Perfect (22 page)

F  O  R  T  Y  -  S  I  X

By the time we went in to dinner, Robert and I were trailing significantly, in spite of my decimation—my “Schneidering” in two out of three bouts—of Sebastian and the resulting point count. I wasn’t a pro at this game, but at least I knew how to play, had some card sense. Robert was hopeless. Sebastian was a superb player, but I was glad to note he had come slightly unhinged, a complete no-no in a profession—stealing jewelry—where nerves of steel were the first order of business. Would he take the time or make the effort to try and see if there was a connection between my ramped-up security system and the fact that his secret life could be exposed? No. He’d become too sure of himself in his new life and was beginning to commit the sin of pride. And that would, somehow or other, be his downfall. His ego was such that I was sure he would completely recover his composure by the end of the meal.

When we got to the dining room, I saw with chagrin that I was seated between Al and George—more grist for Lucy’s mill. Well, that was her problem. She was seated directly opposite me on George’s left side, next to Sebastian.

In spite of Lucy’s growing bile, I could tell it was going to be one of the most delightful, hysterical dinners I’d ever been to. All the people, except for me, and to some extent Sebastian, were very close, longtime friends but they made me feel completely part of the crowd. I’d never had friends in my earlier life. I couldn’t afford to. Now I had Thomas, who was surely somewhere in the vicinity by now, and my little Bijou. And our friends, the Balfours, in Les Baux. It was a start.

“I’m starving to death, aren’t you?” George said to me under his breath.

I nodded, praying there would be a proper meal served, not those scanty tidbits Alma had served in Paris.

“I’m so hungry I could eat a bear,” Robert announced, shaking out his napkin and spreading it across his lap.

Sebastian and Al nodded in agreement.

When the appetizer, slices of rare tuna and a little dab of wasabi, served with an exquisite Chasselas appeared, I glanced at George. We had, it seemed, little hope. But I was wrong. The moment the first-course plates were cleared away, the kitchen door swung open and in came a footman carrying a large silver tray with a boned roast of braised beef surrounded by parsley and what looked like cherries, a dish I’d read about for years but never tasted and certainly never prepared. It required a minimum of a week’s marinating of the roast.

“Aargauer Suure Mocke,” he beamed.

“Bravo! Bravo!” Robert cried.

It was, indeed, a rare treat.

We all fixed our eyes on the parade of assistants that had followed the footman with domed silver bowls of side dishes, which they arranged on the long sideboard.

The head footman picked up his razor-sharp, bone-handled carving knife and fork and began to carve. The heady scent of the cherries and peppery denseness of the roasted meat wafted over us. He layered three slices of perfectly cooked roast onto the antique ecru plates bordered with wide green-and-gold rims, as carefully as he would place a filament of gold leaf over a cake, and then with the sharp point of the knife and one prong of the fork, picked up a bouquet of six or seven roasted cherries—tied together with a cherry stem—and tucked the bow just beneath the serving of beef. It was beautiful to watch him. An assistant then settled a heaping spoonful of a creamy purée of potato, celeriac, and turnip and julienned strips of braised carrots and parsnips around the roast. Another footman served the plate while a fourth followed him with a boat of a dense savory sauce, surely the result of a week’s worth of marinating and final deglazing. The plate wasn’t a precious work of art, the way some grand cuisine dishes are—arranged so artistically it almost seems a crime to touch them—but it was a beautiful, colorful, fragrant creation that beckoned you to begin. The aroma of each element was distinct and complementary. It was hard to wait, but we all persevered until the entire table had been served.

In the meantime, Cookson had wasted not a second in getting to the wine. He wheeled in a cart with a half-dozen bottles of uncorked 1975 Château Mouton-Rothschild Pauillac. He held up one of the bottles for George to examine, and once George tasted and approved, Cookson nodded to his assistant, who moved quickly to fill the glasses. The party was on.

George raised his glass. “To friendship,” he said.

“To friendship,” we agreed, and clinked all round.

The cherries with the braised beef gave a wonderful sweet contrast to the tangy sauce, and the purée with its combination of root vegetables was positively decadent. The carrots and parsnips were carrots and parsnips. There’s just so much one can do with them.

Alma didn’t scold George a single time—I’m sure it was because she was at the far end of the table and too well mannered to shout at him. She did shoot him a few looks that he ignored, but they were nothing compared to the ones I was getting from Lucy. Hers were positively lethal, as though she were planning some way to get even with me. The people who knew her were right: she was nuts.

Dessert was white chocolate mousse, butter almond cookies, and demitasses of dark Colombian coffee.

By the end of dinner, in spite of the strong coffee, everyone was stifling yawns.

“Shall we postpone the retribution round until next time?” Alma asked.

We all began to nod assent.

“Absolutely not!” Robert declared. “Margaret and I demand a chance to redeem ourselves.”

I looked at him as though he’d lost his mind.

“Don’t we?” He challenged.

“Absolutely,” I said, and nodded adamantly. “We demand a rematch.”

Sebastian and I played each other first. He had himself completely under control—his eyes hid his thoughts—and his mouth went non-stop about absolutely nothing the whole time we played, which amused me.

“Sebastian,” I said. “Please be quiet just for two seconds.”

He leaned toward me. “No. And I want you to know, I was never in your house. I would never do anything so reckless.”

Was that a confession of his skill as a thief? I looked in his eyes. They were open and honest, completely without guile. He was calling my bluff. At that moment, I knew he was the Palace Thief, and I also knew he had not been in my house the night before.

At one o’clock in the morning, we all stumbled home, completely sated with beautiful food, wine, friendship, and gin rummy. All of us except Lucy, who took the opportunity to whisper to me as she was kissing my cheek.

“I thought I told you to stay away from my husband.”

And then she walked out the door.

For the first time in my life, I went to sleep with a gun under my pillow, the big handgun I’d bought in Zurich. The dealer said it could stop an elephant. He’d given me a course on how to use it and let me fire off a couple of shots in the basement range. The recoil was so strong, it almost knocked me down.

“Take charge!” he’d ordered. “Lean into it.”

I did and the next two were better.

I don’t know if I actually could or would use it to shoot anyone, but having it close by gave me a certain peace of mind.

F  O  R  T  Y  -  S  E  V  E  N

The booming echoes of crews dynamiting avalanches up and down the valley started with the first hint of gray morning light. The sky was low and more snow was in the forecast. I was getting awfully tired of this weather. I ate my breakfast and then, comfortably decked out in citrine chiffon pajamas, coppery kid sling-backed pumps and a torsade of topaz beads, I settled in to my workbench to wrap up the little that remained of my projects.

The countdown was on.

Thomas was on my mind. I expected that the next time the phone or doorbell rang it would be him.

Sebastian had had the night to think about our conversation. It was possible, but extremely unlikely, that he would take his booty and run before I could make my own well-plotted attempt to discover where it was and steal it. I also couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in peril, that I was walking close to the edge of a sheer dropoff, that Lucy was going to do something crazy. She was as unpredictable as nitro and to someone as meticulous as I, unpredictability was one thing I loathed. I also appreciated that she was an element I couldn’t control. However, there were certain other elements that I could manipulate. I picked up the phone.

“Schloss Constantin,” a woman answered.

“Good morning, is Mr. Constantin in? It’s Margaret Romaniei calling.”

“One moment.”

“Good morning, Margaret,” he said seconds later, his voice robust and enthusiastic. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Always. I think it must be the brandy and fresh air—lots of each.”

“I’m calling to see if you and Sebastian can come to dinner tonight. I know you’re getting ready for your dinner dance tomorrow, so thought maybe you’d enjoy a quiet evening.”

“We would love to. What time?”

“Seven-thirty. Just a casual supper. I thought we could play whist or canasta. Or Parcheesi—do you play Parcheesi?”

“It is my most favorite game—I always win. Sometimes even without cheating. We’ll see you at seven-thirty. May I bring the wine?”

“Just yourselves.”

I disassembled my studio, packing everything—everything but my unused easel and paints and draped canvas—neatly back into the boxes they came in, sealed them up, and called the shipping company to come pick them up. I shredded all my work documents—close-up photographs, descriptions of the pieces, receipts for the supplies and shipping information—and stowed my personal documents such as passports and identifications and personal jewelry (except for what I planned to wear for the next few days) into the false bottoms of my Hermès travel satchels, which I placed in my clothes closet with the rest of my things.

I laid out the replicas of the queen’s jewels on the bathroom counter and carefully tucked each piece of the parure and the Lesser Stars of Africa brooch into individual Velcro-fastened pockets stitched all round the inside of a specially padded corset. Years ago, I’d designed and constructed a number of these foundations—bras, waist-cinchers that resembled back braces, girdles, and corsets—and they had served me well. I’d used them successfully to carry gems and currency between my vaults in London and Zurich, Provence, and Geneva. I’d never try to pass through airport security wearing finished pieces, but loose stones were undetectable and the undergarments were so ingeniously constructed and padded, a thorough body search would not give them away. In addition to which, they were comfortable. They added bulk to my figure, to be sure, but what possible difference could a few more pounds make at this point?

I cinched on the lacy black strapless affair. I’d wear it from now on.

“Kahlua café, Princesse?” the waiter asked.

“Please.” I wanted to ask for a double I was so exhilarated from driving myself into town, by myself, for the first time. I’d called Barnhardt to tell him I’d made it without a hitch. Black Diamond performed like a dream.

“Naturally. Call me if you want a ride home.”

I was at the café before the rest of Robert’s group and took my regular table. I made my marketing list for dinner—smoked salmon canapés, noisettes de veau, rösti with shallot sauce, fresh spinach, and burgundy. And the rest of the cake. I pulled out my book, which I’d become very tired of—I was ready for some sort of a grand adventure story—and sipped my café, which I’d become addicted to. Robert and Sebastian thundered into the square in their troika a quarter of an hour later.

Robert came directly to my table. “Please come join us,” he said. “You can’t sit and read your silly book all the time. It’s too boring.”

“It’s not boring at all and besides, I was just leaving for the market. I’m cooking tonight, remember?’

“You mean
you’re
going to do the cooking? Not your cook?”

“I don’t have a cook.”

“That’s insane. Come to my house for dinner.”

“No. Absolutely not. You don’t understand, Robert. I
like
to cook.”

“No, no. You need to take care of yourself. You must stay off your feet. I insist.”

“Robert . . . “

“That’s the final word on the subject. I will call for you at seven-thirty.”

“All right. If you insist. But I’ll drive myself.”

I wandered next door into the predinner bustle at Fannie’s. I wouldn’t have many more opportunities to visit this gastronomic wonderland and I wanted to remember every inch of it.

The charcuterie counter alone was worth the trip, with sausages and cheeses available only in Switzerland. I was trying to decide which combination to purchase when, right on cue, Lucy sidled up next to me.

“Aren’t these sausages gorgeous? I’ll take that schnitzel, please,” she said to the fellow.

We both watched him wrap it in white butcher paper and tie it with string. He handed it across the counter.

“I figured it out,” Lucy said, holding the sausage.

“Figured what out?”

“Where I know you from.”

“Back at that again?”

“Have you ever been to Portofino?”

My throat tightened a bit. “Dozens of times.”

“I knew it! You were at the gala last June with that movie star . . .  oh, what’s his name?” The sausage wagged back and forth like a pendulum.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’ve been invited to the gala a number of times, but I’ve never been able to attend. Was this the one where the diamond was stolen?”

Lucy nodded. “Yes, the Millennium Star. Oh, darn. What’s that actor’s name? It’s right on the tip of my tongue.
Michael Douglas.
”

I started to laugh. “You think I was there with Michael Douglas? What about his wife? Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

“Oh! My God, you’re right.” Lucy’s mouth formed a perfect O.

“That’s who I’ve had you confused with all this time. Catherine Zeta-Jones. I am so embarrassed. You look exactly like her.”

“Like her mother, maybe.”

“No, no. You’re what Al calls a dish.”

“Lucy, may I tell you something? I’m not interested in Al.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. All women are interested in Al Richardson. He’s one of the richest men in the world. And I’ve heard that you’re down to your last centime and you’re in the market for a husband.” She wiggled her schnitzel at me. “Just stay out of my Al’s pockets and his pants.” And with that she jammed the sausage into her basket, turned on her heel, and left.

She was a case. But unfortunately, she was a smart case. She’d somehow come up with me and Portofino in the same sentence and that was not a good thing.

Tomorrow night couldn’t come fast enough.