Free One Dangerous Lady by Jane Stanton Hitchcock Page B

was Carla Cole, who was seated at a neighboring table in my direct line of sight. That man took a good look at Carla and then whispered something to his dinner partner. The woman who had whispered something to him moved on to another table. Pretty soon I felt the whole room simmering with curiosity as people whispered to one another and shifted in their seats in order to get a glimpse of Carla. I knew that word about Russell Cole was out, prowling the tent like a hungry dog. It was no surprise. A secret that big has the lifespan of a mayfly.
    Despite the infusion of gossip, the dinner quickly deteriorated, and long before the dessert plates were cleared away, everyone had just basically given up. Instead of dancing or lingering around to talk, people got up in droves, desperate to get back to their hotels, houses, private planes—wherever they could get some rest. No one stayed for coffee. Max kissed my hand, looked deep into my eyes, and said, “Dear lady, I hate to leave you after all we’ve been through together. I will call you very soon.” He left. I couldn’t help wondering where he was going.
    On the way out, several people stopped to ask me if I’d heard the “news” about Russell Cole. I just nodded, knowing that by this time tomorrow the whole western world would know. Carla had disappeared. I had no idea where she went.
    While waiting for Betty and Gil, I stood at the door with Miranda, who looked a true fright with her ruined gold sandals slung over her right shoulder, her strawberry hair a frizzy halo, her undereyes blackened with mascara, and her red caftan streaked with mud. God only knows what I looked like. We just stared at each other.
    When her car, driven by Ethan, finally pulled up, she gazed at it for a moment as though it were the Holy Grail. Before getting in, she air-kissed me good-bye and said in a weary voice, “Well, at least now we all know how it felt trying to get out of Saigon.”
    I just smiled, wondering how she was going to muster the energy to give this wedding a positive spin in her column.
    Missy and Woody spent the night in the honeymoon suite of the Sandy Lane Hotel. It was past three when Betty, Gil, and I got back to King’s Fort. Gil looked as if he’d drowned. So did Betty. I knew how utterly exhausted she was when she didn’t even ask me about Max. We all just stared at one another in utter defeat. Finally, Betty said, “Russell Cole had a choice between attending that wedding or disappearing. And, honey, he made the right decision!”
    With that, we all slogged off to bed.

 
    Chapter 7
    R ussell Cole never did turn up. The media soon got hold of the story and the tabloids had a field day. The world was eager for news, and, as is usual in such cases, a torrent of rumors swept through the factual wasteland. Theories as to what had actually happened to the Oklahoma billionaire flooded international social circles. The Coles were already well-known figures in that miniscule province of privilege, which made this ongoing mystery just too tantalizing for its inhabitants to ignore.
    Everyone had an opinion about the case. Was Russell really dead? And if so, was Carla involved? Was it a kidnapping, a Mob hit, a terrorist act, suicide, murder, or just a plain, old, boring accident? Wild stories were rampant, but there was no hard evidence to support any of the speculation. Just about all the wedding guests left the island the next day. Carla remained in decorous seclusion aboard The Lady C , which became a floating target for enterprising paparazzi until Carla again used her influence with Sir Arthur. He ordered the Coast Guard to keep leering lensmen at bay.
    Everyone who was at the wedding dined out on the story as soon as they returned home. It was one of those moments in social life when close proximity to a scandal made even the dullest of souls sought-after dinner guests. People who didn’t even know Carla Cole were now