Read One Dangerous Lady Online
Authors: Jane Stanton Hitchcock
“Now that you mention it, there were no photographers at her party for Missy Waterman. I thought that was a little strange, given that it was a bridal dinner.”
I started thumbing through the pictures. They were views mostly, but there was one group shot of the crew.
“He looks very familiar,” I said, pointing to a fair-haired young man standing in the back row.
“You met him. That's Jasper Jenks. He was the captain of the yacht when Russell disappeared. But he was only the bosun when that was taken.”
I looked harder at the photo. “My God, Larry . . . I think . . . wait . . . you know, that could be the
footman
!”
He squinted. “What footman?”
“Remember the footman who accused me of taking Carla's damn earring that night? I think that's him. I
knew
he looked familiar at the time. Don't you remember the footman who said he saw me put the earring in my bag? The one she very grandly told to leave? I think that's him.”
“Jo, are you sure?”
“Not sure, but I think so. I mean, someone planted that earring and framed me. I bet it was him.”
Larry looked at the picture thoughtfully. “That's very interesting indeed,” he said.
“You think I'm right? Could it have been him?”
“Well, here's the deal with Jenks. They fired their regular captain right before the trip when Russell disappeared, and promoted Jenks from bosun to captain. In order to do that, they had to re-register the boat in the Cayman Islands, because this fellow is from Australia and an American-registered vessel can only be commanded by an American captain. And that's one of the big things that's been gnawing at me: Why did Russell Cole replace his old captain right before that trip? Jenks had no command experience, so why would Russell have entrusted his precious yacht to him?”
“That's exactly what Gil Waterman said the day he disappeared. I thought maybe Carla had a crush on him or something. What do you think, Larry?”
“Well, there are a few possibilities, but one is that Jenks may have been in on the plotâif there was a plot.”
“And you think there was?”
“I do. If Russell was killed on board the boatâand I suspect he wasâCarla would definitely have needed help, both with the murder itself and disposing of the body. Given my theory that rich people like to hire others to do their crimes, maybe Jenks is our killer.” Larry's eyes glittered with intensity.
“But you can't prove it.”
“No . . . but now that I suspect it, I know what to look for.” He shook his head. “I wish to hell I'd been able to talk to Lulu's spy.”
“Carla's very clever at covering her tracks, isn't she?” I said.
“Well, maybe not as clever as she thinks,” Larry said. “Have a look through the rest of the pictures, Jo. I'll just go change.”
He put down his coffee cup and left the room. I thought I detected something odd in his manner. I continued thumbing through the photos, and then I came to one that arrested my attention. It was a shot of some big costume party taken aboard
The Lady C.
Off to one side were two women in similar halter dresses, wearing matching blonde wigs. They were holding drinks with little paper umbrellas in them, mugging for the camera. One of the women was Carla. Despite her animated expression, her eyes were, as usual, as lifeless as two stones. However, it was the woman beside her who really caught my attention. It was Oliva, my blackmailer. I recognized her, despite the blonde wig.
I sat for a few moments just staring at that picture, wondering if Larry had made the connection and if that were the real reason he'd wanted me to look at the photographs. He finally came back into the room, dressed in beige trousers, a blue blazer, and the colorful shirt and tie that were his trademarks. He stood at the door and lit his pipe, eyeing me through the smoke.
“So what'd you think of the pictures, Jo?”
I was flustered. “Well, they're interesting. Courtney took them, did she?”
“Yes. A couple of years ago on her last visit to the yacht.” He walked behind me and looked over my shoulder. “That's an interesting one there, isn't it? I was struck when I saw it. Isn't she the spitting image of Countess de Passy?” He pointed at Oliva with the stem of his pipe. “Of course, it can't be the countess because she was dead by the time that picture was taken.”
I pretended to examine the photograph more closely. “Um, now that you mention it, there
is
some resemblance. I wouldn't say she's the
spitting
image, though.”
“That's just because she's wearing a blonde wig. But with dark hair . . . ? She'd be a dead ringer for your old nemesis.”
I glanced up at Larry, who was staring down at me with an enigmatic smile. “So, um, do we know who she is, anything about her?” I asked him, terrified his answer would be yes.
“No. She was just a guest on board the boat that night.”
I put the pictures back into the envelope and handed it to Larry. He walked over to his desk and sat down, laying the envelope aside. I remained silent. Facing his computer, Larry stared at the document on the screen.
“Is that your article?” I asked him.
“Just notes. . . .” He sighed. “I don't know, Jo . . . for the first time in my career, I feel I'm at a loss.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, contrary to every other assignment I've had, it seems that the deeper I get into this particular story, the more I
don't
want to know.”
He turned and looked at me pointedly. I knew what he was thinking. We both knew what was being left unsaid. I felt sure that by showing me those pictures, Larry was hoping I would confide in him. And I knew that if I ever told another living soul the truth about my life, it would be Larry Locket. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Not that day, anyway.
“Writing is such an odd process,” he went on. “No matter what the subject, the writer is always, in some sense, writing about himself or discovering something about himself. Writing is like friendship in a wayâalways bigger than the sum of its parts. I want you to know, Jo, that I consider you a dear friend.”
“And I you, Larry.”
Larry went on, “I also want you to know that if, in the course of my investigation, I uncover something that will be detrimental to our friendship, I will not write this article.”
This was an amazing moment. “Larry . . . I can't ask you to do that.”
“I know. You didn't ask me. I'm just telling you. I've been in this business a very long time, Jo. I know people who would chop up their mothers to get a good story. But to me, no story is worth a good friendship. I guess I've just been around too long. I know that stories are a dime a dozen, but real friends are very rare.”
“Thank you, Larry.”
He exhaled fiercely. “That having been said, however, there's something about Carla Cole that is so deeply disturbing to me that I really feel she needs to be exposed. I've never run across anyone like her before. Oh, she's shiny, polished, and polite, all right. And when you look at her, it's impossible to believe she's done what I suspect she's done. . . . This may sound odd, Jo, but she kind of reminds me of the time I visited the Hatterson house.”
One of Larry's most famous cases involved a twenty-year-old unsolved murder that had taken place on Long Island. Mary-Ann Keating, the beautiful, seventeen-year-old daughter of John Keating, who was then president of the elite Millstone Club, was found raped and bludgeoned to death on the beach near her parents' house in East Hampton. The young woman's murder was never solved, although police at the time strongly suspected the involvement of Gregg Hatterson, the nineteen-year-old son of Julian Hatterson, a billionaire from New Jersey, whose house was two doors down from the Keatings.
Over the years, the case went cold. It caught Larry's interest when he befriended John Keating at a meeting of a victims' rights group in New York. Keating told him he had always suspected “the young Hatterson boy” of killing his daughter because she had rejected him. The disconsolate father kept tabs on young Hatterson and told Larry he had been in and out of trouble with the law for most of his adult life. Larry tracked Gregg Hatterson down. He was an alcoholic, living on the remnants of a trust fund. Larry learned that over the years Hatterson had boasted to several of his friends that he had “gotten away with murder.” Working with a retired private detective, Larry gathered enough circumstantial evidence to get the case reopened. New DNA technology proved that Gregg Hatterson and Mary-Ann Keating had been together that night. His semen was on her clothes. Eventually indicted and convicted of manslaughter, Gregg Hatterson was sent to prison for his old crime. Meanwhile, Julian Hatterson had vowed revenge on the man who put his son away. That man was Larry.
I asked Larry what he meant when he said Carla reminded him of going to the Hattersons.
“Let me see if I can explain it. I remember going out to East Hampton on this beautiful May day and walking all around the Hatterson property, looking at the trees and the greenery, smelling the sweetness of spring, feeling the warmth of the sunshine on my skin. The house is one of those huge, old, gray-shingled cottages. Very well tended. Very proper. All the hedges neatly trimmed, the grass freshly mowed. I went inside. It was filled with pricey early American furniture. Everything was so perfect it was hard to believe that something so horrendous had once happened there. And yet, after a while, I got this eerie, cold feeling. I could feel the crime all around me, like the vibration of it was still in the air, a secret that the place kept for years and years . . .” He paused, lost in thought for a moment. “Anyway,” he shrugged, “being with Carla Cole kind of reminds me of that day.”
“You make her sound supernatural.”
He smiled. “No, Jo, that's the writer's imaginationâthe instinct, the alchemy we rely on to tell us what's true and what's not. With Carla, I sense this terrible chill behind her beautiful façade, just like in that house. You can just feel it, you know, this evil vibration.”
He had Carla's number, all right.
We talked a little more about the article. It was all I could do not to confess everything to him that morning. But something stopped me. I couldn't bring myself to take the chance, nor to burden him with that terrible knowledge. We finished our coffee and I got up to leave. Larry walked me downstairs to the front door.
“Thanks for coming over, Jo. You're a good friend.”
Just as I was leaving, I turned and said, “Larry, tell me something. Why do you keep all that hate mail? Why don't you just get rid of it?”
“Partly for insurance. I keep the particularly bizarre and vicious ones in case I get bumped off one day. It'll give the police some leads,” he said with a grim chuckle.
“Nothing's going to happen to you,” I said, kissing him on the cheek.
“Dead rats notwithstanding?” he said with a wink. “But I also keep them for another reason.”
“What's that?”
“If ever I get too complacent, I'll just reach down into that drawer and pull out one of those letters to remind myself that there are real crazies in this world. And real evil.”
I
walked home from Larry's house, deep in contemplation. I suspected that he was beginning to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and that it was only a matter of time before he figured out the truth about my involvement in Monique's death. Once he figured that out, the only question would be: Could he unmask Carla and protect me at the same time? If not, would he abandon what was arguably the biggest story of his career? Knowing Larry, I felt he would, in order to protect me.
But who was Carla Cole? And what did she really want? Was there a purpose to her mayhem? Or was she like some sort of serial killer socialite, doing away with people just for the thrill of it? Some people think that great wealth puts them above the law and entitles them to do whatever they want to whomever they please. Had great wealth corrupted Carla? Or was her corruption always there, looking for a venue?
I was also beginning to wonder if it was pure coincidence that the Coles had come to Barbados for the wedding. True, Russell was Missy's godfather, but according to Betty, he had never taken the slightest interest in her before. Was it possible all this had been a setup and I had been the dupe? The facts spoke for themselves; Carla was on the board of the Muni and I was off.
It seemed to me that what Carla wanted was to conquer that mirage commonly referred to as New York society. She was certainly not the first, nor would she be the last, to want to reign over the Big Golden Apple, to hold sway over its great institutions, have access to the most private precincts of privilege, give the parties everyone wanted to go to, and most importantly, to exile those whom she did not like to the B-list and make their frivolity in wanting to be included seem even more inconsequential than her own desire to exclude them. Social life in New York was more competitive than the Olympics.
I've always thought of social life as an obsession, rather like murder, in that its importance lies solely in the mind of the perpetrator. Carla's mind was an intricate maze. Getting to its center was a dangerous puzzle. The Minotaur was always lurking.
It even frightened me to criticize her because it put me in mind of my late friend Clara Wilman's famous dictum, Tell me what you criticize and I'll tell you who you are.
Sisters under the skin . . .
Â
F
or the moment, however, I tried to put Carla and Oliva out of my mind. Without the Municipal Museum, I no longer had a focus for all my energy. I had to find a new way to contribute to the community. This is not as easy as it sounds, particularly when you've dedicated your whole life to one institution. I realized more and more how the Muni had been another home for meâa home from which I was now exiled.
I was sitting in my library one evening, looking over the financial reports of several, smaller institutions, weighing the possibility of my involvement with them, when the phone rang. I picked it up and immediately recognized the throaty voice at the other end of the line.
“Hello, Jo. It is Carla. How are you?”
“Fine, no thanks to you. What do you want?” I said curtly.
“Jo, dear, I would love you to come and have tea with me tomorrow, if you are free.”
“Why? So you can accuse me of stealing something else?”
“Oh, Jo, what a ghastly misunderstanding that all was. You know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that someone must have put that stupid earring in your bag as a joke. And the footman thought that it was you. We older ladies all dressed up must look alike to these young men, no?”
I didn't want to tip her off to the fact that I suspected Captain Jenks was the footman who had accused me.
“Carla, I can't imagine we have anything to say to each other at this point.”
“But I would like to talk to you about something.”
“What?”
“It is not something I can discuss with you over the telephone. It is a matter of some delicacy. Please, Jo. Do me this favor.”
I casually wondered what Churchill would have done if Hitler had invited him to tea. I hesitated, then agreed to go mainly out of sheer curiosity.
“All right, I'll come. I'd like an official taster there, please.”
She didn't get the joke.
“I am certainly not going to poison you, Jo! You will be quite safe, I promise,” she said seriously. “Shall we say four o'clock,
cara
Jo. I am looking forward to it.”
I wasn't.
J
ust like its occupant, Carla's grand apartment looked coarser in the daylight when sharp edges are more apparent. Far from Miranda Somers's description of a deep blue sea covered with fairy dust, the famous lapis lazuli floor looked like nothing more than what it was: a giant expanse of cold, blue stone, flecked with pyrite. All the gilt and grandeur was oppressive, like the clutter of an antiques shop. Mercifully, there were no footmen in livery around to greet me. In fact, Carla met me at the door herself, all smiles and charm, acting as if we were the greatest of friends.
“You know, Jo,” she said airily as she led me through to the living room, “I do so wish you had not resigned from the museum. You and I could have had such fun together planning the Cole wing.”
She motioned me to sit down on the brown silk moiré couch in front of a red coromandel screen. She sat catty-corner on an Empire chair with two gilded eagle's heads at the end of each armrest. A butler came in carrying the tea service on a large silver tray. He laid the tray down gingerly on the crackled laquer coffee table in front of us.
“Will you have some tea, Jo? Or would you prefer something more substantial?”
Figuring I was going to need alcoholic assistance to get me through this, I said I wouldn't mind a glass of wine if it were being offered.
“Would you like a glass of champagne? I will join you.”
“Champagne's fine, thanks.”
Carla didn't have to say anything to the butler. He gave her a little bow and left the room.
“So . . .” she began, “do you think your friend Clara Wilman would approve of what I have done to her old apartment?”
I looked at her squarely. “Carla, I ask you again. What do you want?”
“There is no need to be so tense, Jo. We are going to have a lovely chat. Can you not just relax?”
“No.”
The butler returned with a bottle of Cristal champagne in a silver ice bucket and two champagne flutes. He poured us each a glass. Carla raised her glass to me for a toast.
“To friendship,” she said.
I didn't respond. I just drank down the delicate flute in one gulp. The butler poured me another, then Carla rudely motioned him to leave the room.
“Well, let me tell you all about London,” Carla said, daintily picking a cigarette out of a gold box on the coffee table. “I went to Max's ball and it was absolutely divine. Max sends his love to you, of course. He was so sad you were not there. People came from all over Europe so it was rather a chic crowd for England. Englishwomen have no idea how to dress, most of them. They have got bad clothes and great jewels. You see some of those old dowagers wearing the most extraordinary diamond parures. Inherited, of course. But Max appreciates stylish women. He really does. He has a wonderful eye, Max . . .”
I listened to her go on about Max and his eye, wondering where this was all heading.
“. . . And, of course, Jo, he is extremely fond of you.”
“Well, I can't think why, because we don't know each other very well,” I said, thinking how it was Max who had started the searching of the evening bags at the party, which led to my embarrassment. I didn't trust old Max any more than I did Carla at this point.
“Your opinion means so much to him. He respects your taste and your integrity . . .” She put down her champagne glass and finally lit the cigarette she'd been holding. She exhaled a fine plume of smoke. She stared down and thought for a moment, obviously troubled by something.
“Opinions of others matter a great deal to Max,” she said at last.
“Really? It's always been my impression Max didn't give a damn what anyone thought.”
“That is only what he pretends. It is all part of that British affectation. He cares, believe me. He cares a great deal what others think. Especiallyâhow shall I put it? He cares what other people think in regard to himself.”
“I'm not following you.”
“Max likes his surroundings to be elegant. He does not want to be associated with tawdriness of any sort.”
“That makes two of us. But you can't always get what you want,” I said, pointedly looking at her.
If Carla got my little barb, she ignored it.
“What I mean is, Jo,” she went on, “Max would not like to be connected with anyone or anything which had a dubious reputation.”
I began to see where she was headed, but I didn't say a word. I just waited and let her go on.
“You know, Jo, I did not grow up poor. I grew up worse than poor . . . I grew up on the fringes of wealth, so that from a very young age I understood its real power. But on the other hand, I also understood very well what it was like not to have it.”
“And just where
did
you grow up, Carla?” I was interested.
“That is not important,” she said irritably, waving her hand in the air as if she were brushing aside a fly. “What is important is that I grew up understanding that money can buy quite a lot, but
wealth
can buy
anything.
” She smiled. She looked like a cat when she smiled. “I always wanted to be not rich, Jo, but
wealthy.
So wealthy that I could command my own life with a great degree of certainty. It was my dream ever since I was a little girl and had to watch the humiliation that comes from being no one and nobody in this world. Wealth makes you invulnerable to everythingâexcept illness, of course. But even then, you can get the best doctors with a lot of money.” She paused to take a little puff of her cigarette. “. . . And I am happy to say that I achieved my dream. You are looking at a woman who can buy anything, Joâ
anything
she wants. That is rare for a woman, no?”
“I'm thrilled for you, Carla. But you can't buy me, if that's what you have in mind.”
She leaned forward and said solicitously, “But I do not have to
buy
you, Jo. You are my
friend.
”
In her mouth, the word “friend” gave me a chill.
She went on, “Now, people will tell you that if they were rich, they would want all sorts of material things. Houses, planes, jewels, furs, what have you . . . But I will tell you what rich people really want more than anything.”
“I'm all ears,” I said.
“Privacy,” she said simply. “We want complete and total privacy. That is what we really crave, is it not? You yourself are rich, Jo. You know that I am speaking the truth.”
“I'll take your word for it.”
“And anything that infringes upon our privacyâwhether it is something as mundane as the noise from a neighbor or a photographer snapping our photo at an inopportune momentâis troublesome and irritating.”
“Okay . . .” I began to see where she was headed.
She took a drag of her cigarette and readjusted herself in her chair, crossing her shapely legs. She sighed hard. “Max and I had a long talk about this in London. You know, I am becoming quite fond of Max and he of me, I think. He has been so kind to me since Russell disappeared.”
I could just see those sugar plum visions of herself as Lady Vermilion dancing in her calculating little head.
“And just how is the search for your missing husband progressing?” I interjected in a purposely mean-spirited way.
She ignored my insinuating tone of voice. “Sadly, there is no more news. There has not even been a dubious sighting in weeks and I am beginning to fear the worst. But I will never give up hope! He has disappeared before and he has returned before. And he will return again, I know it! I
feel
it!” she announced rather melodramatically.
I shifted in my seat, wondering how she managed to keep a straight face.
“Anyway,” she went on, “as I was saying, Max loathes publicity. Oh, he likes to have his picture taken at grand events, who does not? It's rather amusing to see oneself in the pages of a magazine. But he really does not relish any sort of intrusion into his private affairs. And so I think it is rather difficult for him to be associated with me at this point, given the interest of the media in Russell's disappearance.”
“That's too bad. But what can I do about it?”
“Jo, it is all dying down nowâthis awful publicity. Thank God! I would hate for it to suddenly flare up again. So would Max.”
“Andâ?”
I said impatiently.
“And, well, what concerns me now is that I feel that my privacy is about to be invaded.”
“I'd say it's been pretty invaded already, wouldn't you?”
“Yes, but not quite in this way.”
“What way are you talking about?”
She sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Your friend Mr. Locket is writing an article about me.”
“Not just about you. About the whole case.”
“Yes, but I know that he has some rather mistaken notions about me. Lulu is cooperating with him and she must have told him terrible things about me.”
Now I definitely got where she was headed.
“Why don't you give him an interview, then, if you're so worried?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Max thinks that would be a great mistake. He says it is always an error when people try to tell their side of the story. Silence leaves so much more to the imagination.”
“Well, old Max has got a point there, Carla. But, on the other hand, if you leave too much to people's imagination, they may not like you. They may, in fact, suspect you of evil deeds. So if you don't talk to Larry, you take your chances, don't you?”
“Any article about me would naturally include Max. We have been seeing a great deal of each other. Max is very concerned what Mr. Locket might say about him.”
“What can he say? That Max has been married a lot? That he has a dark side?”
Suddenly stoney-faced, Carla leaned forward and pinned me with a dead-eye gaze.
“Tell Mr. Locket that it would be very unwise of him to publish his article.”
I was dumbfounded.
“Is that a threat?”
Her hand shot up in protest. “Not at all! A strong request.”
“Like that dead rat you put on his doorstep?”
She feigned innocence.
“What are you talking about?”
I shook my head in vague amusement. “You don't know Larry very well if you think he's easily intimidated. But if you don't want him to publish that article, why don't you call him up and tell him yourself. Why tell me?”
“Because I feel it would have so much more weight coming from you, Jo.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you know him. And you know me . . . and you know the friend that you and I have in common,” she said in a sly voice.
“What friend is that?” I said, understanding full well who she meant.
“You know . . . our friend from Las Vegas?”
I took a deep breath, gearing myself up. “Okay, Carla, since we're being very frank here . . . I saw the picture of you and Oliva on your boat.”
She lurched back and furrowed her brow. “Oliva? Who is Oliva?”
“Our mutual friend from Las Vegas.”
“I do not know anyone by that name.”
“I suspect she goes by a variety of names. And although I think you know that I pay
support
to her,” I said, carefully choosing a word other than blackmail, “I doubt you know the reason why.”
Carla cocked her head to one side. “No? How can you be so sure?”
“Because you definitely would have used it against me by now.”
Carla feigned hurt. “You do not think well of me, do you, Jo?”
I couldn't help laughing. “Carla, we are so far beyond whether or not I think well of you. . . . I suspect our mutual friend told you some things about me, told you she had some hold over me. But I seriously doubt she was dumb enough to tell you what that hold is because that would take away her power. And she's a smart cookie.”