—would want to give the impression that a seat on our board can be sold to the highest bidder,” I said, knowing full well that was how more than one of my luncheon companions had secured their positions, though they would never admit it. I appealed to their snobbery, however, by making a seat on the board of the Muni seem like one of the grandest status symbols that there was in New York, an honor conferred only after years of service and scrutiny. When anyone brought up the subject of the Cole collection and Carla’s proposed grant, I merely suggested that it would behoove us to hold off and wait and see if Russell returned.

  Chapter 25

  Carla’s party was the very night before the Muni board meeting. Long after the fact, I realized to my chagrin that this was not luck, fate, or a coincidence. It was well planned.

  Our little set was all atwitter with excitement. Word had drifted down from various sources that Carla’s apartment was the single most spectacular abode in New York, if not the western hemisphere—a not-to-be-missed, once-in-a-lifetime, must-see extravaganza. No one I knew had actually seen it, except Dieter Lucino, the decorator, of course, and his army of assistants who, like members of Marco Polo’s caravan, brought back tales of its wealth and luxury beyond measure.

  “I can’t wait to see this fucking apartment,” Betty said to me on the phone that morning when we were conferring on what to wear. “I hear it makes Versailles look like a Holiday Inn.”

  I, of course, was dreading the whole event. I hated going to a party whose hostess I didn’t much like or trust. Like Larry, I had the nagging suspicion that Carla was far, far more calculating than anyone could imagine. But I couldn’t prove it. Carla Cole was a fact of social life now. I knew I’d have to deal with her unless I stopped going out or else moved away from New York altogether—neither of which I intended to do.

  That afternoon I went to the hairdresser, a wonderfully old-fashioned salon called Mr. K’s, located in the Waldorf-Astoria. Mr. K himself was a grand old gentleman who had been in business since the days when hats, neat hair, and good manners were the rule and not the exception they are now. In his heyday, he had famously styled the coiffures of queens, socialites, and first ladies. Now, at the age of eighty-one, he still went to work every day to cater to his loyal clientele. I’d been going to him steadily for years, except for that unfortunate interlude of five years when I could barely afford a cut-rate barbershop, let alone an elegant beauty salon. I always ran into at least one or two people I knew at Mr. K’s. Like Pug’s, it had a precious atmosphere of comfort and security, and a certain antiquated style.

  I was just about to sit down and begin my color treatment when I heard a voice at the far end of the room cry out, “Jo!”

  I looked around and spotted a woman seated in the corner waving at me. It took me a few seconds to recognize Ellen Grimes, Hadley Grimes’s wife. Her hair, standing on end, wrapped in gridlike rows of neatly folded tinfoil, made her look like a hi-tech bride of Frankenstein. I walked over to chat with her for a moment. Ellen Grimes was a chunky, square-jawed woman whose leathery, lightly tanned skin—the product of outdoor sports and sunshine—would have made a rather attractive Birkin bag. She spoke in a kind of boarding school lockjaw, called her mother “Mummy,” her father “Dads,” her husband “Grimesy,” and her children “the brood.” We hadn’t seen each other in ages—with good reason.

  “I’ve decided to go platinum blonde,” she announced to me. “Grimesy won’t approve, I’m sure, but I need a change. It was either that or another face-lift. I take it you’re going to Carla Cole’s tonight, aren’t you? Of course you are. The whole building is in an absolute uproar with all the catering trucks parked outside and the people coming and going. It’s going to be amazing. Isn’t it something about Russell Cole? Is there any more news? Hadley just adores Carla. Don’t you? And how’s poor June? Thank God she’s in Southampton! Think if she were here and not invited! Is she okay, by the way? I mean surviving? What are you wearing? Something long, right? I had to go get Mummy’s jewels out of the safe deposit box this morning. Vault occasion. Jewelry’s so ridiculously expensive to insure these days, isn’t it? I wouldn’t dream of keeping it in the house, would you?”

  Ellen hadn’t changed. She cruised along at her own altitude, her speech a flowing stream of consciousness, asking questions she either provided the answers for herself or never expected to have answered. But Ellen was a gossip and, as my mother used to say, “Even a blind chicken sometimes finds a kernel of corn.” When asked the right questions, Ellen could spew out interesting information faster than Old Faithful.

  That afternoon I learned from Ellen that Carla Cole had spent over a hundred million dollars decorating her apartment, that she maintained an army of servants who lived in the bowels of the building, that she was an extremely stingy tipper, which is why all the doormen and elevator men and building staff loathed her, and that her limousine blocked the entrance of the building so often that the other tenant
s had lodged a complaint with the board.

  “It’s amazing how she’s gotten the apartment ready so quickly,” I said, just to make conversation.

  As is often the case in life, this offhand remark elicited a riveting response.

  “Well, she did order everything last year, so it was all set to go,” Ellen said.

  Pause.

  I looked at Ellen who caught my eye and quickly looked away as if she’d said something she shouldn’t have.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Last year? She only bought that apartment five months ago.”

  Ellen clapped her hand to her mouth. “Me and my big mouth.”

  “Ellen? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I got confused.”

  “No, you didn’t. What do you mean, she ordered everything last year?”

  Ellen stared at me with scolded puppy eyes. “Oh, Jo, Grimesy will murder—meurdah—me if I spill the beans!” She pronounced “murder” the way her husband did in haute mid-Atlantic.

  “The beans are spilled, Ellen. Let’s get cooking.” Behind her contrite façade, I knew she was dying to tell me.

  “Well,” she said at last, breathing a deep sigh and lowering her voice to a confidential tone, “Marcy agreed to sell Carla that apartment almost a year ago. Last spring, in fact. According to Marcy, Carla went over there for tea and absolutely fell head over heels in love with it. And why not? I mean, it is the grandest apartment in New York, after all, rundown as it was. So anyway, Carla said to Marcy she absolutely had to have it. Marcy said she was ready to plunk down the money right then and there, but that there was a slight problem.”

  “What?”

  Ellen paused. “Russell.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jo—if you breathe a word of this—”

  “I won’t. Go on.” I was on tenterhooks.