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Written by: Lea Lane 12/9/2008 2:00:33 PM
When you’ve lived long enough in the fast-track environment of New York you tend to run into situations that are “interesting.” So let me tell you how I wound up having lunch in the Von Bulow’s Fifth Avenue apartment in 1997.

As you probably know, the heiress Sunny Von Bulow was in a coma for 28 years, and she died over the past weekend. Her husband, Claus Von Bulow, was found guilty in 1985 of trying to kill her for her money by injecting her with insulin. A couple of years later, lawyer Allan Dershowitz led a team that overturned the previous verdict, and Von Bulow moved abroad. A movie was made of the whole sordid tale called Reversal of Fortune, starring Jeremy Irons and Glenn Close.

So where did I fit into all this? I was writing a book on inns and bed and breakfasts and met a smart and curvey middle-aged innkeeper named Andrea Plunket, and her tall, debonair English husband Shaun. Their B&B, The Guest House, was not a teddy bear and lace accommodation. When I first stayed there I noticed a painting on the wall that I assumed was a Matisse print.

“Actually, it’s an original,” Andrea said in her mildly Hungarian accent. “And it’s a painting of my mother.”

Andrea turned out to be a sassy international socialite-cum-journalist with three past husbands, an intriguing past, and a resume including an interview with Saddam Hussein. She grew up in Hungary, Switzerland and Morocco. Her stepfather was murdered. The late Florence Gould, daughter-in-law of robber baron Jay Gould, was the godmother of her daughter, Caroline. And the late Babe Paley was chosen to be the matron of honor at her third marriage.

And Shaun was no slouch. On their piano were several framed photos, among them the Queen Mum of England. He explained that his Lord and Lady parents were killed in a plane crash, and the Queen Mum and King George VI raised him along with the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret.

Shaun told incredible stories of his lineage, and his close friendship with the Queen. Some were funny, regarding the Queen Mum’s propensity for gaseousness (she’d warn people), and her love of tippling throughout the day. And some stories were simply astonishing. For instance, with a straight face, in his posh accent, Shaun told how he had gone to Rome to attend a ceremony that would be establishing a long-past relative as … a saint.

That’s right. As in St Francis of Assisi. But that’s not all. As Shaun told it, he and one of his previous wives were sitting on chairs in the Vatican’s main piazza for many hours at the sainthood ceremony. And when the Pope was speaking, Shaun’s wife had to pee but felt it was disrespectful to walk out in the middle of such an important ceremony. So she stayed put, and peed right in her seat. And he was pretty sure others did too.
Oookaaay. Now this tale gets even stranger, with even more familiar names.

When I first came to the property I noticed that on the piano next to the Queen Mum’s photo was one of the infamous Claus Von Bulow. That’s because ten years before, Andrea had been Van Bulow’s lover and staunchest advocate, known then as Andrea Reynolds, and she accompanied him day after day at his second murder trial.

But that was then. When I met her, Andrea had been married to Shaun Plunket for almost eight years (“You can’t expect to find great love over 50,” she told me presciently, as I had no idea that I soon would, “so when you find it, grab it.”). The Plunkets settled down and turned the home that she had shared with one of her previous husbands, a producer named Sheldon Reynolds, into her dazzling B&B.

Shaun acted like lord of the manor, playing a top tennis game with competitive guests and telling those amazing stories at the bar by the spiral staircase. Andrea flirted like a younger Zsa Zsa Gabor, but with wit that wouldn’t quit, although she rarely spoke of Von Bulow.

Sometimes Andrea would cook dinners in the open kitchen that was the heart of the house. Her specialty for breakfast was French toast, but she would knock herself out if guests requested something. “Some Japanese guests asked for a banana split,” she remembered, “so I ran right out to get the best ice cream and fresh toppings. But all they wanted was a cut-up banana.”

Andrea took a shine to me, kind of like a glamorous big sister, and she periodically invited me to her private house parties. I was between marriages, and would turn up each time with a different man, and she would call me afterwards with opinions and advice, which usually turned out to be right. (That’s a whole other story, which I’ll eventually tell when I feel more secure about it.)

The Plunket parties were always special. At one, neighbors entertained with country songs. Fireplaces crackled even on July nights. And at a glamorous country weekend birthday celebration I sat at dinner between Carolina Herrera and the pathologist Michael Baden who had testified at OJ’s murder trial. Could it get any weirder. I mean, what do you wear sitting next to a fashion icon? (I wore black Chicos!)

That weekend I lounged around cluelessly, trying to act like I belonged -- trout fishing in the stream that ran through the property and skeet shooting at the neighboring estate of a lucky assistant to Tommy Hilfiger, who had cashed in on the designer’s success. Heady stuff for someone who didn’t like to kill a fly, let alone set one at the end of a hook.

The most memorable, and last invitation was to lunch at the Van Bulow’s Fifth Avenue apartment, the home of Cosima, the sweet, highly educated daughter who always supported her father’s innocence, and who remained close friends with Andrea.

I sat on the silk sofa under an oil portrait of Claus in his prime. (And Claus in his prime did not look like Santa.) On the side table, in a silver frame, was a stunning, smiling photo of Sunny Von Bulow. Knowing that she was a few blocks away in an everlasting coma gave me chills. What in the hell was I doing there? I felt like I was in some film noir where at any moment Von Bulow himself might appear from the study, leering in a smoking jacket.

Andrea always insisted that he was innocent, which I doubted, but made me feel better about hanging out with her. “I knew everything about that case,” she told me. “I would have picked it up somehow. I knew him too well.”

Like most over-the-top relationships, the novelty wore off. I married again –a husband who happily didn’t fit in with the fanciful Plunkets -- and I lost touch and put that whole time of life out of my head. But when I saw the article about Sunny Von Bulow’s death this past weekend I thought about her smiling picture in that frame, and this fragment of my past reappeared like her ghost.

***
When I finished writing this I googled to find out what had happened to the Plunkets in the past decade. A year ago someone wrote an article that their main house burned down with all their personal property, but that Andrea and Shaun still open the cottages by the river. Andrea, now over 7o and ever interesting, is the executor of the Arthur Conan Doyle estate (as in Sherlock Holmes). And she stays in touch with Von Bulow, who has cancer and does charitable work in Europe.

I feel terrible about the fire, but life happens, and sometimes when you look back and it doesn’t feel right you just have to shake your head and keep moving.

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