One of the many credos by which I’ve lived my life is: You never get a second chance to make a first impression. It was crucial that I hit the right note for my first venture outside. So after sorting through my new alpine wardrobe, which the maid had neatly arranged by color, I decided all black was safest: the black Bogner parka with the black fox trim, black slacks, black fox hat, Prada snow boots and good-sized—four-carat—diamond stud earrings, nothing fancy but large enough to draw attention without being showy. I tucked my book in my pocket—a biography of Winston Churchill, always a good choice if you’re trying to strike up a conversation in a strange place with a proper kind of stranger—and set out, intending to have a coffee and possibly a little pastry at the café and find out what this après ski business was all about.
In direct contrast to the main plaza in front of the hotel, the little Place de Bonhomie bustled with people. Sleighs sailed around the perimeter—all kinds of sleighs, large enough for six, small enough for two. One of them was a jaunty one-person affair with its front, as well as the bridle, mane, and tail of its white horse, trimmed with bright blue-red-and-yellow ball fringe and little gold bells. I watched one man come in on skis behind his horse—ski touring—guide him to a gentle stop, step out of his skis and tie his horse at the hitching post.
“You really have to know what you’re doing to do that,” I said with admiration. “Wonderful.”
He smiled. “Believe me, it’s taken a lot of practice. For both of us.”
He pulled a handful of sliced apples out of his pocket and fed them to the beast and then kissed him on his nose and patted him on his flank, talking to him the whole time.
“Kahlua café?” The waiter asked.
I’d settled at a small table on the terrace along the rail and fairly close to the outdoor fireplace. I wanted to sit inside where it was warm and where any sensible person would sit during a snowstorm, but inside was empty and outside the tables were filling up fast with people I felt as though I almost recognized, people whose pictures appeared only slightly occasionally in major newspapers or on CNN business news or in yachting magazines. They all seemed to be drinking the same thing out of a tall glass mug with layered contents: two inches of dark brown, half an inch of lighter brown and three inches of whipped cream.
“Please,” I answered. It was cold and I was certain a cup of coffee with a little shot of liqueur would warm me up perfectly. Well, I had it backward. It was approximately six ounces of Kahlua with a two-ounce shot of espresso and a ton of sweetened thick cream—Viennese Schlag—and it was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. It occurred to me that everyone here looked happy because between the hot wine and the Kahlua cafés, they were all, to use the vernacular, half-bombed most of the time.
The activity and camaraderie picked up around the square as people went about what many consider humdrum, normal activities of everyday life, doing the marketing, shopping for wine, picking up prescriptions and drycleaning. This crowd, in the city or wherever they normally lived, had their maids or cooks or personal assistants run their errands. Here, they were doing it themselves with an ebullient aura of sheer enjoyment, as though it were real-life. It was charming and endearing.
By the time I finished my drink, I was inured to the cold. I signed the tab and went to join the crowd next door at Fannie’s Delicacies.
I’ve been in dozens of specialty food shops in England, France, and Italy—Fannie’s was the finest. It wasn’t so big, it just had a little, just enough, of the best of everything. It was off the charts. And, I don’t know if it was the gluhwein, the Kahlua or the overriding luxe of the place, but I felt as though I was at a cocktail party in the world’s friendliest and best-stocked larder and pantry.
“How was the skiing today?” a man with a British accent asked me as I examined the marmalades.
“I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t go,” I answered.
“Neither did I. Too cold. It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow.” He selected a jar of Marmite, the vile, vitamin-tasting, yeast-based toast spread that people either love or hate or love to hate.
I couldn’t help but make a face.
“Don’t look at me.” He laughed and moved along. “It’s for my wife. She’s a health nut.”
I put a jar of Fortnum and Mason lemon marmalade in my basket and stepped over to the caviar counter. I was trying to decide exactly how much beluga to buy for my dinner when I saw a shape out of the corner of my eye and then heard a voice.
“Oops!”
And then a slow-motion image of foamy latte flying through the air and hitting the front of my brand-new jacket, and then …
“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry.” All said in a breathless lisp.
It was a very beautiful woman in a black mink jacket, thin as a rail and with perfectly coiffed dark hair. She had velvet brown eyes as big and lashy as Bambi’s, which gaped with horror at my front—where the latte was rolling off my fancy new parka onto my fancy new boots—and a mouth that was a bright red perfect bee-sting. She pulled a lacy handkerchief from her pocket and her hand stopped midair, just inches from my chest, not sure exactly what the next step should be. Her eyes met mine. “Oh, my gracious,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
I started to laugh—I couldn’t help it. She looked like a child who was afraid she was going to get a paddling. I looked down at myself. “Not a problem at all,” I said. “This is a parka—it’s supposed to get wet. Now it’s been christened.”
By then Fannie herself had arrived on the scene with a damp cloth for me and a mop for the floor.
“Well,” the woman said, repocketing her hankie. “This was a ridiculous way for me to introduce myself. Princess Margaret, I’m Lucy Richardson. Alma’s friend.” She offered her hand. “Welcome to Mont-St.-Anges.”
I recognized her immediately. She’d been Lucy Sherman when I’d last seen her, and before that Lucy Von Buchner, and before that Lucy Wallace and who knows what before that. She was a regular at Ballantine’s jewelry and arts and antiques auctions. One of our best customers. If she’d kept all the jewelry she and her husbands had bought from us, it would make her collection practically a rival for Queen Elizabeth’s. She was as pretty as she could be and from what I’d heard, she wasn’t particularly well liked by other women who said, among other things, she was not terribly bright, a little dingie, somewhat eccentric, a total narcissist, and completely nuts. In my opinion, judging by her parade of husbands and the stones she had on at the moment just to do her marketing, she was dumb and dingie like a fox.
“Thank you so much.” We shook hands. She had on what looked like a ten-to-twelve-carat, princess-cut diamond ring—possibly D flawless—and shiny, bright red nail polish.
“Are you free for dinner this evening?”
“I am.”
“I’m so glad. We’re having a few friends, very casual. I’d love it if you would join us. Eight o’clock.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d love to.”
“It won’t take you more than ten minutes to get to our chalet. Just tell the driver Schloss Richardson.” Those big brown eyes squinted a little and she cocked her head and frowned, pursing her lips into the shape of a perfect little plum. Finally, I became uncomfortable.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I’m so sorry, you just look so familiar to me.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met before, but I could be wrong.”
“I know I’ve got you confused with someone or maybe I’ve just seen your picture in the papers. Oh, well. I’ll figure it out. See you at eight.”
Well, as they say in the best of circles, hell. A huge feeling of exhaustion swept over me. This was just great. Just what I needed: to make my way into the most secret place on the planet and have someone recognize me. But there was no way she could remember me—I’d only been in the background at the auctions and I was now so disguised with my dark hair and dark eyes, I scarcely recognized myself.
Back in my r
oom, I checked the map. Schloss Richardson was up in the same enclave with Schlosses Naxos and Constantin.
Thank you, Alma.
T W E N T Y - F O U R
Years ago, I learned that “casual” in a circle such as this means a low-key cocktail dress will do. So after a nap to recover my wits from the Kahlua café and Lucy Richardson’s scrutiny, and a long delicious soak in the tub, I got put together in an silvery blue silk evening suit. I added a striking brooch of icy, light blue, thin-cut, square and emerald-cut diamonds piled on top of each other at angles to look like slabs of polar ice. A pavé diamond polar bear with onyx eyes and an emerald fish in his mouth stood atop the jumble. I put blue-and-white diamond-encrusted combs in my hair.
“Schloss Richardson,” I told the doorman once he had settled me in the sleigh and covered me with heated robes. He relayed the destination to the driver who did an almost imperceptible flick of his hands and we slid away into the starry night. Within a minute or two we were out of the town center and in the open valley, sailing down the snow-packed road in the opposite direction from the heliport. Constellations galore packed the black sky and silvery moonlight gleamed on the pure white snow, making it look as though it were glazed. Shortly we slowed and turned right, and started up a hill. The Richardson residence was marked by a mass of white lights wrapped candy-cane style around an arched gateway—their chalet was an orgy of gingerbread and lit up like the Tour Eiffel.
A gigantic cowbell, at least two feet tall, with a leather strip attached to the dinger hung next to the front door. I pulled on the strip and the bonging was so loud, it made me jump.
Lucy Richardson opened the door. “Princess Margaret.” She smiled and opened her arms. “We’re so happy you could make it. Come in, let me introduce you around.” She was wearing a dirndl. Well, not a full dirndl, if that’s what one would call it. For instance, she didn’t have on a peaked lace bonnet, but she did have on the long skirt with a blue apron covered with tiny yellow-and-white flowers, white lace-trimmed blouse tied at her neck, red hooked vest that was cut suggestively (and I felt a little inappropriately for a woman her age) around her bosom, white stockings with red hearts embroidered down the sides, and red shoes. She looked like a doll.
“You look wonderful,” I lied. In my opinion, she looked like an idiot.
“Isn’t it fun?” She twirled. “I like to go native wherever we are. Look at that pin, where on earth did you get it? Is that a Raymond Yard piece?”
I nodded. “It is—you have a good eye.”
“That’s an understatement.” She grinned. “Jewelry is my greatest passion. Besides my husband, of course.” Then she put her arm through mine and guided me down the entry hall toward the living room.
I felt a warning hidden in her benevolent marshaling of me. Her behavior was like that of a guard dog around his master that imposes himself physically on the guest, positions himself between the guest and the master. Not in a threatening way, in fact most often it’s in an overly friendly way, but the point is to create a barrier.
“I’m so glad you could come tonight. This is the first time we’ve entertained since we finished redoing the house, top to bottom. I don’t think Al’s late wife, God rest her soul, had done a thing to the place since they built it twenty years ago. It was all in complete tatters. And cold as could be, just like a big old hotel. I told Al, this is Switzerland, honey. We need to look Swiss. I’m dying to hear what you think.”
We’d reached the end of the hall which was hung with stuffed heads of deer, reindeer, moose, and elk—none of them indigenous to Switzerland as far as I knew—and entered what, in a word, could only be described as a cuckoo clock. It was the Swissest thing I’d ever seen in my life.
There were little red heart-shaped pine chairs with heart-shaped peekaboos cut in them, a collection of large and small cuckoo clocks on one pine paneled wall, and a collection of large and small cowbells on another. An ancient pair of very long skis crossed over each other in the shape of an X above the fireplace. The sofas and armchairs were all light pine and covered with forest green fabric bordered with red-and-white cookie-cutter stencils of men and women and cows. Every surface had throw pillows made in red-and-white and green-and-white pin-checked fabrics with ruffled edges. The lamps were made of antlers and milk cans, and rag rugs covered the plank floors. It was awful.
“Al, precious,” Lucy called across to the fireplace where he was visiting with two other couples. “Look who’s here. Princess Margaret of Romania.”
“Margaret,” I said to Lucy. “Please call me Margaret.”
Al Richardson was older, but I’m not sure by how much. He was quite tall, trim, looked to be in tip-top condition, and had had some skillful work done on his face. He wasn’t dressed in lederhosen, as I’d expected, but in soft cashmere slacks, a yellow turtleneck sweater, and a brown tweed cashmere sport coat. He was tanned and angular and came across as a man comfortable with his own power and influence.
“Very pleased to meet you,” he said, and took my hand. “What may I offer you to drink? We have everything.”
“Scotch on the rocks with a twist, please.”
He relayed my drink order to a waiter who’d been standing by.
“Tell me,” Al said, “what do you think of my precious’s Swiss Miss hideaway?” He put his arm around Lucy’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “Isn’t she amazing?”
I nodded. “Truly amazing. I think you’ve out-Swissed the Swiss.”
Lucy smiled. “I had so much fun doing it and my Al’s such a good sport. He’s just let me turn his world upside down and hasn’t peeped.”
I studied Lucy. She looked in her husband’s eyes the whole time she spoke. She was completely focused on him—everyone else in the room could evaporate and she wouldn’t mind. She was territorial and complicated. As the cocktail hour went along, I had the opportunity to watch her and she never took her eyes off him for more than a second or two. She was always watching to see if he needed anything or wanted anything, and not in a subservient way but with an awareness of wanting to make sure he had everything his heart desired, except for a conversation of more than two seconds with another woman. When that occurred, she would home in like an ICBM and break it up.
There are some women who are completely irresistible to men and Lucy was one of them. She needed them. She was helpless without them and she was so appreciative of any kindness, they would do virtually anything for her. She was the kind of woman who never raised her voice much above a whisper, and when Al looked at her, you could almost see him melt. He thought he was the luckiest man in the world.
I thought she was dangerous.
The dining room was as would be expected, with a collection of painted plates on one wall and a collection of copper pots on the other. A long pine refectory table with cute little Swiss chairs on one side and a long wooden bench on the other. Checked and ruffled seat cushions were tied on with ribbons and bows.
We’d just been seated when Lucy looked at me. “I know where I know you from,” she blurted out. “It’s been driving me crazy all afternoon.”
My heart stopped. “Where?”
“Didn’t we spend a couple of days together in Sardinia on the Batten’s yacht?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Of course we did. Don’t you remember when we all went skinny-dipping? It was a riot.”
“Ignore her,” Al said lightly. “She thinks she’s met everyone at least once.”
I laughed. “Well, I would definitely remember going skinny-dipping. You have me confused with someone else.”
“Do you know Ann and Fred Batten?”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“Hells bells,” Lucy said. “I swear I’m going to figure it out.”
“Lucy,” Al said. “Let’s move on.”
I needed to get away from Lucy Richardson. Fast.
T W E N T Y - F I V E
The next morning, my day began with an authoritative kno
ck at the door followed by the entrance of a Teutonic nurse who carried a stainless-steel tray covered with a white cloth. She was there to draw blood and so forth preparatory to my physical and visit to the spa in the afternoon. The Swiss take physicals very seriously.
“You have not had breakfast, have you?” she accused, as though she were going to hit me. She had a heavy German accent.
I shook my head.
“Three glasses of water only?”
I nodded.
“Good. Let me see.”
I pushed up the sleeve of my robe and offered my arm.
“Excellent. Good strong veins. Well hydrated.” She tied the tourniquet around my upper arm. “Make a fist.”
I did.
“You will feel a little poke and then I will draw five vials. It will take only a second. Be still.”
Only a masochist would refuse. I squeezed my eyes closed and heard the full vials clatter onto the steel tray one at a time. I also heard my butler, Klaus, arrive and begin to clatter about the kitchen.
Blood drawn, she handed me a small cup and gave more specific instructions than were required. Thankfully, less than five minutes after she arrived, she laid the white cloth back across her tray and left, stepping aside with haughty, tight-lipped impatience, and palpable contempt, to make way for Klaus, who was carrying a tray of his own. He swept past her as though she weren’t there. Their mutual dislike of each other was so intense, it could only mean he had rejected her amorous advances sometime in the past. And knowing her as I did, which granted wasn’t much, I further supposed Nurse Hell would pursue romance as aggressively and relentlessly as she pursued veins. She offered up a small, miffed snort before departing and closing the door behind her with a decisive and final click, off on her bitter rounds to torture and intimidate some other unsuspecting guest.
Klaus had set the breakfast table with wonderful china—white with silhouettes of primitive, forest green cows, birds (cuckoos no doubt), and hearts. He shook his head. “She is dreadful.”
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