One Dangerous Lady (20 page)

Larry nodded as if things were falling into place in his head.

“You know what I'm beginning to think, Jo?” he said pensively.

“What?”

“I'm beginning to think that Carla may be more of a planner than anyone gives her credit for. She meets Russell up here, realizes he's vulnerable, and files him away for future use, as it were.”

“Are you saying that she targeted Russell just like she targeted Hernandez?”

“Could be. Russell Cole was a good insurance policy in case things didn't work out the way she'd planned with Hernandez. And, of course, they didn't. Hernandez was too sneaky for her. When she was cut out of his will, she went after Russell. It wasn't that difficult because she'd already gotten her hooks into him up here.”

“Larry, do you really think anyone is
that
calculating?”

Larry stared out the window at the passing scenery. “Oh, yes . . .” he said absently. “Some people are very, very calculating indeed. It's a difficult thing to prove, though.”

My mind drifted back to the way I had met my late husband at a restaurant in Oklahoma City when he was still married. After his wife died, he concocted this ruse about my having met him at Tiffany's where I was working as a salesperson, an attempt to keep anyone from suspecting I'd been his mistress for over a year. I remember Lucius telling me to deny I was a salesgirl. “They'll find out you were, think they've discovered the deep dark truth about you, and they won't bother to look any deeper,” he said. “Just give the gossips something good to gossip about and you'll put them off the scent.” Lucius taught me that “the lie within the lie” always works. I wondered if Carla and Russell had concocted something of the same sort. Carla's old comment to me that we were “sisters under the skin” was taking on greater resonance as I got to know more about her.

“So do you think she killed Hernandez?”

“I have no idea. But Miguel says his father's death was very suspicious.”

“So did he shoot himself?”

“That's how it looked.”

“Twice?”

“No. That really is a myth. But there
were
questions about it being a suicide at the time. Differing accounts of where the gun was positioned when they found him, time of death, location of the wound. They cleaned up the scene and flew the body out before anyone could do any forensics.”

“But Carla was away in Paris, wasn't she?”

Larry looked at me. “She wouldn't be the first person in history to hire a hit man. Miguel told me that one of the guards on the estate left right after the shooting.”

“Did they find him?”

“No. He was a new man. He had given them a phony name and false identification.”

“Why didn't they prosecute him?”

“First of all, they couldn't find him. Second of all, I have a feeling that Miguel was none too anxious to have his father's affairs looked into too deeply. I suspect that Mexico's ‘pharmaceutical king' may have had a
muy grande
drug problem. That revelation wouldn't have been good for business, to say the least. Thirdly, they wanted Carla out of their hair. The family agreed not to pursue the case as a homicide if Carla agreed not to contest the will. According to Miguel, she walked away with no argument—which tells you something right there, doesn't it?”

“So she may have gotten away with the murder, but not with the money.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, the girl must have something, is all I can say. And I'd sure like to know what it is.”

“Carla Cole is a woman who knows instinctively how to manipulate men sexually. And she purposely picks on wounded game,” he said.

We drove in silence for a time, both contemplating the possibility that Carla Cole had set up two rich men.

After a time, Larry said, “You know me, Jo. I don't believe there's such a thing as ‘normal' when it comes to sex. Love and let love is my motto. But I do think that people with certain—shall we say—
unusual
sexual proclivities are more likely to have other problems. Compulsive sexual behavior seems to lead to other types of compulsive behavior. Or maybe it's vice versa. Maybe compulsive behavior is the cause of sexual obsession. But one thing I do know for sure from years of watching human nature: you can't keep a strong obsession in a watertight compartment. It's bound to leak out. And even if you think you've got it under control in one area, it has a nasty way of spilling out into another. And, let's face it, who better than a courtesan to understand and cater to obsession? That's her stock in trade.”

“Well, she's not exactly obsession-free herself,” I said. “Social climbing seems to be her obsession of choice.”

“Social climbing . . . the ladder with limitless rungs,” Larry reflected. “One of the most fruitless and ridiculous obsessions of them all.”

“But an obsession nonetheless,” I said. “And it certainly traps a lot of extremely intelligent people.”

“Yes, it does. I'm always amazed at the strange magnetism of the rich, and what people—even the most brilliant ones—will do to get to a certain party or be part of a certain set. And, of course, as you and I know only too well, what's the one thing you need above all else in New York to get to the top of the heap?”

I glanced knowingly at Larry as I drove.
“Money.”

He nodded. “Right . . . but in Carla's case, the marrying, the money, the social climbing—they may all be alibis for a deeper need.”

“Like what?”

“Like killing,” he said matter-of-factly. “Maybe that's what she
really
enjoys. After all, social climbing and murder are both processes of elimination, are they not?”

 

Chapter 23

B
etty called me up three days later and said hello in such a tearful, tremulous voice that I was certain she was going to tell me that our dear friend June had died. I, too, burst into tears when she said, “Oh, Jo, she's going to be okay! She's out of the coma and she's going home!”

I was thrilled and relieved. It was the one bright spot of news in an otherwise desultory climate. I literally got down on my knees and thanked God for saving my dear friend's life.

Betty and I raced over to the hospital, where Charlie was busy checking June out. The doctors had told him that she needed plenty of rest and absolutely no excitement, and to that end Charlie was taking her directly out to Southampton to recuperate. We all made a pact not to tell her that Carla Cole had gotten into her building, agreeing that the news might literally kill her.

Betty and I flanked June's wheelchair as a nurse pushed her down the hospital corridor to the elevator. Her legs covered with a blanket, she looked very thin and fragile. Her core of energy was gone. This was a mellow, gentle June, a woman who spoke softly and hardly moved at all, a shadow of her former, twittery self. As Charlie and the nurse helped her into the back of the limousine that Charlie had amazingly sprung for, June paused, looked up at Betty and me, and said, “Will I see you at the party?”

Betty and I both nodded. As they drove away, Betty said, “Well, some things never change.”

T
hree weeks later, Larry Locket escorted me to the opening night of “The Old Masters” show at the Municipal Museum. It was one of those stellar New York occasions where the social and cultural worlds come together in a glittery mix. Gentlemen in tuxedos and ladies wearing couture gowns and “jewels of mass destruction,” as Betty called them, prowled the rooms, ogling each other as much if not more than the extraordinary paintings. After the preview, there was a gala dinner in The Great Hall.

It was an extraordinary exhibition, even by Municipal Museum standards. Ethan Monk had spent three years persuading some of the greatest museums in the world to loan the Muni some of their most valuable treasures: Da Vinci's
La Gioconda
, on loan from the Louvre; Botticelli's
Venus and Mars
on loan from the National Gallery in London; Giorgione's
The Judgment of Solomon
, from the Uffizi; Titian's sensual portrait of
Danae
, and Raphael's
The Holy Family
, from the Hermitage; a Velasquez portrait from the Prado; a series of Dürer drawings from Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Museum—to name a few of the most impressive works.

Though far from being the greatest painting there, the Cinderella of the night was unquestionably
Judas and the Thirty Pieces of Silver.
Recently authenticated by the greatest living de La Tour scholar in France, the painting was now definitely attributed to Georges de La Tour. It was Ethan Monk's great find worth many times what the Muni had paid for it. And Ethan was the brilliant, self-effacing, very popular curator who had put the whole show together.

I knew Carla was going to be there because she had underwritten the cost of the entire exhibition. I figured she would be with Max. Their names were now linked in every gossip column and the rumor was that he had jilted me for her. Max called me occasionally, “just to check in,” as he put it. But I never saw him. I began to understand that Max collected people the way his ancestor had collected bronzes, just as he said. He strung his ladies together on an invisible necklace that he wore around his ego.

That night, however, Max wasn't there, which surprised me. Carla was standing in the receiving line between Ethan and Edmond Norbeau. She was dressed in a long gown of black satin, wearing a huge emerald cross on her neck. When Larry and I spotted her, he whispered to me excitedly, “My God, Jo, she's wearing it!”

“Wearing what?”

“The famous de Vega cross,” he said. “Hernandez's wedding present to her. If you look at it closely, you'll see it's cut from one
single
emerald, the other four corners of which were made into rings by Louis Cartier in the twenties and sold for about a million dollars each. Staggering prices at the time. It's so big and fragile that no insurance company will touch it. It's supposed to have a curse on it.”

“The curse is wearing it,” I said.

Neither Larry nor I were particularly anxious to greet Carla that night. Larry was still working on his article and our visit to Golden Crest had planted too many suspicions in both our minds. Ethan spotted us, and in one of those Ethanesque bursts of enthusiasm, he waved us over to say hello. He was generally oblivious to social intrigue.

“Might as well get it over with,” Larry said, mustering a party smile.

“Yes, in a place where there are no concealed weapons,” I said jokingly.

“Carla Cole
is
a concealed weapon,” Larry said under his breath.

Ethan Monk's frazzled, professorial air was muted that night by a dapper new tuxedo and stylish, high-tech glasses that made him look less myopic than his old horn-rims. Ethan was an admitted party hound and hosting tonight's event had spun him into a state of turbo excitement. This triumphant show reflected not only his scholarship, but his consummate diplomatic skills, as well. It was no mean feat getting foreign museums to part with their treasures—particularly in today's climate of danger and suspicion. Little beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead as he enthusiastically pumped Larry's hand and hugged me three times. Wild-eyed and slightly crazed, Ethan reminded me a little of Alice's Mad Hatter.

“Oh, Jo, isn't it a marvelous evening! Everyone's here! I can't believe it's finally happened. This is the dream of a lifetime. Thank you so much for all your support!”

Ethan and I chatted for a moment about the de La Tour, and how wonderful it was that Jacques Sebastien, the world's foremost expert on Georges de La Tour, had given it his imprimatur. Sebastien apparently came across an old inventory from a French château that backed up Ethan's belief that the painting was indeed by de La Tour père, not fils. Because the painting itself was impressive and because de La Tour was such a great artist, the story of the reattribution had made the front page of the Arts section of the
New York Times
that very day.

“And here is the other lady who made it possible!” he said, indicating Carla.

I felt a knot in my stomach as Carla extended her hand to me.

“Jo, dear, how lovely to see you,” she said, giving me two air-kisses, one for each cheek.

I was put off by her unctuousness, but tried not to show it. She then turned to Larry and said, “My dear Larry, how are you?”

“Very well, thank you, Carla. Still hoping for that interview,” he said with edgy cheer. I was amazed at how good he was at hiding his true feelings.

“Don't tell me you have not finished with your article
yet
? Are you writing a
book
about me?”

“One day, perhaps. I want to be thorough,” Larry said. “And unfortunately, your husband is still missing, so there's no great rush, is there?”

“You know, I am not very good at interviews,” Carla said, sighing. “But I am inclined to think you are a fair person and I really do not want you to have any sinister misconceptions about me. I would like for us to get to know each other better, Larry. Off the record, as you say. After all, we have been ships that cross in the night for so many years.”

“I'd like that, too,” he said.

“I am going to give a little party in my new apartment quite soon. It's nearly ready. Will you come?”

“Only if you invite me,” Larry said.

“You will have the first invitation, I promise.”

“Let me give you my address,” Larry said, pulling out a small, white calling card from his pocket.

Carla refused it. “Oh, I know precisely where you live,” she said.

I sensed a threat in her tone of voice, and from the look on Larry's face, I knew he sensed it, too. As we moved on down the receiving line, Larry looked at me and I looked at him. We said nothing. We didn't have to.

Later on in the cocktail hour, Larry and I drifted apart as we each said hello to various friends and acquaintances. It was nearly dinnertime and I was talking with Edmond Norbeau, who had dragged me off into a corner to tell me how wonderful Carla Cole was and how she had expressed an interest in being on the board of the museum.

“She's already given us a great deal of money, as you know, Jo. This exhibition tonight, underwritten by her,” he said in his soft, smooth voice, which had just a hint of a French accent, “and, of course, the de La Tour. You and she are the godmothers. But as you well know, Jo, it's not merely a question of money. What I would like, as you might imagine, is for the museum to become the beneficiary of the Cole collection one day. It's a superb collection. If she could arrange that, then I think you would agree we must at least entertain the idea of electing her to the board. What do you think, Jo?”

Over my dead body
, is what I wanted to say, but I was afraid that might be a little too close to the truth. I absolutely hated the thought of Carla Cole slithering into my world like this. With what I was starting to learn about her, I thought she might be quite dangerous. Bearing in mind Talleyrand's famous rule of life, “Above all, not too much zeal,” I forced myself to act nonchalant about the whole thing.

“You know, Edmond, I really think we must wait and see, don't you? After all, Carla might agree to something which—if Russell turns up—he might not agree to. And then we're stuck with her and no collection—not to put too fine a point on it.”

“But she is giving us a great deal of money, after all,” he said.

“Yes, but if you elect her because of that, it looks like anyone with a billion dollars can just
buy
their way onto the board of the Muni. Not the best image for us, do you think, Edmond?”

Edmond lifted his long-fingered hand and stroked the side of his thin Gallic face reflectively. “One sees what you're saying, of course.”

“Not that we shouldn't elect her
eventually
,” I added, wanting to cover my tracks in case Carla somehow got wind of this conversation. “But I doubt Carla herself wants to create the impression that she's using her money like some sort of a tool to jimmy her way into New York, do you?” I said this knowing that was
exactly
what she was trying to do.

“No,” Edmond agreed. “But we certainly would like to get that collection if we could. The whole world is after it.”

“I understand.”

A soft gong sounded. Edmond and I continued to debate the issue as we started strolling toward The Great Hall, where dinner was about to be served. Carla joined us and as the three of us walked to the glowing dining area, she said, “So, Jo, darling, have you spoken to Max lately?”

“No.”

“He is in London. He was simply devastated he could not be here tonight, and he told me to be sure to give you his love.”

“Did he?”

“This is Max's favorite museum, you know.”

“No, I didn't know,” I said.

“Yes, he admires it so much. Actually, Edmond, Max is the one who told me I should be on the board.”

I glanced up at Edmond, who was nodding with approval. And why not? Lord Vermilion was a very powerful ally.

Dinner in The Great Hall that night was smallish by Muni standards, in keeping with the exclusivity of the occasion. As opposed to the usual forty or so tables, only twenty round, candlelit tables of twelve floated like little sparkling islands on the dark stone floor. Each table was named for an artist in the exhibition. Larry and I were at the Botticelli table. Trebor Bellini, who usually did all the museum's party decorations, was away in Europe doing a major party for a minor royal. He'd left a new assistant in charge and, unfortunately, the results were less than stellar. The centerpiece of our table, for example, was a naked doll with long blonde hair cascading down her body, standing on an enormous scallop shell—a questionable homage to Botticelli's most famous work,
The Birth of Venus.
As Betty passed by and took a gander at the kitschy display, she remarked, “Well, well, well, if it isn't
The Birth of Barbie.
”

Dinner was pleasant enough, as always, Muni dinners being renowned for good food and good service. There were toasts in which I was mentioned along with Carla Cole. Our names being linked together didn't thrill me, to say the least. Ethan thanked us both for our “supreme generosity.” Edmond Norbeau called us both “great patronesses of the arts.” It was all very decorous—except for the spectre of Russell Cole, hanging over the The Great Hall along with the medieval banners.