Do You Promise Not To Tell?

by Clark, Mary Jane

  Yes. Actually, it was necessary only to obtain the real egg. That would be enough. No need for killing. Without the egg, she’d be no threat. The timid old soul wasn’t about to go to the police.

  But if it did end up that she had to be killed, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be like the last time. Getting Misha out of the way had been gross, and too much work, to boot. If it came to it, this time it would be much easier. At least for the one doing the killing.

  Chapter 54

  Cossack-costumed Tony held the door open for Meryl as she hurried from Churchill’s. She was late for her date with B. J.

  “How long are they going to make you wear that getup, Tony?” Meryl asked him. As he hailed her a cab, he waited with her at the curb.

  “A few more weeks, Miss Quan. But I don’t mind. It’s good for business and, hey, it keeps me warm, too.”

  Meryl slid into the open taxi and listened to Eartha Kitt growl at her to make sure to buckle up her seat belt. The smell of curry permeated the air inside the cab and, despite the chill, she cracked the window to let in some of the fresh, evening breeze.

  The car cut through Central Park to the Upper West Side, dropping her at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. B. J. was waiting just inside the theater door. He kissed her hello.

  “Come on. I’ve got the tickets already. We’re going to be late.”

  They climbed the steps of the escalator, not waiting for the automated stairs to take them to the second-floor theaters.

  “Popcorn?” B. J. offered as they passed the neon refreshment stand.

  “No thanks. I’ll wait.”

  They found two seats together in the already darkened theater and settled in just as the previews were finishing. The opening credits rolled. Starring Tom Cruise, her favorite.

  But Meryl found, try as she might, she couldn’t concentrate on what was happening on the big screen. The Fabergé thing was bothering her. First the KEY News producer, then the FBI. Something was wrong, she knew it. And she didn’t want to be caught up in it. If something illegal was going on, Meryl didn’t want to be associated with it. She’d spent her life so far achieving, always living above-board and trying to improve herself. Her young career was going well. She didn’t want to be part of any scandal.

  “What did you think?” B. J. asked as the lights came up.

  “Good.”

  “You’re kidding, right? It sucked.”

  Meryl wriggled into her coat. “I don’t know, B. J. I just couldn’t concentrate.”

  “C’mon. Let’s go get some dinner and we can talk.”

  They walked a few blocks uptown in the frigid February air, and ducked into a small Italian restaurant in the bottom of a brownstone just off Central Park. Some faux frescoes, all in pastels, were painted on the dining-room walls. Votive candles flickered on the white-tableclothed tables.

  The ponytailed maître d’ led them to a small table near the back.

  “La signorina è bellissima stassera.” As he pulled out her chair, he complimented Meryl in what she suspected was a phony Italian accent. Probably none of the people who worked here was Italian. The waiters were likely out-of-work actors.

  Lately Meryl felt that she lived in a world where things were not as they seemed. She didn’t know what to be sure of anymore. Was Clifford a crook? Had he knowingly authenticated a fake Fabergé egg?

  B. J. ordered a bottle of chianti. Meryl downed the first glass quickly and set right to drinking another glass of the red wine.

  “Hey, slow down,” laughed B. J. “If you don’t watch out, you’ll get plastered and I’ll definitely take advantage of you.”

  Meryl smiled weakly and pulled a piece of Italian bread from the loaf in the basket in the middle of the table. She wanted to talk to B. J. about what was going on, but she was afraid. She didn’t want to be disloyal to Clifford in disclosing what was happening in the office. On the other hand, if Clifford had done nothing wrong, there really was no harm in telling B.J.

  “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you. . ..” She tried to sound offhanded. “Do you know someone at KEY named Farrell Slater?”

  “Sure I do. Farrell and I work together all the time. She was the producer I was shooting for the day you and I met at the auction, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, she was in to see my boss recently, and when she left, he was pretty upset.”

  “Upset about the Fabergé Moon Egg?” he offered.

  Meryl’s mouth dropped. “How did you know?”

  “After what I saw today, your boss better be upset.”

  Chapter 55

  Now that the television people were gone, the closet didn’t feel safe anymore. Her treasure needed to be somewhere else, somewhere safer, somewhere nobody would ever find it.

  Olga knew where she would hide it. No one would think to look there.

  She lifted the jeweled egg from its golden nesting box. Her withered hands trembling, Olga carefully wrapped the Moon Egg in three CVS plastic bags, the kind that Americans used once and tossed away, but Olga saved.

  Round and round she swaddled the egg until she was satisfied that no dampness could permeate the plastic. Then, her arthritic knees throbbing, Olga shuffled across her small apartment and thrust the small package into the cool, dark ooze.

  Chapter 56

  Friday of the First Week of Lent

  Russian Peasant Folk Belief

  “Whoever fasts on this Friday will

  not die a sudden death.”

  A knock on the door always unsettled Olga.

  She thought back to her childhood. When the knock came, she was afraid that the vicious Russian police were coming to drag away her father as they had stolen the fathers of her friends. Leningrad—as St. Petersburg became after the czar was overthrown and the Communists took control—was a treacherous place, a deadly place, full of whispers and the sounds of heavy footsteps in the night. Young Olga knew the terror of the banging on apartment doors, the loud, deep voices that demanded entry. The wailing and weeping that followed the screams.

  But her friends had two parents. They had mothers who stayed behind to take care of the young ones when the fathers went to meet their fate. Surely the new government would not take her father.

  Her mother was dead, killed by the cruel conditions of their new life. The bitter Russian winter, not enough to eat, and no medicine had seen to that. To Olga, the Communists had already killed her mother. They would not take her father, too.

  But eventually the insistent knock in the night came.

  Decades had passed, but she still heard the pounding on the wooden door. At night she dreamed of it—fitful, tossing dreams that left her heart pounding and her skin cold and clammy. By day, she dreaded even the lightest tapping on the doors of the other apartments on her hall. And when there was a knock on her own door, she trembled.

  But, thankfully, knocks on her door were rare. Pat, Peter, once in a while the landlord. Charlie occasionally dropping off something from the deli. She kept to herself. She didn’t want any trouble.

  The candle flickered beneath the icon of the Blessed Virgin and her infant Son. Holy Mother, protect us, she prayed as she crept to answer the third knock.

  “Who is there?”

  Chapter 57

  Olga’s visitor painstakingly searched and examined every nook and cranny of the small apartment, taking extreme care to put things back as they were. It must appear that nothing was amiss.

  For a moment, the promise of a satisfying search. The distinctive yellow velvet Fabergé case discovered beneath the blankets at the bottom of the bedroom closet. But as it was lifted, it was too light.

  Empty!

  Where was the Moon Egg?

  Think. Don’t panic. Never panic.

  The visitor looked some more. The seconds ticked away to minutes. The search turned up nothing. Nothing. Where was it?

  It was time to get out. It was too dangerous to stay any longer.

  If the Moon Egg could
n’t be gotten, at least its owner—the person who could produce it, could attest to its existence—had to be put out of the way. That made sense.

  The visitor carefully positioned the old lady on the single bed. It would look like she was asleep when the fire started.

  The holy candle was lifted to ignite the white linen stole that draped the gilt icon of Christ and his Mother.

  Chapter 58

  The shrill ring of the phone cut through Farrell’s exhausted sleep. The bedside clock read two A.M.

  In the instant it took her to reach for the receiver, apprehension coursed through her body. Most people thought a call in the middle of the night signaled a family emergency, but for someone in the news business, the nocturnal ring could mean anything. A plane crash, a war, an assassination.

  “Farrell . . . it’s Peter. Peter Devereaux.”

  Farrell could hear fear in the young man’s voice.

  “Peter, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Olga. A fire. Oh my God.”

  Farrell struggled into a sitting position and snapped on the bedside lamp, her eyes burning as they adjusted to the sudden light.

  “Peter, just take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened. First of all, where are you?”

  “I’m at Pascack Valley Hospital.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s talking to the doctor in intensive care.”

  So it was bad.

  “What happened?”

  “There was a fire in Olga’s apartment. I don’t know how it started. But she. . ..” His voice trailed off and Farrell could hear he was struggling not to cry. Poor kid.

  “How badly is she burned?” Visions of raw flesh, oozing blisters, and painful skin grafts flashed through her head. Burns were the worst. The pain was beyond excruciating. Farrell’s bedroom was warm, but she shivered with the thought.

  “I don’t know. But she’s unconscious and the doctor told Mom that it doesn’t look good.”

  At that, Peter couldn’t hold it in anymore. Farrell heard his breaking voice.

  “Farrell, it’s my fault. I know it is. I should have kept my promise.”

  Chapter 59

  The car service dropped Farrell at Pascack Valley Hospital. Pat and Peter were waiting in the lobby.

  “Thanks for coming all the way out here,” Pat said as she enveloped Farrell in a hug. “Peter told me he called you. It makes us both feel better having you here.”

  “It’s no big deal. How’s Olga? How bad are the burns?”

  “Thank God, she isn’t burned. It’s the smoke that was the problem. She must have fallen as she passed out, and hit her head. She’s not waking up.”

  “What are the doctors saying?”

  “It doesn’t look good. Someone Olga’s age doesn’t just bounce back.” Pat’s voice shook.

  Peter reached out and put his arms around his mother. She rested her head against her son’s shoulder. “Oh, Peter, this is so sad.” Pat began to weep.

  Farrell saw the anguished expression on Peter’s face.

  “This isn’t your fault, you know,” Farrell whispered.

  Pat looked puzzled. “Your fault? How could you ever think this was your fault? It was an accident.”

  Peter nodded silently. Farrell watched the young man and wished he would tell his mother what was bothering him. Get it out. He’d feel so much better. Instead, he hung his head and said nothing.

  Pat scrutinized her son’s face. “Peter, sweetheart, of course it wasn’t your fault. The fire chief said that the candle that Olga always kept burning started the fire. You had nothing to do with that.”

  Chapter 60

  Professor Tim Kavanagh drove up the Garden State Parkway, compelled to get to Pat and Peter. He hoped Pat wouldn’t think he was too presumptuous. After all, they’d only had one date.

  But when Pat called to say she wouldn’t be able to make their second dinner together, he could hear the worry in her voice. And knowing Peter’s relationship with the old lady, Kavanagh knew they both could use some moral support.

  He wanted to be close by.

  He thought of the pile of ungraded quizzes that sat atop the desk in his study and sighed heavily. They’d have to wait.

  This was his life. One semester followed another. Each new Russian Studies class barely met the minimum enrollment requirement. With the Cold War over, very few students seemed interested in Russia, past or present. Only occasionally did you get a kid who really loved the subject. A kid like Peter.

  Of course, Seton Hall’s School of Diplomacy looked very promising. He’d been involved in getting the new school off the ground when the United Nations Association went looking for an academic partner to educate future specialists in international relations. The professor readily agreed to be a faculty fellow, offering courses specifically designed for the increasing number of students who were coming to Seton Hall from around the world and who were now giving the university a more global reputation.

  Tim tossed a token into the Hillsdale Plaza toll basket and rolled up the car window against the cold night air. A champagne-colored Lexus LS400 pulled out in front of his maroon Altima, beating him to exit 168. He’d love to buy a Lexus, he thought, yearning, but a tenured professor with a salary of $60,000 a year couldn’t very well be driving around in a $50,000 car. It wouldn’t make sense. People would talk.

  No. He’d have to content himself with his growing Fabergé collection. Knowing that he and the Russian royal family had that in common gave Tim Kavanagh much pleasure and satisfaction. If it was good enough for the czars, it was good enough for him.

  Chapter 61

  There wasn’t much worth saving in Olga’s apartment. What the fire hadn’t charred, the smoke had blackened and the firemen’s hoses had soaked.

  Farrell and Tim accompanied Pat and Peter to survey the wreckage.

  “It’s a miracle she survived this at all.” Farrell whispered what was on the others’ minds.

  Farrell and Peter went straight in the direction of the bedroom. The wooden bedframe looked like the charcoal remains in the bottom of a barbecue pit. A small mirror had managed to stay anchored to the wall, but thick, black soot kept it from reflecting anything.

  The bedroom closet was shut tight. Farrell and Peter looked at each other before prying it open. Olga’s clothes were carefully and precisely hanging from the rod, some hats and Olga’s brown leather pocketbook were lined up on the overhead shelf. Peter bent to rummage under the blanket on the closet floor. He found what he was looking for. He quickly opened the yellow velvet carrying case.

  It was empty.

  “It’s gone!” he whispered to Farrell.

  The four continued to pick their way through the scorched debris on the floor, looking for recognizable remnants of Olga’s life. The air was thick with the acrid stench of the burned wool rug, now soggy beneath their feet. They didn’t say much as they went about their grim reconnaissance. Only an occasional cough broke the silence as their lungs rejected the apartment’s toxic air.

  Peter opened the refrigerator door. A stick of gleaming, yellow butter on a clear, glass dish. A piece of salmon peeked through Saran Wrap, ready for Olga to prepare for her solitary dinner. Half a loaf of dark, pumpernickel bread waited to be spread with the homemade eggplant caviar that filled three thick Mason jars.

  Peter stood staring into the refrigerator.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” Pat said as she put her arm around her son’s shoulder. “There’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s go.” Then she added in true motherly fashion. “Here, honey. Take Olga’s caviar with you. She always loved to make it for you and she’d want you to have it.”

  Looking over at Farrell and Tim, she offered, “You take some, too.”

  Chapter 62

  Second Sunday of Lent

  Jack came in drenched from the cold rain and his double jog around the Central Park reservoir. He loved his Sunday-morning run. It gave him an opportunity to ge
t rid of some tension and organize his thoughts. His thoughts lately were primarily about his Fauxbergé case.

  Meryl Quan was an invaluable source of information. She’d provided Jack with a list of all Churchill’s recurring Fabergé customers and sellers. She said that her boss had okayed it. Of course, if McCord was going to use it down the line in court, he’d have to get a subpoena.

  If it came to that, a court order wouldn’t be a problem. Churchill’s and the FBI had a good working relationship. It was mutually beneficial. When Churchill department experts suspected stolen property had been consigned for auction, they advised the FBI right away. The Bureau, in turn, called the auction house about property known to have been purloined.

  On the one hand, Churchill’s had a private relationship with its clients, but on the other hand, it didn’t want hassles, didn’t want to be receiving and selling illegal merchandise. And, usually, Churchill clients consigning objects for sale didn’t even know that they had unwittingly purchased stolen goods.

  It constantly amazed Jack how eager the public usually was to cooperate with the FBI. Sure, the Bureau had taken some serious hits since the days when J. Edgar Hoover had reigned over the agency. Back then, the American people had viewed the Federal Bureau of Investigation with awe and absolute respect. But when Hoover died, and some of the not-so-pleasant realities of how the Bureau conducted its business came to light, the FBI’s sterling reputation had gotten a little tarnished. The bungling at Waco and Ruby Ridge had added to the public awareness that the nation’s justice force was comprised not of the infallible special agents of the Hoover myth, but mostly of dedicated and well-trained men and women who sometimes made mistakes.

  Still, it seemed to Jack that on the whole, the public was eager to believe in the FBI. The average American citizen took comfort in the idea the federal government was doing its best to protect them. And they wanted to help when they could.