Betty was outraged when I told her. “Don’t you dare, Jo! Don’t you see how fucking nuts this is?! Rich people are really insane!”
But Larry looked at me and shrugged, as if to say, “What the hell.” He turned out his pockets like the other men were doing. Betty stalked off. But I was too chicken. With grand distaste, I handed my bag to the footman near the door, who opened it and rummaged through the contents. He got a quizzical look on his face, went over to a nearby table, and turned my purse upside down, dumping its contents out on the top. A little crowd, including Carla, Larry, Betty, Gil, Justin Howard, Max, and Ethan Monk were casually watching this now-routine procedure.
No one’s gasp was louder than mine when, sparkling amid the grouping of my gold compact, a lipstick, small comb, house key, and tissues, was Carla’s huge diamond earring. A bloody knife couldn’t have shocked me more.
“Oh, shit,” Betty said softly. “Talk about a smoking diamond.”
I didn’t know what to say. I looked around for allies, but people were sort of frozen, too shocked to react. I do recall the incredulous look in Justin Howard’s eyes, as if he suddenly saw me in a brand new light.
Finally, I said, “I have absolutely no idea how that got there.”
“Well, I do!” Betty piped up. “Someone obviously planted it!”
There were murmurs all around. Justin Howard shook his head in dismay and walked off with his wife. Others followed him. I could see that no one except my closest friends believed me. Finally, Larry plucked the earring off the table with two fingers. He held it up with obvious disgust, as if it were a used tissue. He walked over and handed it to Carla.
“Here is your earring, Mrs. Cole,” he said. “I happen to believe Mrs. Slater.”
I hurriedly stuffed the contents back into my bag. Larry walked me to the elevator. It was so quiet, you could have heard a name drop. Just as the elevator arrived and we were getting in, I heard Carla say in a loud voice, “I am certain she took it just as a joke. After all, what can one do with one earring?” There was laughter all around. At my expense.
I was shaking by the time Larry and I got home. We sat in my library and I had a stiff drink. “Just think if I hadn’t let them search my bag,” I said. “I would have come home and found the damn thing. And then what would I have done?”
“Mailed it back anonymously,” Larry said. “You didn’t take it, after all. Someone planted it.”
“Oh, I know. . . . Still, it was a win-win situation for her, no matter what I did. She set me up, Larry. The Muni board meeting’s tomorrow and she set me up. You should have seen the look on Justin Howard’s face. She’s going to get on that board now, you watch.”
“Jo, anyone who knows you—”
“No, Larry . . .” I interrupted him. “Think of my past. I was once suspected of murder. Theft is mild by comparison.”
Even Larry, wordsmith that he was, had no comeback for that.
Chapter 27
A marked chill greeted me at the Muni board meeting the next afternoon. Nearly everyone there had been at Carla’s party, and those who hadn’t been wanted to be invited to the next one. There or not, by now they’d all heard about the earring debacle. People lowered their voices as soon as I walked into the room—a sure sign I was the main topic of discussion. Justin Howard was talking to Edmond Norbeau in a far corner, near one of the windows overlooking Central Park and the Tiffany Wing of the museum. I distinctly saw him glance at me as I entered, but he didn’t immediately rush over and say hello as he normally would have. Instead, he lowered his eyes and quickly turned his back, continuing to talk to Edmond, pretending he hadn’t seen me. I figured this was a harbinger of things to come.
Ethan Monk, always loyal, immediately rushed over and gave me a warm greeting.
“Well, that was quite some party last night, wasn’t it?” he said, attempting to diffuse the awkward situation.
“Forget it, Ethan,” I whispered. “They’re going to hang me out to dry. You watch.”
“I won’t let them, Jo,” he said, patting my arm in sympathy.
People milled around, speaking in hushed tones. Several glanced my way, and if they caught my eye, they gave me embarrassed smiles. I just nodded with a fixed grin on my face as if to say, “I know you’re talking about me and I don’t care.” But I did care.
The meeting was finally called to order. I sat next to Justin, who gave me a polite if tepid hello. Clara Wilman, my mentor, had always taught me to hold my head up high no matter what. I had nothing to be ashamed of. I’d been framed. And although no one believed that at the moment, I knew it was the truth. So when Justin said a perfunctory, “Hello, Jo, how are you?” I responded in a very cheerful, positive way, “I’m very well, thank you, Justin. And you?”
Justin looked at me incredulously and kind of rolled his eyes without really meaning to.
“Fine, thank you,” he said and turned away.
The meeting soon got underway. A summary of the minutes from the last meeting were read and some museum business was gotten out of the way. I noticed that people were taking potshot glances at me throughout the session. If I happened to catch an eye, that eye quickly darted away. When it came time to vote on Carla Cole’s election to the board, Justin Howard cleared his throat and said, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the time has come to vote.”
I was well aware of the surreptitious looks in my direction. Justin continued, “I move the nomination of Carla Cole to the board of the Municipal Museum. Will anyone second the motion?”
Edmond Norbeau raised his hand and said a somber, “Second.”
“Thank you, Edmond,” Justin said. “Well, now, I think we’ve all had ample time to reflect on this nomination. Does anyone feel the need for a discussion at this point?”
I raised my hand. Justin raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, Jo?” he said, somewhat testily.
I had prepared a little speech in my mind. However, facing that roomful of hostile faces, I hesitated.
“Jo? You wanted to say something?” Howard said.
I took a deep breath and geared myself up. I had to defend myself and the museum I loved.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” I began in a somewhat tremulous voice. “You all know what happened last night. But I swear to you that I did not take that earring, which means that someone planted it. If you believe me, then I think you will also agree with me that now, more than ever, it is imperative that we wait before electing Mrs. Cole to this board. If she, indeed, used that incident to manipulate your votes, I don’t think she’s a worthy candidate. That’s all I have to say.”
Ethan gave me a sympathetic nod. Justin Howard paused to clear his throat, then said, “We all know how you feel, Jo. But I believe that waiting would be counterproductive. I doubt it escapes anyone here that the director of the Metropolitan Museum and president of the Museum of Modern Art were both at Mrs. Cole’s party last evening. The incident in question notwithstanding, let me put this as strongly as possible, We do not want to lose the Cole collection if we can possibly help it. . . . Now, shall we vote?”
He paused and looked around the room, focusing for a moment on everyone, except me. “All in favor of Carla Cole, please raise your hands and say aye.”
Hands shot up all around the table, along with a droning chorus of ayes. It included everyone I had taken to lunch who had promised not to vote for her.
Everyone except Ethan.
“All opposed, please raise your hand and say nay.” Justin looked directly at Ethan.
Justin didn’t seem worried about me because I had previously told him that I was going to abstain. However, that was before the incident last night. Knowing what she had done to me and suspecting what she’d done to Russell, June, and Lulu’s spy, I certainly didn’t want Carla Cole’s nefarious presence polluting the board of my beloved museum. A
s I had not actually given Justin my word, but merely mentioned I would abstain, I decided that now was the time to take a stand.
“All opposed?” Justin said again.
I raised my hand and said, “Nay.”
Discontented murmurs rippled through the room. People glared at me in contempt. I ignored them.
Justin shook his head. “Abstain?”
Ethan raised his hand. “Abstain,” he said.
Ever the diplomat, Ethan.
It was at that point that I noticed the rather gleeful look that passed between Edmond and Justin. Justin rose to his feet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you all know, under the by-laws of the corporation, one nay vote or ‘blackball,’ as it is called, can prevent the election of a person to this board. However, Edmond and I strongly believe that Carla Cole would also be a tremendous asset to the Museum. And perhaps more importantly, we are convinced that we will lose the Cole collection if she is not elected. It is, therefore, with great reluctance and sadness, that I am going to invoke what is known in the by-laws as the Marchant Exception.”
I was so flabbergasted at the insulting implications of this that I could hardly believe my ears. And indeed, there were gasps all around the table because everyone immediately understood what a slap in the face this was to me.
The Marchant Exception stated that if there is only one vote against the election of a candidate, the chairman has the power to override that single vote and elect the candidate—provided, of course, that he has a two-thirds majority consent of the board. It was created in 1929 when Hiram Marchant was blackballed from going on the board of the Muni by his brother-in-law, Frank Lanier. Marchant, a popular and powerful figure in the community, had just donated a hundred thousand dollars to the Museum despite the Crash. By contrast, Lanier was a rotter who had swindled Marchant out of a large sum of money. Sympathies were certainly with Marchant, who had refrained from pressing charges against his brother-in-law in order to avoid a scandal and protect his wife, who was Lanier’s sister. Everyone on the board knew that Lanier had blackballed Marchant out of pure jealousy and spite. In an unprecedented move, Lanier’s blackball was overridden and Marchant was elected to the board. Lanier was asked to resign. This occurrence was written into the by-laws and known as “the Marchant Exception.”
“Of course,” Justin went on, “we don’t have a truly comparable situation here. Jo Slater, I needn’t tell any of you, is a most valued and revered member of this board. But,”—a New York but—“I do believe that Carla Cole would be such a valuable board member that I must override the blackball.”
Justin paused for a moment. I could see this was not easy for him. Little beads of sweat popped out on his wide forehead.
“So, that being the case,” he went on, “all those in favor of invoking the Marchant Exception, which gives me the power to override the veto, please raise your hands and say aye.”
The response was slightly slower this time as people considered the magnitude of their decision. Invoking this exception was a huge matter, not to be taken lightly. It was lost on no one that a vote for this measure was a vote against me. I watched as each of the members looked around to see what their cohorts were doing. Seymour Heffernan, the chairman of the finance committee, who I didn’t particularly like and who obviously didn’t like me, was the first to raise his hand and say a sharp, “Aye.” Then, like dominoes falling, everyone around the table followed his lead. People purposely avoided my eyes. Edmond Norbeau, with whom I had worked side by side over the years, said the softest “aye” of all. He looked truly pained, despite the fact that he and Justin had obviously discussed this way in advance. With the count in, my posture stiffened and I stared straight ahead, feeling utterly humiliated.
“All opposed?” Justin said.
I knew it would have been most undignified and unseemly for me to oppose a measure which was so clearly designed to embarrass me. I thought it wiser to hold my head high and say nothing than to voice some petty, self-serving protest which wouldn’t have done any good anyway. But dear Ethan came to my rescue. This time he didn’t abstain. He raised his hand and said in a loud voice, “Opposed! Vigorously opposed!”
His gallantry brought tears to my eyes. I could have kissed him.
“The ayes have it,” Justin said. “As chairman, I therefore invoke the Marchant Exception. I override the single veto of Carla Cole and declare her elected to this board.”
“And I resign,” I said, getting up and leaving the room.
That evening, ever loyal Ethan sent me a big bouquet of white roses and a note which read,
I am sick at heart.
Please reconsider.
Love,
Ethan
It was a sweet gesture and I called to thank him.
“Oh, Jo,” he said immediately, “I’m so happy you called. Listen, you’ve just got to reconsider your decision. I can’t stand it that you’re not on the board now. Please, talk to Justin, will you? I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“I’m certainly not going to call Justin. In my view, he owes me an apology. If he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me,” I said.
I still had my pride.
“But, Jo, she’ll take over the museum. You know she will.”
“They asked for it. If you invite a shark in to swim, you can’t complain if it attacks you.”
“Then think of me,” Ethan said plaintively. “It won’t be any fun there without you.”
“Sweetie, I’m sorry. But what’s done is done.”
I hung up with the gnawing feeling that I’d played right into Carla’s hands. I was mulling on this thought when Cyril came into the library carrying a silver tray with a single letter on it.
“Hand delivered just now, madam,” he said, offering it to me.
It was from Carla and it read,
Dearest Jo,
I was so sorry to hear of your resignation from the board of the Muni. I was so looking forward to working with you. I feel we could have done great things together. Still, I wish you the best of luck and I sincerely hope that I was not a factor in your decision. I am looking forward to seeing you again very soon.
Love,
Carla
It did not escape me that it was written on Municipal Museum stationery.
Chapter 28
The news that I had resigned from the board of the Muni ripped through New York faster than a stocking run. Charlie Kahn called to offer his condolences to me. He also had an ulterior motive. He wanted me and Betty to break the news to June that Carla had moved into their building. Having been forbidden a telephone or stimuli of any sort, including Nous magazine, June was reduced to listening to classic books on tape, blissfully unaware of this horrible development.
“I haven’t dared tell her yet, Jo,” Charlie confided. “I don’t want to upset her progress. She’s doing so well—recovering by leaps and bounds.”
When Betty heard this, she said, “Yeah, she’s leaping to conclusions which are bound to be wrong!”
Betty and I knew the real reason Charlie didn’t want to take on the task of telling June the bad news.
“Let’s face it, he’s scared stiff of her,” Betty said.
I knew also that he hated scenes of any kind. Charlie Kahn was the last of a dying breed: a native New Yorker who was “to the manner born,” a gentleman and a truly courtly being who loathed publicity and disruption of any kind. He also had a streak of mischief in him—but that’s another story. I knew him to be both utterly devoted to and terrified of his flighty wife.
Betty agreed to go with me to see June. The two of us drove out to Southampton just for the day, charged with informing our volatile friend that Carla Cole had successfully moved into her territory and was now a firm fact of all our lives. Quite frankly, I was thrilled to be getting out of the city. The whole Muni “e
x-communication,” as Betty called it, had left me feeling very low indeed. It was just one more example of how absolute money corrupts absolutely—not just the person who has it, but the people around it. The fact that my beloved museum, for which I had worked for nearly twenty years, had succumbed to the wiles of this financial Circe was devastating. I relished the idea of going out to the country and seeing some green that didn’t have to do with money, for a change.
Betty and I felt like two envoys on a “delicate diplomatic mission,” as I called it. As I fought the endless traffic on the Long Island Expressway, we debated the best way to tell June about her new neighbor. We tried out all kinds of subtle approaches, everything from sneaking it into the conversation as an aside, to throwing it away as a parting shot. Quickly wearying of the tactful approach, however, Betty finally said, “Hell, Jo, why don’t we just come right out and say it: ‘Junie, there’s a new queen in town and she’s in your palace in a much grander apartment!’ ”
Somehow, I thought not.
Halfway there, we grew tired of talking about June. Betty segued on to me. We went over the earring debacle ad nauseum, then Betty chastised me for quitting the board of the Muni.
“What in hell were you thinking, Jo? Are you nuts letting them force you out like that? Carla obviously set you up. How could you have let her get the better of you?” Betty asked incredulously.
“First of all, they didn’t force me out, Betts. I resigned. Maybe I was hasty, but invoking the Marchant Exception—?”
“What the fuck’s that?”
I explained to Betty exactly what had happened. Naturally, that was not what she had heard. She’d heard that Justin Howard had gotten up and banged his fist on the table, demanding my resignation, and that all the other board members had hounded me out of the room with catcalls. Typical New York: Things aren’t bad enough that people can’t wait to make them sound much worse.
“Listen, Betts, let’s get one thing straight here, okay? Justin did not demand my resignation. I resigned on my own. But I have to admit, it was bad. My God, he compared me to that swindler brother-in-law of Marchant’s by using an obscure rule that hasn’t been invoked in eighty years. I couldn’t just sit there and take that, could I? Anyway, I don’t want to be on the same board as that woman. Let them all stew in their own juices, as far as I’m concerned.”
One Dangerous Lady Page 26
