Do You Promise Not To Tell?

by Clark, Mary Jane

  Victor knew he was being dismissed. He walked out of the room as his mother began to pour out her story. Although Mrs. Paradise directed most of it to Pat, Farrell listened intently to the aged ballerina’s recollections and watched her with a television producer’s eye for detail.

  “So you see,” Nadine finished, “I have to know who you sold the crescent brooch for. I’m convinced that that person has some sort of connection to me. My father, a father I never met and longed for all my life, made that pin for my mother.”

  Farrell studied the old woman’s face, still beautiful in the late-winter sun streaming through the conservatory window. In passing, one would see very little resemblance between the face of this wealthy, artfully made-up legend, and the wrinkled old lady who slept in a hospital bed a few miles away. But as she watched Nadine’s expressive hands, they looked familiar, like the delicate ones that lay folded on the blue cotton hospital blanket. Artful hands, hands that could have been part of the genetic code of a work-master in the Fabergé studio.

  Farrell looked over at Pat, who was considering Nadine’s appeal. What would it hurt to tell her that the crescent pin was Olga’s? Since Olga lay dying, this could be Nadine Paradise’s last chance to make peace with her past.

  The same thought must have been running through Pat’s mind.

  “Mrs. Paradise,” said Pat gently, “a very sick woman is lying near death at Pascack Valley Hospital right now. The crescent brooch was hers. Her father made it.”

  Nadine listened silently but wide-eyed as Pat told her what she knew of Olga’s history. The early years in St. Petersburg, defined by the revolution and the death of her mother. Her proud father, once a Fabergé workmaster, left brokenhearted and unable to leave his mother country. Olga’s ultimate escape from the Soviet Union and emigration to the United States, her quiet life in Westwood financed by slowly selling off pieces of her father’s artistry.

  “It’s all falling into place. Olga may be my half-sister.” Nadine’s eyes glistened with tears. “I need some time to take this in.”

  “Of course.”

  Victor cleared his throat as he entered the conservatory with three white linen cocktail napkins in his hand. “You were right, Mother,” he lied. “I had to look for them in the dining room. I hope I haven’t kept you from your tea.”

  “We were just leaving,” said Pat. “We need to get going.” She and Farrell rose, and Mrs. Paradise escorted them past her son and out to the foyer.

  “What a beautiful scarf.” Pat admired a luxurious turquoise scarf left casually on the hallway table. Nadine picked it up and pressed it into Pat’s hands.

  “Please take it, my dear,” she urged.

  “But I couldn’t,” Pat protested.

  “Please, I insist. Keep it as a reminder of a day you made an old woman deeply happy.”

  Chapter 78

  Monday

  Days had gone by since she’d made the call to Jack McCord and still she hadn’t heard back from him. First thing Monday morning, Farrell resolved to call him again. She waited until Dean was out of their office.

  “Thanks for the call back,” Farrell sniffed sarcastically. “I really feel that my country’s security is in capable and efficient hands.”

  “I did call you back,” McCord protested. “Your colleague told me he would give you the message that I returned your call. It sounds to me like KEY News is the inefficient organization here.”

  “I didn’t get your message. Did you get the name of the person with whom you left it?”

  “Some guy with initials for a name.” Jack shuffled through some papers on his desk.

  “B. J.?”

  “Yeah. That’s it. B. J. D’Elia. I have it right here in my notes. He said he was working the Fabergé story with you.”

  It’s not like B. J. to neglect giving a message, Farrell thought. And he’s not usually in my office when I’m not there. She’d have to ask him about it later.

  “Well, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Agent McCord asked.

  Without naming names, Farrell told him about her suspicions regarding the fire at Olga’s.

  “So, let me get this straight. You harass some old lady and get her to let you take pictures of her illegal property and she ends up in a coma somewhere after her apartment catches fire.”

  Farrell winced. “Yeah. That’s about it. That, and the fact that the woman lived in fear and, at the same time, her apartment door was unlocked at the time of the fire.”

  “Don’t you think it’s about time you gave me her name and address?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  Farrell thought quickly. Without too much trouble, Jack could have the FBI computers check every reported fire that had occurred in the country during any given period. As he checked further, eventually he would end up with the Westwood fire chief, who would willingly give up Olga’s identity to the mighty feds.

  Maybe, by giving McCord the information he asked for, Farrell could buy a little allegiance from the guy. When the time came he had something to share about his Fauxbergé investigation with the public, maybe he’d choose Farrell to share with, seeing as she had helped him out along the way.

  She told him.

  “Thanks,” he answered matter-of-factly.

  “Your gratitude is overwhelming,” Farrell remarked dryly. “At least you can help me with this: What are the possible legal ramifications for Olga once it becomes public that she has the real Moon Egg?”

  “Well. . .” Jack considered. “This isn’t a ‘spoils of war’ issue. The Russian Revolution was a civil war, not a war between two sovereign countries. But if the Russians find out that Olga has an Imperial Easter Egg looted from the St. Petersburg Fabergé studios back in 1917, they could put a claim in United States Federal Court. A judge would decide its ownership.”

  “How likely is that scenario?”

  “Remote. Plus, from what you tell me, that’s the least of the old gal’s problems.”

  Chapter 79

  Robbie Slater sat with his sister in a corner booth at the Station Break.

  “Man, I can’t believe how hard it is for a guy to have lunch with his sister.” His cardboard lunch tray held a fat roast-beef sandwich, a package of Fritos, an orange soda, and three packs of Oreos.

  “Nice, healthy lunch there, Rob.” Farrell nodded as she poked at her plastic salad bowl full of lettuce, tuna salad, and carrot sticks. Farrell noticed with a twinge that his hairline had receded a little more from the last time she saw him. His exposed forehead looked so vulnerable to Farrell.

  “You’re just jealous. Watching your girlish figure, huh? Somebody new in your life? Is that what’s keeping you from returning my calls? Come to think of it, you look especially good today.”

  “Nah. Same old, same old, but I have been busy.” Farrell did not want to talk about Jack McCord or fill Robbie in on Olga’s fire and the Moon Egg. She especially did not want to tell him yet that she was being let go from KEY News. She did not want him to worry.

  “What are you so busy with?” Robbie asked, taking another large bite from his sandwich.

  “A story on art forgery. I’d like to develop it into a ‘KEYhole to America’ piece.”

  Farrell wanted to change the subject. “How’s it going for you, Robbie?”

  “Pretty well. I like my job at the tape library. I can’t believe all the material that comes in. It’s amazing to me how much is shot on each story and how comparatively little makes air. It’s fun to look at the outtakes, too. Plus, no one really bugs me over there. I work at my own pace and that seems to be fine with my boss.”

  “That’s because you’re so smart and do a great job, and he knows he’s lucky to have you.” Farrell always tried to boost Robbie’s shaky self-esteem.

  “Spoken like my big sister.”

  “It’s true,” Farrell protested.

  “I think it’s more like my boss realizes that for the modest sala
ry they’re paying, they can’t expect too much, or complain too much.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Robbie, please,” Farrell pleaded. “I hate when you do that.”

  Robbie glanced at the large white clock and piled his sandwich wrapper and empty soda can on his tray. He slid the remaining uneaten package of Oreos into his shirt pocket.

  “Gotta get back,” he said, reaching out to squeeze Farrell’s shoulder. “And do me a favor, will you? Stop worrying about me.”

  Chapter 80

  “I was wondering if I could possibly come in for a tour. I’ve been to the public rooms of Churchill’s so many times for exhibitions and auctions, but I’m curious to see what goes on behind the scenes.”

  Balancing the telephone receiver on her shoulder, Meryl checked her Day Timer. A half-hour of her day was well spent on someone who could help Churchill’s. Being polite and accommodating was good for future business at the auction house.

  “Of course, I’d be happy to show you around. When would be a good time for you?” Meryl asked.

  “I know it’s short notice, but you wouldn’t happen to have some time tomorrow, would you?”

  Meryl scanned her calender. “As a matter of fact, I do have some time open tomorrow afternoon. How would three o’clock be?”

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you then.”

  Meryl penciled in the appointment.

  Chapter 81

  Still, she breathed. In and out. In and out. The clear plastic oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth.

  It was surprising that such an ancient, wizened old thing could hang on so tenaciously. You had to give the old girl that much. She didn’t want to die.

  But there was consolation in the fact that the nurses looked so glum when they came in to check on her, the rueful, understanding smiles they gave to the regular visitor who kept watch so patiently.

  “So many of our elderly patients have no visitors. It’s nice to see someone on in years get so much company,” the blond night nurse said.

  Olga, Olga, Olga. Why don’t you let go, sweet-heart, make the decision to move on yourself? It would be better that way. Go willingly rather than be forced.

  Chapter 82

  Tuesday

  Farrell was more than a little anxious about Jack McCord coming over to KEY News to take a look at the Moon Egg video. She’d taken care putting on her makeup and dressing this morning, choosing her charcoal-colored Calvin Klein suit, sheer black hose, and stack-heeled pumps.

  “What’s the occasion?” B. J. asked when he saw Farrell in the hallway.

  “Can’t I dress up a little without it being an occasion?”

  “No.”

  She waved him off and continued on her way. Then she stopped and turned back in B. J’s direction.

  “Hey, hot shot,” she called. “Thanks for giving me my message.”

  B. J looked puzzled.

  “The message from the FBI agent,” she prompted.

  “Since when do I take messages for you?”

  “You didn’t take a message for me from Jack McCord at the FBI?”

  “Not me, kiddo. Must have been someone else.”

  Chapter 83

  Holding open Churchill’s door, Tony greeted the visitor by name.

  The coat checked, the visitor was announced by the Churchill’s security staffer at the front desk in the lobby.

  “Ms. Quan will be right down,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  The visitor paced back and forth. Waiting.

  Meryl Quan descended the stairs, her hand extended. “How good to see you again. I thought we’d start upstairs with the various offices, Business Department, Trusts and Estates, et cetera. Then we’ll work our way down to the jewelry gallery and the board of directors’ conference room. We’ll finish up by going backstage, where the storage rooms are. That’s where the items that are going to be auctioned are kept. Our security department is also situated back there.”

  “Great.”

  Meryl guided the visitor, floor by floor, through the labyrinth of Churchill’s offices, explaining the function of each.

  “Fascinating,” the visitor said, eyes observing the security cameras positioned in the halls and doorways.

  “This is my favorite part of the tour,” said Meryl. “Backstage where the work is done to ready the items for auction.” Meryl led the way through a maze of storerooms where shelves held auction items according to category. Furniture, bronzes, silver and glass, rugs. . .. Each room had cameras peeking from various points in the ceiling. The visitor’s heart was sinking.

  “My Lord, what’s all that?” An opened door revealed an organized jumble of what looked like space suits.

  “Those are items for the Russian Space History Sale. It’s rather sad, really—they’re selling off their history just to survive financially. . .. And here is our security area,” said Meryl as they moved on. A guard sat at the console, watching three dozen television screens that covered the wall in front of him. “As you can see, we are very careful here.”

  The visitor nodded. “Impressive.”

  “That about wraps up our tour. Is there anything else I can show you?” Meryl offered.

  “No, I think I’ve seen all I was interested in seeing.”

  “Then let me walk you out.” Meryl escorted the visitor from the security room and down the hallway toward the public area. They stopped momentarily, blocked by two moving-men who were unloading a heavy, tiger-oak dining table from an oversized freight elevator.

  The freight elevator. It had no camera!

  Chapter 84

  When Farrell went to greet Jack in the Broadcast Center lobby, she noticed with satisfaction that he thirstily drank in her appearance. Farrell was glad that she’d made the extra effort as Jack shook her hand firmly and his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.

  “I’m glad you’ve decided to share your information with us, Farrell.”

  So now it was Farrell instead of Ms. Slater. Good sign.

  “Well, the fire at Olga’s really changed things from my perspective. I’m afraid someone is playing for keeps here, and I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Let’s stop in my office. I’ll get the videotape from my desk and I have a viewing room reserved for us.”

  “I’m surprised big-shot network news producers have to share offices,” said Jack, gesturing toward Dean Cohen’s empty desk.

  “Yeah. I’m not only surprised, but unhappy, too. It’s not that I have a need to work alone—most of my work is out in the field anyway. There’s just not enough space in the Center for all the broadcasts that are being worked on here. KEY News has expanded a lot since the time we moved into this building.”

  Farrell unlocked her desk drawer and reached for the videotape B. J. had shot. At first puzzled, and then frantic, she emptied the drawer searching for the tape.

  “Don’t tell me,” Jack said cynically. “It’s not there.”

  “It’s got to be here. Maybe I put it in another drawer.”

  Soon the entire contents of Farrell’s desk were strewn out on the top. No videotape. Where was it? She was embarrassed in front of the no-nonsense FBI agent.

  Jack, though, didn’t seem overly concerned. “Hopefully it’ll turn up. Why don’t you just tell me exactly what Olga showed you?”

  Farrell described for him the yellow velvet carrying case, inscribed with the Cyrillic letters, enough of which she could recognize as spelling Fabergé. She told of Olga’s opening the case and taking from it the milk-colored, enamel-and-gold egg that rested on a cloud of midnight-blue stone.

  “Lapis lazuli?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s what I think it’s called. I was at the Moon Egg auction, Jack. Olga’s egg looks just like the egg at Churchill’s. Except for one thing. Olga’s had the surprise still intact inside the egg. The auctioned one, as you know, did not.”

  “What was the surprise?”

  “A spray of diamonds. Brilliant diamonds. Olga called them a come
t. I admit that I’m no expert, but I’d bet the farm those diamonds were real.”

  Jack made some notations in his notebook.

  Farrell folded her arms across her chest. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I’ve seen the design plans for the Fabergé Moon Egg, Farrell. The surprise called for a comet of diamond stars, signifying Halley’s Comet, which appeared in the early part of the century. From what you are describing to me, my gut tells me that you’ve seen the real Moon Egg.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now I think you should leave this case to the professionals. Obviously you are treading dangerous waters here.”

  Farrell smiled. “Know what I think?”

  “I know you are going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”

  “You’re right. I think two heads are better than one, and that if we work together, we can solve this thing. You’d get kudos at the FBI, and I would score big around here. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

  “If you really want to know the truth, Farrell, I’d be a lot more interested in having dinner with you than in working with you on a case.”

  “That’s what you think now, Jack. You might find out, though, that both scenarios will be mutually satisfying.”

  Chapter 85

  Wednesday

  The Nadine Paradise auction was worth a pitch. Viewers were interested in celebrity auctions, loved the vicarious thrill of peeking into famous people’s personal lives. Farrell herself remembered going to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor auction preview at Sotheby’s and being mesmerized at finding the Elizabeth Arden recipe for the duchess’s black hair dye, the hundreds of gloves the duchess wore because she was self-conscious about her large hands, and a box with a piece of the couple’s 1937 wedding cake.