Perfect

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

  “Occasionally,” I lied. I’ve never watched golf on television or anywhere else in my life.

  “When Tiger Woods is playing, if you look in the long shots, there are literally thousands of people around him. They’re perfectly well mannered but every single one of them wants to get close, to touch him, get a little piece. My fans are the same, they press in. It’s unnerving. I don’t mean to sound sacrilegious, but sometimes I know how Jesus must have felt. One of Him and millions of them following Him everywhere He went—the man could get no rest.”

  “Robert!” Sebastian said. “That is just over the line.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Forgive me.” He looked at the ceiling and crossed himself and his cheeks colored. “But you know what I mean.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “I’m always so relieved to get home and let my hair down. There are a number of us here in Mont-St.-Anges who are victims of our success.”

  Oscar appeared in the door.

  “Ah,” Robert said. “Dinner’s ready.”

  The dinner was in a small dining room, not the large one I’d passed on the way in, and the decor wasn’t quite as heavy-handed. The meal itself was quintessentially Swiss and perfectly prepared. The first course was capuns, which are cubes of sausage in spätzli batter, wrapped in Swiss chard leaves, tossed in butter, simmered, and served with a cream sauce; and the entree was a gorgeous, bubbling, gooey, pungent cheese fondue with cubes of crusty bread and a wonderful snappy Chablis. Dessert was classic apple strudel with pastry so feathery and light if you’d thrown it in the air, it would have floated away.

  The three of us had a very harmonious time. We enjoyed each other’s company tremendously. Robert regaled us with stories of living on the road as an international superstar, and Sebastian added his own adventures as a fancy international financier. He had an unbelievable imagination.

  “I had no idea banking could be so thrilling,” I said.

  “Extraordinary, isn’t it?” he answered straight-faced.

  I asked him a few pertinent questions and could tell by his answers, he knew what he was talking about.

  I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

  “Let’s have one more glass of wine. I want to show you my house. Would you like a tour?”

  “I’d love one.”

  We took the elevator to the second floor and I saw everything I needed to see. Robert’s room was predictably Robert, a completely overdone, messy affair with a huge bed with old-fashioned bed curtains. A painting of him, in a smoking jacket similar to tonight’s with a pipe in his hand, leaning on a mantel and looking regal, hung over the fireplace. His bathroom had a large Jacuzzi and an old-fashioned exercise bike that had a tall stack of magazines piled on its seat, giving the impression it was little used.

  Sebastian’s bedroom was a little slice of English countryside—loaded with bright yellow-and-green chintz, comfortable chairs, and piles of books. Off his bath was a serious gym with weights, a treadmill, a StairMaster, and a rowing machine.

  Their bedrooms connected through a large central study with an oversized antique partners’ desk that the two men shared. Flat computer screens sat on credenzas that extended out from the desk on either side in the shape of an L. On the wall above Sebastian’s credenza was a Richard Jack painting of Buckingham Palace in the rain, the red jackets and black bear hats of the Coldstream Guards fuzzy in the mist. The painting stood fractionally away from the wall—so slightly that no one would ever notice, unless that someone were a thief looking for a wall safe. Tucked neatly in the darkness of the cubby hole under Sebastian’s desk, I spotted the black briefcase. Ready to hand at the drop of a hat. I realized he must have his emergency exit strategies as well, and I wondered what they were. Like the Naxos apartment in Paris, there was no easy way out of Mont-St.-Anges.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow evening,” Robert said when we were back downstairs.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  I’d already told Sebastian good night and Robert walked me to my sleigh. “Let me take you home,” he said. “It’s no trouble.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  He kissed me on either cheek. His beard felt silky against my skin. “You are so calming for me to be with, Margaret. So down-to-earth and peaceful. I could spend the rest of my life with someone like you.”

  I smiled at him. “Robert. Are you proposing to me?”

  “Not yet. But I’m considering it.”

  “Keep me informed.” I climbed into the sleigh and shook the reins. “See you tomorrow.”

  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t hugely flattered by Robert’s affections, but I had a feeling he said basically the same thing to everyone he was fond of—men and women alike. He needed more attention than anyone I’d ever met.

  Before I went to bed, I double-checked all the doors and windows and cross-checked my security system.

  Something wakened me at three-thirty. I checked the video screens and nothing was out of order. It must have been the wind, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was vulnerable. I went back to bed but wasn’t able to sleep, so finally, at about five, I gave up, got up and made myself a cup of hot chocolate, and sat in the dark living room and ran through my plan for the dinner dance.

  That was where I’d make the switch. Just smooth and easy during dinner, and Thomas would show up at some point, make a discreet arrest, recover the (fake) jewels—the real ones would be in my pocket by then—and once Sebastian was securely on his way back to London, escorted by Thomas’s adjutant, Thomas and I would spend a few more days here in Mont-St.-Anges, eating fondue and drinking wine and having a little winter holiday. Maybe I’d even get those monkey gland shots. And I would have the queen’s jewels in my possession and I would give them to Thomas once we were safely out of the valley.

  That was somewhat the plan. I would make the switch during dinner, but the part with Thomas and me relaxing in Mont-St.-Anges? Pure fantasy.

  I sorted through my câche of one-time-use identifications and then, a little after eight, picked up the phone.

  “Heliport. Jurgen speaking.”

  “This is Mrs. Rogers calling and I’d like to book a helicopter to take me to Geneva later this evening.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Rogers. Approximately what time, do you know?”

  “I’m not sure. If it could be ready to go from nine on, that would be fine.”

  “Nine o’clock it is. Your crew will be ready at that time and on-duty for you for twelve hours, until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Come whenever it’s convenient.”

  “What if it’s snowing?”

  “We use heavy cargo craft when the weather’s bad—no need to worry.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  I called the Hôtel d’Angleterre in Geneva and reserved a suite.

  F I F T Y

  I fixed breakfast, sipped my chocolate, read the morning papers, and watched the news—there wasn’t a sign of Thomas—called the spa and made a number of appointments. This would be a day of total relaxation—I was ready. I didn’t even care if I saw Lucy, because I was set. I wasn’t so immature or naive to think I was invincible, but at this point I was impermeable. On cruise control, as though I were watching events unroll from some point in the sky.

  The morning was a sybaritic extravaganza—steam, massage, facial, shampoo, nails. I even had the low-calorie, spa fitness lunch and when I bundled myself back into my outdoor gear, I was relaxed and focused.

  The doorman had Black Diamond harnessed and ready to go when I emerged.

  “We have a little bit of sun, maybe, Princesse,” he said, indicating the dark blue sky showing through broken clouds.

  In fact, it was so bright I had to put on my dark glasses. I felt as though I hadn’t seen the sun in months. I needed to satisfy my curiosity about something before I went back to Schloss Alexander. Black Diamond seemed happy for the exercise as we sailed throug
h the valley at top speed. We went from one end to the other, all the way to where I’d watched the horse-drawn sledge disappear around a distant corner alongside the train tracks. The road ended with a solid metal gate. There was a small security camera in the trees and the gate was controlled by a high-end remote-operated electronic system, similar to an upgraded electric garage door. The area was cold and remote, tree branches drooped with their burdens of snow and it was totally silent. I couldn’t help but shiver.

  Much as I loathed the thought of getting back on a helicopter, this was not a valid means of egress. I didn’t know what was on the other side of the gate and the area was avalanche prone. Between the trees, rocky, ice-clogged chutes plunged straight down a thousand feet from the high peak.

  I turned the horse around as efficiently as possible and we got out of there and went home.

  Barnhardt was occupied huffing and puffing as he shoveled the porches, so I drove straight into the barn, just as I’d watched him do so many times, unharnessed Black Diamond from the sleigh, led her into her box stall, and poured a scoop of molasses-oats into the small wooden tray attached to the wall. Then I went into the house—waved at Barnhardt through the living room windows, he still had a long way to go to get that porch done—and grabbed some carrots and apples and my Hermès travel bags. The little stable was warm and cozy and Black Diamond eagerly gobbled up the treats. She watched over the door of her stall with interest as I lifted the top of the storage box on the back of the sleigh and dropped my travel bags into the compartment and covered them with her blanket.

  It was time to contact Thomas.

  His voice mail picked up immediately. “This is Special Chief Inspector Thomas Curtis, New Scotland Yard,” his voice intoned on the recording. “You’ve reached my voice mail. Please leave your name and phone number and I’ll return your call as quickly as possible.”

  Wasn’t that just like Thomas to leave a long message, giving his esteemed title and stating the obvious?

  “Thomas,” I said. “It’s me. I have things ready to go and am just checking in to see where you are. Will you be at Robert Constantin’s dinner dance? Call me at this number.”

  Moments later, my phone beeped.

  “Kick.” Thomas said. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right.”

  “Where have you been? What number is this? Where are you?”

  “I’ve been taking my horse for a drive.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m in Mont-St.-Anges where they don’t allow cars, so I’m taking my horse, Black Diamond, for a drive.”

  “Mont-Saint-What? Where’s that?”

  “You don’t know where it is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s in Switzerland.”

  “Where in Switzerland?”

  “I don’t know, Thomas. Where are you?”

  “Milan,” he said. “At Robert Constantin’s estate.”

  “Oh, dear. You mean you really don’t know about Mont-St.-Anges?”

  “No.” He sounded testy. “I really don’t.”

  I explained to him about George and Alma Naxos and their super-private hideaway for the superelite. I told him I’d known about Mont-St.-Anges for a long time and that Robert Constantin lived there and not in Milan.

  “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me?” he asked angrily.

  “I’m sorry but I honestly thought that since you’re a detective, you’d find out fairly easily.”

  “Well, that’s fine, Kick. Do you intend to arrest Sebastian Tremaine and return him to England? Should I just go on back home?”

  “Of course not. I thought you’d be here by now. I know where the jewelry is—it’s in a wall safe behind the Richard Jack in Tremaine’s and Constantin’s shared study at Constantin’s chalet.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Ninety percent.”

  “And exactly where is this town?”

  “That’s the thing, Thomas. I’m not sure.”

  “Where do you think it is?”

  I told him how long I thought I’d flown from Sion in the helicopter and approximately what direction we’d gone, “But frankly, that’s a guess, I was so scared out of my wits the whole time. My God, Thomas, I feel like this is Shangri-La or something. I can’t believe you don’t know about it.”

  “What else don’t I know?”

  “Nothing.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was pretending to be a Scotland Yard inspector pretending to be a Romanian princess—that would have sent him straight off the roof.

  “Call George Naxos.” I gave him the phone number at the Naxos castle. “And tell him you have it on good authority that there is a world-famous jewel thief in Mont-St.-Anges and you’re expecting him to make a move at a party at Robert Constantin’s tonight. He’ll tell you how to get here.”

  “All right. I don’t want you to make any sort of a move in any direction until I’m on the scene.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I’m telling you, Kick. Stay where you are. You’ve done what I asked you to do, now let me take it from here.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, and hung up.

  This was good. Thomas would get here, just not quite in time.

  I put on the artist’s smock and messed around with the paints, but it really wasn’t my field. I hung the smock back on the edge of the canvas and took a nap.

  F I F T Y - O N E

  At six-thirty, I poured a glass of Champagne, and filled the big tub with steaming water and carnation-scented bubbles. I lay in the warm bath—the room was so quiet, the only sound was the buzz of silence—and reviewed my plan. The Pasha flashed prisms of light on the ceiling. I went over and over every step until the bath cooled, and then, wrapped up in one of my silk robes, I settled myself at the dressing table and set about preparing for my evening.

  The machine in me had taken over, as though I were a general preparing for battle, a surgeon preparing for a major operation, or a soprano for an important aria. I smoothed back my hair with unusual art deco combs that had four rows of baguettes in a herringbone pattern and tucked a white gardenia and a small spray of shamrocks behind one ear. I took particular care with my makeup.

  As soon as I looked just right, I laid the black corset on the dressing table and opened each of the pockets and removed the queen’s replicated jewels and laid them out, side by side. Then I began to dress.

  The corset, without its secret booty, gave me a very lovely, almost sinfully voluptuous hourglass figure. I hooked my black stockings to the garters and stepped into my dress, a black satin strapless ball gown with a skirt so voluminous it looked as though it would weigh a ton but was actually as light as a cloud. I clipped on white diamond earrings, and around my neck, I hung my pièce de resistance—originally intended to flush out Sebastian, if need be, but no longer necessary, of course—my own very good necklace made of sixty five-carat, emerald-cut diamonds. It made my neck look as though it were circled by a ring of fire. I’d bought the piece at auction in Geneva several years ago and was glad for the opportunity to wear it, since there are very few private white-tie dinner dances in Provence. From the necklace, I suspended the synthetic forty-carat teardrop-shaped pink diamond I’d gotten in Zurich. It sparkled on my décolletage like a frozen drop of pink Champagne. I clasped a wide diamond cuff over my black satin full-length gloves and arranged my satin evening shawl.

  I looked in the mirror—I was positively majestic. Queen Mary would have been proud.

  Finally, I scooped the queen’s jewelry off the counter and dropped it into the deep pocket on the right side of my gown. I turned off my cell phone and dropped it in the left.

  Drop into the left, take out of the right.

  Time to go. I slipped the full-length black mink cape from its hanger and it whirled around me so it rippled like wings and settled gently on my shoulders. I buzzed Barnhardt to let him know I was ready.

  “Your Highness,” he sa
id. “If I may tell you—you look magnificent.”

  I inclined my head. “Thank you, Barnhardt.” I held my hand out with sugar cubes for Black Diamond, whose bright ribbons had been replaced with elegant black satin tassels. I kissed her cheek and then accepted Barnhardt’s arm as he assisted me into the red-and-gold sleigh. I felt rather like Catherine the Great or the dowager empress of Russia as I set out through the frigid, snowy night to the ball.

  F I F T Y - T W O

  I wasn’t sure what to expect at Robert Constantin’s dinner dance. I’ve been to a number of very grand gala charity affairs where the guests are garbed and gowned in glorious dresses and wearing sensational jewelry—most of it borrowed from jewelers in exchange for publicity—and the men have on obligatory black-tie evening attire. The opening nights of our semiannual Magnificent Jewelry Auctions at Ballantine’s were always filled with such people.

  But this was different—this was a private white-tie ball, the sort of affair only found in private homes, and most certainly hidden from the eyes of the paparazzi. I was dazzled from the moment my sleigh turned into the drive. Torchères lit the way and when Black Diamond stopped under the porte cochère, two formally dressed footmen helped me to the ground.

  Inside the front door, a maid in a black uniform and white lacy apron lifted the cape from my shoulders and helped me rearrange my shawl.

  “Mr. Constantin and his guests are in the salon.” She indicated with her hand. I watched her take the cape to the same cloakroom Oscar had used the night before, the one opposite the elevator, around the corner in the hall leading to the kitchen.

  Electrified torchères jutted dramatically out from the walls about ten feet above the floor and illuminated the corridor to the salon with golden light. It reflected off the gilt frames and mirrors. Mammoth, well-polished black walnut sideboards seemed to sag beneath the weight of gigantic Della Robbia-like arrangements of fruit and dried flowers. Everything was larger than life, just the way Robert saw it. The setting was grand opera at its grandest.