Meet Me in Venice (3 page)

Of course there was a photo of Preshy’s parents whose faces for tier were just a blur from the past, yet she had loving memories of them and especially of the time they took her to Venice, an event everyone said she was too young to remember but that she knew she did.

There were, of course, several pictures of Aunt Grizelda: one of her sipping a gin fizz with Prince Rainier on a terrace on the Côte d’Azur; and another of her accepting the winner’s trophy at some racetrack with the King of Spain at her side; and yet another in a cloud of scarlet tulle at a table of international celebrities at the annual Red Cross Gala in Monte Carlo, her long sweep of hair even redder than the dress and her wide beaming smile enhanced with a slick of scarlet lipstick. And with her, of course, was her longtime best friend, blond, rangy, ex—Follies showgirl Mimi Moskowitz, widow of a rich investment banker from a prominent family.

Grizelda adored the warm South of France climate, the fashions, the parties, the gin fizzes and the entertaining company. And so did Preshy. She was always made a great fuss over and treated like a grown-up—apart from the gin fizzes that is.

Now the two widows shared a lavish penthouse apartment in Monte Carlo, traveling together to visit the friends still left to them. Neither of them had children and they considered Preshy their daughter, so of course, over the years they’d done their best to spoil her.

“But let’s face it, darling,” Grizelda had said, finally defeated. “The girl’s unspoilable. She cares nothing for jewels and clothes.
All she likes are those boring antiques. She’s never even seriously cared about a man.”

And she was, Preshy thought, smiling, probably right.

Nevertheless, thinking of what Daria had said, she decided that tonight she would put on the little black dress and the heels, and the thin little rope of diamonds Aunt Grizelda had given her for her sixteenth birthday—(so different from her grandmother’s fantastical lost necklace)—as well as the canary diamond ring, a gift for her twenty-first. (“Since no man has given you a diamond ring yet, suppose I’d better,” Aunt G had said when she presented it to her, and since Grizelda felt size counted, it was a whopper.) Preshy always felt elegant when she wore it and Daria said it made her look like a rich girl and added a little class to her act.

Preshy heaved a sigh. She would go to that art gallery opening after all, then she would have a late after-hours dinner with Sylvie at Verlaine. It was just another Saturday night in Paris.

SHANGHAI

L
ILY
lived in the historic part of Shanghai known as the French

Concession, in an old Colonial-style house that thanks to her efforts had survived the destructive development boom of the past few years.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries the area had been home to French diplomats, businessmen and entrepreneurs, as well as hard-partying socialites, but after the Revolution it had fallen on hard times. Now, though, it was being brought back to life with a mix of the old small traditional businesses and open-fronted shops set alongside smart restaurants and bars, with chic boutiques scattered amongst its alleys and broad tree-lined avenues.

Tucked back on a
longtang,
a narrow lane with a nightclub on one side and a noodle shop on the other, Lily’s house was a gem
from the past, set in its private courtyard with a red-tiled roof, tall green-painted shutters and a large verandah.

The house had been owned by the Song family for generations and was the only possession Lily’s father had not been able to gamble away. It had been the single anchor in their chaotic lives, and the only thing Lily had felt no one could ever take from her. Her father had gambled himself into financial oblivion playing baccarat and
pai gow
in Macao and other gambling capitals of the world, leaving his wife to scramble for an existence. But Lily was made of different stuff. When she was very young, she had decided she would succeed, at any cost.

Her mother, who was the Hennessys’ first daughter, had disobeyed them and run off to Shanghai with the gambler and playboy Henry Song. They never spoke to her again. While Lily’s father played the tables, her mother attempted to make a living selling cheap copies of antiques. Somehow the family scraped by. When she was sixteen her father died and Lily left school and took over the business. Her mother died five years later. Lily was alone in the world with no one to rely on but herself.

She ran her antiques business from the house and did most of her “buying” cheaply from small villages and towns, searching out old family pieces from simple country people who had no idea of their true value. She did not consider this stealing, merely good business. More recently, though, when the Yangtze, the Great Yellow River, had been gouged out to create a dam, gangs of robbers had discovered the tombs hidden near the old villages and were secretly and illegally dismantling them, stealing the treasures of the ancestors.

Superstitious, this had made Lily nervous, but she soon shrugged it off and found herself a lucrative new source of income, buying from the gangs, or “suppliers” as she preferred to call them, then selling on to private customers like the Swiss businessman, acting on behalf of a rich collector. As a front for her illegal activities she kept up her regular business of manufacturing replicas of antiquities: the traditional Buddha’s, and Mao souvenirs and the famous terra-cotta warriors of Xi’an, that she sold to tourist shops, as well as abroad.

She parked her black SUV in the courtyard and pressed the electronic buzzer that closed the gates behind her. There were security cameras overlooking the alley because she ran her business from the house and sometimes stored the valuable antiques there.

Though the house was French Colonial in style, the garden was strictly Chinese, with a pond of fat goldfish, symbols of prosperity and money, and a simple wall fountain trickling serenely onto the pink lotus blossoms, whose sweet scent lingered in the air.

It was where she enjoyed sitting in the evening, when she had a free moment that is, with a glass of wine and only her thoughts and her little canary songbird for company. There was no boyfriend; she simply did not have time for that kind of complex relationship. All Lily’s time was devoted to making money.

Mary-Lou Chen came out onto the terrace, interrupting Lily’s thoughts.

“Oh, there you are, Lily,” she called. “Someone telephoned a few minutes ago. A man. He wouldn’t leave his name.” She grinned at Lily. “A new boyfriend?”

“Hah!” Lily tossed her head disdainfully. “Fat chance. I think I know who it might be, though.”

“I asked for his number but he wouldn’t give it to me. Said he’d call back in half an hour.”

Lily grinned. “Good,” she said. She knew for sure now she had the Swiss hooked.

Mary-Lou Chen was her best friend, her co-worker and partner in crime. They had known each other forever. At their all-Chinese school they had been the only biracial outsiders, with their Chinese fathers and Caucasian mothers. And both their families were poor, Lily’s from the downward spiral familiar to gamblers, and Mary-Lou’s from her father’s bad business methods and laziness. As they grew up they both harbored the same burning ambition. To be rich. Any way they could, they were going to be rich.

Mary-Lou was a beauty, with the smooth porcelain skin of her mother and enormous slightly tilted eyes the color of speckled amber orchids. She wore her thick black hair in the traditional short Chinese bob with a low fringe over those amazing eyes.

With her high cheekbones and delicate features she had tried at first to become a movie star, but she had no talent for acting. Of course she’d had plenty of offers to star in other kinds of movies and with poverty beckoning, to tell the truth she’d been tempted. Lily had saved her from that. She’d brought her into the business, taught her the ropes and now the best friends worked together, though they did not live together.

Mary-Lou had a modern apartment on the Bund, the smartest street in Shanghai overlooking the Huangpu River and lined with
palatial office buildings, smart high-rise restaurants, chic bars and deluxe condos. The small apartment was only on the third floor, the least expensive, but she had furnished it extravagantly with modern pieces imported from Italy. She shopped at the smartest boutiques for the latest European fashions and in order to afford her lifestyle, unknown to Lily, she secretly dealt in stolen jewelry, recutting and resetting the stones to disguise them, then selling them on.

Mary-Lou didn’t believe in morals or scruples. When you were as poor as she had been you fought your way out any way you could. “Rich at any cost” was her motto. She owed loyalty to no one. Not even Lily.

She followed Lily into the house, her heels clattering on the polished bamboo floors.

“How many times do I have to remind you to take off your shoes?” Lily complained, irritated. “You know they bring in the dirt. There are clean flip-flops behind the door.”

“Sorry.” Though she had been brought up Chinese, Mary-Lou did not subscribe to the old custom of removing one’s shoes when entering a house. She had become, she told herself, resentfully taking off the sandals, more Western than Lily.

The house was sparsely furnished with a hard-looking sofa, a couple of good elm-wood chairs and an antique altar table lacquered red and topped with a golden Buddha. There was a pretty wooden tray with scented joss sticks burning in a cloisonné holder, and a sheaf of bronze chrysanthemums. There was also a framed picture of Lily’s mother over the altar table, but there was no picture of her father, whom she hated. Even as he lay dying Lily had
been unable to forgive him for ruining her and her mother’s lives, leaving them virtually destitute.

Apart from the chairs and the altar table, there were few antiques in Lily’s home, no wonderful pieces, and no softness either. Her bedroom contained the only true classic; a Chinese marriage bed, also lacquered a deep red, the color of success and of happiness. It was built into the wall with a wooden canopy and shutters that closed it in completely, like a small separate room all to itself. And that’s where, Mary-Lou knew, Lily slept alone. No man, she was sure, had ever penetrated past that bedroom door and closed those shutters on himself and a naked Lily, and made love until they were exhausted. The way Mary-Lou liked to do with her boyfriends.

She helped Lily stack the cartons of replica terra-cotta warriors in the cellar, then Lily sent her out on an errand. Mary-Lou guessed Lily wanted to be alone for the phone call. She got the feeling something was going on, and it did not include her. And she resented that.

W
HEN the call came Lily picked up the phone on the first ring.

“I have spoken to my client. He is very interested.” The businessman’s voice was firm and crisp. “Naturally, he will need to see authentication.”

“Hmmm, that might be difficult, under the circumstances. As you know the piece was stolen almost eighty years ago. However, its age and authenticity can be proven, though obviously we need to use the proper—and by that I mean
very discreet
—expert. One guaranteed to keep his mouth shut.”

“That could be arranged. The next thing we need to discuss is price.”

“Come to me with an offer,” Lily said, hanging up. She wasn’t
about to dicker over money with the businessman. It would take time, maybe months, but he would come up with the right sum eventually. And it would be many millions of Swiss francs. Enough to finally set her free.

She walked to the very back of the cellar. It was dark but she knew her way. She pressed the button hidden behind a beam and a panel slid back exposing an old iron safe, the kind you had to spin-dial a special combination. She knew the numbers by heart and the heavy door swung open. Amongst the sheafs of banknotes stashed inside was a flat dark red jewel case. Lily removed it. She walked into the light and opened it.

The necklace glowed back at her from its black velvet nest, the old jewels, emeralds, rubies, and diamonds in their heavy gold setting. And the great pearl, shining like a living thing in the gloom. She put out a tentative finger to touch it and felt the shock of its coldness against her flesh. Quickly, she snatched back her hand.

Lily had had this necklace for only a few weeks. On her fortieth birthday, she had been paid a visit by a stranger, an elderly man, gray-bearded and dressed like a scholar in the old days, in a long gray gown over narrow trousers. He was a picture from another era, yet somehow she felt she knew him.

“My name is Tai Lam,” he told her. “I come as friend of your mother.”

Surprised, she invited him in; she served him tea, treating him as an honored guest. She told him she had not known her mother had any friends. He inclined his head gravely and said indeed that was the case. Her mother had first sought him out for advice, and through that they had become friends.

“For most of her life your mother was a good woman,” he said, “though always headstrong. Only one time did she stoop to thievery, and then it was out of resentment. She told me it was because she could not get her own way and obtain her parents’ permission to marry Henry Song. She was very young then,” he added, offering the parcel he was clutching to Lily.

“Before she died, many years ago, she asked me to give this to you when you turned forty years. She said to do with it whatever you wished. And then she told me the story of how it came into her possession.

“The necklace belonged to her own mother, a Mrs. Arthur Hernessy of Paris, a wedding gift from her husband. It was said he had bought it with a batch of antiques and jewels that had slipped into France via the melting pot of a postwar market, and though it came with a history attached, he did not deal in jewels and had no real concept of its true worth. He knew only that the stones were extraordinary and that it was a fitting present for his new wife.

“When their daughter—your mother—ran off with Henry Song, she stole the necklace. She told me she would never forgive herself for that, but she was too proud and too willful to give it back. And for all those years she hid it from her gambler husband so tie would not lose that at the tables, as well as everything else.