One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “If June gets her hands on that apartment, take cover,” Betty said. “She really will morph into Catherine the Great.”

  Despite her somewhat jaundiced view of the whole affair, Betty was anxious to go to Trish’s “At Home” soiree. She pointed out that since the party wasn’t for charity, it would be more interesting, given the fact that events you have to pay for are generally less fun than private functions. Plus, as she also pointed out, it would be a rare chance to see Taunton Hall “in all its glory.”

  “Trish’ll go over the top because this is Dick’s coming-out party—literally. This is their bid to start getting invited everywhere again.”

  Ever the romantic optimist, Betty still had high hopes for me to become Lady Vermilion, despite Max’s dicey history with women.

  “I know he’s had a weird past, Jo, but he’s still available. And let’s face it, at our old bat ages, every man’s gonna have some baggage,” Betty said with an air of authority. “Any man who tells you he’s baggage-free is lying. It’s all coming in on the midnight flight. At least with Max, the steamer trunks are Louis Vuitton, not Samsonite. Plus, you’d be getting that spectacular house!”

  I held my tongue, of course. I couldn’t even tell Betty the truth about Max Vermilion and why there was no future for us as a couple. Still, I wouldn’t have missed this party for the world. For one thing, there was Taunton Hall, and for another, we all owed it to Dick to support him, particularly now, after jail, when he was naturally feeling so vulnerable. And I admit I was curious to see Max again, in light of what I now knew about him. I was dying to learn: Was he the puppet master or not? And although the odds were against my ever finding out for sure, I was interested to see if Carla’s death had changed him in any way that might give me some insight.

  Taunton Hall, an architecturally improbable jewel, was a hodgepodge of styles joined together by unflinching grandeur. Its hundred-odd rooms reflected a minihistory of England. The earliest section was the towering Gothic hall, now home to the famous collection of Chinese bronzes. There were countless other additions, including early-twentieth-century renovations to unify the façade, made by Max’s grandfather, the sixth Earl, “the Building Vermilion,” as he was known.

  Even the people who had been to numerous balls and parties at Taunton Hall said it never looked more magnificent than it did that night. Trish had pulled out all the stops, opening the mammoth eighteenth-century, wrought-iron gates, which were normally never used, so that guests could arrive in horse-drawn carriages through the old entrance. Rows of flaming torches lit the famously long driveway leading up to that grand fairy-tale castle of a house.

  Dick and Trish Bromire stood alongside Max at the head of the Great Gallery, on whose carved wooden panels hung huge ancestral portraits dating back to the sixteenth century. The three of them greeted us guests as we filed by. I’d never seen Dick Bromire looking more fit. He’d lost tons of weight, for one thing, and as we waited in line, Betty opined that he could make a fortune if he came out with a book called The Prison Diet.

  “Think of it,” she said. “It’s called having your crime and eating it, too.”

  Trish was all decked out in jewels again. Her inner and outer glow had returned.

  “Eat your heart out, Queen Elizabeth,” Ethan whispered to me as we neared our sparkling hostess.

  Miranda, who was covering the party for Nous, said she’d never seen The Hall looking more splendid.

  “Max is always too cheap to do anything but hang a ham out the window,” Miranda said. “He thinks the honor of being invited here is enough.”

  Dick was thrilled we’d all come. I confess I was surprised to see people there who had pointedly turned down his lugubrious “going away” party in New York, people he swore he would never see again. But he was in a jolly and forgiving mood, and it was infectious. People who famously loathed each other were kissing each other hello and having long conversations. As dear June always said, it was all just “social life,” where the players drift apart and back together again, like flotsam and jetsam on the tide of fortune. Taking it too seriously was always a mistake, from whatever angle one approached it.

  Max greeted me with a rueful smile. He looked worn-out. There were dark circles under his eyes and his quirky confidence seemed to have been punctured. Even his “duration” tuxedo appeared moth-eaten and old-fashioned, as opposed to shabbily chic.

  “Ah, Jo, how kind of you to come. You’re a loyal friend,” he said.

  “It was kind of Trish to invite me,” I said.

  “Traveled a long way, what?” he said.

  “In more ways than one, Max. In more ways than one.”

  If he noted my insinuating tone, he didn’t show it. He moved on to the next guest and I moved on, too, down that celebrated gallery toward the Great Room, as it was called, where so many friends and amis mondains had gathered.

  Max appeared very morose that night and people were saying it was because he’d lost the love of his life. They were not referring to Carla, but to Taunton Hall. This evening was Max Vermilion’s swan song to his famous house. Betty heard the news from some English friends who were there. Having rented it to Dick for some enormous sum for this one evening, Max was leaving it for good in two days time. He had finally been forced to sell it because he was no longer able to afford the upkeep, and there was no rich Lady Vermilion to help him out this time. A consortium from Ireland had bought it, hoping to make it into even more of a tourist attraction than it now was by restoring the parts that had fallen into neglect over the years, and by refurbishing those rooms that Max had looted of their treasures.

  “He’s moving to the Turks and Caicos Islands, if you can believe it!” Betty breathlessly informed me. “Jo, think of it, Max Vermilion is going to become a tax exile! Do you know what that means? He won’t be able to stay in any place longer than ninety days. The sun will never set on him for real!”

  After that, Betty cooled on her idea of my becoming the next Lady Vermilion. To her, Max was no longer the grand Lord of the Rings. He was now merely “the Lord of the Fly-by-Nights,” as she dubbed him.

  During the cocktail hour, Betty, Gil, Ethan, and I took a tour of the house, sneaking into all the roped-off rooms.

  “It may be our last chance to see them,” Ethan opined, fearing what the new owners might do. “Unrestored antiques are so much better,” he said.

  Gil, who basically saw every personal misfortune as an investment opportunity, wandered around wondering what paintings might be for sale. While Ethan and Gil investigated the art, Betty and I sneaked into Max’s bedroom. Betty was anxious to see the huge, four-poster bed that had once belonged to Henry the Eighth. We came to a roped-off corridor.

  “This must be it,” Betty said.

  Undeterred by the blocked entryway, Betty scooped up the skirt of her green silk ball gown and ducked under the thick red rope, beckoning me to follow her. I, too, slid under the decorous barrier and walked with her down a long, dark corridor, at the end of which was a massive, old oak door. Betty cracked it open and peered inside.

  “This is it,” she said, opening the door so we could enter.

  Betty flicked on a switch, which illuminated eight ormolu wall sconces with twinkly, candlelight bulbs. The enormous room was littered with suitcases and packing boxes. The walls were covered in dark blue silk damask. Over an intricately carved white marble fireplace hung an Old Master painting depicting the Rape of Lucrece. Two Gobelin tapestries hung on opposite walls, both showing hunting scenes. There were four towering windows. Their elaborate curtains hung on golden curtain rods with arrows at either end. Against the far wall, facing the fireplace, was the royal four-poster bed, whose canopy was a tapestry of heraldic shields.

  Betty navigated her way through the boxes and baggage to get a closer look at the bed’s carved posters and headboard.

  “Jo!” she cried. “Get a l
oad of this!”

  I walked over to the bed and looked up to where Betty was pointing. The entire inside of the canopy was covered by a mirror so that Max could watch his every move in bed. While Betty was inspecting the headboard’s famous hunting scenes, I walked over and looked out one of the windows. There lay the great estate, with its great gardens and pavilions, lit up and splendid indeed.

  Poor old Max, I thought to myself. Having to give up all this for a beach.

  After our little tour, we came back to the Great Room, where Betty pointed to an old lady sitting alone on an ornately carved chair in the far corner.

  “See that old lady over there? That’s the dowager Countess—Max’s mother, Mimsy Vermilion. I don’t see her in a bikini, do you, Jo? That’s the Vermilion fire opal around her neck. You have to go have a look. It’s the most incredible stone you’ve ever seen.”

  As I drew near the old woman, I was dazzled by the fiery red jewel, surrounded by diamonds, hanging on a diamond chain. It looked like the inside of a volcano, and its wearer looked like the outside of a volcano, her expression was so angry. The old lady caught me staring at her and immediately turned away with a sort of disgusted grunt. I felt sorry for the poor old soul, and I figured the nice thing to do would be to go over and talk to her, particularly as no one else seemed to be making the effort.

  I approached her, fully expecting her to be one of those feeble nonagenarians with whom conversation would be somewhat of a chore. All dressed in black, this diminutive woman had heavy, mannish features. In fact, she looked a little like Max in drag. Her white hair was pulled back into a wispy chignon, and her square face was patchy with peach powder, the kind old ladies use too much of, hoping to give themselves a healthy color. Her eyes were slightly cloudy from cataracts, and in her desiccated hand she held an old-fashioned lorgnette, through which she peered at the assembled company with a markedly censorious air.

  “Who are you?” she said accusingly, as I sat down.

  “My name is Jo Slater, ma’am. I know your son.”

  “Everybody knows my son,” she said, shrugging.

  “I was just admiring your beautiful jewel,” I said.

  “Don’t want to buy it, do you? I can give you a good deal, as you Americans say.”

  She was a feisty old woman, no question about that.

  “No, thank you,” I said, laughing.

  “What about that Christmas tree over there?” she said, pointing with her lorgnette to the heavily bejeweled Trish Bromire. “Think she’d like to buy it? She looks like the type who likes to spend her husband’s money.”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Never mind. The less one has to do with these people the better.”

  I was amused by this bitter old bird. She turned and peered at me through her lorgnette.

  “So you know my son, do you? You were never married to him, were you?”

  “No,” I said, laughing again. I couldn’t tell if she were serious or not.

  “Lucky you. Impossible man, just like his father. Only in my day we didn’t believe in divorce. Satanic thing, divorce. My son married rich girls who all wound up costing him a fortune. Four hundred years, we’ve lived in this house. Now it’s gone. And all because of my son’s wretched appetite for silly, spoilt girls. Stupid boy.”

  “Well, the world is very different than it once was, I guess,” I said.

  She fingered the fire opal. “Tell that to my son. Never worked a day in his life. . . . Just married all these impossible girls. . . . Look at him over there, feeling sorry for himself.” She inclined her head toward Max, who was sitting off by himself in a chair, smoking a cigarette, a drink in his hand, looking extremely forlorn indeed. “He should be feeling sorry for me, what? At my age, having to pick up stakes and move to some godforsaken place. And he just sits there, pining over that dreadful girl.”

  I perked up. “What dreadful girl?”

  “Oh, you know, the one he married in secret. His father nearly had a heart attack when he found out. Said we couldn’t have a girl like that in the family. I said, ‘You married her. You should stick with her,’ ” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at me as a proxy for Max. “His father won out, of course. No one ever listens to me. I don’t believe in divorce. It’s what’s got the world all upset. Makes things too easy . . . and too expensive.”

  I couldn’t imagine who she was talking about. “Which girl was that?”

  “I believe she’s referred to in gossip circles as ‘the Shady Lady Vermilion.’ The Shady Lady Vermilion, indeed,” she said with evident distaste. “I knew he’d never get rid of her. And then she shows up again . . . mutton dressed as lamb, that one. Tries to impress him by putting a roof on this house. Thought he’d marry her again, she did. And this time his father wasn’t around to say no . . . ha! Well, now she’s gone. And so’s the house and so’s the roof. . . . Such is life, I s’pose. But I never dreamed that at my age, I’d have to pick up stakes and move to God-knows-where. Stupid boy . . .”

  I was on the edge of my chair.

  “Lady Vermilion, let me get this straight. Did you say that the woman who put the roof on this house was once married to your son?”

  She looked at me with exaggerated wide eyes, as though I were an idiot. “What word in the sentence don’t you understand, my dear?” she said irritably. “Yes, that is precisely what I said. What of it? Couldn’t matter less now. That I should live to see this day!”

  I was dumbfounded. Carla Cole was the Shady Lady Vermilion. Suddenly, everything made perfect sense. Carla hadn’t wanted to get to the top of New York society at all. What she wanted was a fortune and respectability. She needed both to get Max back. Her aspirations were for Max, not money; her crimes were crimes of passion, not possession. I believe she had truly loved him. And from the disconsolate look on Max’s face, he may actually have loved her, too.

  Chapter 47

  At the dinner, I was seated next to Max, who had apparently requested me. Far from being his aloof, laid-back, slightly bemused self, he was now just plain weary. I thought it odd that he had never gotten in touch with me since my now infamous trip aboard the late Lady C. As the waiters passed huge roasts on silver trays, Max gingerly introduced the topic.

  “So you’ve really been through it, eh, Jo? Must have been frightening as hell to sink in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean at night, what?”

  I gave him what was now my standard answer. “In some ways it was the most thrilling night of my life,” I said. I then proceeded to elaborate on all sorts of irrelevant details, obviously omitting the salient one: that I had been forced to push Carla overboard.

  “Poor Carla,” Max said, as if reading my mind. “I rather enjoyed her. She was a game and generous woman.”

  “But you didn’t know each other all that long, did you, Max?” I said, baiting him, wanting to see how he would respond.

  He leaned in close to me. “Jo, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Carla and I were very old friends.”

  “Were you?”

  “Mmm . . . knew her before Russell. Before Hernandez, even.”

  “Did you?” I said, feigning surprise and not letting on what his mother had told me. “Why did you bother to hide it?”

  “Oh, well, you know, Jo . . . women like Carla . . . a fella doesn’t like to advertise the fact, what?”

  We sat in silence for a few seconds. Max stared into space, lost in thought.

  “You really loved her, didn’t you, Max?”

  He winced. “I’m going to miss this old place,” he said, avoiding my question.

  “Max, I know you were once married to Carla.”

  He looked at me askance.

  “How’d you know that?” he asked, obviously disconcerted.

  “Your mother told me you were once married to the woman who put a roof
on this house . . . Carla was the Shady Lady Vermilion.”

  Max shrugged. “Leave it to mother to lose everything but her memory.”

  “Max, I have to ask you this—not that I expect you to tell me the truth.” I paused. “Did you put her up to it?”

  “What?” he said softly.

  “Marrying Hernandez and Russell?”

  Max lowered his head. “That poor friend of yours who was killed, Jo . . .”

  “Larry, you mean?”

  “No . . . that woman . . . from Las Vegas . . . I believe her name was Ginger somebody.” He shot me a glance out of the corner of his eye.

  I suddenly felt uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Max.”

  He stared at me and raised his eyebrows. “No? Really? That’s odd. Carla said you did. Told me you and Ginger were quite chummy at one time.”

  He knew. Max knew.

  “Well, she was wrong,” I told him. “I’ve never met anyone with that name.”

  “Oh,” he said, nodding. “Well, you can’t meet her now. She’s dead. Murdered. Ghastly sort of death . . . I must be mistaken, then.”

  “Yes, you must be.”

  He paused. I thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t.

  “And yet . . .” he went on, “I don’t think I am.” He smiled. “ ’Course, I can’t prove it. Very difficult to prove past associations and connections, what? And what does it all matter now anyway? Let sleeping dogs lie, that’s my motto.”

  I suddenly understood what was going on. Max had put Carla up to it—just as I had suspected. He was the grand puppeteer after all. And this was his way of telling me that he knew all about me, too, and that the two of us had secrets that were better kept to ourselves.