One Dangerous Lady (3 page)

Russell's suite was sleekly furnished in shades of beige and gray. Curiously enough, there was almost no art in his cabin—just one picture, a stark gray-and-black Rothko above the bed, which I found depressing, and a miniscule Giacometti bronze sculpture, the skeletal figure of a man with a tormented face. Despite its luxury, the cabin had the impersonal feeling of a hotel room.

Carla's quarters were just the opposite. Her suite was decorated like a boudoir in an eighteenth-century
hôtel particulier.
No dark mahogany for her. The walls of her cabin were paneled with pale blue-and-white wood, distressed to make them look antique. In contrast to her husband, Carla preferred to live with watercolors depicting pretty country scenes and detailed interiors of royal rooms. In her dressing room hung a lovely little study of a woman seated on a chair wearing a flowing white dress and a large straw hat covered with a gauzy veil that partially obscured her face. The picture's initial charm turned macabre on closer inspection, as the viewer realized that the faint outline beneath the veil was not, in fact, a face, but a skull. Carla stopped in front of the little oddity, explaining that it was an anonymous Dutch
vanitas
picture of the eighteenth century she had picked up for a pittance in a flea market in Paris.

“I think it is most amusing, no?” Carla said as we passed it.

“
No
,” Betty blurted out. “I mean
yes
,” she quickly corrected herself, rolling her eyes at me. If Carla heard the slip, she ignored it.

The tour concluded, we all trooped up to the main deck. There was still no sign of Max. Betty, who was fearless and at this point rather tipsy, said to Carla, “So where the hell is Lord Vermilion?”

Carla smiled sweetly. “I am afraid that Max could not come tonight.”

“What?”
Betty screeched. “Why the hell not? We talked about the seating this morning! You were supposed to put him next to Jo, remember?”

“I do not know,” Carla said with a shrug. “He canceled at the last moment.”

Betty and I looked at each other. I have to admit, I felt somewhat of a letdown. Betty pressed Carla, asking her if Max had given any reason for the cancellation, but Carla was oddly evasive. She walked off saying she had to attend to her other guests. Later on, Miranda Somers, who knew the scoop on everybody, and who had in fact been the one who broke the story that Russell had left his wife of twenty-some years and had run off with Carla, told us the real reason that Max Vermillion wasn't there that night.

“The reason Max isn't here is because Russell disinvited him,” Miranda said. “Russell practically had a conniption fit when he found out Max was coming.”

“Why?”
Betty asked.

Miranda paused for effect. “Because Max has been dating
Lulu
,” she said with a knowing air.

Lulu Cole, of course, was Russell Cole's vindictive ex-wife.

Betty's jaw dropped. “You are fucking kidding me! He's dating the Chiffon Bulldozer? I don't fucking well believe it. How did she get her claws into him so fast?”

Betty always referred to Lulu as “the Chiffon Bulldozer” because of Lulu's airy determination to control whatever environment she was in. Lulu Cole was just the opposite of her ex-husband. A taut, resolute woman with a strict sense of style, Lulu threw herself into everything she did and at everyone she met—particularly when it was in her best interests. This quality was both her strength and her weakness. Lulu got a lot done, but made many enemies in the process. She had a knack of stepping on other people's toes and not saying “excuse me.” However, even her detractors—of which there were many—said she was a “capable” woman, brimming with generosity, energy, and organizational talents.

As Betty and Miranda discussed this new development, my mind drifted back to the days when the billionaire Coles first moved to Manhattan in the early nineties. Russell was then married to Marylou Cole, or Lulu, as she was called. Primed in the ways of social climbing, they bought an expensive apartment in one of the best buildings on Fifth Avenue, hired a chic decorator, donated ostentatiously to “fashionable” charities, and, most importantly, gave grand parties to which everyone yearned to go, if only to see Van Gogh's
Irises
, for which Russell Cole had paid a record sixty-five million dollars at auction. Lulu discovered Paris couture and became a great supporter of the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute. She bought signed vintage jewelry from Pearce, the glittery shop on Madison Avenue that was then in its heyday, and she arrived on the Best Dressed List in short order.

Photographed at chic opening nights and benefit galas, the Coles quickly became stars in
Nous
magazine, society's scrapbook. In her “Daisy” column for the magazine, Miranda herself had recoined the phrase “a Lulu of a party,” paying homage to Lulu Cole's formal dinners. In short, the Coles made all the right moves and soon reached the highest-level social life in the city, in a position to judge newcomers with the same catty eye by which they themselves had once been judged.

But as anyone who has ever endured the charity ball circuit will tell you, the smiles of social life are often masks for deep unhappiness. And Russell Cole was not happy. His rugged, midwestern good looks were bruised by melancholy. In conversation, his considerable charm was tainted by detachment.

As Lulu's interest in social life increased, Russell's interest waned. It seemed the more he marched, the more he tired of the parade. People who saw the Coles together often remarked on the lack of intimacy between them, and on the fact that Russell looked terminally bored. Betty said to me way back when, “You'd be bored, too, if you were treated like an accessory.”

Then, six years ago, Russell Cole bolted, with no warning. He left his chic and proper wife to marry Carla, who was then Carla Hernandez, an exotic widow with a murky past, more than twenty years his junior. Rumor had it Russell fell for Carla at a gala benefit when she flirtatiously started a bread fight with him from across the dinner table. He had asked her to dance and that apparently was that.

But Lulu was a fighter with a lot to fight for. She'd been married to Russell for over twenty-five years and she was the mother of his only child, a daughter named Courtney. When it became clear that Carla was not a passing fancy, Lulu hired a bomber lawyer who sicced a pack of private detectives on the flagrant couple. Lulu's hatred of Carla, already in full bloom, was fertilized by what she found out about Carla's background. The divorce dragged on for two gruelling years. Lulu eventually settled out of court for a rumored two hundred and fifty million dollars, plus real estate, plus artwork, on the strict condition she would never speak about the case, the settlement, or the past of the future Mrs. Cole.

The exact nature of the dirt she'd uncovered on Carla remained a topic of gossip in the social world for years, although people assumed that Carla was simply one more in that long line of courtesans and call girls who quickly launder their pasts once they marry rich men. And no one much cared whether Carla had been a call girl or not—no one except my other best friend, June Kahn, that is, who remained steadfastly loyal to Lulu and who always referred to Carla as “the hookerina.”

Carla's wedding to Russell famously divided New York. “To go or not to go—” that was the question. Obviously, those who went would incur Lulu's wrath. And those who did not go had little hope of joining the charmed circle of the notorious newlyweds. June Kahn had no problem. She boycotted the wedding. June was a foul-weather friend who loved taking up lost causes. She became an even greater friend of Lulu's after Russell left her. Betty was in a trickier situation because not only was Russell Cole the godfather of her child, he was one of her husband's biggest clients. Betty and Gil went to the wedding. Lulu never forgave them.

As for myself, I was invited and I very much appreciated the invitation—particularly because at that period in my life I was down on my luck and invitations to anything other than clearance sales were in short supply. I would have liked to have gone, but it was a period when I was just too depressed to attend social functions. I heard from Betty that it had been quite a shindig. She said that Russell Cole looked years younger, and his entire toast to his bride was a single whoop of joy.

“Hey, that's what happens when you finally get laid,” Betty had said at the time.

And now Lord Max Vermilion was dating the first Mrs. Cole, which supposedly was why Russell was in a bad mood. But why? I wondered. Why would he give a damn?

T
he bridal dinner took place two flights up on the sun deck, amid a little topiary forest, the theme of which was Wonderland because
Alice in Wonderland
was Missy's favorite childhood book. There were boxwood bushes cut in the shapes of the characters from the Lewis Carroll classic—the White Rabbit, the Cheshire Cat, the Red Queen, the Mad Hatter, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, the Dormouse, the Caterpillar, and Alice herself. It was cozy and spectacular at the same time. A real tour de force.

Ten round tables seating ten guests each were elegantly set with votive candles, antique silver, cut crystal glasses, and blue-and-white Chinese export vases brimming with fresh tropical flowers. At the place of each guest was a telltale red box tied prettily with white ribbon. One eager person at our table immediately opened the gift, inspiring the rest of us to do likewise. The boxes contained small gold Cartier desk clocks with diamond hands, each one individually engraved with the date of the wedding-to-be.

Later on, Betty and I figured out the little favors had to have cost a few hundred thousand dollars, probably more, prompting Betty to remark, “I always say there's nothing like a Cartier clock to count the minutes until the revolution.”

I was seated across the table from Russell Cole, who was flanked by Betty and Mina Brill. He looked morose throughout the dinner, and when the time came, he gave a tepid toast. He and Carla didn't look at each other all evening. Something had happened between the two of them, and Betty and I figured it must have had something to do with Max, although I still found it a little hard to believe that Russell would care who was going out with his ex-wife, especially after all these years.

“They should have told me they didn't want him in the first place,” Betty said. “Poor old Maxy—all alone at the Sandy Lane Hotel. Although, if I know Max, he's probably found ample companionship.”

Visible in the distance, across an expanse of black sea, was King's Fort, the rented villa where the Watermans and I were staying. The sky was sprinkled with stars. A pale moon hovered just above the horizon. I thought how nice it would have been to get to know Max better under those circumstances, but fate had obviously had other plans for us.

In any case, no one had any idea what was in store the next day, nor that what happened after that bridal dinner was to become the stuff of legend, as well as one of the great mysteries of the social world of New York.

 

Chapter 3

A
t nine the next morning—the wedding day—Betty and I staggered out onto the terrace for breakfast. Betty was wearing a loud, flower-print caftan, a thatched roof masquerading as a hat, and a pair of extremely large, extremely dark sunglasses. I was once again in my beloved terry cloth robe. I looked out over the ocean where the Coles' big white yacht gleamed like an evil smile on the horizon—a floating reminder of where I got my headache. Betty walked very slowly toward one of the chaises and eased herself down onto the long, striped cushion with great care. She kept the upper half of her body very still as she moved, as if she were trying to balance her head on her shoulders to keep it from falling off. Dermott, the tall, reed-thin, coffee-colored majordomo, was standing by with her usual—vodka and papaya juice—Betty's own “homeopathic” remedy for a hangover. She took a long sip, then let out the most enormous groan.

“Don't worry, Betts. It'll all be over soon,” I said.

“What? Me or the wedding? Just bury me here, okay? Under a palm tree. Because I'm dead. Why I said I'd give this lunch today is beyond me. . . . Oh well, I have to go over the seating for the wedding dinner with Mina anyway. Tonight you are
definitely
getting a crack at Max. I wonder where the old bugger went last night. Probably to find ‘a bit of strange.' ”

“What's that?” I asked.

“Oh, that's that wonderful expression the English have for extracurricular sexual activity.”

“ ‘A bit of strange.' I like that.”

“So does Max, from what I hear.”

With that, Betty turned her face up to the sun and lay still. I sat motionless in my chair, staring out at the sun-spangled water. Hazy memories of the previous alcohol-drenched evening were tumbling through my mind in slow motion when my eyes gradually focused on a motorboat hurtling toward us. At first I dismissed it as just another pleasure craft out for a jaunt on a Saturday morning. Then I realized it was aiming straight for our little dock. As it neared, I recognized it as one of the tenders from
The Lady C.

Jasper Jenks, the handsome, young Australian captain of the yacht, was standing up in the bow, stiff and alert in his spiffy white-with-gold-trim uniform and matching cap. Behind him sat two crewmen, gripping the sides of the boat as it bumped along the waves. In the stern sat Carla Cole, dressed in white, wearing sunglasses, a white scarf tied tightly around her head. Loose strands of her rust-colored hair blew in the wind. The helmsman slowed the motor and cut the power, expertly steering the boat alongside the small jetty. The two crewmen immediately jumped out and secured the craft. The captain gave his hand to Carla as he guided her up out of the boat and onto the sturdy wood planks of the dock.

“Well, well, well, look who's here,” I said, too tired to point at the little boat.

Betty cracked open an eye. “
Oh, Gawd!
” she groaned. “Don't
tell
me that's Carla! I invited them for lunch, not
breakfast
, for Chrissakes. What the fuck time is it?” She glanced at her watch. “Not even nine.
Shit.
”

Betty managed to rise from her chair and muster a wave and a smile at Carla, who was trotting up the beach toward the villa with the muscular young captain at her side. I, too, waved hello to our hostess of the night before, although my greeting was somewhat compromised by the pain of a nuclear headache. As Carla hurried across the lawn toward the steps of the flagstone veranda, Betty called out, “Carla, darling! That was the
most
divine party last night! Missy was thrilled. Thank you so much!”

The closer Carla got, the more apparent it became that she was in great distress. When she and the captain finally reached us on the patio, she stopped to recover her breath. Removing her sunglasses, her eyes darted anxiously between the two of us.

“Have either of you seen Russell?” she said, still panting.

Betty and I glanced at each other.

“Not since last night,” Betty replied.

Carla touched her hand to her forehead and reeled slightly, as if she were going to faint. The captain steadied her. Betty and I then ushered her to a chair. Betty offered her something to drink, but she declined with a shake of her head.

The captain said in his chipper Australian accent, “Captain Jenks, at your service, ladies. Mind if me and my lads have a look 'round the property?”

Betty, who was more concerned about Carla, waved him off, “Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

He trotted away. Betty and I pulled up chairs and sat down beside Carla, who stared into space as if she were in shock.

“Carla, honey, what's wrong? What happened?” Betty said.

No response.

Betty took off her sunglasses to make eye contact with me, but she quickly put them back on again because the light was too intense for her eyes. Betty knew from long years of experience that the hungover body had to be “eased into sobriety” the morning after, and I could see she dreaded coping with this drama. She braced herself with several sips of her spiked papaya juice, then said more firmly and with a hint of irritation, “Please, Carla . . . you
have
to tell us what's going on.” Betty had no patience for coyness before noon.

Carla flicked her eyes up at Betty.

“Russell is gone. We found his scull floating in the water.”

“His
skull?
” Betty ripped off her glasses and flung me a horrified look.

Carla's head bobbed up and down. “Yes, he takes it out in the mornings for exercise when the sea is calm. He loves to row.”

“Oh,
that
kind of scull,” Betty said, relieved. “Look, sweetie, I know you're upset, but try to tell us
exactly
what happened.”

Carla laid her sunglasses down on the table and took off her scarf. She spoke slowly and deliberately, staring into the distance as if she were reliving each moment in her mind.

“Russell and I got to bed quite late on account of the party,” she began.

“Thank you again, by the way. It was an absolutely marvelous evening,” Betty exclaimed. I found her polite interjection a little macabre at this point what with a potential body floating around in the water. But Betty was oblivious.

“Thank you, darling, you are sweet,” Carla said, acknowledging her. “Anyway, the last launch left just after three o'clock. Russell had had a great deal to drink . . .”

“Join the club,” Betty said.

“He was a bit unsteady,” Carla went on, “so I helped him to his room. We said good night and I went to my room as usual. Russell often gets up in the middle of the night or very early in the morning to go work on his computer. He does not like to disturb me. He's such a considerate man . . . a wonderful man . . .” she said, her voice cracking with sentiment. She recovered and went on, “Sometimes he knocks on my door to see if I am awake. He loves to tell me the news. . . . He Googles everyone, you know, to find out all about them. . . . Anyway, this morning, I heard the tapping on my door at a very early hour, and of course, I thought it was Russ. But it was not. It was the captain. He apologized for waking me up. He said that they had found the scull floating nearby in the sea and it was empty. Naturally, they immediately checked to see if Russell was in his cabin. He was not. So now they were checking to see if he was with me. Well! You can imagine how I felt. I was frantic.
Frantic!
So I got up immediately and put on a dressing gown and we all searched the yacht. But he was nowhere. I thought that perhaps he had swam ashore. So I got dressed and came here and . . .” Her voice trailed off. “
Oh, God. He's gone,
” she cried, as if the idea were dawning on her for the very first time.

As I looked at the distraught younger woman, I couldn't help thinking that if Russell Cole had indeed drowned, what a bizarre and tragic twist it was to one of New York's most notorious love affairs.

Carla managed to get a grip on herself. She talked on, going over the events she had just described in more detail. I felt sorry for her. However, I remember thinking even then that there was something slightly studied about her distress, some note that didn't quite ring true. It was as though she were watching herself from afar, rather than really living in the moment. At the time, I chalked it up to shock.

“Russell loves rowing,” she went on. “He was a champion in college and he does not understand that he must be very careful in these waters. When he gets into that scull, he thinks he is young again, and immortal. I have warned him over and over not to take that thing out when there is no one watching.
Oh, why he did not listen to me?!”
she cried in broken English.

“He's a man, honey,” Betty said, as if that were the obvious answer to her question.

Betty and I moved in closer around Carla, who twisted her scarf obsessively in her hands, hovering on the verge of tears. We encouraged her to be optimistic; meanwhile, we were exchanging despairing glances behind her back. Things didn't look good, to say the least.

“Russell is a very vigorous man, Carla, dear,” Betty said. “Even if his little boat did capsize, he could easily swim to shore. He's probably off sunning himself on the beach somewhere as we speak, never dreaming he's causing this much concern. He'll show up. You watch.”

Carla looked at her hopefully. “You think so? Really?”

“Yes, I do,” Betty said, sounding unconvinced. “Has the captain notified the Coast Guard?”

Carla shook her head. “I do not think so. We were so certain we would find him here.”

“Well, then, for caution's sake, I think we do need to get the professionals involved as soon as possible. I'll go find the captain and get things moving,” Betty said, rising wearily. “Jo will stay with you.”

As the mother of the bride, Betty was already nervous, coping with the inevitable problems which arise during the staging of any large wedding—particularly one on unfamiliar turf. The very last thing she needed was a full-blown crisis, but it seemed that's exactly what she now had on her hands. She hurried off in search of the captain, leaving me alone with Carla.

Further words of consolation seemed futile. I reached out and put a gentle hand on her arm to communicate my sympathy. Something about that human contact triggered a deep response. Carla clasped my hand and, in a dramatic, if somewhat awkward, gesture, she literally threw her arms around me and hugged me close, weeping like a little girl. I had no idea what to do except hold her and say the platitudinous, “There, there, it's going to be all right,” as she sobbed.

Ordinarily, a histrionic liberty coming from someone I didn't know all that well would have put me off, but in this case, I was extremely moved. Such a raw display of emotion is a rare occurrence, implying great trust. I felt a swell of sisterly affection for this younger woman who had turned to me so spontaneously. Her grief spent, she pulled away and kept her eyes lowered, as if she felt embarrassed by her outburst.

“I am so sorry, Jo,” she murmured, patting her eyes dry with her scarf. Her black mascara marred the white silk.

“Oh, don't be silly, Carla, dear. It's only natural to be upset. But I'm sure he's all right.”

I wasn't, of course. But what else can you say at a moment like that?

Carla looked up at me with a hopeful little smile, her eyes glowing with tears. Sorrow made her look childlike.

“Thank you for being so kind to me,
cara
Jo.”

The two of us sat in silence, both of us staring out at
The Lady C
, always referred to as “the Love Yacht” by the wags in New York. After a time, still gazing at the craft, floating majestically on the horizon, Carla turned to me and said in an unexpectedly cold voice, “I always hated that boat.”