Too Damn Rich (65 page)

"It's mind-blowingly gorgeous! I really can't
understand what you're complaining about. Why, it would do Princess
Di proud. I mean, even the queen mum, bless her tipsy heart, would
be hard-pressed not to approve."

"That's the whole point, darling. Kenzie, I
do like it, I really do, otherwise I'd never have chosen it in the
first place."

"Then what is it?"

"Well, for some extraordinary reason, now
that it's made and on me, it ... it seems so frightfully stuffy, so
... so positively Elizabethan and un-me. And, to wear it just the
once and hate it, I mean, that defeats the purpose, and doesn't
begin to justify the cost, now does it?"

The staff exchanged pained expressions. How,
they were wondering, could a wedding gown of such regal and
incomparable beauty defeat any purpose? And if, as His Serene
Highness Prince Karl-Heinz had assured Ms. Wang, money was no
object, how could any bride not be nuts about the single most
beautiful wedding gown ever created?

But Zandra, unfortunately, was not just any
bride. She was a designer's nightmare, a reluctant princess
bride—in short, as frustrating a client as ever walked through the
door.

"Okay," said Kenzie slowly. "Out with it,
kiddo. What don't you like about this gown? And I want specifics,
because the longer you're going to take, the more miserable you're
going to feel, and the more miserable you feel, the more miserable
all of us are going to be."

"I know, I know," Zandra said in a meek
little voice, worrying her engagement ring, the Pink Lady, 14.42
pear-shaped carats of the finest flawless pink diamond in the
world.

"Then I suggest we get on with it. The gown
fits, doesn't it?"

"Of course it fits," Zandra replied. "That's
not the point I'm trying to make, not at all. Oh, Kenzie. Darling,
why do I even need a wedding gown? Why can't Heinzie and I just pop
by some justice of the peace and get the damn ceremony over with?
Is that really asking for too much?"

"It is and you know it. Remember how you told
me that the ceremony has to follow certain family traditions and
dictates? That otherwise it wouldn't be considered legal?"

"God, Kenzie. You've a memory like an
elephant." Zandra scowled prettily. "I see that in future I'm going
to watch every word."

"Plus," Kenzie reminded her, "there's the
small matter of publicity to consider."

"Oh, Kenzie," Zandra sighed. "I loathe
publicity. I absolutely abhor the idea of being in the public
eye."

"Well, you'd better get used to it, or else
find yourself a different bridegroom."

"That's easy for you to say."

"Zandra, listen to me. I love and treasure my
own privacy, so I have a pretty good idea of what yours must mean
to you. But good heavens! Your wedding is only one rung below a
royal wedding in social stature! Surely there's no way it wouldn't
attract attention."

"I know," Zandra said glumly, still worrying
the giant, scintillating pink diamond. "How well I know it."

"And, since it will be attracting all that
attention, how would it look if you went to the altar
inappropriately dressed? Especially having to face photographers,
reporters, television crews, guests, and God only knows who
else?"

"Kenzie, you're frightening me. Frightening
me lots."

"You'd feel silly, that's what!" Kenzie
continued inexorably. "People would have a fine old time laughing
and picking you apart."

"Stop it."

"Don't you see? Zandra, to coast through this
ordeal as smoothly and easily as possible, and with the minimum
amount of fuss, you have to look like a dream bride."

Zandra frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps Kenzie
has a point. I never thought of a bridal gown in these terms
before.

"Anything less," Kenzie added, "would only
draw that much more attention to you. Besides—" She smiled smugly,
neatly pulling out her ace "—there's nothing quite like a bridal
gown when it comes to a disguise."

"Disguise?"

"Yes, disguise. Zandra, don't you see? It can
make you virtually invisible! Did you hear me? Invisible! It's the
outfit everyone will be looking at, not the woman beneath the
veil!"

Zandra's ears perked up. Trust Kenzie, she
thought, to be so practical and sensible. Yes. I was right in
bringing her along instead of Dina, who'd have "oooooh-ed" and
"aaaaah-ed" and never scratched the surface of the issue.

"Now, why don't we start over?" Kenzie
suggested in a kindly voice. "Tell us exactly how you feel about
this gown."

Zandra turned back to the mirrors and
gestured at herself. "Well, for one thing, it's too ... too
everything. You know."

"Pretend that I don't."

"All right." Zandra drew a deep breath. "It's
too traditional, too romantic, too regal, and too ... well, too
bloody bridal!"

"I see." Kenzie looked taken aback. "Anything
else?" she asked wryly.

"Only that it's depressingly virginal."
Zandra caught the expressions on the staff's faces. "Oh, dear,
seems I've really put my foot in it now!"

"You haven't put anything anywhere," Kenzie
assured her. "You're the bride. If you're not happy, no one else
will be, either."

Zandra eyed her multiple reflections some
more.

"You do see my point, darling, don't you? I
mean, I want this to be my wedding—not this bloody gown's, but
mine. Who wants to be upstaged by a dress?"

"Good." Kenzie smiled encouragement. "Now
that you're ventilating, we're getting somewhere. Go on. Suggest
away."

"Well, couldn't we ... you know . . . shorten
this gown a wee bit?"

Kenzie eyed the floor-length hem. "Shorten
it," she murmured.

Zandra nodded.

"Of course it could be shortened ... if
that's what you want. But you do realize it would no longer be a
gown, but a dress?"

"Really, Kenz."

"And that you are going to have an
old-fashioned wedding? A sumptuous, old-fashioned cathedral
wedding, with a cardinal, a prince of the Church, officiating?"

"Now you're being a prude. Darling, nobody
said I can't be a rebel princess. Did they?"

Rebel princess? Kenzie looked startled. "What
is that supposed to mean?"

"All it means, darling, is that I intend to
have some fun. And if having fun means making Stephanie of Monaco
look like a tame, trained lap-dog, then so be it."

"Then make sure the blame's not laid on me.
So what do you think? Midcalf?"

"Kenzie, really!" Zandra scoffed.

"Higher?"

"Higher."

"But below the knee?"

"Above the knee," Zandra said adamantly.
"Eight inches above."

"Eight?" Kenzie was so shocked that her voice
squeaked. "Eight inches? Tell me you're only kidding. Please,
Zandra, tell me you're joking."

"I want it eight inches above the knee,"
Zandra said obstinately. "Above the top of the kneecap," she added
ominously.

"That's what I thought you said. What are you
trying to do? Give the European Old Guard communal coronaries?"

"It's about time someone shook those stodgy
old dinosaurs awake!"

"But all that bare leg! And in a
cathedral!"

"Whoever said the legs have to be bare? What
do you say to . . . white fishnet stockings?"

"No. Zandra, I forbid it. What do you want to
look like? The hooker bride?"

"Well, then what about... lace," Zandra said
dreamily. "Lace stockings? Yes. White lace. I love it. Kenzie,
darling, now we're cooking!"

"If you say so." Kenzie sounded dubious.

"And, I want to wear high, very high white
stacked heels," Zandra went on, getting into the spirit of it. "But
nothing vulgar, like stilettos. Nor platforms. You know ... sort of
like ... like Lotte Lenya shoes! Very, very ugly, with lots and
lots of across-the-ankle straps? Or maybe laces? At any rate, they
must be terribly ugly and terribly chic." She giggled. "You know,
so they look almost orthopedic?"

"Zandra ..."

"And, darling, we'll puff this skirt out
further. Like this." Zandra grabbed handfuls of the gown and
demonstrated. "A kind of late 1980s pouf. But short-short. Without
a train, and the veil reaching exactly to the hem of the
dress."

"You'll ... Zandra! You'll look like a lace
bell with legs!"

"Hmmm. Yes, I rather will, won't I? But it's
different, right?"

"Oh, I definitely think so."

"And, most important, it's me! Oh, darling,
do you realize, this is the most fun I've gotten out of this whole
wedding thing so far ... Now, Kenzie, I want the truth ... how far
should the skirt pouf out ... to here ... or all the way to here
... ?"

Off Grand Abaco Island, The Bahamas, February 12

Sunset at the 75th meridian.

After the troughs of the wintery North
Atlantic, the six-foot chop in the Caribbean was like a placid pond
in midsummer.

The small tramp freighter Beatriz, on her
nineteenth day out of Marseilles, was one hundred twenty miles
northwest of Grand Abaco Island when the captain ordered the
engines shut down.

Purples and pinks and great chrysanthemum
clouds of orange painted the sky and tinted the water. It was the
kind of exuberant sunset which at Key West attracts crowds and
applause.

Aboard the Beatriz, however, nature's
fireworks went unappreciated. Four of the crew were busy on the
foredeck, where the cargo boom was lifting a ten-meter sailboat
from its cradle in the hold.

Across the boat's stern was the legend: ALOHA
LADY HONOLULU.

The captain and his sole passenger watched
from the bridge as the boom swung the sailboat overboard and
lowered it slowly into the water. Two crewmen scrabbled down a rope
ladder, unsnapped the blue canvas cover and raised and bolted the
foldaway mast in place.

Aloha Lady was fully provisioned with stores,
and its diesel tank had been topped off. All that remained was for
the 450-square feet of furled canvas to be hoisted, and the trim
little craft could sail off into the sunset.

The captain, a stocky Spaniard with skin as
deeply tanned and weathered as the shell of a walnut, turned to his
passenger.

"So we part here,
amigo
."

"That's right, capitan." Donough Kildare
looked at him through cold, unsmiling Irish eyes. The minor facial
cuts he had inflicted upon himself at Porston had healed, and his
hair and eyebrows were dyed a yellow- white. "It was a most
interesting journey."

The captain burst into jovial laughter.
"Interesting!
Por Dios
, but that's the understatement of the
year!"

The captain's eighteen-year-old son scrambled
up the rope ladder from the sailboat and waved, signaling that
everything was in readiness.

"
Adios
, capitan," Kildare said
quietly.

"
Adios, amigo
."

The mate, a gleaming black man with a shaved
head, sidled up to the captain and watched Donough Kildare climb
down the companion- way and cross the foredeck. "I still say we
should kill him, mon," he said softly.

The captain shook his head. "He has done us
no harm. And he has made us rich."

"I don't trust him, mon. His eyes are the
eyes of death."

"
Silencio!
You and your voodoo
rubbish. Eyes of death indeed! See, Marcel? There he goes. Now do
you feel better?"

They both heard the steady put-put of the
sailboat's inboard diesel, and watched the graceful craft motoring
away, a black silhouette against the blazing sunset.

Perhaps, the captain thought, I'll use my
share of the money to retire. His eyes followed the sailboat. Maybe
I'll buy myself a boat like that one.

A voice intruded on his thoughts.

"
Capitan?
" It was the fat Greek
cook.

"What?"

"All the soap powder in the galley is
missing."

"So? Get more out of the stores."

"But there were four full boxes—"

"Don't bother me with it."

"
Papa
."

"
Si?
"

"I was just in my cabin. I noticed my alarm
clock is gone."

"Don't you have work to do? You can look for
it later."

"Capitan?" The radio operator.

"Now what?"

"The radios. They are both smashed!"

"Whatever is wrong can be fixed or replaced
once we reach Grand Abaco."

"
Capitan!
" The engineer.

"What!"

"The barrel of gasoline for the launch. It is
empty."

"Get down to the engine room!" the captain
bellowed. "Now!"

"
Si, capitan
."

The captain felt a strong black hand clamp
around his wrist.

"Listen to me, mon!" the mate whispered.
"Something is wrong. Can't you feel it?"

The captain shook his arm free, went into the
wheelhouse, and picked up a telephone receiver. "Start the
engines," he commanded.

Soon he could hear the familiar noise as the
big diesels were fired up and the decks began to hum and
vibrate.

"See?" the captain said to the mate. "You are
worse than an old wo—"

He never finished the sentence. There was a
sudden blinding flash, and a tremendous explosion lifted the
Beatriz clear out of the water and then tore her apart, the
homemade napalm raining fiery debris all around.

A quarter of a mile away, Donough Kildare
braced himself against the shock waves. One moment the Beatriz was
there; the next she was gone.

All that was left were furiously burning
pieces of flotsam.

"
Bon voyage
," he said softly, giving a
sardonic salute.

Then, adjusting his course for Fort
Lauderdale, he sailed off into the sunset.