One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “Well, apparently, Russell wasn’t keen on moving to New York. . . . No, let me put it another way. Russell was dead set against moving here. Carla told Marcy she was sure he’d change his mind if he saw the apartment. So they both came and had tea with Marcy. Marcy said that Russell was too polite to say anything, but that she could tell he absolutely loathed the place! He kept saying, ‘Isn’t it a little big?’ as they walked through all the rooms. You know Russell. He’s so low-key—even that boat isn’t as big as it could have been with all his moolah. Well, anyway, Marcy was upset he didn’t like it because, of course, at that point she was dying to unload the thing and how many buyers are there at that price? Let’s be honest. She thought it was over when they left. But then she got a call from Carla.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, right after they went to look at it. Carla called her the next day and said that she was going to go ahead and buy the apartment and have it all done up the way she knew Russell would like it. She told Marcy that if Russell could just walk in and ‘put his toothbrush in the cup’—that was her expression, don’tchya love it?—he would adore it. Marcy was a little stunned because she was sure Russell had really hated it. Anyway, it didn’t seem to matter because Carla went in there a week later and took measurements and had her architect order doors and windows and cabinets and furniture and everything.”

  “Before she bought it?”

  “Oh, yeah, way before. Well, anyway, later Russell disappeared and Carla went ahead and bought the apartment. But then she ran into this snag with poor June and almost didn’t get into the building. . . . Jo,” Ellen said, leaning in confidentially. “Can you imagine if Carla hadn’t gotten in? After ordering—well—millions of dollars’ worth of stuff made specially for that particular apartment? The mind boggles!”

  I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. I needed to make absolutely sure of what Ellen was telling me.

  “Okay, let me get this straight. Carla had a deal with Marcy Ludinghausen to buy that apartment months ago? Before Russell disappeared?”

  Ellen nodded. “Yup. So Marcy says.”

  “And she ordered furniture and everything?”

  “Curtains, furniture, fittings, carpets, this incredible floor . . . but you can’t say anything, Jo! Promise?”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Because Marcy told me in strictest confidence . . . although I suppose it really doesn’t matter now that Carla’s got the apartment,” she said with a shrug. “But I mean, who could afford to pay that ridiculous asking price except the Coles? Oh, maybe some drug dealer or a rock star or someone like that. But no one who could actually get into the building. So Marcy held out and refused to lower her price—even though all the real estate agents told her to. She knew Carla would come through in the end. I mean, she kind of had to. She’d already spent millions. But I guess when you’re that rich you can afford to order things for places you don’t own yet.”

  “Ellen, let me ask you something. What if June had blackballed her?”

  Ellen thought for a moment. “Well, that would have been awful. She would have had to scrap everything or else buy some other place and have everything refitted. Actually, it would have been a complete disaster. Hey, wouldn’t it be marvelous to have that kind of money—where you could just throw away millions of dollars without thinking twice? Of course, it’s terribly sinful and such a waste,” she added piously. “But still, it would be nice. Anyway,” Ellen went on in a chipper voice, “it all worked out in the end.”

  Yes, I thought to myself, in the end of Russell Cole.

  Chapter 26

  That evening, Larry Locket arrived at my apartment, looking spiffy in his tuxedo. It was a balmy May night and we decided to walk the few blocks to Carla’s apartment building.

  “Let’s get as much air as we can before we’re stifled by wealth,” Larry said as we strolled arm in arm down Fifth Avenue.

  “Larry, dear, I found out something very interesting at the hairdresser’s today,” I said as we walked.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Did you know that Carla had a deal with Marcy Ludinghausen to buy her apartment almost a year ago?”

  Larry stopped dead, turned to me, and raised his eyebrows. “No. What do you mean?”

  “According to my source, Carla took Russell to see the apartment a year ago and he hated it. Carla thought that if she went ahead and bought it anyway and fixed it up the way he liked, she could get him to change his mind. So she ordered millions of dollars’ worth of fixtures and fittings and furniture for the place long before it was hers.”

  Larry narrowed his eyes. “She ordered things for an apartment she didn’t own yet?”

  “Exactly. Millions of dollars’ worth of things. Apparently, Russell didn’t want to move to New York. But then he disappeared, so she went ahead and bought the apartment without him. Of course, June was going to prevent her from getting into the building. But then June had an accident.”

  Larry was fascinated. We continued walking. “Who told you this?”

  “I swore, Larry—”

  “Jo, please. The source here is important. I promise I won’t betray you.”

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly. I trusted Larry. “It was Ellen Grimes, who’s married to Hadley Grimes, the head of the board.”

  “And how does Ellen know this?”

  “She got it from the horse’s mouth. She’s Marcy Ludinghausen’s best friend.”

  “That’s a primo source,” Larry nodded. “You think she’d talk to me for my article?”

  “Oh, no, Larry, please! Ellen swore me to secrecy.”

  “Don’t worry. But there must be another way to verify this information. I mean, Jo, this is another one of those what I call ‘rich people motives.’ She wants a big apartment. He doesn’t. So she kills him, gets a hold of all his money, and buys it herself.”

  We both laughed grimly.

  Our decision not to take the car was a prescient one. The dozens of shiny black limousines encroaching upon the entrance of 831 Fifth Avenue resembled an infestation of beetles. Each car inched slowly up to the scrolly, wrought-iron doors of the building, egested its human cargo, then crawled off into the twilight. The entrance hall of 831 was a fairly unprepossessing space, given the fact that above its checkered marble floor were grand apartments as big as houses, many of them filled with museum-quality treasures. I noticed three men in dark suits lurking in a corner, eyeing the guests as they entered.

  “Security,” Larry whispered.

  “Whose?”

  “Probably some dignitary or muckety-muck.”

  A wave of nostalgia hit me as I entered the lobby. How many times had I been in that building to visit my late friend Clara Wilman and my dear June? I wondered if I could bring myself to shake hands with Carla Cole tonight, harboring this awful feeling that she’d had a hand in June’s accident and so much more treachery. But being charming—even to people you suspected of terrible misdeeds—was all just “social life,” as June herself always said.

  Larry and I stepped into the elevator with a crowd of amis mondains whom we both knew. At first everyone greeted everyone in a fluttery, repetitive way—what Betty called the “Hello Darling Syndrome”—triggered when people are trying to suppress a palpable air of excitement before a big event. The journey to the penthouse, however, was made in relative silence. No one uttered a word as the wood-paneled car whooshed upward. A couple of the men cleared their throats and the women surreptitiously appraised one another’s gowns, jewels, hair, and makeup. Someone was wearing too much perfume.

  As we approached the top floor, we heard the strains of a string quartet playing classical music. Finally the elevator stopped. Its mahogany door slid open, and one by one we all stepped out of the boxy car into another century. Two footmen in blue velvet livery stood at attention on either side of an arche
d entranceway leading into a vast reception hall, the floor of which was real lapis lazuli. The deep blue stone was like a little sea, glittering with golden grains of pyrite. There were no electric lights. Dozens of candles burned brightly in the huge, silver Regency chandelier and in antique silver wall sconces sculpted in the shape of shells. The veneer of brilliance created by the candlelight was unlike anything achieved by electricity.

  At the far end of the hall, spread across the wall like a mural commissioned just for that space, was the enormous Tiepolo painting Carla had bought from Gil Waterman. In this setting, the mythical ocean scene depicting a golden-bearded Poseidon, holding a golden trident, leering at a bevy of nymphs frolicking away in the foam-tipped waves seemed even more magnificent. A few sea monsters slithered through its painterly water. They reminded me of a couple of the guests. The blue of the ocean deepened gradually toward the bottom so that the lapis lazuli floor appeared to be a continuation of the painting.

  In front of this spectacular backdrop stood Carla Cole, in a draped white crepe gown with a diamond moon crescent perched atop her sleek chignon coiffure. She looked like a sea goddess arising from the crest of a wave. Her diamond earrings, practically the size of sand dollars, were like two spotlights on either side of her face. I watched her as she shook the hand of each guest, inclining her head slightly, affecting a regal air of noblesse oblige. Sometimes when she extended her hand to greet a guest, the line of sight that encompassed both her and the painting made it appear as though it were she, not Poseidon, who held the trident. Beside her stood Max Vermilion, looking very fit and elegant in one of his vintage tuxedos. A grieving spouse she definitely was not.

  I got a little frisson when I saw Max. Even though he and I were definitely not meant for each other, I didn’t particularly like it that he was squiring Carla around. Max was a powerful friend and the two of them made a formidable couple. That didn’t bode well for keeping her off the board of the Muni, and the board meeting the next day was very much on my mind that night.

  I whispered to Larry, “Just asking . . . do we think having Max here as the queen’s consort is in the best of taste, given the fact that her husband is still missing?”

  “Well, she’s either positive he’s coming back, or positive he isn’t,” Larry said. “My money’s on the latter.”

  Betty, who looked like a big carrot in an orange silk gown with green ruffles around the neck, stopped by on her way to the powder room and whispered, “Hey, Jo, you think Russell’s buried under this lapis lazuli ocean?” She laughed. “And check out Carla’s waist carefully when you shake hands.” She raised her eyebrows knowingly and moved on.

  As Larry and I were waiting in the reception line, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw Trish Bromire, who had apparently decided to tone down her look since Dick’s conviction. Eschewing her usual loud colors and garish jewels, she looked the best I’d ever seen her, wearing a severe gray velvet dress and a striking antique garnet necklace and matching earrings. Garnets, not rubies. She kissed Larry hello, then kissed me and whispered, “Jo, you don’t think Carla invited us here just to snub us in public, do you?”

  “No, sweetie. Everyone understands these things happen.”

  “You mean people getting convicted of federal crimes?” Trish said ingenuously.

  I decided not to elaborate on my remark. “Where is Dick? I want to give him a hug.”

  “Oh, he’ll be here. He’s with the lawyers. They’re deciding whether or not to appeal. I came on ahead. I didn’t think it was proper to be late, particularly under the circumstances. We have to be so careful now. Of course, if I’d known it was going to be such a zoo, I’d have waited for him,” Trish said, waving to three different people as she spoke. “Most people have said hello to me. Isn’t that nice? I guess it means they still like us.”

  “We love you, sweetie,” I said, giving her a hug.

  “Of course we do,” Larry concurred.

  Dick arrived shortly thereafter and joined Trish behind us in the receiving line. Larry shook his hand ostentatiously and I gave him a big kiss. But he seemed wary—even of me. In my view, it was very clever of Carla to have invited the Bromires because, despite Dick’s recent travails, they still had a lot of friends in New York.

  When Larry and I reached Carla, she seemed particularly happy to see us both. Her face brightened noticeably as she greeted the two of us.

  “Ah, my dear Jo, and the brilliant Mr. Locket, how divine of you both to come! I hope you will enjoy all the surprises I have in store for you tonight.”

  Why was it that everything Carla said sounded like a threat to me?

  I checked out Carla’s waist, as Betty had told me to. There, partially hidden underneath the Grecian folds of the dress, were not one, not two, but five diamond insect pins on a white satin belt.

  Max!

  I got one insect pin merely for being his friend. But five definitely indicated a deeper relationship.

  Larry and I smiled politely and quickly moved on to Max, who also gave us both a warm welcome. Just then Betty waltzed up to us, pointed at the great ocean painting, and said, “Do we think that choice of artwork is, shall we say, appropriate, when half the world thinks your husband is fish food?”

  Gil, who was just behind her, disparaged her comment. “Betty, that is a great painting and you, my good wife, are enjoying the proceeds of its sale.”

  “I don’t care. The theme is macabre,” she said imperiously. “Couldn’t she have picked a forest instead of an ocean? C’mon, kids, let’s go snoop around the rest of the palace.” She waved us all to follow.

  Trish, Dick, Betty, Gil, Larry, and I all trooped through the apartment, which I had seen in two previous incarnations. When Clara had it, it was an ode to understated elegance. Clara Wilman believed that a kind of grand coziness was the ultimate luxury. She had decorated the apartment as if it were a great English country house, filling it with carved William Kent furniture, large, comfortable couches, and beautiful paintings of landscapes, horses, and dogs. Wandering around the apartment, the eye was constantly amused by oases of beauty: the handpainted trompe l’oeil scenes in the smaller sitting rooms, and precious collections like the tiny, jeweled flowers in real jade or crystal flowerpots or the menagerie of silver animals made by Fabergé for the Grand Duchess Tatiana.

  Marcy Ludinghausen’s taste ran screaming in the opposite direction. Marcy, once married to an avant-garde artist, was still in her downtown period when she bought the apartment. She and Baron Ludinghausen, an ersatz art dealer among other things, both favored Andy Warhol paintings, neon sculptures, and bean-bag chairs. The place looked like a sixties Soho art gallery and was just about as comfortable, as I remember from the one time I went there.

  And now it was a whole other incarnation, one that Betty described as “Late Catherine the Great.” The furniture was all ormolu’d and gilded within an inch of its life. Each room had a plethora of magnificent pieces. Huge tassels dangled from sofa arms, chair seats, and cabinet keys. The silk-brocaded walls were crammed with paintings in ornately carved gilt frames. I recognized some pictures from the Cole collection, but not many; and the ones that were there seemed oddly compromised by the magnificent seventeenth- and eighteenth-century furniture surrounding them. The apartment was a very grand, very expensive mishmash of styles. It lacked what Clara Wilman had called “a presiding eye.” It was just rich-rich-rich.

  Fingering a giant tassel, Betty wondered aloud, “Is there a period called rococo-a-gogogo?”

  “There is now,” Larry said.

  Dinner was served in a miniature re-creation of the Hall of Mirrors. Carla had transformed her dining room into that legendary space in the palace of Versailles, complete with towering torchieres, smoky mirrors, and footmen in livery. The pampered people in our little set are very competitive, and that night Carla Cole raised the bar a good ten notches. For those who pri
ded themselves in large measure on their dwellings, their possessions, and their party-giving, the entire evening was a form of exquisite torture. It was as if at every step of the way, Carla was saying, “Top that!”

  Betty walked into the dining room and said, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the richest of them all?”

  Larry, who was seated next to me, and who noticed the footmen eyeing one another across the table, said, “What do you bet they’re all out-of-work actors? And what must they be thinking?”

  “What must any of us be thinking?” I said as a bowing waiter presented me with a silver bowl in which a huge tin of fresh Beluga was encased in shaved ice. He handed me a large gold spoon. I dug in.

  During the appetizer, the conversation was muted by awe—an unusual occurrence in a group where profligate spending is not exactly unknown. Gradually, however, the great wines and the delicious food loosened everybody up so that by the time the waiters in white gloves had served the main course, we were all chattering away like yardbirds—beginning to focus on the cracks in the façade. The bitchy comments started. No matter how perfect things are, it is the special talent of New Yorkers to be able to find fault with them. A “perfect” evening to us is an evening we can criticize.

  At several points during the meal, I found myself looking down the table, thinking that if Carla were trying to buy her way into New York society, she had certainly succeeded that night.

  Justin Howard was seated on my left. We briefly discussed the Muni board meeting the next day.

  “Jo, a little bird tells me you’ve been lobbying against Carla going on the board. Is that true?”

  “I don’t think she deserves a place on the board just yet. In time, though.”

  “This is a woman who doesn’t like to wait, Jo.”

  “So I see,” I said, glancing around. “But who’s she going to give that collection to, Justin? Los Angeles? Washington? Boston? Look for yourself. She obviously wants it in New York.”

  Over the years, I had learned a lot about the pathology of privilege, having been both its beneficiary and its victim at different times in my life. Extravagance on a nuclear level—as this was—always represented something else. What we were watching was usually not what was really going on, but rather an elaborate smoke screen to cover up some deep deception. Just what that deception could be was unclear to me now, but I had no doubt it would come to light eventually. Then Justin would thank me for my caution.