Perfect (26 page)

F  I  F  T  Y  -  S  I  X

I must admit, I felt a little silly walking into the lobby of the d’Angleterre in an evening gown, mink cape, and crutches as day was beginning to break. But if I received any stares, which I’m sure I didn’t, I ignored them. I love the Swiss. They never ask any questions about anything.

“Would you like a wheelchair, madam?” the front desk clerk asked.

“No, I think I’m fine, thank you.” The pill had worked wonders.

“This way, please. We have one of our lady’s suites for you.”

There are certain fine hotels around the world that have gone out of their way to make sure their female guests who are traveling alone feel safe and secure. The Hôtel d’Angleterre is one of these enlightened institutions and has a special set of rooms reserved exclusively for unescorted women—they have extra security locks on the doors and hallway video systems. The bathrooms have extra space for toiletries, the bathrobes and slippers are more feminine, and there are so many beauty amenities on the bath and dressing room counters, you can practically open a store of your own.

I followed him into the elevator and to a warm pink-and-yellow suite on the third floor. The bed had a cornice with fat, regal swags of yellow satin held back with satin cords. Arrangements of pink and yellow roses were everywhere. The balcony opened out onto the frozen lake and the first rays of morning sun sparkled through the Jet d’Eau. He set my travel cases on the rack in the dressing room.

Once he was gone, I called room service and ordered grapefruit juice, croissants, and a pot of coffee. “I’m getting in the shower,” I told the room service woman. “Please just come in and set it up in the living room.”

“Very good, madam.”

I closed and locked my bedroom door and then removed my gown and laid it on the bed, leaving the jewels in the pocket. I pulled the wilted shamrocks and gardenia out of my hair and then the combs. I balanced on my good leg and stretched my arms toward the ceiling as far as I could. I started to smile.

I’d done it, and no one knew who I was or where I was. The question was, would I leave it that way?

After a hot shower, I dried my hair, put on the soft terry-cloth hotel robe, and took the parure and the diamond brooch into the living room. I laid them in a semicircle around my butter and marmalade and croissants. I couldn’t believe my eyes, they were absolutely magnificent.

The copy I’d made was technically perfect, and the synthetics exact as well, but up close, it was like the difference between new and old sterling silver: nothing could come close to matching the inner glow, the luster and patina that can come only from age and experience.

I hopped over to the full-length mirror on the bedroom door and put on the necklace. I pinned the Lesser Stars brooch to one side of my bodice and the emerald brooch to the other. I clipped on the earrings and bracelet. They looked so well on me—emeralds were much better with my coloring than with Alma’s. The Lesser Stars—the Cullinans III and IV—particularly enchanted me. They weren’t perfect diamonds, nor were they the largest I’d ever seen by any means, but they lay there, one on top of the other, with the incredible power and mystique of their African heritage, smoldering with their long and complicated history. I could almost feel them daring me to keep them, to add another chapter.

It would be incredibly easy to do. I still owned the little place in Portofino. I could go there. I could go anywhere.

I sat down, poured a café au lait, ate the croissants, and read the papers. All the while, the morning sun made the jewelry sparkle, sending little beams off the silver pots and flatware. I swear, it was almost as though this jewelry was talking to me and after breakfast, I was sorry to have to tuck it into the pockets on my corset. But this was no time to get lazy or casual about my haul. I turned on my cell phone.

I had six messages from Thomas. I called him.

“Where are you?” he answered immediately.

“I’m in Zurich,” I lied. I still hadn’t decided what I was going to do. “Where are you?”

“Mont-St.-Anges. I had a hell of a time finding this place. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Well, this is quite a little setup they’ve got for themselves here, Mr. and Mrs. Naxos. I’m just leaving their castle, where they’ve fed me what would be a delicious breakfast if I were a bird. I’m on my way to the hotel to get something to eat and charge my phone—the battery’s almost gone. It’s snowing like hell—I’ve never seen so much snow.” His words faded in and out.

“What?” I yelled.

“So, Kick, I’m very grateful you did as I asked and got out of here before the shooting started.”

“Shooting?”

“It’s been quite a night. Alma Naxos shot holes in Robert’s study, trying to shoot a thief who was robbing his safe. Would you know anything about that?”

“Really,” I said.

“Alma is certainly a brave woman. Sitting in that wheelchair, totally vulnerable, and having the presence of mind to shoot, even if she missed. I’m terribly impressed. And may I add, grateful she missed.”

I rolled my eyes. She was as helpless as a cobra. “She only told part of the story, Thomas. She shot Sebastian. He’s in the hospital. Well, actually, he’s probably home by now, his wound didn’t look that serious. Aren’t you the slightest bit curious what Alma was doing with a gun in the first place?”

“She said she found it in a drawer.”

“Sebastian’s drawer. What happens next?”

“After breakfast, I’m going to investigate the scene of the crime, although I don’t really expect to find anything. Alma said the safe was emptied.”

“That’s not true, Thomas. Alma and Sebastian are in this together.”

The connection grew weaker.

“Say again.”

“Thomas,” I shouted. “Don’t go to Constantin’s house. Sebastian will be there. I’m sure Alma arranged for him to be picked up and taken home. He has guns. I’m afraid he’ll try to kill you.”

“What?” Thomas shouted as his phone went dead.

Oh, hell.

Love, duty, and conscience are terrible things, especially if you’re having to choose between keeping the queen of England’s best pieces of jewelry or rescuing your husband.

F  I  F  T  Y  -  S  E  V  E  N

“Heliport, Piers speaking.”

“Piers, this is Mrs. Rogers.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rogers. Did you have a good flight to Geneva?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “I’ve gotten my business done more quickly than I thought. Do you know if the crew that flew me in is still here?”

“Yes. They are taking off in about fifteen minutes.”

“Would you ask them to wait for me?”

“If you get there quickly, the weather is closing in—it’s supposed to get very bad here. Otherwise, I’ll arrange transportation for you as soon as it lifts.”

“No. Please ask them to wait—I’ll get there as soon as I can. I’m leaving right now.”

“Very well.”

I pulled on slacks and a sweater and the black Bogner parka with the black fox trim, which I couldn’t bear to leave behind in Mont-St.-Anges, and my Russian-style black mink hat. I checked to make sure my big gun and all my gizmos were in my tote bag. On my way out of the hotel I left my travel satchels, which had my jewelry in their false bottoms—I still had the queen’s pieces in my corset—with the porter to put in his locked storage closet, and when I arrived at the private air terminal, I left my crutches in the car. I wasn’t in that much pain anymore and they would just get in the way.

The flight to Mont-St.-Anges was a total nightmare, far worse than the first one, but I couldn’t afford to let it get to me. I kept my eyes focused on the closed cockpit door and thought about Thomas.

Half an hour later, we shuddered to the ground in white-out conditions.

I hoped after today, I would never see snow or a helicopter again as long as I lived.

Piers helped me into a sleigh at the bottom of the stairs. “Gluhwein?” he asked once he’d covered me with warm blankets.

“No, thank you.”

“Very well.” He stepped back and saluted as we pulled away.

“Schloss Constantin,” I said to the driver.

Off we went through the storm.

“Just turn in the service entrance,” I instructed my driver when we rounded the corner into the enclave. I climbed out at the service door and watched the sleigh pull off. Robert must have been planning to go somewhere because the three big Orlov trotters were in their harness and ready to go. The door opened. It was Oscar.

“Is Sebastian here?”

He nodded. “In his bed.”

“And Chief Inspector Curtis?” I started up the stairs to the kitchen.

“Just arrived. I took him to the upstairs study.”

“Come on, Oscar.” I limped as fast as I could through the kitchen and threw open the door to the back stairs. “Sebastian’s got all those guns.”

“What guns?”

“His bed table.” I started up the steps. “He has a whole drawer full of them.” I pulled my own gun out as I climbed. Oscar’s eyes got wide. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to shoot it.”

We reached the second floor and raced to the open study door. I heard Sebastian’s voice and when I rounded the corner, I saw Thomas standing in the middle of the room with his arms raised above his head. Sebastian, in his dressing gown, his left arm in a sling, stood in his bedroom door with a weapon pointed at Thomas.

“Sebastian.” I pointed my gun, which was larger than his, right at his face. “Don’t shoot him. Are you crazy?”

“Margaret!” He frowned. “Where did you come from?”

“Don’t shoot him.”

“Of course I’m going to shoot him—he wants to take me to prison.”

“I said”—Thomas’s voice was calm—“I wanted you to show me the inside of your safe and to ask you some questions.”

“I’m not going back to England,” Sebastian threatened. He cocked the gun and took aim.

I had no choice. I “leaned in,” as the man in Zurich had instructed me, and pulled the trigger and fired. I shot Sebastian in the foot.

“Owww,” he yelled, and fell to the floor.

“Run,” I said. “Follow me.”

Two shots from Sebastian’s gun shattered the doorframe just as we rounded it into the hall.

We raced for the back stairs, but by now my ankle had gone all mushy on me again and I was having to hop. Oscar, God bless him, swept me into his arms and led the way down, through the kitchen and down to the stable yard. I heard the elevator bell ding as he put me into the front of the troika and then tossed Thomas into the passenger seat like a sack of groceries.

“You go,” Oscar ordered. “You know how.”

I pulled my yellow ski goggles over my eyes and picked up the reins.

Robert, all done up in his fur coat and Russian hat, bounded into sight. “Margaret! You look magnificent. Wait! Where are you going? Where are you taking my horses?”

My last sight of Schloss Constantin was of Robert running after us. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His prized Russian horses and antique sleigh were vanishing right before his eyes. “Oscar!” he yelled. “Stop them.”

Oscar joined him in a few halfhearted steps in pursuit, but of course we got away.

As we turned onto the road, and began to pick up speed, Thomas struggled to his feet and leaned over the driver’s brace. He put his face close to mine. “Who are you?” he called into the wind.

“Sit down and be quiet and hold on.” I pushed him back with my elbow. “This is dangerous.”

To my surprise the team was a dream to drive, easy and responsive, and we quickly disappeared into the blizzard. I guided them down the hill and out onto the main road, but I turned right instead of left, which would lead us back to town. Minutes later we flew across the train tracks and veered onto the service road and headed into the woods to freedom.

“You have to turn around,” Thomas shouted, when the gate loomed into sight. “The road’s blocked.”

I pulled the scanner out of my pocket and seconds later the heavy metal barrier lifted and we tore through. As the gate came down behind us, I pulled my gun out of my other pocket and fired two shots into the air. Thank God, it didn’t faze the horses a bit and they continued at their fast pace. After a couple of minutes, I let them slow and we could hear the sounds of avalanches thundering down and closing the road behind us. The woods on the outside of the gate looked exactly the same as those in Mont-St.-Anges, and I had no idea where we were or how long we’d need to keep going. Fifteen minutes later we crested a ridge and there was a small town, twinkling through the snow.

“Excuse me,” Thomas said, and started to get to his feet.

“Please just be quiet. I’m trying to think.”

He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

I stopped at a small farm on the edge of the village and climbed down from the driver’s box.

“A gentleman, a rather large, black gentleman, will be coming to collect the horses and sleigh,” I explained to the perplexed farmer, as I handed him several hundred francs. “Their coats are in the trunk. Will you care for them until he arrives?” He nodded. “Is there a train station?”

He pointed.

Thank God.

“Wait here,” I said to Thomas when we got inside the small depot. “I’ll get our tickets. Order us something warm to drink.”

When I got to the small café-bar, Thomas was sitting at a table with two steaming mugs of gluhwein. I sat down with a whoosh. My legs had almost turned to jelly from the drive. It had taken an incredible amount of balance, strength, and concentration to drive that team.

Thomas slid a mug across the table to me. “Thank you for the rescue, Margaret. Whoever you are.”

I stared at him blankly. I’d forgotten I still had on my mink hat and ski goggles. “Thomas,” I said, and pulled them off and removed the dark contacts from my eyes. “It’s me.”

It took a couple of seconds for him to realize it was true.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “You did it to me again.”

I smiled and nodded.

“What about the jewelry?”

I patted my bosom. “Safe and sound.”

Thomas leaned across the table and kissed me. “You are one in a million, Kick Keswick. And I adore you.”

“I adore you, too. Thomas. Let’s go home.”