Miranda was not pacified at Stroker’s attempt to dismiss the situation by agreeing with her psychiatric assessment. However, it did assure her that he was at least cognizant of how he appeared. She wasn’t about to be so easily assuaged. She dug in her feet and didn’t allow herself the luxury of relaxing. Finally, his attack on her wrist softened and then disappeared altogether. He’d taken his hand away – holding it open-palmed in front of him. It was a gesture meant to convey he’d acted impulsively and had no desire to harm her.
“Please,” he uttered as Miranda rubbed her wrist. There was no damage other than the demonstrable unfairness of someone imprisoning her in a fine restaurant for a few seconds. She stared into those seemingly reliable grey eyes trying to rationalize and find excuses. He looked sad. She knew it was a ploy. Although he didn’t give off the vibes, he was a pathetic con man. He was playing her for a fool and yet, hadn’t she come here to learn about that Fabergé? In business, she’d found herself dealing with people she didn’t like all the time – they had clearly been on the wrong side of crazy. It had never bothered her before, so what made this any different? As long as he could give her the information, what did it matter that he believed himself to be a vampire hunter? Then again, perhaps that was part of the con.
She needed to find out a little more about whether he was capable of delivering on his promise. If he didn’t have the knowledge he professed, the dinner was over before it began. If he did, then she didn’t waste the trip crosstown.
“Alright, but you’d better hurry. You have exactly one minute before I decide to stay for anything more than another a sip of water,” she stated flatly as she fell heavily into the orange and blue abstract patterned chair. She kept her purse on her lap and looked at her gold and diamond Cartier. “Time starts now.”
He sat quickly, pulling the chair underneath him. He kept the napkin in his lap and began speaking in a more rapid manner.
“It’s going to be difficult for it to make any sense in …”
“Forty seconds!”
“Fine. Your father did a foolish thing. He trespassed on property that is cursed. He took what didn’t belong to him. I found out through a dealer in antiquities. He was sought out by the Sokolov brothers to appraise a certain Fabergé egg. This egg was commissioned by the Addunés and was rightfully contained in the lawfully-owned property by the same. Let me stress that because your father went where he didn’t belong, he did so illegally.”
“You know about the egg?”
“Yes.”
“And the book you’re writing on family crests?”
“There is no book. It is the egg I’m after.”
“Then you lied.”
“Yes, I lied, but don’t you see that egg proves members of this family are alive and well. Who else could commission such an egg? It would prove they still walk the earth and I can trace them through it, the way they’ve traced you. I know your father took this egg. I believe it is in your possession. It is your death sentence if this is true.”
Miranda heard the fervor in his voice. He at least believed what he said, but that didn’t make it true. After all, he’d already admitted he lied at least once. The problem was that the pieces fit. He must know something or how would he know about the egg? And the appraisal? The one she now possessed– the one in her purse.
She forgot about what Stroker knew for the moment. An anger arose within her caused by the mention of her father’s name in connection with thievery. She suddenly felt the overwhelming need to defend him. She didn’t know the exact circumstances, but Stroker had already mentioned on the plane that the Adduné castle seemed to be abandoned. If it seemed that way, then how would her father know it wasn’t? He wouldn’t – so her father was no thief. She knew that children had a hard time believing ill of parents, but she knew that her father would never stoop to stealing.
“But that makes no sense! My father would never go onto someone else’s property without permission. And you yourself said that the castle was deserted in the 18th century. Is that true or another lie? And if it is true, then it is not such a stretch that he perceived it to be vacated!”
“Yes, it’s understandable, but not forgivable, since property that is not seemingly occupied, is not necessarily not being used.”
The answer surprised her. She was expecting a fight on this issue, but he hadn’t argued with her. He had gone along and validated her assertion, but tacked on that puzzling addendum. She leaned back in her chair. It was a vague gesture of submission – her claws dug into the leather of her purse, but found neither an escape nor a hold.
“Your father came from nowhere – unannounced. He appeared one day and struck like an eagle from the sky seizing the opportunity to take everything he could from what he conjectured was abandoned property – and that included the disputed egg. When the owners finally learned of the treachery and rape of their property, they were not happy, and, Mademoiselle, these are not the kind of individuals one should anger.
They tried to remedy the situation by reacquiring their possessions, but how? The most logical way was to find the thief, but no one knew who had perpetrated the brazen crime. Too much time had gone by. So they next put their efforts into tracing his identity through one of the most valuable items taken – the commissioned egg. They knew that the rest of the objects could have details changed and be easily disguised, but the egg was one-of-a-kind. It carried their crest, although few would recognize it as such. It couldn’t be changed without ruining it and no collector would destroy art they had stolen to possess.
And so, they did nothing except patiently wait. Their strategy paid off when they became aware that their precious egg was up for sale to the highest bidder. It was put up for auction – a very private auction – by an anonymous seller. They didn’t know if the seller was the thief or someone acting as a front for him, but it was a lead. They sprang into action. They immediately let it be known that a very wealthy collector would like to be included. This person was their cover. He was contacted and in the midst of doing a background check on his credentials, he was found out to have a long history of connections with the Addunés. Both parties gained something however. The Sokolov brothers, who aided your father in the theft, knew the Addunés were onto them. The family had tipped their hand – the Sokolovs got it the first-time. They immediately contacted your father. He knew the implications. He called off the sale letting the fabled egg drift into the realm of fantasy and legend. He needed to do this in order to cover his tracks. He was just building a career – carving out an empire. To be so cravenly caught in a crime would not help him succeed so he devised another plan that relied on having a false appraisal constructed.”
Miranda felt as if she had been hit in the gut. She knew it was true. She had compared the photos and carried the proof. She hung her head staring at her untouched goblet of wine.
She felt light-headed and nauseous. She didn’t like learning these details about her father. She thought she knew him – knew what he was capable of, but this man was weaving a story that she didn’t much like. And it had credence. She slumped forward letting her purse fall to the floor. She rested her forearms on the table and ignored the waiter trying to make eye contact. She would stay – but for how long, she didn’t know. It all depended on what Stroker had to say.
“The first antique dealer that the Sokolovs approached is the dealer from whom I learned of this story. You father still used the Sokolovs as intermediaries. He was no fool. He knew if someone caught wind of the attempt, it would be the Sokolovs’ name and not his that would be mentioned. The first dealer refused, but not everyone is so idealistic. Another did deem it a fake. The Sokolovs, at the prompting of your father, made sure this information was leaked and disseminated. It was added insurance to throw the Addunés off his scent. To an untrained eye and nose, it would seem as if this mysterious collector had been taken in by a forgery. Upon learning that kind of news, any reputable dealer would have no choice, but to remove the
object since honest men do not sell fakes, and it was the dishonest dealer that gave him this opportunity.”
“T.R. Koers,” Miranda let slip in a breathless cry.
“Indeed, Mademoiselle. He is the larcenist of this tale. The tale of this mythical Fabergé egg has become a joke in the community. When people talk about it they use a parody of an old saying. They ask, “Which came first? The appraisal or the egg?” Your father also must have repeated the story and laughed about it since no one, but the Sokolov brothers knew it was he that constructed the tale. The object has remained off the open market ever since, because it was the one object that would unilaterally tie him to the crime. It would have meant certain death for him – and for you.”
It was a moment of reckoning for Miranda. She sat still with hands balled into fists. She wanted to use them to beat the table and drum out her despair. The lacquered nails digging into her palms threatened to pierce her flesh, but she wouldn’t let go – if she let go, she’d evaporate along with her father’s honor. The flight or fight syndrome was raging throughout Miranda’s body. It was knotted and tensed – adrenalin forcing her to make a decision, to either digest what had been said or dismiss it as fantasy and go home.
She eyed the dinner knife whose serrated edge was so tempting. She wanted to grab it and stab Stroker through his heart. What right had he to upset her world? None, Miranda concluded. A small voice in the back of her head wasn’t convinced. She heard it speak to her and say, “Unless he’s telling the truth.”
Oh, Christ, truth! The great leveler. Miranda was bruised and still her conscience tried to counsel her to act in the morality she’d washed in from birth. How? How could she act decently to this man who had single-handedly uncovered her father’s crime?
She felt her insides tearing apart as her reactions were cumulative. Her brain was spinning trying not only to process the information she’d just heard, but also fit into what had taken place over the past few weeks. Jake popped into her mind. How was Jake? She hoped he was better, but a horrible picture of him came to mind. He lay motionless in an ammonia-soaked hospital room. A nurse took his pulse as machines bleated out a monotone alarm. They went silent. The nurse shook her head and dropped his arm. It fell limply down on the stiffened white bedding. She lifted the corner of the starched sheet and pulled it over his young, lifeless face.
Miranda cringed and brought her hands to her eyes. She closed them and rubbed her eyelids over and over again until the darkness inside turned a bright red. She was being asked to believe her beloved father was a fraud. A fraud who created a lie all so he could prosper. A falsehood held tightly in place and kept alive so his family would love him. Did she love him now? Could her love overcome the discovery of such a chink in her beloved father’s armor? Was this his only sin or was he devoid of honor?
A flashback of her life swept by her in a rush of animated pictures. They reinforced the fact that her father had always been there for her - always. Of course, she loved him. It didn’t excuse what he’d done, but he was her father. Nothing could change that, nor could anything change the complete, unconditional love contained within her that remained undefiled.
She reminded herself that nothing was so black or so white – certainly not a sin. It would be like killing a person only because he had a blemish. People should be allowed their mistakes, no one is perfect.
A waiter approached interrupting her analysis of her life, her family, and private crimes. When asked if they were ready to see a menu, Stroker held back on a reply. He would not answer for her. He was holding to his part of the bargain.
“Yes,” Miranda responded for them both. She took the menu in her hand as the waiter moved away. She didn’t open it immediately. She had a question for Stroker.
“You said that both sides learned something. You’ve said what the Sokolovs and father learned, but what of the Addunés? What did they learn?”
Stroker paused in his reflection the menu’s fare. He lowered the plastic-encased cardstock paper and regarded Miranda.
“Through their friend and appraisals, they learned of the Sokolov brothers.”
“I see.”
Miranda understood the ramifications of their discovery. She needed to learn more. Her hand unsteadily reached for the wine. She drank heavily and quickly. While alcohol never made her think more clearly, she needed it to shore up her nerves and bolster her resolve. There were more questions for this man, and this dinner to get through, all so she could have her answers.
She was uncomfortable with making the decision to stay. It was as if she were at the entrance to a dark cave, whose contents were a mystery, with only a pack of matches in her hand. Would she be brave enough to continue no matter what danger lurked in the hidden walls of stone? Could she continue on an adventure that could end at any moment by any number of creatures awaiting her entrance into the inner sanctum? Being in the dark could prove fatal to her. It could also fill in the rest of the story and give her a clearer picture of what had happened. The information could be like lightning bugs she snatched out of the air and kept in a jar. While each bit was insignificant, once the jar was filled it would mean illumination.
Miranda reached her decision. She bent down and used the tassel to pull back her purse’s zippered closure. She pulled out the Koers’ appraisal and threw it on the table. Stroker eyed it with a mix of wonder and apprehension. His hand hovered in the air before he pulled it safely to him and began to examine it.
The waiter took their dinner orders and brought another bottle of wine. Miranda absent-mindedly drank as Stroker inspected the document. She was no longer as angry or as anxious as she realized she owed Reginald an apology. One part of what he’d tried to say had been the truth and she had willfully ignored him. She knew it was partly pride, and partly that the outlandish parts of his story had made her resistant to what he’d said. She’d almost followed suit and done the same thing with Stroker. She was glad she hadn’t. The sooner she learned what she needed to know, the sooner the pieces would fall into place.
She wondered how to make the Addunés whole? Of course, she’d return the egg to them. It was obviously theirs. She just needed to know if she should do it through a third-party. It wasn’t generally her style – Miranda liked to handle things head-on, but this might call for a different approach. The third-party would have to be someone very circumspect and very honorable. Someone exactly like Reginald Charles. Opening up the negotiations could mean that the antique’s community would get wind of this. She didn’t want that. Reginald would know just how to handle it, if and when she decided to go that route.
Their waiter served their first course. Miranda picked at her salad.
“Yes, this is it. When did you find out about the theft and deception?”
“For sure? Just this second,” Miranda said being as honest as she’d ever been in her life. “I only received the appraisal this morning. I saw straight off that the pictures of the mark were of another item. Here,” she said dragging out her cell phone and showing him the photos.” Here are photos of the real mark that I took before I left Fairfield. It’s on exhibit, you know.”
Stroker took a few sips of the gazpacho before him.
“But if you didn’t know before now, how did you know to ask about an appraisal?”
Miranda edited the true story in her head before proceeding. She had no intention of revealing everything. Yes, she owed him something for being forthcoming, but she still didn’t have a clue as to who he really was – and, of course, there was that part they hadn’t touched on. He still hadn’t explained the reason for his peculiar occupation.
“Well, that came about approximately last month. My attorney and I were going over my father’s inventory – readying things for the exhibit I just spoke about. I spotted the egg immediately. It stood out amongst the rather mediocre other collection pieces. I suppose they are part of what was stolen so I don’t mean to denigrate them. They are very nice, but this is a masterpiece.”
“It is indeed. You have a good eye, Mademoiselle.”
Miranda took another swallow of wine and wiped the beads of perspiration off her upper lip.
“When I asked Reginald, my attorney, about it, he said it wasn’t real. I questioned that pronouncement and he told me I was wrong and that it had tricked my father as well. He said he had the appraisal to prove it.”
“And he had no knowledge of how it was acquired?”
“None. I believe he said father had acquired it on one of his numerous antique hunts. Reginald never accompanied him on these excursions. As I got older, I did occasionally, but on most, no one was privy to what he did as they were often spontaneous.”
She was satisfied that she’d left Reginald out of things. There was no reason for Stroker to know that Reginald had any involvement beyond being retained to handle legal issues. She leveled her eyes and continued pushing her half-eaten salad away.
“Now who is this family – the Addunés? You refer to them as they, so how many are there? And what did you mean that the property was seemingly abandoned? Were they living there or not? And how could my father have spirited off the contents of the house if it were being inhabited? Were they on an extended vacation? Was it a second home?”
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 43