One Dangerous Lady by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

claiming to have had heart-to-heart conversations with her in Barbados. As a result, many ridiculous falsehoods emerged, such as the conflicting rumors that Carla had actually seen Russell fall overboard and jumped in to try and save him, or that Carla had actually seen Russell fall overboard and didn’t jump in to try and save him. As Betty said, “If everybody claiming to have spoken to Carla had actually spoken to her, she’d still be talking.”
    I arrived back in New York on a steely, cold January day. The slushy streets were dotted with dirty snowdrifts. I was thrilled to be home again. I could hardly wait to get back inside my cozy apartment which overlooked Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Caspar, my chauffeur, picked me up at the airport. Few chauffeurs were either as dependable as Caspar, or as dull-witted—which meant I could rely on him without having to talk to him.
    I was met at the door by Cyril, my English butler, a gray-haired older man with a military bearing and a thick English accent. He had worked for enough royalty and rich people in his time to understand the value of silence both inside and outside his place of employment. Cyril had excellent references and had even offered to sign one of those ludicrously self-important “non-disclosure” agreements before coming to work for me (I told him that would not be necessary).
    I thought of my apartment as a little oasis in the hurly-burly of modern life. It was on a lower floor than my old apartment just down the street. I had sold that one because among a host of glorious memories, there was one glaringly unpleasant one of which I didn’t care to be reminded. But that’s another story. The new apartment was larger, but much less fussy than the old one. Some said it was more stylish in its way. In addition, I wasn’t so wedded to eighteenth-century France in my choice of décor as I’d once been. Grand furniture requires a lot of upkeep, and I got rid of a lot of stuff simply because I couldn’t be bothered with the maintenance. I was at the point in life where I didn’t want the things I owned to own me. I wanted to be freer. The ups and downs of life had changed me, and I wanted my surroundings to be more relaxed.
    I branched out and even acquired some interesting contemporary paintings—like the Francis Bacon portrait of a screaming cleric, for example. Gil Waterman had sold it to me to go above the fireplace in the library. However, people found it so disturbing that I moved it to an out-of-the-way corridor where only I could see it from time to time, to remind myself that the universe is not the well-ordered old master triangle I once envisioned, but an insane, godless place that will drive us mad if we are unlucky, or if we fail to take care.
    A pile of mail and a long list of messages were waiting for me. I scanned the names quickly to see if Lord Vermilion had called. He hadn’t. I was frankly a bit disappointed, but I decided there was no point in dwelling on it. Qué sera, sera , I thought to myself.
    I saw that Larry Locket had called and I immediately called him back. He picked up the phone on the first ring, sounding distracted.
    â€œLarry? Jo . . . I’m back.”
    â€œAnd I’m going,” he said. “I’m just on the phone with the airline. Hold on. . . . No, wait, listen . . . Jo, can I come over for a drink? I have to talk to you about Barbados. And besides, I haven’t seen you in ages.”
    â€œSure. I’m right here. Come when you want.”
    About an hour later, Cyril showed Larry Locket into the library.
    â€œJo,” he said, beaming at me through his trademark tortoise-shell glasses. “Don’t you look great!”
    â€œYou look pretty swell yourself there, my friend!”
    The image of Larry seated at his desk, holding a pipe, his thick silver hair swept back from a kind, comfortable face, staring at the camera