She nodded. “The party starts at 10:00. Pick this up at 8:00.”
I placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not the Oscars, but I’ll do my best.”
She smiled wanly. “Your best was always pretty good.”
George did indeed still work at Bulgari. What Mina didn’t know was that with some of Max’s money, I was able to clear George’s record, so he was eligible to work in one of the most iconic shops in the city. George wanted to design as well, but he was so good at sales.
“Oh my, my, Victoria Gardner—you look fabulous!” An older, I hoped wiser, George scooted around a glass counter and pulled me close.
“I thought I’d never see you, after Max.” He blinked and trailed off.
There was Max and after Max. Another set of initials. AM.
“I need a favor.” I explained the mission and my dress by Mina.
“She just needs a break.” I finished my story.
“Don’t we all.” He was dressed in a beautiful suit, pointed Italian shoes, but his face was still young, boyish and charming. For a moment I couldn’t remember if he still preferred boys. Didn’t matter
“Can you spare a couple of things for tonight?”
He pulled out the Bulgari iconic serpent necklace. The overlapping snake scales created a sinuous and sexy line around my neck, the brilliant emerald eyes winked, the head almost nestled into my cleavage.
“Maybe a little much?”
He studied the effect. “Maybe not enough.”
He returned it to the black velvet display form and from under the counter, pulled out a stunning circle of purple, green and red gems.
“The Tradizione. Semi-precious, rubellite, amethyst, and peridot, but it shows well. The cameras love it.”
“Instagram will love it.”
He clasped it around my neck, and I felt like I had been lit up from inside.
“Yes, yes.” I glanced into the mirror and patted it carefully. “This will be perfect.”
“You’ll need a bracelet for your right hand, so it glitters when you wave to the paparazzi. You have organized the photographers?”
I nodded.
“Try this.” He wound a white gold signature serpent loaded with twenty-six carats of pavé diamonds. “Don’t remove it until you are back here,” he instructed.
“Sleep in it.”
“Yes, or don’t sleep.” He grinned. “Especially with handsome strangers. Where is the event?”
I told him.
“They have their own security. You should be fine. He glanced up at a case. “You have a bag?”
“I’ll bring my old Lieber. The watermelon.” I had just found it in the back of the closet, with two of Miranda’s favorite Chanel clutches. I still love the designer’s joke of turning food into art—burgers, popsicles, and the watermelon slice picked out in bright red and green crystals. We did a shoot for one of her rare features in Neiman Marcus’s catalogue and I fell in love, which makes sense; the bags are worth as much as a bottle of Screaming Eagle wine. Which is to say, far too much. It was perfect. And my phone just fit.
He nodded. “That should work. You were always good at the unexpected.”
The unexpected. I patted the necklace and glanced at my watch. I had an hour to eat and head back to Mina’s to pick up the dress.
“I’ll have these back Sunday afternoon. As soon as you open.”
He pushed a paper across the counter. “Just sign here.”
The party wasn’t the Met bash, but it looked pretty damn impressive. The night was black, the stars picked out like crystals, the waxing moon was just rising, not yet competing with Von Meiter’s villa, lit up like a fairy tale castle. I grabbed the hem of my dress and carefully stepped over the sliver of canal to gain the red carpet. Even in low heels, cobblestones are slippery, I was happy for the security of the carpet.
I joined the line of guests clutching their invitations. I was conspicuous by my lack of same, but I took a deep breath and launched my plan.
I eyed the two large security guards flanking the villa entrance sporting doors carved by Bernini. The Von Meiters were an old family.
I fell back so there was no one behind me. I searched for my team. Ah, I paused, smiled and waved, making sure the snake bracelet caught the light. There was Don, his huge white Cannon lens stood out among the more reasonable 80mm lens. He waved and began shooting. He nudged the person next to him who, as soon as he saw me, quickly raised his camera. This wasn’t Sports Illustrated, I wasn’t a polar bear sinking into the warming sea, but bless his heart, Don was helping me make a scene.
I waved. Alison, another favorite photographer called out, “Vic, Vic! Over here!”
Mark, who mainly shot for NatGeo, pretended to compete, “Vic, over here!”
As soon as the other five or six (disappointing, there weren’t many more) photographers heard Alison call out, they all focused—literally—on me. I walked slowly and posed every thirty seconds, showing the dress to best advantage, touching the necklace with my right hand so the bracelet would be caught in the limited square format of an Instagram post.
There was a dearth of rings in Miranda’s jewelry box, Tiffany had made a through sweep, so I had compensated by wearing a pair of black elbow length gloves. The diamond-encrusted snake stood out like a lighthouse beacon.
I put a hand to my ear. “What? Oh, I’m wearing Mina—an original! MINA. Thank you for asking!”
Alison grinned, and burst off seventeen more shots. Mark kept his camera aimed at me and Don followed me like a compass stuck on North.
The particulars were all embedded in a text I'd sent them an hour ago. Mina’s phone and website. The Bulgari store location. We were good on that score. Now the next part.
The guards eyed me as I slowly strolled up to the invitation check. I sucked in my stomach, held my breath and turned once more to wave at the photographers. Another group of guests arrived; their thick white invitations caught the light of the rising moon. This was my first time on the invitee side of the ropes. I longed to be back in the crowd, taking notes, shouting at the talent or the famous, camera lens banging against my legs, jostling for the best spot for Deb. I took a deep breath. The necklace flashed; the snake flashed. I had auburn hair; I wore red lipstick. I could do this.
I smiled at the larger of the two guards. I lifted the watermelon slice as if to produce my invitation. He eyed the snake and pulled back the velvet rope.
I nodded graciously, turned once more, waved and sauntered through.
I was in.
Nic’s plan:
A. Find the host
B. Get an update on the black market for stolen artifacts.
C. Escape.
I did not disabuse Nic’s helpful itinerary, but a party is not really the time for deep interrogation or deep activities of any kind. Parties are about light chat, compliments, catty comments, who is there and who is conspicuous by their absence. It’s all about being seen.
That said, in all fairness, Nic was not a party guy. Drag him to any social occasion and he behaves like the stereotypical professor. He eats far too many hors d’oeuvres and traps hapless guests in lengthy monologues about his work. When we met, I thought it was charming and refreshing. But like most party tricks, it only works once.
I took a glass of champagne from an offered tray and stepped down the stairs into the swirl of people on the ballroom floor. If the redoubtable Beth Ellen could only see me now.
Von Meiter, my host, pushed through the crowd to meet me on the ballroom stairs. I knew of Von Meiter, but since he wasn’t a close friend of Max Peters, I did not know the man well. He was in his seventies and still elegant in a classic tuxedo that almost hid his growing belly, which I assume was a product of too much gourmet food and 500-euro bottles of wine. Not a bad way to go. I wished my weight could be attributed to the same level of elegant living rather than one too many nights with my boys Ben & Jerry.
“Ah, you must be the lovely lady who is making suc
h a scene.”
I raised an eyebrow and held out my hand. He regarded the bracelet, kissed my glove and gestured for me to take his arm.
There are three kinds of parties: Polite, exciting and dangerous. Vince’s retirement party was polite, Miranda’s parties were dangerous, this one was exciting. My fingers tingled; my breath shortened. Depending on muscle memory, I leaned into my host and greeted the other guests as if we were old friends, because that’s what you do. If you are here, you are an old friend of someone, right?
I hugged and air kissed. I even recognized some of the guests I hugged and kissed. Most were strangers, but at a party like this, we were all close friends, rivals, enemies, all converging for a good time.
After enough champagne and wine, the hugs evolved into kisses. I kissed strange men and women on the lips. I held out my snake-wrapped hand for more kisses and gracious gestures. I was warm, happy moving through the crowd, being part of the action, part of the scene. I had forgotten why I was there.
“Let’s sit.” After a couple hours, Von Meiter found me again and led me to a table tucked into an alcove that was built to showcase a large statue. A waiter dutifully followed and Von Meiter ordered more champagne.
“So, mystery woman.”
“Victoria.”
He regarded me under hooded eyes. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette case. Just the act of smoking inside a building was exotic. I felt terribly bad, very un PC.
He tapped the cigarette on the closed case then pointed it at me.
“Max Peters!”
I nodded. He leaned back, pleased he had solved the mystery.
“He was magnificent. Bold to the last.” Von Meiter smiled and lit his cigarette. “I hear you were good to him.”
“I tried to be.”
“The estate is still tied up. Can’t find the right heirs, not that the boys aren’t ready to volunteer.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Nor I. You are not here for Max, so what can I do for you?”
I sipped my champagne and regarded him. The room was packed, the noise level high enough to thwart conversation. I could see people resorting to simple gestures, many of them lewd.
I fished out the photo of our hippo from the crystal-studded watermelon and slid it onto the tiny table.
He recoiled as if it was a real snake.
“I don’t know anything about that.”
Really? I lifted my eyebrows.
He shook his head and took a deep drag of his cigarette. A waiter appeared carrying an amber-colored ashtray.
“Mafia?” I guessed. What else could make him pale, in his own house, where he could smoke without repercussions?
“Maybe worse.” He knocked a tiny bit of ash into the tray.
I leaned back in the chair and tried to look comfortable and immovable. I crossed my legs. He took two more drags and studied me.
“I wouldn’t talk to anyone about this.”
I bounced my foot. “I’m not talking, I’m just asking.”
He glanced at the photo. The noise of the party seemed to recede. Smoke from his cigarette obscured his face. I waited.
“Only because of Max.” He ground the half-smoked cigarette into the dish.
“Of course.”
He reached inside his suit pocket for a pen. “There is a shop. Ask to see their recent stuff.”
He scrawled an address on a monogramed cocktail napkin. “Don’t use my name.”
I slipped both the photo and the napkin back into the watermelon. “If it’s not Mafia, then who?”
He downed his glass and gestured for more. Three women spotted him and started to approach.
“Don’t know. They aren’t particularly organized. And not in a disorganized, organized way, if you know what I mean. The stuff comes in, one of the Stans, but it’s all sold before the notification of stolen artifacts, photos, descriptions come out. Some people are caught, many don’t even know what they have. Much of the recovery is dismissed as just another tourist duped. But recently.”
The girls came close and pulled around him like a grand flowing cape. I smiled. A perk of power, the girls, the champagne, the friends for sale.
The blonde, and yes, one blonde, one brunette and one red head (I too used to curate crowd scenes) whispered in his ear. But his gaze was trained on me.
“Recently?” I caught the blonde’s eye and smiled, a gesture she was unprepared for. I longed to tell her, enjoy! The window of beauty and opportunity is a narrow one; in three years, four if you take care of yourself, it will slam shut, leaving you out in the cold. It took a lot of will power to resist speaking the truth.
The girls never believe me anyway.
He fiddled with his champagne and shrugged the girl away. She stepped back a few inches.
“People have died.”
“Which people?”
He leaned back. “People, accidents in Albania, accidents in Greece, accidents in Luxor.”
I nodded. Accidents in Venice, but I didn’t say it out loud. Was he involved?
“How?”
“No pattern. Victoria.” He learned forward and stroked the coiled scales of the bracelet. “Be careful. If this was a concerted effort, we would know the players, we’d know who to avoid, but since Arab Spring, it’s hard to figure out the bad from the merely awkwardly opportunistic.”
I finished my champagne and stood, the girls moved in, he followed me with his eyes.
Mission accomplished, for what it was worth, nothing like vague threats of danger to finish off a girl’s evening. I made my way through the crowd heading to the exit, the same doors I entered.
I did not get very far.
A gentleman caught my hand and insisted on a dance. From him I was passed along to another man who, I admit, danced divinely. From there, I swooped into another man’s arms. Like a Jane Austen novel, I moved through the party one dance partner after the next. The men held me firmly, they moved me around the crowded floor, it was almost like a Cinderella dream—the dress on loan, the jewels waiting to be returned. I allowed the gaiety, the lights, the flashes of jewelry to transport me as only a real ball can.
I didn’t make it out of the building until the small hours of the morning.
Just as a good Venetian should.
Chapter 13
Rather than take a bus, which were far and few between at this hour, I strolled along the empty streets in a happy daze cutting through St.. Mark’s Square that tonight was clear, dry, and empty. The glow of the Basilica reflected off the treacherously smooth and uneven cobblestones.
Like magic.
I had lived so carefully for so many years. I didn’t realize how much I missed the fun of wild improvident behavior. Was there an age limit on adventure? I took in the square, the silence and felt, at home. I also glanced around for unwelcome company. No movement, but I didn’t linger for long.
I didn’t want to be careful. But I did keep an eye out.
The watermelon vibrated. Since I had nothing to steal, I paused under the archway lining the square and glanced at my phone, hoping it was Nic, cold, uncomfortable Nic.
It was Vince, warm, comfortable Vince. Remember they had tickets for Florida and then they were due to catch a ship in a week. When are you coming back?
I dropped the phone into the bag without responding. Soon.
Cinderella had magic, I had footwork. All my finery needed to be returned.
I woke up and like teens all over the world, reached for my phone. I scrolled through my Instagram account. Me, me, me. Mina’s dress was a hit. Excellent.
When I showed up at Mina’s shop an hour later, she barely acknowledged me. Earbuds in place, she spoke in rapid Italian to the unseen woman on the other end. All I understood was yes, yes, and of course we can.
She waved to me and rewarded me with a broad smile, the expression lighting her eyes and erasing seven years from her face.
“Yes, yes, I still design. For Mardi Gras?
Of course, we can create something original.”
I carefully placed the dress on the counter. She mouthed, “thank you.” I mouthed, "ciao." The exchange was finished. I hoped she’d be on the phone all day scheduling new clients.
Ironically, as I strolled through the pre-cruise streets, empty at 11:00 A.M., I was not accosted. Sunday morning quiet. This would have been the time. No one around, easy to run. However, I am a quick learner. I kept my bright green bag close and tried not to look like a woman draped in tens of thousands of euros. Funny, I didn’t feel so cautious last night. I blame the champagne.
As promised, I had removed neither the necklace nor the bracelet. My naked body draped with little more than jeweled serpent and a loaded necklace looked fairly incongruous during my shower this morning, but I was taking no chances. I had wrapped a scarf over the necklace and tucked the bracelet under my sweater sleeve. If someone wanted the bag, they could take the bag.
No one took the bag.
After a stop for a shot of espresso, I wandered towards the jewelry shop, scheduled to open at noon. I planned to wait; I did not want the necklace longer than necessary. Plus, Von Meiter’s warning had unnerved me. And to make it more unnerving, Nic had not returned last night.
I sipped my coffee and recalled that not showing up was one of Nic’s things. He had a healthy disregard for time, his and anyone else’s. He particularly disregarded my time, which I interpreted as complete disregard for me. The caffeine zinged through me and gave me courage. I remembered that I no longer needed to care.
As I walked into Bulgari, my phone buzzed. George nodded and we met at the counter displaying Bulgari’s iconic snake designs. George whispered that his manager had had a bad night with his mistress and, to make sure no one else was happy, showed up at the store bright and early.
“Turn, turn,” he said through a smile. “Look at that lovely necklace in the case.”
In a stronger voice. “Madam, yes, we have the Zero rings right over here.”
I obediently bent my head as if to admire the pretty rose-gold stacked rings while George deftly reached under the scarf and released the necklace. I felt naked without its weight. He rounded the same glass case and stood opposite me. He held up the necklace as if he had just removed it from the case. “It is amazing, no?”
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