Do You Promise Not To Tell?

by Clark, Mary Jane

  Robbie. He seemed to be doing better, Farrell thought, relieved. Maybe the worst was over. Maybe it had just been an isolated episode. She prayed so.

  The purple-shrouded crucifix over the altar would stay that way until Easter Sunday. Then the cross would be uncovered, symbolic of Christ’s resurrection from the dead. Six weeks. In six weeks, where would she be?

  She’d better start making some plans. Get some interviews lined up. Six weeks went by awfully quickly. She didn’t want to think about it. Hey, girl, you better start thinking about it! Your bank account isn’t any too full

  Why hadn’t she saved more? She made a good salary. Where had it all gone? What did she have to show for it?

  Farrell knew the answer. She lived in New York City. It didn’t come cheap.

  Perhaps she should give up the city life. Move back out here, get a job on the local newspaper or go work for New Jersey Network. They’d hire her in a flash. KEY News was a great credential, if Range didn’t sabotage her.

  It would be much less expensive to live out here in suburbia. Rents were cheaper, she wouldn’t have to spend so much on clothes or going out to eat. It would be much simpler.

  But would it be boring? She’d always wanted to get out of Westwood because she thought it was dullsville. Funny how appealing it was looking now.

  And, hey, things happened in the ’burbs. Look at this whole Olga thing. She wished she hadn’t promised not to tell Pat. Farrell really wanted to get her take on Peter’s story.

  But what if Peter’s account was true? What a story! A candidate for the lead on Evening Headlines. If she could nail this down, she could hold her head high as she left. And best of all, she’d show that son of a bitch, Range.

  The priest was droning on. Farrell was paying just about as much attention to his words as she had done when the nuns had herded all her grammar-school classmates to Mass every morning of Lent to start their days off right. How she’d groaned about having to climb up the hill and sit quietly in God’s house, when she’d much rather be secretly making paper dolls in the scarred wooden desk she shared at school with her artistic buddy, Laura Dail. But you wouldn’t dare complain out loud. That would be like asking Sister Raymond to twist your ear or pull your hair.

  Farrell watched to see if she saw any familiar faces as the parishioners lined up to go to Communion. She didn’t, but the ones there today looked like decent, hardworking people trying to do the best they could with their situations, playing the cards life dealt them.

  I guess that’s all any of us can do, Farrell concluded, thinking of Pat. She’d taken a really tough blow and had carried on bravely. She was a real role model.

  Chapter 40

  Farrell and Pat spent Sunday afternoon eating a roll of raw chocolate-chip cookie dough and poring through the books on Fabergé Pat had collected.

  “When Olga brought the first piece of Fabergé into the shop, I got hooked,” Pat explained. “Every time I see a new book on the subject, I buy it. Here’s one I bought at Hillwood—you know, cereal heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post’s estate in Washington, D.C. She was a Russophile and an avid Fabergé collector. She purchased the diamond crown that Alexandra wore at her wedding to Nicholas, as well as two Imperial Easter Eggs.”

  “Which ones?” asked Farrell.

  “See here?” Pat pointed. “This blue monogrammed egg and the Cameo Egg. But the surprises are gone from the inside of each of them. The most valuable eggs are the ones which still have their little unexpected treasures left intact.”

  Farrell continued flipping through the art book, through the chapters on the history of the great house of design, and artists diagrams of the works that were carefully drawn on paper before they were made into objects of gold, enamels, and precious stones. She stopped at the chapter on the Imperial Eggs and read hungrily.

  There is uncertainty about the number of Imperial Eggs produced by Fabergé. This reflects the private nature of their commission and execution. They were not considered to be created for the public’s enjoyment, not to be displayed for the world to see. They were, instead, family gifts from the czar, personal tokens of his affection.

  Ten eggs were made during the reign of Alexander III and another forty-four were made for Nicholas II. Two more eggs were designed and made in 1917, although they were lost and there is no evidence they were ever delivered to the czarina Alexandra or to the czar’s mother, the dowager empress Marie Feodorovna, before the Romanovs were overthrown.

  The Moon Egg was one of the last two eggs, Farrell thought, ordered by the czar, not knowing that he and his family would be killed within the year. She shivered and continued reading.

  The Armory Museum of the Kremlin has ten of the Imperial Eggs. America has a richer collection of the precious eggs, twelve of them at the Forbes Museum in New York City. There are a number of eggs in European collections and there are some owners who are reluctant to admit they possess Imperial Eggs, knowing their value and not wanting to explain how they came by the treasures.

  Olga.

  Farrell wished again she could tell Pat about Peter’s story. But she had promised not to tell.

  Chapter 41

  Unlocking the door to her apartment and switching on the lights, Farrell backed down the little hallway that led to her living room. She held up one end of the wrought-iron side table and Pat lifted the other.

  “Well, here it is.” Farrell gestured widely. “Welcome to my abode. Is it everything I said it was?”

  “That and more!” Pat laughed, looking around the sparsely furnished room.

  “Think you can help me do anything with it?”

  “Absolutely. By the time we’re done, Architectural Digest will want to do a feature on this place.” Pat took off her coat. “You game for a little moving around right now?” she asked, rubbing her hands together.

  “Sure.”

  Pat directed and both women tugged and lifted and pushed Farrell’s furniture into new positions. The forest-green leather couch slid from a side wall to the spot beneath the picture window.

  “There!” said Pat, with satisfaction. “Now you can sit here with your feet up, sip your morning coffee with your newspaper, and watch the world go by on the street below.”

  Why didn’t I think of that? Farrell wondered. But when the movers had carried in the sofa, they had plopped it against the wall. There it had remained, all this time.

  Farrell admired what their thirty minutes of effort had produced. The lone armchair, now angled toward the sofa, created a more inviting area for conversation. The Consignment Depot wrought-iron table was positioned next to the chair; Pat inspected Farrell’s crowded bookcase for something interesting to perch on the top. She selected a hand-painted ceramic bowl Farrell had purchased when she had gone out to New Mexico to do a story on life, or rather survival, on a Native American reservation. Farrell watched with respect as Pat grouped together some candles that lay haphazardly on the bookcase shelves and displayed them on the edge of the coffee table.

  “Looks better already.” Farrell was getting a kick out of the changes.

  Pat nodded with satisfaction. “Next time I come, we’ll hang and rearrange the stuff on the walls.”

  “Deal,” Farrell answered enthusiastically.

  Pat lifted a small brass frame from the bookcase shelf, studying the picture of Farrell and her brother.

  “How’s Robbie?”

  “Better, now that he’s not at Nutman Stein anymore. He couldn’t take the pressures of the brokerage firm. He’s working at KEY now, you know.”

  “And that’s less pressure than Wall Street?” Pat asked skeptically.

  “Where Robbie works, it is. He has a job in the film and tape library. He catalogues all the KEY News material shot around the world every day. It’s interesting, but not much stress.”

  “He always was a sensitive kid,” Pat mused, staring at the picture. “I remember you watching out for him all the time, making sure that no one picked on him in th
e schoolyard.”

  Farrell smiled poignantly. “That’s what big sisters do, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 42

  Monday

  With more enthusiasm than she remembered having in a long time, Farrell pushed through the heavy revolving door into the KEY News lobby on Monday morning. The weekend out in Westwood had given her just what she needed—some perspective. There was a whole world that functioned and was relatively happy and none of the people in it gave a rat’s ass about what happened at KEY News.

  She stopped for coffee at the lobby kiosk.

  “Two, please. Black.”

  Why not be a sport and bring one for her office-mate? It would really throw Dean off to see Farrell smiling and being Lady Bountiful. He’d expect her to be depressed and dragging. Farrell was sure that Dean would know about her termination conversation with Range. Everyone on the Headlines staff did by now. Happy news traveled so fast.

  She braced herself as she approached her office door.

  “You look great for someone who just got the ax.”

  B. J. was sitting in her chair. Dean was not in the office.

  “Whew. That’s a relief. It’s only you. I thought I was going to have to put on a show. Coffee?”

  Farrell offered a paper cup to him. He pried off the plastic lid.

  “Ugh. Black.”

  “Oh yeah, how could I forget? You like it light and sweet.”

  “Just like my women.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  “That’s what you like about me.” B. J. grinned wickedly, white teeth flashing.

  She admitted it to herself. She did get a charge out of the irreverent, no-holds-barred banter with B. J. It went directly against all her years of Catholic-school training.

  He took a sip of the dark brew and grimaced. “So now what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Maybe get out of this nutty business altogether.”

  “I doubt that. You’re hooked.”

  “I always thought I was, but now I’m not so sure.” She told him about the weekend with Pat at the Consignment Depot. “You know, B. J., there’s a big world out there. This isn’t the only way to spend your life.”

  She could tell he wasn’t convinced.

  “You know, I blame myself somewhat,” he said quietly.

  Farrell looked at him keenly. “What do you mean?”

  “I heard you on the phone with Range the day of the auction. I should have told you to ratchet up the enthusiasm.”

  “For God’s sake, B. J., I’m not a cheerleader. And this isn’t high school. I shouldn’t have to pump up Range Bullock, or sweet-talk him into a story. News judgment is news judgment. It’s pretty pathetic to think that an executive producer of a national news broadcast is swayed by the presentation.”

  B. J. shrugged. “Pathetic, maybe. But you should hear the way your buddy Dean pitches a story from out in the field. When he describes it, every story he works on has the potential for a Dupont Award.”

  Farrell considered B. J.’s words. She knew there was something to them.

  “You’re right,” she murmured. “That Fabergé story was a strong one. I should have fought harder for it.”

  “So what are you going to do now? Finish out your time here with your tail dragging between your legs?”

  Farrell thought of Peter’s story of the old lady with the allegedly “real” Moon Egg.

  “Actually, I do have something I’m going to work on. An exclusive. Want to work on it with me?”

  “Shoot.”

  Farrell filled him in on everything she knew so far. “I guess the first thing I should do is talk to Clifford Montgomery, the president of Churchill’s.” She made a note on the yellow legal pad on her desk. She looked up at B. J. “Why are you grinning that ridiculous grin?”

  “Guess who I had a date with Saturday night?”

  Chapter 43

  Monday morning. Pat hummed as she waited for her coffee at Choo-Choo Charlie’s.

  “Nice weekend?” Charlie Ferrino asked.

  “Mmmm. Really nice.”

  “Do anything special?” By the sound of Pat’s “mmmm,” Charlie had the feeling he didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “Yes. I went to dinner in Manhattan. The restaurant was wonderful.”

  “How ’bout the company? Was it a ‘date’?” Charlie busied himself fastening the top to the coffee container, trying to act as if his interest was only a friendly one, when in fact his heart was sinking.

  “As a matter of fact, it was.” Pat looked like she was trying to suppress her smile.

  “And?”

  “Oh, Charlie, what do you mean, ‘and’? It was just a date, no big deal.” Pat laughed nervously, shaking her head.

  He didn’t believe her.

  Chapter 44

  Tuesday

  Meryl Quan poured tea for Farrell Slater as she waited for Clifford Montgomery to arrive. So this was the woman B. J. was so keen about. Lovely.

  “Sugar?”

  “No, thank you. But I will have some lemon.” Farrell squeezed the juice from the yellow slice into the amber brew.

  “I’m sorry that Mr. Montgomery is running a bit behind schedule,” Meryl apologized. “But he should be here momentarily.”

  “No problem.” Farrell smiled. She was relieved to have a few minutes to collect herself. She was not looking forward to the conversation they were about to have.

  As she waited for Montgomery to come in, Farrell wondered how the president of the auction house was going to react to the news. In her research on him, she had learned about the years he’d studied Fabergé as a young man, while working at La Russie Imperiale—probably one among a half-dozen of the finest antique shops in the world, and the main clearinghouse of the Russian enamels and jewelry in this country. Montgomery was regarded as one of the world’s top authorities on Fabergé. Farrell doubted he would be happy when confronted with the possibility that he’d made a mistake in authenticating the Moon Egg.

  A six-million-dollar mistake.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  Montgomery strode across the room and offered his hand to Farrell. He was dressed impeccably in a navy chalk-striped suit. A cornflower-blue pocket handkerchief matched his knotted silk tie.

  “Thank you for seeing me so quickly. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  “Well, we make time for KEY News and your phone call to Ms. Quan here, my assistant, was certainly intriguing.”

  Outwardly Montgomery seemed calm and in control. Farrell wondered how he felt inside right now. Probably a bit apprehensive. In a minute he’d be choking.

  “Mr. Montgomery, I’m working on a story about Fauxbergé. You’re familiar with that, of course.”

  Montgomery nodded. “Sure, I’ve come across a piece here and there myself, from time to time. Usually the sellers who brought them here for auction weren’t aware that what they owned were fakes.”

  “You mean, they purchased the pieces thinking they’d bought authentic Fabergé?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do they take the news when you tell them they’ve been had?”

  Picking up a paperweight, Montgomery paused to consider.

  “Disbelief, anger, embarrassment. There’s not really much they can do but report the deception to the authorities and hope that the forgers are caught. That rarely happens.”

  “Why is that?” Farrell asked.

  “Forgeries in the art world are much more common than most people realize. Even some of the most learned experts have authenticated fakes.”

  Farrell wondered if Montgomery already realized she was about to confront him with the possibility that he had authenticated a fake Moon Egg. Was he setting up an excuse for himself, that even the most esteemed in their fields make mistakes? Farrell scribbled in her reporter’s notebook.

  “Mr. Montgomery,” she began. “Do you think there is any possibility that the egg auctioned her
e at Churchill’s last week was not a real Imperial Easter Egg?”

  “Anything is possible, Ms. Slater,” he said coolly. “However, I authenticated the Moon Egg myself. I stake my reputation and the reputation of this auction house on my decision.”

  He’s a smooth one, thought Farrell.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question, Ms. Slater. What makes you think that the Moon Egg may be a fake?”

  “A source says he knows where the real Moon Egg is.”

  “A reliable source?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Have you seen this alleged Imperial Egg?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Nor will you. It does not exist. These are very serious accusations that you are throwing around here, Ms. Slater. I suggest that you be very careful.”

  Chapter 45

  Olga sat huddled on the side of the worn sofa in her small living room, nervously fingering the pearly buttons on her gray cardigan. Her lined face was troubled as she listened to the earnest pleading of her surrogate grandson.

  “Really, Olga. This will be all right. You haven’t done anything wrong. You won’t be in any trouble.”

  Olga’s cloudy eyes searched Peter’s young face. What was it like to be so trusting?

  “How are you sure I won’t be in trouble?” she asked. “The police are everywhere. Even when you cannot see them.” She wrapped her arms tight around her torso, trying to warm herself in the suddenly cold apartment. This American boy was so naive.

  “Olga, I’m not telling you that the police are not everywhere,” Peter answered, undaunted. “It’s a good bet that they are in places and know things we can’t even imagine. I agree with you on that. But what I’m trying to say is that you haven’t done anything wrong, and you don’t have to worry. No one is going to put you in prison or send you into exile because you have the Moon Egg.”