Perfect

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

  In my opinion, he’d had plenty. He was starting to slur his words.

  “How would she get your gun?”

  “Out of my bedside table, I guess. I have a few of them in there. Self-protection only of course,” he added quickly. “I haven’t ever shot anyone.”

  “Of course. How long has Alma been this way?”

  “Forever. George doesn’t want a hint of her condition getting out to the public, so they keep her heavily medicated and restricted to a very, very tight circle of friends. Even her close friends think she’s just a little zooey because of her arthritis medication. They don’t know she takes about ten Fluanxols a day for schizophrenia. Lucy Richardson knows, but she’s just as crazy as Alma.”

  “You can say that again,” I said.

  “This is all a game to Alma, something to keep her entertained, and she just happens to own the ball and the playing field.”

  “Does George know everything?” I asked, praying he didn’t.

  “You mean about the jewelry?” Sebastian shook his head. “No. He hasn’t a clue. He works all the time and then they get together for meals. If she turns up with a new bauble and she’s happy, he’s happy.”

  “Why are you doing this, Sebastian?”

  “For the money, of course. I’ve got a couple of questions for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, for starters, who are you?”

  But we’d arrived at the hospital and just at that moment, the back doors of the ambulance were opened and Sebastian and I were taken in opposite directions at the emergency room.

  “Good-bye, Sebastian,” I called as I was wheeled into a treatment room. “Good luck.”

  F I F T Y - F I V E

  A doctor and a nurse appeared, followed immediately by a portable X-ray machine. Pictures were taken.

  “What’s your name?” the doctor asked as he hung the films over light boxes.

  What to say. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. What on earth was the name I’d used to reserve the helicopter?

  He turned to look at me. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

  “No, no. I’m fine.” I laughed. “Except for my leg, of course.”

  “Your name.”

  “Millicent Rogers.”

  The nurse made a note.

  “Mrs. Rogers, you have sprained your ankle, not broken your leg.”

  “Aha. I might as well have broken it, it hurts so much.”

  “You’re lucky. It’s quite a minor sprain, actually. Should heal quite easily and quickly.”

  He gently lifted my shin and ankle and laid a stretchy socklike bandage beneath them. Then he tightened the sock around and carefully pressed the Velcro into place.

  “I’d like for you to spend the night so we can keep you under observation in case you have any problems.”

  “No. I’m fine, really.” In fact, all I wanted to do was lie down, my ankle was killing me. If this was a minor sprain I’d hate to experience a severe one. But I was on a march and I had to stay the course. “It’s late and I’d like to sleep in my own bed.”

  “I understand. I would do the same.”

  He gave me a bottle of painkillers and his cell phone number. “Call me if you need anything. May we call a sleigh to take you home?”

  “Please.”

  He helped me to my feet and handed me a pair of crutches. “Have you ever used these before?”

  I shook my head.

  “There’s not much to it, once you get the rhythm. Try crossing the room and back.”

  After a couple of unsure steps, I easily got the hang of it. The jewelry in my pocket swung back and forth beneath my skirt and banged into my thigh like a bag of sand.

  “They look quite smart with your gown.”

  “The latest thing.” I smiled.

  He draped my cape over my shoulders and carried my satchels to the waiting sleigh. “I’d like to see you again tomorrow afternoon. Four o’clock.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  “Have a good sleep.” He waved and went back inside.

  “Heliport, please,” I told the driver, and swallowed one of the pills without any water.

  The helicopter was about five times larger than the little one I’d flown in on, which made me feel much better, as did the weather, which was still clear. They put me in a special wheelchair sort of affair to get me up the steps, and helped me into my seat and fastened my seat belt as though I were a hundred years old. I let them.

  The passenger cabin was warm and comfortably fitted out with soft navy blue leather seats and all the communications and entertainment bells and whistles that important people and executives require. I put my wounded leg on the seat opposite me and closed my eyes. I was almost safely out of Mont-St.-Anges, only moments to go. The engine came to life and seconds later we shuddered off the ground like a big ungainly bug.

  I sat up and looked out the window. I wasn’t even slightly afraid. In my pocket, the queen’s jewels—the real Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure and the Lesser Stars of Africa—poked into my leg, reminding me they were there. We gained altitude quickly as we flew down the valley and passed far above the Naxoses’ castle and Robert Constantin’s chalet, both of which were still brightly lit. I could only imagine what had happened when Alma had finally summoned help, once she’d pocketed the phony parure, the Lesser Stars, and my pink diamond.

  What would she tell George and Robert? It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Here’s what she would say: She and Sebastian had caught Princess Margaret trying to rob Sebastian’s safe. Alma had accidentally shot Sebastian, and Princess Margaret had escaped.

  I wondered if Oscar had moved from his dark corner.

  I wondered if any of the guests would grow curious why there would be no investigation of a missing Princess Margaret, no all-points bulletin, no hot pursuit. But there wouldn’t be. George would smell something awry, he would instruct Cookson to take Alma home and give her an injection immediately, and the entire affair would be swept under the rug. It either never happened. Or it was a lark.

  Moonlight peeked through the broken clouds and hit the steep cliffs as we made our way through them. They looked beautiful and mysterious and while I couldn’t see what was ahead, I knew the pilots could, and tonight, that was enough for me.

  The pain pill took hold and I nodded off as we zipped our way to Geneva.

  F I F T Y - S I X

  I must admit, I felt a little silly walking into the lobby of the d’Angleterre in an evening gown, mink cape, and crutches as day was beginning to break. But if I received any stares, which I’m sure I didn’t, I ignored them. I love the Swiss. They never ask any questions about anything.

  “Would you like a wheelchair, madam?” the front desk clerk asked.

  “No, I think I’m fine, thank you.” The pill had worked wonders.

  “This way, please. We have one of our lady’s suites for you.”

  There are certain fine hotels around the world that have gone out of their way to make sure their female guests who are traveling alone feel safe and secure. The Hôtel d’Angleterre is one of these enlightened institutions and has a special set of rooms reserved exclusively for unescorted women—they have extra security locks on the doors and hallway video systems. The bathrooms have extra space for toiletries, the bathrobes and slippers are more feminine, and there are so many beauty amenities on the bath and dressing room counters, you can practically open a store of your own.

  I followed him into the elevator and to a warm pink-and-yellow suite on the third floor. The bed had a cornice with fat, regal swags of yellow satin held back with satin cords. Arrangements of pink and yellow roses were everywhere. The balcony opened out onto the frozen lake and the first rays of morning sun sparkled through the Jet d’Eau. He set my travel cases on the rack in the dressing room.

  Once he was gone, I called room service and ordered grapefruit juice, croissants, and a pot of coffee. �
�I’m getting in the shower,” I told the room service woman. “Please just come in and set it up in the living room.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  I closed and locked my bedroom door and then removed my gown and laid it on the bed, leaving the jewels in the pocket. I pulled the wilted shamrocks and gardenia out of my hair and then the combs. I balanced on my good leg and stretched my arms toward the ceiling as far as I could. I started to smile.

  I’d done it, and no one knew who I was or where I was. The question was, would I leave it that way?

  After a hot shower, I dried my hair, put on the soft terry-cloth hotel robe, and took the parure and the diamond brooch into the living room. I laid them in a semicircle around my butter and marmalade and croissants. I couldn’t believe my eyes, they were absolutely magnificent.

  The copy I’d made was technically perfect, and the synthetics exact as well, but up close, it was like the difference between new and old sterling silver: nothing could come close to matching the inner glow, the luster and patina that can come only from age and experience.

  I hopped over to the full-length mirror on the bedroom door and put on the necklace. I pinned the Lesser Stars brooch to one side of my bodice and the emerald brooch to the other. I clipped on the earrings and bracelet. They looked so well on me—emeralds were much better with my coloring than with Alma’s. The Lesser Stars—the Cullinans III and IV—particularly enchanted me. They weren’t perfect diamonds, nor were they the largest I’d ever seen by any means, but they lay there, one on top of the other, with the incredible power and mystique of their African heritage, smoldering with their long and complicated history. I could almost feel them daring me to keep them, to add another chapter.

  It would be incredibly easy to do. I still owned the little place in Portofino. I could go there. I could go anywhere.

  I sat down, poured a café au lait, ate the croissants, and read the papers. All the while, the morning sun made the jewelry sparkle, sending little beams off the silver pots and flatware. I swear, it was almost as though this jewelry was talking to me and after breakfast, I was sorry to have to tuck it into the pockets on my corset. But this was no time to get lazy or casual about my haul. I turned on my cell phone.

  I had six messages from Thomas. I called him.

  “Where are you?” he answered immediately.

  “I’m in Zurich,” I lied. I still hadn’t decided what I was going to do. “Where are you?”

  “Mont-St.-Anges. I had a hell of a time finding this place. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Well, this is quite a little setup they’ve got for themselves here, Mr. and Mrs. Naxos. I’m just leaving their castle, where they’ve fed me what would be a delicious breakfast if I were a bird. I’m on my way to the hotel to get something to eat and charge my phone—the battery’s almost gone. It’s snowing like hell—I’ve never seen so much snow.” His words faded in and out.

  “What?” I yelled.

  “So, Kick, I’m very grateful you did as I asked and got out of here before the shooting started.”

  “Shooting?”

  “It’s been quite a night. Alma Naxos shot holes in Robert’s study, trying to shoot a thief who was robbing his safe. Would you know anything about that?”

  “Really,” I said.

  “Alma is certainly a brave woman. Sitting in that wheelchair, totally vulnerable, and having the presence of mind to shoot, even if she missed. I’m terribly impressed. And may I add, grateful she missed.”

  I rolled my eyes. She was as helpless as a cobra. “She only told part of the story, Thomas. She shot Sebastian. He’s in the hospital. Well, actually, he’s probably home by now, his wound didn’t look that serious. Aren’t you the slightest bit curious what Alma was doing with a gun in the first place?”

  “She said she found it in a drawer.”

  “Sebastian’s drawer. What happens next?”

  “After breakfast, I’m going to investigate the scene of the crime, although I don’t really expect to find anything. Alma said the safe was emptied.”

  “That’s not true, Thomas. Alma and Sebastian are in this together.”

  The connection grew weaker.

  “Say again.”

  “Thomas,” I shouted. “Don’t go to Constantin’s house. Sebastian will be there. I’m sure Alma arranged for him to be picked up and taken home. He has guns. I’m afraid he’ll try to kill you.”

  “What?” Thomas shouted as his phone went dead.

  Oh, hell.

  Love, duty, and conscience are terrible things, especially if you’re having to choose between keeping the queen of England’s best pieces of jewelry or rescuing your husband.

  F I F T Y - S E V E N

  “Heliport, Piers speaking.”

  “Piers, this is Mrs. Rogers.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Rogers. Did you have a good flight to Geneva?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “I’ve gotten my business done more quickly than I thought. Do you know if the crew that flew me in is still here?”

  “Yes. They are taking off in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Would you ask them to wait for me?”

  “If you get there quickly, the weather is closing in—it’s supposed to get very bad here. Otherwise, I’ll arrange transportation for you as soon as it lifts.”

  “No. Please ask them to wait—I’ll get there as soon as I can. I’m leaving right now.”

  “Very well.”

  I pulled on slacks and a sweater and the black Bogner parka with the black fox trim, which I couldn’t bear to leave behind in Mont-St.-Anges, and my Russian-style black mink hat. I checked to make sure my big gun and all my gizmos were in my tote bag. On my way out of the hotel I left my travel satchels, which had my jewelry in their false bottoms—I still had the queen’s pieces in my corset—with the porter to put in his locked storage closet, and when I arrived at the private air terminal, I left my crutches in the car. I wasn’t in that much pain anymore and they would just get in the way.

  The flight to Mont-St.-Anges was a total nightmare, far worse than the first one, but I couldn’t afford to let it get to me. I kept my eyes focused on the closed cockpit door and thought about Thomas.

  Half an hour later, we shuddered to the ground in white-out conditions.

  I hoped after today, I would never see snow or a helicopter again as long as I lived.

  Piers helped me into a sleigh at the bottom of the stairs. “Gluhwein?” he asked once he’d covered me with warm blankets.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well.” He stepped back and saluted as we pulled away.

  “Schloss Constantin,” I said to the driver.

  Off we went through the storm.

  “Just turn in the service entrance,” I instructed my driver when we rounded the corner into the enclave. I climbed out at the service door and watched the sleigh pull off. Robert must have been planning to go somewhere because the three big Orlov trotters were in their harness and ready to go. The door opened. It was Oscar.

  “Is Sebastian here?”

  He nodded. “In his bed.”

  “And Chief Inspector Curtis?” I started up the stairs to the kitchen.

  “Just arrived. I took him to the upstairs study.”

  “Come on, Oscar.” I limped as fast as I could through the kitchen and threw open the door to the back stairs. “Sebastian’s got all those guns.”

  “What guns?”

  “His bed table.” I started up the steps. “He has a whole drawer full of them.” I pulled my own gun out as I climbed. Oscar’s eyes got wide. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to shoot it.”

  We reached the second floor and raced to the open study door. I heard Sebastian’s voice and when I rounded the corner, I saw Thomas standing in the middle of the room with his arms raised above his head. Sebastian, in his dressing gown, his left arm in a sling, stood in his bedroom door with a
weapon pointed at Thomas.

  “Sebastian.” I pointed my gun, which was larger than his, right at his face. “Don’t shoot him. Are you crazy?”

  “Margaret!” He frowned. “Where did you come from?”

  “Don’t shoot him.”

  “Of course I’m going to shoot him—he wants to take me to prison.”

  “I said”—Thomas’s voice was calm—“I wanted you to show me the inside of your safe and to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m not going back to England,” Sebastian threatened. He cocked the gun and took aim.

  I had no choice. I “leaned in,” as the man in Zurich had instructed me, and pulled the trigger and fired. I shot Sebastian in the foot.

  “Owww,” he yelled, and fell to the floor.

  “Run,” I said. “Follow me.”

  Two shots from Sebastian’s gun shattered the doorframe just as we rounded it into the hall.

  We raced for the back stairs, but by now my ankle had gone all mushy on me again and I was having to hop. Oscar, God bless him, swept me into his arms and led the way down, through the kitchen and down to the stable yard. I heard the elevator bell ding as he put me into the front of the troika and then tossed Thomas into the passenger seat like a sack of groceries.

  “You go,” Oscar ordered. “You know how.”

  I pulled my yellow ski goggles over my eyes and picked up the reins.

  Robert, all done up in his fur coat and Russian hat, bounded into sight. “Margaret! You look magnificent. Wait! Where are you going? Where are you taking my horses?”

  My last sight of Schloss Constantin was of Robert running after us. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His prized Russian horses and antique sleigh were vanishing right before his eyes. “Oscar!” he yelled. “Stop them.”