After dinner, coffee was served in the enormous living room. Holding a delicate red-and-gold demitasse in hand, Carla approached me and artfully steered me off to one side of the room, away from the crowd.
“Jo, I understand the Municipal Museum board meeting is tomorrow,” Carla said. She looked at me soulfully. “Are you going to support me, cara? I have heard rumors that you are a bit—how shall I say it?—hesitant.”
I’ve never been one to beat around the bush. I consider myself a pretty straight shooter. There was no point in lying to her, particularly as she would find out the truth soon enough.
“Carla, I’m not against you coming on the board. I just think it looks better for the museum, and for you, quite frankly, if we wait a bit, that’s all.”
“But why, Jo? Why should I wait? I am giving one of the great collections in the world to the museum and building a wing to house it. I think I deserve a place on the board, don’t you?”
“There are people on the board who have donated a lot of money and great collections to the museum who didn’t get on the board right away, Carla. In fact, the Muni prides itself on being an institution where you have to pay your dues. You can’t just buy your way in. I didn’t get on the board until two years after Lucius and I donated the Slater Gallery.”
She looked at me with glittering eyes and said sweetly, “You are not jealous of me, are you, Jo?”
It was a fair question, deserving of a thoughtful answer.
“Oh, perhaps people will think that,” I said. “But the simple truth is, I just don’t trust you, Carla. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”
She put her hand to her chest and stepped back, feigning hurt. “Jo! I am wounded!
“I’m sorry. It’s the truth.”
She was silent for a long moment. “Jo, dear, is there nothing I can do to make you change your mind?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, there is something, yes.”
“Please, tell me what it is! I will do anything!”
“Bide your time a bit. Don’t be so anxious. I’m not saying you shouldn’t get on the board one day, Carla. You should. But wait awhile. Learn about the museum. Understand what it is you hope to accomplish there. Make it about the institution itself, not about the social advantages it affords you.”
She looked at me quizzically. “But what makes you think I am not interested in the museum?”
“Do you know much about the Muni?”
“I know it is one of the greatest museums in the world. Isn’t that all I have to know?”
“No. You have to know what makes it great. And it’s not just the art. The Muni is a living, breathing institution. It has pioneer conservation programs, community outreach programs, international exchange programs, teaching facilities. We’re like a great university. People come from all over the world to study with us and contribute to our community.”
“Yes, I know all that is marvelous,” she said impatiently. “But most people come to see the paintings, no? And the Cole collection will be a great attraction.”
“Indeed it will.”
“I do not believe in waiting,” she said. “I can do a lot of good for the Muni right now. I have the money to do all sorts of wonderful things for it. And I think I should be given the chance.”
There was no use arguing with her.
“Carla, if you must know the truth, I’m going to abstain in tomorrow’s vote. I won’t be the one to veto you.”
She stared at me for a long moment.
“How lovely you look tonight,” she said, pointing to my sapphire earrings. “I find sapphires a rather cold stone. But they suit you very well, Jo. They are good for your coloring. I prefer diamonds.”
“So I see,” I said, noting her enormous diamond earrings.
“I know of some wonderful diamond dealers,” she went on. “It is such a funny world—the world of diamond dealers. Very small. Like your little world here in New York. Everyone knows each other. . . . They say that diamonds are the best investment. Have you ever bought diamonds for investment purposes, Jo?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I do. I have quite a good dealer myself.”
“Really? I would love to meet him.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” I said, holding her gaze without flinching.
I refused to be intimidated by this woman, even though she was making it quite clear that she knew about Oliva and the blackmail payments I sent her.
“Well, I must attend to my guests,” she said. “Please think about what we have discussed.”
“I’ve thought about it, Carla, believe me.”
“Have you? Have you really?” she said, glaring at me with a disconcerting smile on her face. There was a hint of true madness in her expression.
Then she walked away.
This was as clear a threat as I’d ever had in my life. I was unnerved. I paused to think for a moment and calm down. It was obvious that Carla either knew or knew about Oliva and the fact that she was blackmailing me. But how? From where? The real question was: What exactly did Carla know about the crime itself? Somehow I doubted she knew the details. From the little I knew of my blackmailer, I couldn’t believe she’d be dumb enough to tell anyone what she had on me. Why would this canny, sexy sociopath give away the nature of the valuable information she possessed? It simply wasn’t in her interest to dilute such a lucrative secret by revealing it to anyone else. So while I could picture Oliva telling someone she had a strong hold over me, I just couldn’t picture her telling anyone exactly what that hold was. And besides, I figured that if Carla really knew what I’d done, now would have been the time to use that information. It would have been great leverage against me in getting what she wanted. And she desperately wanted to go on the board of the Muni.
But, again, all this was speculation on my part. I couldn’t know anything for sure. It was this uncanny ability of Carla’s to keep me off balance that I hated most. I couldn’t get a handle on what she was up to. By hinting at things rather than declaring them outright, she created a climate of fear and ambiguity. She seemed to understand innately that the big, black spider of uncertainty was the one thing in the world I couldn’t bear.
Larry and I and the Watermans joined the procession of guests slowly making their way downstairs. Carla had demolished a rabbit warren of maids’ rooms to create one huge ballroom, complete with an orchestra platform and marble columns, and elevated tiers set with small, round tables and shaded candlelights, just like an old-fashioned nightclub.
“How she got all this done in four months is beyond me,” Betty said. “It takes me four months to get a sink fixed in this town.”
“I bet the floor opens up to be a swimming pool,” Larry said.
A band was playing a smooth medley of Cole Porter tunes. Some guests immediately glided out onto the highly polished marble dance floor and started fox-trotting. Others sat down at the tables and ordered champagne cocktails from waiters dressed in white pants and blue jackets with gold buttons and braid.
“Welcome to hookerina heaven!” Betty cried. “If Russell is alive and he comes back and sees this, he’s going to die! Death by vulgarity! A new weapon.”
“Not that new,” Larry said dryly.
Betty turned to me. “You’re very quiet, Jo. What do you think?”
“You know, Betts, I prefer not to think tonight. It’s not the setting for it.”
I noticed Carla hurrying toward the bandleader. Still conducting, he leaned down and she whispered something in his ear. He immediately stopped the music. People quit dancing and the room fell silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” the bandleader said, speaking into the microphone. “Mrs. Cole wants me to announce that she’s lost an earring.”
There were murmurs throughout the room. No one had failed
to notice those klieg light diamonds.
“If everyone would please take a moment to look around,” the bandleader went on, “Mrs. Cole would be very grateful!”
“I wonder how it feels to have four million dollars drop off your ear,” Betty whispered.
Everyone took a cursory look around the floor. Then the music struck up again and people gradually resumed dancing. Carla strolled back our way. She seemed cool enough.
“God, Carla, you must be frantic,” Betty said. “I hope you’re insured.”
“No, no, darling. I do not insure my jewelry. Why bother? You can’t ever replace it exactly. And it’s just a material thing, after all. I do not get upset over material possessions . . . not since Russell,” she said with a meaningful expression.
“This is why I have pierced ears,” Betty said.
“I am certain it will turn up. And if not . . . ?” Carla said, dismissively waving her diamond-braceleted hand, “C’est la vie, n’estce pas?”
I was surprised when Max walked over to the table and asked me to dance. Betty winked at me as Max took my hand and led me out onto the dance floor. He held me rigidly in his arms and we began a bouncy fox-trot around the room. Max was a good dancer, if a tad too energetic for my taste. He was what Betty called a “pumper”—that is, a man who pumps your arm as he dances with you like it was the spigot of a well from which he is trying to extract the last drop of water.
“So m’dear, how are you?” he asked. Pump, pump, pump.
“Fine, Max. And yourself?”
“Oh, limping along, you know. . . . Sunset years, a bore, what?” With that, he did a particularly energetic twirl.
“Feels like you’re still at high noon,” I said, struggling to maintain my balance.
Max laughed and we slowed down a bit. “Jo, may I speak frankly to you?”
“Since when have you not?”
“Point taken. I believe you’re aware that our hostess has her heart set on going on the board of the Municipal Museum. A little bird tells me you don’t want her on.”
“Just one little bird? I’d have thought the whole flock would have chirped in your ear by now.”
“Why don’t you want her on that board, m’dear?”
“As I just explained to Carla, I think the board should wait a bit before electing her, that’s all.”
“Why should you wait? She’s giving you a brilliant collection, plus the money for the wing. Can’t do better than that. I think you should all be grateful. I mean, what sort of people do you want on that board anyway? Seems to me Carla’s absolutely the perfect addition.”
As Max got more blustery, he pumped harder. My arm hurt. I finally just stopped dead.
“Did she put you up to this?” I asked him.
He looked away evasively. “Well, of course, she knows we’re friends. She did ask me if I’d put in a good word. You New York ladies are rather a tough crowd, what?”
“We’re like anywhere else. You have to prove yourself first, Max. I don’t see people walking into London society with the greatest of ease, either.”
“Oh, London’s very different, m’dear,” he said, resuming our dance. “We all grew up together. Known each other for years and years. Whereas practically everyone I meet in New York is from somewhere else. Know someone for a month in New York and you consider them lifelong friends, whereas in London three years is barely enough time for a nodding acquaintance. The so-called establishment here invented themselves. They weren’t born to it.”
I marveled at Max’s cool snobbery.
“Yes, well, some inventions take longer to get patents than others,” I said, referring to Carla.
We danced for a few more moments, then we both called it a night. As Max escorted me back to the table, he said, “You know, I’m rather surprised at you, Jo.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I thought that you, above all people, wouldn’t allow any kind of pettiness to get in the way of your good judgment. I somehow imagined you’d see through to a person’s core, what?”
“Well, perhaps I do, Max. Perhaps I do . . .”
He gave me a little smirk, deposited me with Larry and the group, and left.
When I told Larry what had transpired on the dance floor, Larry said without hesitation, “Oh, they’re definitely having an affair.”
Toward the end of the evening, just as Larry and I were leaving, one of the footmen took me aside and asked if he could look inside my purse.
In the haze of after-dinner drinks and champagne, the missing earring had faded from most people’s minds. Still, I figured the reason he was asking to search my bag was because he thought I’d taken it. I was outraged.
“You must be kidding! You certainly don’t think I stole Mrs. Cole’s earring, do you?”
Larry came to my defense. “Young man, you’ve got some nerve.”
At that point, another footman stepped forward and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I saw you pick it up off the dining room floor and put it in your bag.” He pointed to the blue satin evening purse that matched my dress. I remember I had a fleeting thought that there was something oddly familiar about this footman, but I was so angry I couldn’t focus on that for long—only on the fact that I was being accused of this horrible deed. I tried to maintain my composure. People were beginning to look at me and ask what was going on.
“You’re mistaken,” I said calmly. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
The crowd was clearly with me. But the footman was still demanding to see the contents of my purse. Suddenly, the crowd parted and Carla came rushing through, very anxious.
“What is going on here?” she demanded.
The footman explained that he saw me pick up her earring and put it in my bag. Carla listened with a stony expression, then said to him, “That is utterly ridiculous!” She turned to me. “I am so sorry, Jo.”
It was at that point that Max Vermilion piped up with a democratic suggestion. “I say, why not search all the ladies’ purses and turn out the men’s pockets, too? Maybe somebody did pick it up and just forgot. It’s a damn valuable object, what? Might as well give offense to everyone while we’re at it.”
Everyone thought he was joking, but I knew he was dead serious. The social consequences of searching all our purses would be as lethal as the time a grande dame in Paris lost a diamond bracelet at one of her parties. She wrote form letters to nearly all her guests, asking whoever took the bracelet to send it back anonymously, no questions asked. The scandal that letter caused was compounded by the fact that some guests at the party didn’t receive it. Three royals and two billionaires who’d been in attendance were deemed far too grand to have pocketed such a trinket, so the hostess didn’t write to them. Her reputation was never recovered, unlike the bracelet, which was found months later by a zealous maid cleaning deep in the folds of an upholstered couch. But that’s another story.
Right now, the guests were silent, standing firmly behind me. Everyone thought it was an outrage to be physically searched. In order to curry favor with Max, however, Bootsie Baines broke ranks.
“Well, anyone is welcome to search my purse, if they want to—provided they don’t mind a soiled hankie,” she said.
With that, Bootsie walked over to the hall table, opened her purse, and dumped out its contents. Her long-suffering husband followed suit by turning out his pockets.
“I think if you have nothing to hide . . .” she said sanctimoniously, looking directly at me.
Max kissed her good night and muttered “good show” under his breath.
At that point, several other ladies volunteered to have their purses searched, as well. But the crowd was still divided and outrage swelled. Discontented murmurs escalated to very vocal indignation. I thought it ironic that this ersatz Versailles was about to see another mob scene.
Fi
nally Carla raised her hand and cried out, “Basta! Everybody stop!”
The crowd hushed up as she turned to the footman and pointed an accusatory finger at him.
“Young man,” she said in a loud voice so that everyone could hear. “You have caused a great deal of embarrassment to me and to my guests. You are obviously a liar. Please leave my house immediately.”
The footman, protested. “But, ma’am, I saw—”
“Immediately!” Carla cried, cutting him off.
As the footman turned and made his way through the crowd, his angelic face was clearly on the verge of tears. He still seemed vaguely familiar to me, but I just couldn’t place him.
Carla turned back to me and said, with a very contrite expression, “Jo, dear, I am deeply sorry for all of this trouble. Obviously that silly young man was mistaken. Please accept my profound apologies.”
“It’s all right, Carla. It’s not your fault.”
Larry took my arm and we started for the door. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. However, before getting into the elevator, a few other women were allowing their bags to be searched and some of the men were turning their pockets inside out. I watched a procession of women, including Trish Bromire, Marcy Ludinghausen, Ellen Grimes, Christine Norbeau, and Regina Howard all turn their bags upside down and dump the contents out. Trish and Dick, eager to be cleared, allowed themselves to be searched twice. Only curmudgeonly Betty refused.
“They wanna seach me? Let ’em go ahead and strip-search me in front of everyone. That’ll be a pretty sight!” Betty whispered to me.
I still felt awkward. Since I was the one who had initially been accused and my indignant reaction had basically started the whole thing, I thought I should at least volunteer to have my bag searched.
One Dangerous Lady Page 25
