PERFECT
Marne Davis Kellogg
PERFECT
All Rights Reserved © 2005 by Marne Davis Kellogg
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Marne Davis Kellogg
Originally published by St. Martin’s Press
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover Design—Ellen Bruss, EBD Design
Author Photo—Peter M. Kellogg
ALSO BY MARNE DAVIS KELLOGG
Lilly Bennett Mysteries
Bad Manners
Curtsey
Tramp
Nothing but Gossip
Birthday Party
Insatiable
Kick Keswick Mysteries
Brilliant
Priceless
Friends in High Places
The Real Thing
"Kellogg's focus tends be on the luxurious food, clothing and jewels of the heroine and less on the mystery at hand, but it works. It is all part of a well-developed and charismatic character. Kick is why we are reading the novel and the mystery at hand is really the sideshow. . . Kellogg is a master at detective novels. With this addition to her Kick Keswick series, "Perfect" is just that."
The Denver Post
"A sharp dressed vixen who never let her job get in the way of having a decadent meal or a good long soak, Kick is tailor-made for a slick, smart women's film in which the adventures are daring but hardly life-threatening and filled with an addictive la dolce vita buzz."
The Hollywood Reporter
". . .a breezy, addictive entertainment . . . Kick is a delightful protagonist: utterly indulgent and yet self-disciplined, needing only herself to get through life, but loving her husband for the fun of it. Kellogg's burnished prose deftly immerses readers in a deeply pleasurable world of shameless wealth, yet neither author nor heroine ever seems like a snob."
Kirkus Reviews
"In Kellogg's latest frothy adventure . . . (Kick Keswick) has what it takes to slip right into the character of Princess Margaret of Romania and penetrate the haute monde of the exclusive Swiss resort . . . her fans won't be disappointed."
Publisher's Weekly
"The author has truly hit her stride in this series, which she writes with an arch tone and a terrific sense of humor. PERFECT is her third romp through the lifestyles of the rich and reclusive - those who have not just money but good taste. It's a fantasy set in a private Swiss resort, with mink-trimmed Bogner outfits, enormous jewels and lines such as "Your sleigh is here, ma'am." PERFECT is a perfect chocolate soufflé - one of Kick's signature dishes because, of course, she's also a gourmet cook - airy, light and delicious."
Rocky Mountain News
For Peter,
my beloved husband of twenty-five years,
who just keeps opening door after door
C O N T E N T S
LA PETITE POMME
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
PARIS
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
MONT-ST.-ANGES
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Excerpts from FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES
P R O L O G U E
“When did you last wear these?” Bradford picked up the long diamond-and-emerald earrings and held them close to his ears.
“I’m not sure,” Elizabeth—Lilibet to her friends and family—answered. “Montreal perhaps? You’re the one with the list. What does it say?”
Bradford put down the earrings and picked up his clipboard. “You’re right. Montreal.”
“May I tell you something, Bradford? Strictly entre nous?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
She looked into his gray-blue eyes. “I don’t want to go on this trip. I’m actually quite dreading it. If you would change your mind and come along, it would make all the difference.”
His eyes filled with tears. “Oh, ma’am. What can I say? If you order me to go, I will. But my back is in such terrible condition . . .” He patted his midriff where a heavy back brace made an uncomfortable outline through his jacket. “I would be more of a burden than a help.”
“I know.” It appeared for a moment that she might put her hand on his to comfort him, but then she remembered herself and withdrew the nascent gesture. “Of course I won’t make you go, but I’m going to miss you so.”
A blast of icy wind threw sheets of cold London rain against the windows, making them rattle.
“On the other hand,” he said, looking outside, “when I think of the stop in the Seychelles, that warm air on my aching back—perhaps I’ll resume my duties there.”
“That could be arranged.”
Although her formality—even with close friends and family—was legendary, she gazed at him with real tenderness, affection, and heartfelt gratitude for his decades of service. He’d been her most-trusted servant and confidant. He’d never let her down, had never been indiscreet, was always there, right at her elbow, ready to do whatever she required or requested without complaint or question—all that in spite of his increasingly frail health, that in her heart of hearts, she attributed mostly to his hypochondria. He was her Rock of Gibraltar. She stepped to the next ensemble. “Let’s finish,” she said.
“Evening clothes are last.” He picked up his clipboard and turned to the beaded gowns and silk evening suits that hung around the perimeter of her enormous dressing room like costumes from an extravagant opera. Each had a folding wooden camp table in front of it, arranged with the handbag, shoes, gloves, jewelry, and medals to be worn with the ensemble. All the elements of each outfit had been tagged and numbered and were accompanied with written instruc
tions as to where and when they were to be worn. There was no possibility for mistake or confusion.
Across the room, six black metal trunks the size of regular suitcases—they were, in reality, heavily armored transport safes—stood open on heavy-duty luggage racks beneath the windows, ready to receive the jewels as soon as each outfit was completed. At that point, Bradford would close the jewelry boxes—many of the pieces were still in the cases in which they’d been received, the leather and velvet linings worn with age and use, their original gift cards tucked inside—and place them in one of the trunks.
“What are your plans?” she asked as he double-checked his list.
“I’ll be at my cottage in Sussex. You know how I love to garden, and I have an excellent man helping me until my back gets stronger.”
She smiled. “I’ll miss your roses.”
“I’ll send them up regularly.”
“Good. I’ll like that.”
They had stopped in front of a plain white satin ball gown with a pleated décolletage and elbow-length sleeves. Wide bands of seed pearls and brilliants circled the cuffs and hem. The gown’s attendant regalia was so complicated, it required two tables to hold it all.
“So beautiful in Sussex,” she said, and picked up a five-inch-tall diamond tiara, each of its five points punctuated with a large emerald. The scrolls and festoons of its design were so intricate it almost looked like a crown of starched lace. “ ‘May’s best tiara,’ ” she said. “That’s what Grandfather called it.”
“Yes, madam.”
“This is for Delhi.”
“Yes, madam.”
“I haven’t seen the whole parure assembled for over forty years. It’s quite breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. There is nothing else like it.”
Lilibet picked up the emerald-and-diamond necklace with its negligée of diamond-and-emerald pendants of unequal lengths.
“Granny quite moved heaven and earth to get these pieces assembled, didn’t she?”
“And”—Bradford’s eyes sparkled—“it’s said she cracked a few skulls in the process, as well.”
They shared a little laugh.
She studied the necklace. “I’m not sure I want to take it with me—not sure it should leave the country.” She turned to him. “Perhaps I should take the copies.”
Bradford shook his head. “Don’t worry, ma’am. They will be well looked after. You haven’t made a tour like this for many years. It requires such a show.”
“I know you’re right. As usual.” She replaced the piece lovingly in its velvet case. “I wonder if it will really be my last, my farewell tour.”
“I rather doubt it, but it will be stupendous, a royal tour of all the Empire’s former colonies. It will be a grand time—practically all of Africa. When was the last time you were in Kenya? Or South Africa and Mozambique?” As he spoke, he stacked up the individual cases that held the parure—except for the tiara, which had its own traveling box—and carried them to their designated transport safe. He kept his back to her as he set the jewel cases in the trunk and swiftly replaced their contents with strings of marbles he’d stashed in the trunk earlier. The original pieces slipped into his pocket more smoothly and quickly than the eye could see—at least an old, trusting eye, like Elizabeth’s—tumbling silently into a nest of shredded cotton. “I understand the people in the Seychelles have planned a parade around all the islands! India, Australia, Hong Kong, Canada, a state dinner at the White House. Oh, my. It will be positively majestic. A true ‘Progress,’ ma’am.”
“More majestic if you were along to make sure everything goes just so.” She was starting to sound a little peevish.
“Now, ma’am, we’ve been over this before. All will be meticulously looked after by Michael. I’ve seen to that.”
Bradford and Elizabeth were well trained—possibly the best trained people in the world—in the art of keeping their emotions under complete control at all times. And he gave no indication that not only was he impatient with her growing petulance, but he was also concerned that she would change her mind and insist he come along. She certainly had the power to do so and he’d seen her impose her will more than once. This was no time to slip up, no matter how difficult the good-bye. They moved to the next table.
He picked up a sapphire blue evening suit and held it up in front of her. “This is the most perfect color. It is exactly the color of madam’s eyes. Just beautiful.”
She smiled.
“It’s to be worn at the state dinner in Cape Town.” A black leather jewel case with a faded blue velvet custom-molded lining sat open on the table. “I thought the Lesser Stars would be the right touch.”
“Brilliant. You always think of the right thing. Michael won’t be able to think of this sort of refinement.” There was the tone again, getting close to a whine.
“Oh, ma’am, that’s not true,” Bradford reassured her, hiding his irritation at the bead of sweat that rolled down the back of his neck from beneath his toupee. “He’s much more of a history buff and protocol expert than I.”
“Hmmm,” she said skeptically. “We shall see. I don’t believe they’ve been back to South Africa since they left.” She picked up the simple unadorned brooch, one diamond above the other. With their combined carat-weight of 158, the Lesser Stars of Africa—the Cullinans III and IV—were so enormous they didn’t require any dressing up. “I never wear them and they’re so magnificent.” She gently placed the diamonds back in their case where they smoldered from the velvet like briquette-sized coals.
“Yes, madam.” Bradford checked his watch. Her musing was beginning to put them behind schedule.
They continued their circuit, with Bradford naming each outfit and pointing out each suite of accessories and accompanying jewelry, and then, in a ceremony as old as time, she watched as he latched and locked each jewel case and melted a large disk of wax across the rim, sealing the safe shut. Together they pressed their signet rings into the soft red seal. Once the wax had cooled and hardened, Bradford zipped the cases into anonymous, tightly-fitted khaki canvas covers, turning them into ordinary-looking luggage.
It was time to say good-bye. Lilibet faced him from a proper distance. She kept her hands folded in front of her.
“How long have you been with me?”
“Over thirty years, madam. I was only twenty-three when I joined your household staff.”
She shook her head. “It seems like yesterday.” Her eyes took him in—his frail countenance, the wonderful bright eyes behind his tortoiseshell bifocals, eyes that never missed a thing. The expensive dark brown toupee.
“I shall miss you, my Bradford Quittle.”
He bowed deeply. “It has been my honor and privilege to serve Your Majesty.”
She turned and left the room.
Shortly, Bradford rang for the guards to take the boxes to Norfolk Airport, where they would travel in their own unmarked business jet to Cape Town, the first stop on the queen’s farewell tour of the Commonwealth.
O N E
“Kick?” Thomas’s back was to me as he stooped to toss another log and a bouquet of dried lavender onto the fire.
“Yes?”
“We need your help on something.” He put his hand on the small of his back and straightened himself with a slight wince before turning to look at me, his bright blue eyes serious above his black-rimmed reading glasses.
It was wintertime in Provence and we were sitting in our living room, sipping hot cider laced with rum, and enjoying a rare snowstorm that hid the valley and Les Alpilles, the Little Alps, behind a wall of whirling white. Lamps on the side tables and my long book table beneath the picture window cast a warm glow, silhouetting the drinks tray and stacks of books against the starkness outside. The bookcases on the far wall were in shadows, but above the mantel a small light illuminated my most treasured painting, La Polonaise Blanche by Renoir—skaters whirling on a pond in an almost pink snowstorm. Our Westie, Bijou, was curled up on the
cut-stone hearth, sound asleep, a fluffy little indoor snowball unconcerned by the change in weather and uninterested in anything not directly related to her stomach or her comfort.
“ ‘We’?” I said, feeling a little like the dog, fully enjoying the snugness of my champagne-and-salmon paisley armchair and ottoman, and the cozy softness of my cashmere warm-up suit and the persimmon cashmere throw over my legs. It was absolutely heavenly, and I was unreceptive to anything that might mar this perfect day. “That sounds rather regal, Thomas. Are the snow and cold making you homesick for England? Missing the royal ‘we’?”
“Well, in fact it is the royal ‘we’.” He swept fallen bits of bark and spattered coals back into the fire before replacing the iron screen. He rubbed his hands together.
“Of course it is, darling.” I returned to my needlepoint, a pale yellow canvas covered in bright red cherries with their stems and a few leaves attached here and there. I thought it would make an apt addition to the chaise in our bedroom. Some people have pillows scattered around their houses that say things like “Chocolate is Life.” Or “If You’re Going to Run Away from Home, Please Take Me with You.” Or “Give Me the Luxuries of Life—It’s the Necessities I Can Do Without.” A statement I can relate to fully. But the fact is, I’m not a talking-pillow kind of woman. I’m more interested in subtleties and refinements, in living the message, not talking about it. Living a life, not intending to. I loved the cherries because, in fact, our life was a bowl of them. What a thing to be able to say after decades of running and hiding and lying. I’ve finally arrived at the safe harbor I pictured all those dozens of years ago. But interestingly, I’d never imagined a lover, a husband, a partner, a friend as a part of that vision, but here he was. My Thomas.
If people knew what a completely unlikely couple we are, they would never believe it.
“I’m not joking, Kick.” There was an attention-getting sharpness to his voice.
“Excuse me?”
“We need your help. It’s serious and highly confidential.”
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