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.”
Chapter 4
The handsome young captain of The Lady C finally informed the Coast Guard. At Betty’s insistence, Carla Cole personally telephoned the governor general, who had been a guest at the bridal dinner the night before, to apprise him of the situation.
“Honey, this ain’t the moment to be shy about using your connections,” Betty assured her.
Almost immediately following that call, two officers from the Barbadian Port Authority were dispatched to the villa. The Coast Guard searched the yacht and patrolled the area. Carla told everyone she was anxious to keep news of her husband’s disappearance under wraps for as long as possible. She argued that in the event he’d been kidnapped—a distinct, if remote, possibility—the utmost secrecy was imperative. Carla took the officers and some members of the Coast Guard out to the yacht so they could all look around. Both Betty and I offered to go with her, but Carla assured us she would be all right on her own. It was close to noon by the time everyone left.
“If my daughter’s wedding turns into a funeral, I’m going to kill somebody,” Betty said. She took a deep, disgruntled breath and added, “Well, I don’t know about you, Jo, but I’m going swimming!”
Betty went inside the pool cabana and changed into the black “neck-to-knee” bathing suit she had ordered from an online swimwear catalogue. Designed for women who are self-conscious about their figures, the suit achieved the opposite of its purpose, drawing maximum attention to the areas she wished to hide. It covered her thighs to just above her knees and with a bouffant bathing cap on her head, she looked like a hi-tech, middle-aged Bloomer girl.
“Pray I don’t bump into Russell,” she said just before plunging in.
I was watching Betty swim when I suddenly remembered the moment in Mina’s garden yesterday when Russell had compared himself to the green monkey. I recalled his exact words, “Sometimes I think I get a glimpse of myself . . . and then I disappear.”
Then I disappear.
I’d laughed politely at his macabre little joke, not thinking much of it at the time. But now it seemed prophetic.
As I watched Betty swim back and forth, completing her daily ritual, I wondered if Russell had been trying to tell me something, or if he’d perhaps had some sort of premonition. Did he know he was going to vanish?
Finally, Betty slogged up out of the water, dried herself off with a towel, and said, “I’ve been thinking, do you think we should set a place for Russell at the wedding dinner or not? I mean, in case he does show up?” She looked at her large, red waterproof watch. “Christ, look at the time! People will be coming in twenty minutes! I’ve got to go put on my face!”
“Social life goes on,” as the saying goes, so Betty didn’t cancel the lunch—although she would have had a perfect right under the circumstances. The party was mercifully small, however, compared to previous festivities, being pretty much a family affair, just Betty and me and the Brills and Miranda and Ethan. Gil Waterman would not be there. He was aboard The Lady C, helping Carla cope. Betty planned to tell everyone he’d gone to play golf. Missy and Woody were off having lunch at a local restaurant with their friends.
Betty changed into a stiff beige-and-white caftan with a brick design that made her look like the Great Pyramid. I put on a pair of white pants and a T-shirt. She and I waited anxiously for the guests to arrive, slurping down a couple of rum punches in the process, reiterating over and over how vital it was to keep our mouths shut about Russell.
“If anyone finds out, it will ruin the wedding,” Betty said.
“Right. It’s crucial we tell no one,” I concurred.
“Plus the fact that Carla’s afraid he might have been kidnapped, so if we tell anyone, it could put his life in danger.”
“Right.”
We were both trying hard to convince each other not to spill these golden beans, however tempting it was.
“So we’re agreed, right?” Betty said. “Not a word. Not one single word.”
“Not even a hint. My lips are sealed,” I said, running my fingers over my mouth as if to zipper it.
Miranda and Ethan were the first to arrive. They were staying just down the road at the Sandy Lane Hotel. Miranda was wearing a yellow muumuu, a rather chic gold turban, and sunglasses. Her pale skin appeared even paler in the harsh sunshine. Ethan, a scholar and a very professional type, looked surprisingly fit in a pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt. He had great legs, buff arms, and he obviously worked out. Betty and I steeled ourselves as they walked in.
“Remember—not a word,” Betty whispered.
We all air-kissed each other hello as Dermott passed around a trayful of his wicked rum punches.
Miranda raised her glass to us and said, “Well, here’s hoping they find poor old Russell Cole!”
Betty’s jaw dropped. She looked at me, then at Miranda, and said, “How the hell did you hear about it?”
“Oh, darling,” Miranda said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I hear everything! Remember, I was the one who first broke the news that Carla and Russell had run off together, for Chrissakes. You think I’m not going to hear about it when he vanishes off the face of the earth?”
“Tell me how you found out about it!” Betty demanded.
“Now, Betts, you know I’m never going to tell you, so why ask?”
Miranda never revealed her sources. People had begged her for years to write a book about all the dirt she knew, to which her double-edged reply was always, “Oh, honey, I want to live a little longer.” No one was ever quite sure if that meant she wasn’t yet ready to hunker down and write her memoirs, or if she thought such a revealing exercise would surely get her killed. One thing was clear. If any person knew where all the bodies in New York society were buried, it was Miranda Somers, who had been reporting on the parties, pastimes, and peccadilloes of the rich for close to four decades. And part of the reason she knew as much as she did was because she was discreet—at least in print.
We all knew of Miranda’s long and complicated history with Russell Cole and his two wives. When Russell Cole first arrived in New York married to Lulu, Miranda had elevated the couple to the social pantheon in Nous magazine. But it was also Miranda who broke the story when Russell ran off with Carla and the two of them holed up in the Hassler Hotel in Rome. In fact, word was that Lulu actually learned of her husband’s affair by
reading Miranda’s column, the headline of which was “Cole Comfort.”
Miranda had steadfastly refused to tell a soul who had tipped her off about the fugitive couple, and many suspected that the informant was, in fact, Carla herself, who may have cannily calculated that bringing the affair out into the open would force Russell’s hand. Whoever told Miranda, the strategy worked. Lulu was so upset over the public humiliation, she behaved extremely badly, thus ruining any chance she might have had at a reconciliation. This was all old news, of course, but of considerable current interest in view of recent developments.
“You’ve got to tell us,” Betty pleaded with her. “I mean, if Russell’s been kidnapped, it could be a matter of life and death.”
Miranda hesitated for a moment. “Well,” she said, obviously dying to tell us. “Just this once. Larry Locket called me.”
Larry Locket, a lanky southerner whose books about low crime in high places had all become international bestsellers, was a great friend of all of ours. He had made a brilliant career hunting down rich reprobates and turning their stories into long magazine articles or else thinly disguised works of fiction.
“And how the hell did Larry find out?” Betty asked.
“Who knows? Larry always knows things practically before they happen. He’s already on the story,” Miranda said. “He called me to find out what I knew. Of course, I hadn’t heard a word until he told me. I do know one thing for sure, though. Lulu won’t be a bit surprised. She always said Carla would kill Russell one day.”
“Oh, Lulu’s obsessed,” Betty said. “Hell hath no fury . . .”
One Dangerous Lady Page 4