One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “Still,” Miranda went on, “Carla seems to have rather bad luck with husbands. Remember poor old Mr. Hernandez.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Ethan recalled. “He committed suicide, didn’t he?”

  “If you call shooting yourself twice suicide,” Miranda said. She nonchalantly examined her manicured red fingernails with the air of one who is no longer impressed by the horror of such stories.

  Ethan said, “How could it possibly have been a suicide if he was shot twice? Bang!” he joked, pointing his index finger at his head as if it were a gun. “Oops, I’m not quite dead yet! Bang again? I don’t think so.”

  “I think that’s the point, Sweets,” I said, amused at how dense my brilliant friend could be at times.

  “Oh. Wait. Do we think Carla killed him?” Ethan said, wide-eyed.

  “Or had him killed,” Miranda said. “I don’t know for sure, of course, but the rumors were certainly flying around at the time. Of course, there was no proof. The body was cremated and there wasn’t an autopsy, so we’ll never know what really happened. You know how it is—people will believe what they want to believe, depending on whom they like or dislike. It’s just social life.”

  “God, you sound exactly like June,” Betty said.

  Betty was referring to our close friend June Kahn, who dismissed almost all interaction between people, from minor spats to armed conflict, as being “just social life,” as she put it.

  Betty shuddered. “Jesus, what if Russell washes up on the beach during the wedding?”

  “The wedding’s at night. No one will see,” Miranda said dryly.

  Since the cat was out of the bag, Betty and I told Miranda and Ethan all about Carla showing up earlier that morning, and how Gil was on the boat as we spoke, helping her coordinate the search.

  “I’m telling everyone—including Missy—that Gil is playing golf,” Betty said.

  “They’ll certainly believe that,” Miranda said.

  “Under no circumstances can we tell Missy or Woody or the Brills,” Betty said firmly. “In fact, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to another soul. I really don’t want my daughter’s wedding to be remembered as a missing person’s case.”

  At that precise moment, the Brills arrived. Betty plastered a smile on her face and sailed over to greet the arriving party.

  “Mina! Freddy! Welcome! Let’s all have another rum punch!”

  “Greetings, everyone,” Freddy Brill said, waving a hairy arm. “I remember when Michael Duncan used to own this villa,” he said.

  Freddy, a beefy English stockbroker who had inherited Cockleshell from his father and who had vacationed in Barbados as a child, was always full of island trivia.

  “Yes, dear Michael Duncan!” Miranda exclaimed. “I knew him quite well. He was such a ladies’ man. And, of course, you know he was ‘excused shorts’ in the British army because his schlong was so long, it dangled down to the middle of his inner thigh.”

  Betty and I laughed out loud, but Freddy and Mina Brill both looked completely mystified, and I really did wonder what on earth these clean-cut, shiny-faced people were thinking. I was well aware of just how insulated and wrapped up in ourselves our little social set was. Like sixteenth-century Paduans, the New Yorkers in my rarified group believe and behave as though we are the center of the universe. But the truth is, despite the fact that we live like kings and queens and our real estate is a thousand times more expensive than most anywhere else in the world, we’re quite a provincial bunch. So it’s always fascinating for me to see people from the outside world reacting to us.

  “Did you all know that this villa was designed by Oliver Messel?” Ethan asked, obviously hoping to break the slight tension. Oliver Messel was the late, great English set designer who had settled in Barbados in the 1950s and been responsible for creating some of the most famous houses on the island.

  “Oh, yes,” Mina Brill said. “Messel green. Such a lovely, soft color. The color of sage . . .”

  During all this polite banter, I could feel Betty rumbling with consternation, like a volcano ready to explode.

  “Well, listen, everyone, we have a big day ahead, so let’s eat!” she said.

  As they all headed for lunch, I made an excuse and sneaked back to my room to call Larry Locket. Larry and I were great friends. We loved dishing the latest gossip with each other and I wanted to tell him I was on the scene. There was no answer, though, so I left a message on his answering machine.

  “Larry, Jo Slater. Guess where I am? Barbados, staying with Betty and Gil Waterman. I’ll be your stringer!”

  I left a number where he could call me.

  Lunch was served in the lattice gazebo a short walk from the main house. A large, round table was set with flowered linens, green-and-white china, green-tinted glasses, and in the center, a shallow glass bowl filled with tropical flowers. It was a cool spot in the middle of the day.

  “Wasn’t last night simply divine? And by the way, where are Russell and Carla?” Mina Brill asked as the six of us sat down.

  “Yes, Russell and Carla,” echoed Freddy Brill in his huffingly British voice. “And Gil. Where’s Gil?”

  “And Gil, of course!” Mina said. “Where are they all?”

  Miranda, Ethan, and I all exchanged surreptitious looks. I knew that Betty was champing at the bit to tell the Brills that Russell was missing, but she wisely refrained, answering Mina’s question nonchalantly.

  “Oh, Gil’s playing golf and Russell and Carla are resting on the boat. They said they wanted to conserve their energy for tonight.”

  “I am just so thrilled that Missy wanted to get married at Cockleshell—endless trouble though it is. That flower man you sent me knows nothing about flowers,” Mina Brill said. “And we really do need to go over the seating again, Betty.”

  “No problem,” Betty said with clenched teeth. “The only thing I insist on is that we seat Jo next to Max Vermilion.”

  Mina Brill got a beatific look in her eye. “Oh, Lord Vermilion! Isn’t he the most charming and handsome man in the whole, wide world?”

  “I thought I was the most charming and handsome man in the world, darling!” Freddy Brill said with a cartoon wink.

  Mina, who related everything to horticulture, responded, “Yes, but there’s something so . . . so rare and elegant about Lord Vermilion. He’s like a black tulip.”

  “More like a Venus flytrap,” Betty muttered under her breath.

  During lunch, I noticed that the air, so cool and pleasant in the morning, was growing humid and heavier by the minute. Betty obviously felt it, too, for she casually remarked, “Christ, I hope it’s not gonna rain.”

  “You hope!” Mina Brill cried. “Good Lord, if it rains, we’re ruined! Ruined!”

  “Now, now, ladies, don’t fret. It’s not going to rain,” Freddy Brill assured us all, raising his hands as if he were pushing back our fears.

  “No? What are those, then, Freddy?” Betty pointed out to sea at the pile of lead ingot clouds stacked up on the horizon.

  “Nothing to be concerned about, Betty, dear,” Freddy Brill said. “Just a slight afternoon buildup. Happens all the time down here. They’ll all clear away by evening. You watch.”

  “They look pretty dark,” Ethan observed.

  “Trust me, Mr. Monk, this old Bajan here knows his Barbados weather. Been coming down here since I was a lad. It’s going to be a splendid evening . . . splendid. Bet you a hundred American dollars.”

  Freddy put his arm around Betty to give her a reassuring little hug. Miranda leaned into me and whispered, “Honey, I’ll take that bet.”

  Chapter 5

  Later on that afternoon, the sky turned to slate. Intermittent gusts of wind ruffled the still air as an ominous restlessness pervaded the atmosphere. Thunder growled in the distance. I was getting dressed when Larry
Locket called me back.

  “Jo! Larry!” he said in his southern-accented voice. “I can’t believe you’re right there in the eye of the storm!” He didn’t mean the weather.

  “God, Larry, isn’t it just incredible what’s happened? How did you find out?”

  “Oh, I have my sources,” he said evasively.

  “Are you coming down here?” I asked him.

  “I can’t right now. I’m working on two other stories. But as soon as I get through, I’m on this one. Any news?”

  “No, but I’m staying with the Watermans, and Carla arrived here at nine this morning looking for Russell.”

  “Jo, we’ve got to talk the minute you get back. I want you to take notes. Wear a videocam and tape recorder!” he said, only half-jokingly.

  Though Larry Locket and I saw each other only intermittently, we had one of those close, enduring friendships that always takes up where it left off. Our conversation was brief because I had to finish getting dressed for the wedding, but I promised to call him the minute I returned to New York. Larry was the mystery lover’s Santa Claus who, each year, brought his fans the present of a book on a tantalizing new case. And there was no case that promised to be more tantalizing than this one.

  I walked out on the veranda, dressed for the wedding in a brand-new long, strapless yellow chiffon gown. I knew it was becoming, and I confess I was looking forward to seeing Max. Gil Waterman, just back from the boat, was at the bar fixing himself a drink. He looked dapper, as usual, in his custom-made tuxedo.

  “Any word?” I asked him.

  “Nothing. Want one?” he said, offering me a scotch.

  “No, thanks.” I thought I detected a slight air of exasperation about him.

  Gil took a long swig of scotch. “Why in hell they hired a kid captain who knows fuck all about procedure to run that luxurious tub is beyond me.”

  “He’s cute,” I said, recalling the fresh good looks of Captain Jenks.

  “With all that money, couldn’t they have afforded a captain who was cute and competent? The kid’s a joke. ‘Captain Jenks at your service, sir!’ ” he said, mimicking the young man’s stance and Australian voice. “I know more about boats than he does, for Pete’s sakes! They used to have a great captain. Mike Rankin was his name, I think. An American. Russell used to sing his praises all the time. I wonder what happened to him.”

  “Jenks does seem a little out of his depth, pardon the pun,” I said. “You know, Betty was the one who suggested calling the Coast Guard.”

  Gil rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t surprise me. You can’t believe how disorganized it is out there.” Gil drained his glass and poured himself another drink.

  “How’s Carla holding up?” I asked him.

  “Fine, under the circumstances. Oh, she sends her love to you, by the way. She said you were wonderful to her this morning. She’s coming to the wedding.”

  “You’re kidding. I’m surprised.”

  He paused for a moment. “Why? You think she shouldn’t? I was kind of wondering about that myself.”

  I thought for a moment. Unfortunately, no etiquette book covers what to do if you’re invited to a wedding when your husband has just vanished off the face of the earth.

  “When people find out Russell’s disappeared, and then they realize that she went to the party. . . . Well, let’s just say, it won’t look great.”

  “I know,” Gil said. “But sitting out there all alone on the boat waiting for news is too depressing. I told her she should come if she felt like it.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t feel like going to a party if you were missing, darling!” cried a voice behind us. “Jo’s right. It looks like shit!”

  Betty burst onto the terrace in a long, pale green caftan hand painted with red tropical flowers that looked like little penises. Her voluminous red hair has frizzed up in the humidity and her makeup was too heavy. There was a hint of Bozo the Clown about her.

  “Oh, don’t you look pretty, sweetheart,” Gil said right away. It was hard to tell whether Gil’s reaction was stunned or serious. He certainly was a courtly husband.

  “Fix me a drink, will you, Gil? I need one. . . . Actually, fix me three. Might as well get a head start. I can’t tell if I’m homicidal or suicidal. Missy can’t get into her wedding dress. She refuses to let me help her. And will you please just look at the weather!”

  “Freddy Brill may lose his bet,” I said.

  “May lose his bet? A fucking monsoon’s coming!” Betty cried, looking up at the sky. “And Freddy’s the one who persuaded us not to put in any walkways, even though Trebor kept insisting. That man is a complete idiot. I hope Woody hasn’t inherited his brain.”

  Though the wedding was at Cockleshell, the Brill villa, Betty had imported Trebor Bellini from New York to handle the décor. Bellini, an alchemist of the visual, was one of the best in the business for designing opulent parties. He was a genius at transforming pedestrian spaces into palaces, but his fees were as imperial as his vision and I was impressed that Betty was using him. Betty was quite the tightwad when it came to decoration. In her own art-laden house, she never had any fresh flowers around, saying, “What would you rather look at? A bunch of blooms on the table, or my Monet Water Lilies on the wall?” Still, this was the wedding of their only child, and Betty and Gil wanted nothing but the best for Missy. Also, as Betty pointed out, it was good business for Gil, who had invited all of his best clients down for the occasion.

  “Oh, Jo, you’re gorgeous!” Betty said.

  “You, too, sweetie. I hope Max likes this color,” I said, glancing down at my pale yellow dress.

  “Max likes skin color,” Betty said.

  We were still waiting for Missy when Dermott came in to announce that I had a telephone call. “It’s Mrs. Kahn from New York City,” he said in his basso voice.

  “Jo, for God’s sakes, don’t breathe a word to June about Russell!” Betty said.

  I rolled my eyes at Betty in disbelief that she would even have to mention such a thing, considering that everyone knew June Kahn was a human Internet when it came to dispensing information. Picking up the phone in the living room, I heard June’s terminally chirpy voice at the other end say, “So, Jo, sweetie, have they found poor Russell yet?”

  There’s an old saying in New York that if you don’t want a secret to get out, you can’t repeat it—not even to yourself.

  I cupped my hand over the receiver and called out to Betty, “She knows!”

  Betty skittered across the terrace in her high-heeled sandals and grabbed the phone away from me.

  “June, Betty. Who the fuck told you about it?” Betty listened for a minute and then cried, “You’re not serious!” Betty put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to me, “Lulu told her.”

  “How does Lulu know?” I said.

  Catching Betty’s eye, Gil pointed to his watch, indicating that we were now seriously late.

  “Listen, Junie, I gotta go,” Betty said. “I’ll call you later . . . I promise I will . . . no, look . . . I promise . . . listen, Junie, you know more than we do, for heaven sakes! I’ll call you the minute I hear anything! I will. I gotta go!” Betty said, hanging up. The promise of future gossip was the only way to get June off the phone.

  Betty looked at Gil and said, “How the hell did Lulu find out? Do you think Larry told her? Or did she tell Larry?”

  “Who knows? And what does it matter?” Gil said, unimpressed.

  “Gil, it matters! They knew practically before we did! And we’re here!” Betty said. “It’s just incredible.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s incredible—the time,” Gil said, pointing to his watch again. “Now let’s get a move on. Where is Missy?”

  “Well, that’s it, then. It’s out,” Betty said. “Lulu had a choice between calling a live press conference or telling June. And
she knew June would get it out there faster.”

  Just then, Missy swept through the arch of the veranda, looking like an exotic flower in her sleek white satin wedding dress and the same diamond-and-sapphire necklace she had worn to the bridal dinner the previous night. She stood for a long moment as both Betty and Gil stared at her in sentimental awe.

  “Sweetheart, you’re gorgeous,” Gil said with a crack of emotion in his voice.

  Betty was at an uncharacteristic loss for words. She and Gil walked over and hugged their daughter. It was a sweet moment that brought tears to everyone’s eyes, including my own. But it was short-lived. After Missy thanked her parents and told them she loved them—“You guys are just the best!”—we all hurried out the door to the awaiting limousine and into the arms of disaster.

  Chapter 6

  Two months after the fact, in her column in the large, glossy pages of Nous magazine, Miranda Somers would describe Missy Waterman’s wedding at Cockleshell as “a tropical dream . . . an orchid-filled paradise . . . a luscious occasion. . . . The highlight of the social season.” Miranda’s gracious account notwithstanding, I think I speak for everyone who was actually there when I say that in the annals of social fiascos, that wedding took the five-tiered cake. “The wedding from hell,” “a tropical nightmare,” and “misadventure in paradise” were some of the milder of the disparaging comments I heard expressed during the course of a long, stormy evening. If not the absolute worst, expensive wedding ever endured, it was certainly the wettest.

  Almost immediately following the private ceremony, there was a brief but brutal thunderstorm, which Freddy Brill, in his infinite knowledge of Barbados weather, predicted would “clear the air.” After that, rain poured down in buckets. The enormous tent, which had been set up in the garden for dinner and dancing, decorated from floor to ceiling with orchids, was located at least twenty yards away from the main house and there was no walkway covering the flooded grounds.

  Gil Waterman and Freddy Brill made the rounds, apologizing to everyone for the ghastly weather, while Mina and Betty and I scurried around frantically searching for extra umbrellas. There were only five of any decent size, all belonging to the valet parkers, two of whom were enlisted to help shepherd guests from the house to the tent—an interminably slow process. In desperation over the long wait, some people made a dash for the tent. They arrived in sopping wet clothes and shoes, looking as bedraggled as shipwreck survivors.