A Fatal Fabergé

by Ellery Adams

Starling glanced at her. “Did he say something to you about it?”

  “No. As far as I know, he’s still coming.”

  “Well, it’s fine with me,” Starling said.

  “You know, if you want to talk about what happened, I’m here to listen.”

  Starling smiled. To look at her, you’d never know her heart was broken. Her blue eyes were as clear and bright as the sky, her sandy blond hair was glistening, and she acted as if the world was her oyster.

  “You and Uncle Matt are very kind,” Starling said. “I know you’re curious about why we broke up, and I know you’re worried about me. But you don’t need to be. Tony and I are still good friends.” She paused. Molly hoped she’d keep talking. “The thing is, it turned out the age difference was too much for him, which I totally understand. I told him, if he felt that strongly about it, then it was better we stopped seeing each other right away. I didn’t want to prolong things.”

  Molly was surprised. “I thought if age became an issue, you’d be the one who felt it, not him,” she said. But the minute she spoke those words out loud, she realized she should have known it would be Lombardi who would use their ten-year age difference as an excuse to break up with Starling. And it wasn’t because she was so much younger than him, or that he didn’t have feelings for her. His problem was his inability (or refusal) to make a long-term commitment. Molly was beginning to think he was simply incapable of it.

  Starling gave a little shrug. “We had fun, and now it’s over, that’s all. I’m okay with it, really.” And maybe she was, Molly thought. Starling’s generation seemed to handle breakups better than her own. She remembered crying herself to sleep every night for a month when she broke up with a young man she’d barely dated for three weeks. Starling was treating the breakup with Lombardi like it was no big deal.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind him coming over for Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “I already told him not to feel strange coming over to the house,” Starling said. “I know he’s friends with you and Uncle Matt, and he loves Tyler. I don’t want it to be weird. I want us to be friends.” She smiled, but this time Molly thought it looked a little forced. Maybe she was hiding her true feelings after all. “Thanksgiving will be perfect.”

  Molly hoped so. But in her experience, once you dated someone and broke up with them it wasn’t easy to maintain a friendship or socialize with them.

  Starling changed the subject. “Have you got everything you need for the gala ball? Do we need to make any other stops?”

  The sun went behind a cloud, and suddenly it felt ten degrees colder. Molly pulled her gloves out of her pockets and put them on. “I have my dress and shoes, and I’ve made an appointment tomorrow morning at the hair salon.” She felt a shiver go down her spine. She loved the fall, but the temperature was so erratic day to day, she never knew what to expect. “The invitation promises dancing and a buffet dinner until ten, and Matt said he heard from people who’ve gone to other fundraisers Natasha Gordon has organized that she always goes full-out. Having it at Misty Vale is going to make it even more special.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Starling said.

  “I’m sure it will be,” Molly said. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 2

  Saturday evening was cold, but the sky was clear and full of stars. Surrounded by tall hedges, Molly felt like a princess as she walked beside Matt up a wide gravel path to the manor house at Misty Vale. She wished she’d heeded his advice to wear a coat. Her vintage 1960s black velvet ball gown, with its off-the-shoulder bodice and voluminous taffeta skirt, was no match for the weather.

  “I hear music coming from the house,” Matt said. The large brick house reminded Molly of Kensington Palace, which they’d taken a tour of on their honeymoon. Only instead of being set down in the middle of London, it was in the wooded countryside of Vermont. “Sounds like Natasha Gordon hired a real band. No DJs for her.” He glanced at Molly. “You look absolutely beautiful. You’re also shivering. Let me give you my jacket.”

  “No, no, I’m fine. And by the way, I forgot to tell you, I think you look very handsome in your tuxedo.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “Handsome, and nice and warm,” she added.

  He laughed. “I’ll give you my jacket.”

  “No! You’ll ruin your look.”

  “My look?” He laughed. “You sound like your mother. But have it your way. How are you doing in those high heels? You seem a little wobbly.”

  “They’re definitely not made for speed or comfort,” she said. “I didn’t expect the walk from the parking court to be so long, either.”

  She took Matt’s arm as they approached the manor’s double staircase. She was worried she might trip on her gown as they climbed the steps. When they reached the portico landing, Matt took their tickets out of his pocket and they got in line. When he handed the tickets to the woman collecting them at the door, she smiled and welcomed them.

  Stepping into the enormous foyer, Molly took in the gleaming Italian marble floors, gold domed ceiling, massive chandeliers, and sweeping staircase. Music seemed to fill the house, and Molly felt her excitement grow as she observed the other guests, everyone dressed to the nines for this gala ball, laughing and smiling, enjoying their evening out. She felt her toes pinch in her shoes, but she was determined not to complain. It was, however, times like this when she wished she was like her mother, who lived in designer clothes and could dance all night in a pair of heels. Molly was the complete opposite. She preferred to wear comfortable, casual clothes (much to her mother’s great disappointment). She had taken her advice on buying the vintage gown, and had spent hours at her hair salon having her shoulder-length brown hair swept into an updo and her makeup expertly applied.

  “Are you hungry?” Matt asked. “Would you like to eat first, and dance later?”

  “You know me, I can always eat. But let’s check out the ballroom. We could get a drink to kick off the evening.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said.

  As they entered the ballroom, they paused a moment to admire the arched ceiling, which was painted blue with white clouds to resemble the sky. The band was set up on a stage at the far end of the room by a long row of Palladian windows that overlooked a brightly lit terrace. The dance floor wasn’t too crowded. Most of the guests were milling around the room, chatting with friends, making new acquaintances, drinking cocktails or wine. Hors d’oeuvres were being carried on silver trays by waitstaff, and Molly snagged a crab and avocado toast from one of them.

  “I’ll get our drinks,” Matt said. “What would you like?”

  “White wine, please.”

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Matt walked through the crowd to the bar, where a line had formed. Molly stood by the windows, out of the way of people coming in. She enjoyed listening to the music, tapping her foot in time. When someone tapped her on the shoulder, she almost jumped out of her shoes.

  “Oh!”

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The voice belonged to a man in his late twenties with short dark hair, big green eyes, and an athletic build. He looked very stylish in a cobalt-black floral tuxedo jacket and black pants. “Are you Molly Appleby?”

  “Yes, I am. Who are you?”

  He stuck out his hand and smiled. “Maxim Gordon Cobb. But please, call me Maxim.”

  “Hello, Maxim.” She shook his hand. “Gordon is your middle name? Are you by any chance related to Natasha Gordon, our hostess for the evening?”

  “She’s my aunt. I’m visiting her from Lexington, Mass. I live there with my husband, Kurt. We own an antique store called Times Past.” The band started up a loud dance number heavy on the brass instruments, and he raised his voice a little. “We’re subscribers to Collector’s Weekly and huge fans of yours, which is how I recognized you. We adore your writing. You’re smart and witty, and a fabulous reporter. You make antiques come alive.”


  “Oh, well, thank you.” Molly blushed. A second compliment in two days. She was breaking some kind of record. “Is Kurt here tonight?”

  “No. He’s at home, minding the shop.”

  “It’s very generous of your aunt to host these events.”

  “She loves doing it,” he said. “She’s been planning this one for months. I wasn’t going to come, but my father called a few weeks ago, and I told him I’d help him with a project, and here I am. His name is Curtis Cobb. Do you know him? He’s a rare book dealer. He owns Rarus Books in town.”

  “No, we’ve never met.” She wasn’t going to tell him that Felix and Starling had warned her away from his father’s shop. “What kind of project are you working on?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” he said. “Rarus Books is on the brink of closing, and I’m trying to help my father save it.” Felix hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said the shop might be closing soon, she thought. “The problem is, he’s old school, and refused to change a thing about the shop since my grandfather died, which was about twenty years ago. My mother told him he was making a mistake by not modernizing, but he didn’t listen to her. I’ve been here for three weeks inventorying the shop and setting up a website and eBay account for him. I thought it would help to generate new sales if I could get him online. He really needs to grow the business, but the shop looks worn out inside and needs a complete makeover, and now I’m worried he’s left it too late to fix.”

  “Selling rare books is a niche business,” she said. “A website would have made a big difference, not only in domestic sales but international. Even if you give the shop a makeover, it could take a while to see a change. Can he hold out for long?”

  “No, not really.” His eyes grew thoughtful. “I feel like this is fate, meeting you tonight. I hope you don’t think I’m being pushy, but would you consider writing an article about Dad and the shop? He could really use the publicity.”

  Molly hesitated. She didn’t like being put on the spot, and she certainly wasn’t going to make a commitment to write an article about a failing business. “I’m not sure my editor would approve.” It was a good excuse, if not entirely true. Her boss, Carl Swanson, usually gave her a lot of leeway when it came to choosing her subjects.

  “I understand,” he said. “But do you think you could ask?”

  I’d rather not, she thought. But he was staring at her with his big green eyes, and she found herself saying, “Sure, I suppose I could do that.”

  “Fantastic! Wait here, and I’ll get my father and introduce you.” He took off like a shot before Molly could stop him. What had she done? The last thing she wanted to do was write an article about Maxim’s father and his grungy shop. Sighing, she looked at the line at the bar, searching for Matt. He was still on line with four people ahead of him. She thought about grabbing him and running out of the room to get out of meeting Curtis Cobb, but that would be immature, and unprofessional. She would meet the man. But unless he could persuade her that his story would be of interest to her readers, which she doubted it would be, she would make it clear she wasn’t going to agree to anything without getting prior approval. It was the easy way out, but too bad.

  Maxim returned a minute later with his father. Curtis Cobb had a shock of untidy gray hair, a bony face, and a stern expression. He looked Molly up and down and frowned, as if he found her offensive in some way. Molly’s cheeks grew warm. She was a full-figured size twelve, with curvy hips, and stood five-foot-eight in her stocking feet. She didn’t like being stared at. “Maxim tells me you’re going to write an article about me and the shop, to help get us up and running again.”

  Maxim threw an apologetic look at Molly. “Dad, I told you she hasn’t agreed to anything yet. She has to get permission.”

  “I thought you were joking.” Curtis looked pointedly at Molly. “It’s not like you write for the Boston Globe. What’s the big deal?”

  Molly was speechless. If he was trying to win her over, he was doing a terrible job of it.

  Maxim said, “The magazine is a big deal, and you know it.”

  “Yeah, right.” Curtis had a full glass of red wine, and he took a long drink of it, draining half his glass. “Well, you can go tell your boss he’ll be making a terrible mistake if he takes a pass on my story. It’s positively riveting.” He took a step closer to Molly, totally invading her personal space, which counted as another negative in her mind. “I’ve got a dead wife, and a business that’s been torn apart by a cultural shift brought on by idiotic people who’ve forgotten how to read.” His speech was slightly slurred, and his breath smelled like stale wine. “That’s the real reason Rarus Books is hanging on by a thread. It’s stupid people. It’s not my fault they’re dumb. It’s the culture we’re living in today.”

  Molly was stunned. She didn’t know what to say.

  Maxim had turned pink. “Dad, please . . .”

  “Please? Is that all you’ve got to say?” Molly wondered what time Curtis had started drinking. He stabbed Maxim in the chest with his index finger. “You’re the one who dragged me over here,” he said. “I thought this was all settled.”

  Molly cleared her throat. “Mr. Cobb, I must agree with you. Collector’s Weekly is far too insignificant a magazine to do justice to an important story like yours. I wish you the best of luck finding someone at the Boston Globe who will, I’m sure, be happy to write it.” She turned to Maxim and smiled sweetly. “It was very nice to meet you.”

  She walked away as fast as she could in her high heels, but not fast enough to escape hearing Curtis say to his son, “Thanks for nothing. That was a complete waste of my time. Not that it matters. I don’t need her dumb magazine. Have you seen Hattie?”

  Chapter 3

  Molly caught up to Matt as the bartender handed him two glasses of white wine. He gave one to Molly, and she immediately started to walk to the exit, leaving him no choice but to follow her. When they reached the hall, he said, “I thought you wanted to hang out in the ballroom for a while and listen to the band.”

  “I did, before I met Curtis Cobb. He owns Rarus Books.”

  As they walked down the hall to the dining room, she told him how Maxim had ambushed her, and how his father had embarrassed both of them.

  “If he treats his customers the same way he treated you,” Matt said, “it’s no wonder his business is tanking.”

  “I feel sorry for Maxim,” she said. “His father was so rude, and I think he’s already drunk. If he’d been nice to me, maybe I would have considered interviewing him.”

  “Well, it’s his loss.” They walked into the dining room, and Matt smiled. “This will get your mind off of Curtis Cobb. Look at all this food.”

  The dining room table was covered in white linen, with stainless steel chafers filled with hot dishes of chicken, beef, fish, and vegetables. At the far end were tiered plates of desserts that made Molly’s mouth water. Small tables with tiny bud vases and votive candles had been placed strategically around the room for seating, and a temporary bar was set up in one corner. Molly was in buffet heaven.

  They got on line and circled the buffet, filling up their plates. Matt found a small table by the windows overlooking the terrace, and as they sat down, Molly realized they were on the same side of the house as the ballroom, and the terrace must run along the length of the house. She unrolled a cloth napkin, took out the silverware, and nodded politely to two plump, middle-aged women seated at the table next to them. One had gray hair, and the other brown, but they both had the same wide, toothy smiles, and Molly thought they had to be sisters.

  The one with the gray hair said to her, “Isn’t it wonderful, being here at Misty Vale? I’m Agnes, by the way, and this is my sister, Emily.”

  Molly introduced herself and Matt, then said, “Yes, it is wonderful.”

  “Emily and I visited the Gordon Museum last summer, and we wondered what the inside of the house looked like. It’s beyond what we expected. So beautiful. It’s a shame Nat
asha doesn’t open it to the public.”

  “I said the same thing to someone yesterday,” Molly said.

  Emily said, “I’ve heard she’s an introvert, and likes to keep to herself, unless she’s putting on one of these charity dos. We heard she gave the pediatric unit at the hospital a check for ten thousand dollars.”

  Her sister sighed. “It must be nice to have so much money you can give it away.”

  Emily fanned her face. “Is it hot in here, or am I having a hot flash?”

  “It’s hot in here,” Molly said.

  Agnes nodded. “And it’s getting warmer by the minute as more people come in.”

  Matt said, “Ladies, you might be interested to know that Natasha Gordon is walking into the room right now.”

  The sisters sat up straight in their chairs. Molly did, too. The photographs she’d seen of Natasha online didn’t do justice to her beauty or grace. She seemed to float across the floor in a striking red gown, her white hair worn in a loose chignon at her neck. She held her head high, her shoulders back, nodding and smiling at her guests as she made her way to the French doors leading out to the terrace.

  Agnes said, “Oh, good. I think she’s going to open the doors to let in some air.”

  To their relief, Natasha flung open the doors, and immediately a cool breeze moved through the room. Natasha didn’t stop to talk to anyone. She continued to smile politely as she walked through the dining room and went back out to the main hall.

  The sisters sighed deeply. Emily said, “I feel like I saw a ghost, the way she moved in and out of here, like walking on air. Isn’t she stunning? It’s hard to believe she’s sixty-four. We’re the same age, and I don’t look half as good.”

  Molly glanced at Matt, who winked at her. The two sisters had finished their meal and got up to leave, wishing them a good evening. When Molly and Matt were done eating, she said, “I saw a lot of yummy desserts. If you hold the table, I’ll get you something. What would you like? Cake? Pie?”