Perfect (21 page)

F  O  R  T  Y  -  F  O  U  R

There was no time left for a nap after George left, so I cleaned up the kitchen, took a leisurely bath, and put myself together at a sensible pace.

Among my other extravagant purchases on my Parisian shopping spree, I’d found a gorgeous dinner suit that would be perfect for Alma’s gin rummy party. The jacket was brownish bronze bouclé wool with a leopardskin collar and cuffs and the long skirt was comfortable wool jersey. The plain ecru silk blouse was vaguely sheer so I put on a bronze-colored French-cut bra with rust-colored satin ribbon binding. Every now and then Sir Cramner’s
Pasha
would catch the light and glitter enticingly from its hiding place behind the ribbon trim.

I added a necklace—three strands of rare sixteen-millimeter golden pearls, ear clips of golden pearls set in diamond clusters, and an unusual Cartier estate brooch of a tall trumpet vase of yellow pavé diamonds overflowing with a lavish bouquet of precious and semiprecious stones. I finished up by tucking rusty red roses into my hair. I’d finally gotten accustomed to my darker hair and darker eyes and thought I looked quite well. I slipped my cell phone into my skirt pocket.

I also took the added precaution of turning the volume on the closet alarm up even higher. It would be so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if it were audible from the Naxos castle.

“Are you ready, Barnhardt?” I said through the intercom. It was eight o’clock sharp and the storm had faded to intermittent flurries from a broken sky.

“Black Diamond and I are ready, Your Highness. But more to the point, are you ready to drive yourself?”

“Yes, I believe I am.” I laughed. I pulled on a fur jacket, tight kid gloves, and wrapped a warm cashmere scarf around my neck and went outside.

Black Diamond looked so beautiful, all decked out in her ribbons and bells, and Barnhardt had lit the lanterns on the sides of the little red-and-gold sleigh. But now that I was standing there, planning to set out on my own with this giant horse and little sleigh, my heart started to pound and I felt my nerve begin to leave me.

“Did you bring your sugar and apples?” Barnhardt asked.

“Oh, I forgot. I’ll be right back.” I dashed into the house. The familiar act of getting sugar and apples for my horse, something I gave her every day when we said hello, had the effect of calming me down. She eagerly lapped them from my outstretched hand and I patted her and kissed her on the jaw and hugged her neck and drank in her scent. I’d begun to understand and appreciate how people could be so attached to their animals since I’d gotten my little Bijou, my first pet, a little over a year ago. I missed her terribly and in some ways, Black Diamond had filled up that aching corner of my heart. Not only was she majestic and powerful, she was also trusting and dependable. When I got home, I decided, I was going to buy horses for Thomas and me and we’d ride them around the farm and inspect our apples and our lettuce crop.

I climbed into the sleigh and picked up the reins.

“The gatekeeper, Hugo, is expecting you. If you are having any problems, let him know and he will drive you the rest of the way in.” Barnhardt’s words came out with puffs of cold air.

“I’m fine. It’s just next door.”

Barnhardt nodded. “Yes, you will do just fine. She won’t give you any trouble at all.”

“Let’s go, Black Diamond,” I said, and gave the reins a little shake. She started along the drive at a nice pace. I looked up at the black starry sky above the puffy clouds and the towering snow-covered trees. The air was sharp and cold. I looked over my shoulder and there was Barnhardt, jogging slowly behind, just like a mother sending a child off to school for the first time. It made me feel very secure and it also made me laugh. I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I pretended I didn’t see him as he shadowed me all the way to the Naxoses’ gate, a miniature fortress of its own, behind which a long drive disappeared into the woods. But I think he probably knew I knew he was there.

“Would you like for me to drive you the rest of the way in, Princesse?” Hugo the gatekeeper asked.

I shook my head. “I think I’m all set, Hugo, thank you.”

As Black Diamond trotted through the gate, I turned and waved good-bye. “Thank you, Barnhardt,” I called. He gave me two thumbs-up and a wave before turning for home.

The castle was unreal. I came around a corner through the forest, and there it was, white and turreted with a blue slate roof, just like in the fairy tales. Golden light streamed from the windows.

George greeted me at the front door, kissing both my cheeks. He was dressed elegantly in a black cashmere sport coat, charcoal slacks, and a light gray open-necked shirt with a yellow ascot.

“Thank you again for the chocolate treat this afternoon. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a delicious cake.” He patted his stomach. “I’d like to be able to say I’m so full I don’t think I’ll be able to eat any dinner, but regrettably, I’ve never been too full to have another meal.”

“Neither have I. Unfortunately. It’s a good thing we’re both so good-looking.” I smiled and he laughed. “George, the castle is incredible. How long has it been here?”

“We built it about twenty years ago. It’s actually a replica of Neuschwanstein,” he explained, referring to Mad King Ludwig’s landmark monument in Bavaria. “Only slightly larger.”

“Of course it is.” I laughed. “Neuschwanstein is way too small.”

“We have a ballroom
and
a media room—what did we do before media and media rooms? And, of course, we have an indoor swimming pool for Alma and lots of proper bathrooms and running water. And”—he smiled—“I could go on and on.”

“It’s extraordinary.” I handed my coat and gloves to the footman. “Thank you for including me.”

“Alma’s in the library. You’re the first to arrive.”

The opulence of the castle’s furnishings was in stark contrast to the severity of their Paris apartment. Did that mean there would be more food and wine on the table for dinner? I wasn’t optimistic.

The library with its massive bookshelves, painted ceiling, shields and standards was a grand affair that looked as though it had been in place for centuries, a room where treaties had been signed in blood and war had been declared and armies ordered onto the field of battle. Its contemporary life was given away by the presence of a number of Impressionist paintings by well-known artists such as Monet and Renoir and Van Gogh, a flat-screen TV and a flat computer monitor on the desk. A large portrait of Alma with layers of white tulle wrapped romantically around her snow white shoulders hung above the mantle. A gigantic Oriental rug covered the floor.

Alma sat in front of the fire in a tight, silvery, long-sleeved top that was encrusted with crystals. A silvery gray blanket covered her lap. She looked like a queen. All her jewelry—actually she would have been wearing a complete parure if she’d had on a tiara—her necklace, earrings, bracelets, and brooch—was rubies of every color, shape, and size. It was a breathtaking suite and complemented her coloring perfectly.

I recognized them immediately. They were the copies I’d made of Mrs. Lucien Marks’s set of fine ruby jewelry! The real stones—of course I’d melted down the platinum settings within seconds of getting the originals home—were still in their separate briefkes in my vault in Geneva. The suite was auctioned at Ballantine’s Magnificent Jewelry Auction two years ago. I’d swapped my counterfeit pieces with the originals at the last minute when they were bought by an anonymous buyer, not a dealer who might, on serious scrutiny, have spotted them as fakes.

Cookson, the tidy little butler I’d met in Paris, stood in the background.

I took her crippled hand gently and kissed her on the cheek. She looked extremely fragile and her eyes seemed flat, distant. “How are you?”

“Comme ci comme ça.”
She took a deep drag of her cigarette. “Better than earlier. I haven’t been out of bed all day. George told me the two of you ate an entire cake this afternoon.” There was disapproval in her tone.

I felt myself blush. “Well, that’s not entirely true. We ate
half
a cake.”

Alma shook her head. “He is incorrigible. If I didn’t keep an eye on his diet, he’d weigh five hundred pounds.”

“Your jewelry is amazing—are those all rubies?”

She nodded. “George bought them for me at auction in your hometown.”

“Oh?” I said.

She laid her fingers across the necklace. “At Ballantine and Company in London—surely you’ve heard of them. They have the finest jewelry auctions in the world.”

“I’ll have to go there sometime if I’m ever in the market for fine jewelry. An inspector’s salary doesn’t really leave much room for pieces like that,” I said with a sense of humor. “Maybe I’ll meet a rich husband.”

“That’s always a very workable and realistic solution.” She smiled. “But you must be doing something right. You’ve been wearing some beautiful pieces.”

“You think this is all mine?” I said. “Oh, how I wish it were. But in fact, it’s part of my cover, provided to me by the Crown. I don’t know what most of it is but it must be very good because they practically made me sign my life away before they’d let me take it out of the vault.”

“From what I’ve seen so far,” Alma said, “they outfitted you with very, very good pieces. I’m surprised our resident jewel thief, Sebastian, hasn’t tried to steal it.”

“I’m sure he will.”

Alma nodded and ground out the cigarette and Cookson immediately stepped forward and held a lighter so she could fire up another. “Let’s not waste this minute or two alone. Tell me what’s going on. Have you made any progress?”

I shook my head. “A little—it’s going to take some time. Without your support and help, Alma, it would be impossible. But I’ve got to tell you”—I couldn’t help but start laughing—“the fact that Robert seems to be a Viagra devotee adds a little unexpected challenge.”

She got tickled, as well. I’d never seen her really smile, and now to see and hear her laugh was wonderful. “Isn’t he awful? He’s even tried to seduce me! An invalid in a wheelchair! I told you—he’s worse than a dog.” She was laughing so hard she was almost crying. “Oh, the stories I could tell. But he’s so precious and so talented and means so well, everyone gives him a lot of latitude.”

“He is all those things, in addition to being oversexed. But I think I’ve got him neutralized, for now at least.”

She dabbed the corner of her eyes. “I’m not sure how authentic his passes are, if you want to know the truth. I think the number of times he’s actually succeeded in getting someone into bed are minimal. It’s all a show—he’s always after women our age and older, because he knows we have so many other things going on in our lives we aren’t going to take him seriously. I mean, really—at this point, who needs a fling? Now”—she gazed at me through the curl of smoke—“tell me, is there anything I can do for you?”

“In Paris, when I asked you about Robert and Sebastian, you were very closemouthed about them, and naturally, I respect that. But now that I’m on the scene, I see they’re good friends of yours. What do you know about Sebastian? Any information you can give me is important to cracking the case.” I was trying to sound like a Scotland Yard detective, give some official gravitas to the situation, but as the words came out, I realized how silly they sounded. Alma, on the other hand, didn’t seem the least bit amused. Maybe detectives really do talk that way.

“Sebastian,” Alma said, as though she’d bitten into a lemon. “I can’t bear him. He’s a complete phony. But Robert adores him and makes it quite clear that if we want to see him, Sebastian is part of the package.”

“How long have they been together?”

“Over a year, I’d say.”

“Where did they meet?”

“I have no idea, he simply appeared on the scene. He’s become Robert’s ‘business manager.’ ” She put quotes around the words with her fingers and raised her eyebrows in an expression of skepticism. “If he’s a business manager then I’m a brain surgeon.” She turned her eyes toward the doors. “Here they come now.”

F  O  R  T  Y  -  F  I  V  E

I heard him before I saw him. He was singing. Not an aria but “The Happy Wanderer,” and “Val-de-ree, val-de-rah,” boomed throughout the house as though it were an echo chamber. It sounded wonderful and ridiculous at the same time, totally unexpected.

Robert burst into the room with the same immensity with which he strode into everything in life. He paused in the arched doorway, arms outstretched, mouth wide open. The upbeat reprise reverberated from the walls. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d sailed a hat across the room and flung a velvet cape to the ground for his squire, Sebastian, to collect. Instead, he was wearing a Tyrolean jacket and a red vest and looked as if he’d just escaped from the set of
The Sound of Music.

“My God! I am so happy to be here tonight. Alma!” he declared as though he hadn’t seen her for a hundred years. He kept his arms thrown wide and marched to her side and engulfed her and her wheelchair and spun her around. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She laughed like a child, just like Clara in
Heidi
when her father came to visit. She laughed and giggled and banged her fists on his massive chest as though he were King Kong and she was being kidnapped. This was too much, too corny, too over-the-top, and then it dawned on me that, of course, these were two of the greatest performers of the twentieth century (I feared they would be eclipsed in the twenty-first). Their lives revolved around drama, around the grand gesture that could be appreciated from the third balcony, around being the centers of attention.

“You look like a princess who needs to be rescued—to be taken away from all this. Run away with me, Alma. I can make you so much happier than old George.”

He timed this perfectly and purposely to coincide with George’s arrival, as well as that of their other guests.

“Hush, Robert,” Alma said sotto voce. “I don’t want my husband to hear.”

Robert turned to me and gave me a similar bear hug and twirled me around. “My dancing partner,” he said. “You dance like a feather. When shall we go again?”

“Anytime,” I answered.

Sebastian was no less effusive in his greeting of Alma and me. He would be on his best behavior tonight. His eyes took in our jewelry, performing a quick assessment. I could tell he was particularly captivated by Alma’s rubies, and I must admit I felt a proprietary sense of pride as well as a little resentful that my golden pearls and lovely brooch didn’t get more play. They might not have been as showy as Alma’s but at least they were real. I was interested that he gave not even a tiny indication that he could tell the difference.

The other guests were, no surprise, Lucy and Al Richardson—she had on a black velvet evening suit with silver trim—and Allegra Cimino, a nice and very trim lady from Turino who had on a simple bright red wool sheath cocktail dress and stunning diamonds.

Cookson took cocktail orders. I was longing for a Scotch but Robert took the liberty of ordering for me.

“The Princesse will have the Riesling.” He put his hand on my upper arm and gave it a little squeeze. “I am looking out for you tonight,” he whispered.

“Lucky me,” I said. I shuddered a bit—I didn’t need looking out for and I’m not wild about German wines. Most of them are too fruity for my palate. For me, they are generally like a headache in a glass. And sugary sweet, grapy rich Riesling was at the top of my list for least favorites. But it was thoughtful of Robert to be so considerate of a fragile woman with a potentially fatal heart condition. It had been a desperate declaration on my part but one that I knew would derail him permanently. Now I wished I’d been able to come up with something else.

Once we all had cocktails and a maid passed a silver tray that had exactly enough caviar canapés that we could each have one—George and I caught each other’s eye and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: thank God for the cake—Alma led the way into the card room, a wonderful chamber with painted mural walls, Dresden chandeliers, and a Dresden hearth crackling with a cheery fire. Four card tables with green felt cloths decorated on their corners with colorful appliquéd-felt playing cards were lined up approximately ten feet from each other down the center of the room. Each table had a library lamp with a green glass shade, putting it in its own little pool of light like an island; two chairs; two new packs of cards; a score pad with a pencil; a bowl of cashews; and a little library-type bell. If I hadn’t known we were to play cards, I might have thought we were there to take a final examination.

We gathered around while George read the teams aloud—again, there were no surprises: Lucy and Al; Robert and me; Sebastian and Allegra; George and Alma. He indicated where the ladies should sit and Cookson held our chairs. And then, with great flourish, he took a folded sheet of paper out of his breast pocket.

“The rules,” George announced importantly. “Please pay attention. We will be playing regular gin rummy—Hollywood rules—before and after dinner. We play for forty francs a point, all tonight’s winnings will be donated to the hospital’s Albert Richardson Fund for Heart Disease Research. This will not be in lieu of anyone’s current pledges or annual gift.” He gave Al a hard look.

Everyone, especially Al Richardson, laughed, and I surmised he had endowed the fund—it was named for him, after all—by making a major financial commitment. Forty francs a point was a lot of money, the equivalent of ten euros. This was a high-stakes party.

“And the losers must match the winnings.”

No one batted an eye.

George continued. “The ladies will remain seated on the far side of the tables and the gentlemen will exchange places after each game. As I have already mentioned, we are using Hollywood rules: Each game has three bouts and each bout is to one hundred twenty-five points.”

I did some quick math. If the losers matched the winners, that meant each game would render a minimum of 7,500 euros, times three (there were four couples but partners wouldn’t play against each other) equaled 22,500 euros, and if we played before and after dinner, that meant a net of 45,000 euros or 11,250 euros per couple. That was pocket change to this group.

Alma indicated to me that she had something to say. I leaned down. “Don’t worry, Margaret,” she whispered. “We’ll pick up your share.”

“Thanks,” I whispered back. “I was getting nervous.”

“No whispering!” George barked, and everyone laughed. “Now, if I have your attention.” He rattled his paper. “At the end of each hand, you will count up and record your points and then ring your bell and Cookson will confirm the scores. This is a new rule because, as we all know based on our last party, counting and addition are not Robert’s strong points.” Everyone clapped. “This is for your protection, Robert. And ours.”

My first match was against George. We both played quickly and efficiently and he won, but not by much. We were the only ones to finish our bowl of cashews.

“How are you doing, Robert?” I called down the way. He was a very slow player—I could tell he studied every single card and move endlessly, and even then, still had no idea what to do. He was playing against Lucy, who was looking frustrated. She was drumming her fingernails on the table.

“Robert.” She tapped his arm with her folded-up hand. “Please. You know you’re going to lose anyway. Just put down a card.”

“All right. All right.” He discarded.

She picked it up. “Gin! Finally, this game is over.”

Next, I played against Al, but there was really no match there. He completely walloped me. And the whole time we played, I felt the burn of Lucy’s anger on me.

“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t get a single point.”

Al beamed. “I ‘Schneidered’ you, which means”—he picked up his pencil and drew long Xes through my sections—“you get zero and I get double points.” He blew me a kiss.

I caught Lucy’s eye. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.

The fact that I didn’t get any more cashews made it worse.

Next, I played against Sebastian. The skin on his hands looked soft and pampered. His nails were short and well manicured. He was slightly prissy and effeminate in his movements but I felt it was an act, except he did have on a little mascara.

“I’m the best gin rummy player in this room,” he declared as he dealt our first hand. “And I’m going to clobber you.”

“Really.” I arranged my cards.

“Really,” he replied, and after only two draws, he said, “Gin!”

“Now,” he said, once he’d shuffled and dealt our next hand and we’d exchanged a couple of cards, “tell me everything about yourself.”

I was trying to figure out what to do in my next play.

“You’re far too beautiful to actually be from Romania—I mean the young girls there are very, very pretty but when they get to be our age— look out. They lose their waistlines and the hair on their heads moves to their faces! Oh, my God. They look like trolls. And their shoes. The worst.”

“Sebastian.” I laughed. “I’m trying to think.”

“I think it’s a lack of vitamins and proper skin care. Don’t you just want to go to Bucharest and give everyone a facial? And a good waxing? I’ll tell you, Jimmy Choo could make a killing there.”

“Sebastian. Shut up.” I finally discarded.

He picked it up. “Gin!”

“You’re going to be sorry for that.”

He won the first bout and it looked as though he were on his way to winning the second.

I picked up my cards and sorted through them.

“Let’s move along,” Sebastian said. “We haven’t got all night.”

“Hmmm,” I said as I casually discarded. “How’s this for a move: What were you doing in my house last night?”

His eyes widened and stared into mine. “What do you mean?” He drew a card and his hand trembled slightly. He put the card on the discard pile without really looking at it.

“I mean”—I picked it up—“what were you doing in my house last night sorting through my things and trying to pick the lock on my closet while I was at the disco with Robert?” And discarded.

He licked his lips and then pursed them together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He drew. He discarded.

I picked it up. “Would you like to see the video?” I discarded.

I could tell his mouth had gone dry. He drew. He discarded.

I picked it up and sorted languidly through my hand. “I said, would you like to see the video, Sebastian?”

His eyes met mine. “Yes, actually I would.”

I leaned toward him. “Gin.”

I snapped my cards down on the table and he laid his down carefully. He looked as if he were about to throw up.

“Let me see.” I began to count. “I get twenty-five, plus . . . “ I sorted through his cards. “Oh, my, Sebastian, you didn’t really have anything at all, did you?”

Cookson came over and verified the score. I picked up the deck and shuffled. I placed the cards in front of him to cut. I began to deal.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“More to the point, Sebastian, is who are you? Does Robert know you’re a thief? Does Alma?”

I saw a tinge of fear in his eyes. He stared straight at me.

I met his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to be the one to tell them. As to me? I am who I say I am—Margaret of Romania—and I am an extremely cautious person. Stay out of my house and we’ll do just fine.”

“I was never in your house. I swear it.”

I glanced down at Lucy. Had it been her after all? “Well, then, who was?”

“I truly have no idea.”

Unfortunately, the more I thought about it, the more I believed him. I was, it seemed, in a war with two fronts.

“I believe it’s your discard,” I heard him say.