Dans votre reves, monsieur.
In your dreams.
Inside there was little evidence they’d been there, except the cookie jar and candy dish were empty, and all my little bagatelles were gone, which upset me further because I’d looked forward to finishing them myself. I was relieved to see it didn’t look as though they’d been pawing through my drawers or my closets or my bath and dressing room. They also hadn’t appeared to have found the wall safe in the living room, which would have been fine with me—it was empty. And unless they were highly skilled detectives, which they weren’t, they never would have been able to find any of the other vaults and hiding places.
There were messages on my answering machine from the police to the same effect as the note—call immediately—a couple of calls from Flaminia and dinner invitations from friends. Several hangups from unidentifiable numbers. My cell phone had a number of unidentified calls as well, probably all from Thomas, and one message from him: “Kick, whatever you do, don’t run.”
Don’t run? Are you insane? Dans votre reves, monsieur. If you think I’m going to sit around the house and wait for your colleagues to come and arrest me, you’re out of your mind.
I closed the shutters, put on some Schumann, fixed myself a large Scotch and a plate of cheese and crackers, gave the dog a bath, and went to my closet and started pulling out all my best spring and summertime lingerie and clothes—daytime ensembles to evening gowns. I hung them throughout my dressing room and when all the hooks in there were taken, I laid them all over my bed. Then I began to accessorize. First shoes, then handbags, then scarves, then sun hats. Then jewelry.
My house is a giant vault, nothing is what it appears to be. Floors, walls, flower beds. It’s as byzantine as I once was and as I now needed to become again. Like an onion, or one of those Russian dolls that when you pull the head off one, there’s another smaller one inside until they get so tiny you almost can’t even see them.
The safe of which I’m most proud because I designed it myself—and I must admit, it’s ingenious—is the pantry cabinet. The main pantry door opens to top-to-bottom spice racks. Behind it are two more double-sided doors that close over each other like folds in a letter and hold baking and canned goods. When these are fully opened there is a wall of shelves for seldom-required, specialized pots and pans and appliances, such as malted milk machines, pressure cookers, and spare champagne buckets. Concealed behind the appliances, the ice cream maker to be specific, are a secret latch and a hidden combination lock to a secret door. When opened, the door glides silently aside on hard rubber rollers and it is like looking into Ali Baba’s cave. There is a fireproof wall of velvet-lined cubby-holes of jewelry behind a thick protective sheet of tempered, fireproof glass, and when the lights hit them, it’s like Christmas or New Year’s or a blazing French birthday cake exploding with sparklers. My pantry wall is a glass-fronted vending machine of jewelry It’s the Automat of Jewelry. All of which—I feel compelled to point out right now—was purchased legitimately. I have a receipt for every single piece.
I took two more hours to select just the right items to go with my wardrobe and packed them into two traveling jewelry cases. Finally, I retrieved a few high-priced, high-tech tricks of my former trade from the bathroom floor safe, including a high-speed digital scanner, night vision goggles, and an electronic digital jammer. Old friends I thought I’d never see again. They felt as familiar in my hands as my car keys. At the last minute, I tucked three cans of temporary hair color into my kit.
Well before dawn, headlights off, Bijou and I pulled out of the farm in my small Mercedes wagon. I hated to leave my Jag behind but the wagon was much more anonymous and I needed to disappear with as little smoke as possible.
I didn’t look in the rearview mirror. I’d left everything in perfect order, just as I always had for years and years when I’d had to leave Provence and be in London for months at a time. It would all be there when I got back—I would walk in and find everything exactly where I’d left it. And there would be a note on the counter from Pierre saying fresh milk, butter, and eggs were in the refrigerator. A fresh baguette would be on the counter. He carried out his duties religiously, sometimes fruitlessly for months at a time. I gave no energy to the possibility that I wouldn’t be back. The assurance that things were always normal in Éygalières had carried me through many dark days and occasional lapses of confidence. I could count on Pierre and La Petite Pomme never to let me down.
I drove to the Marseilles airport and parked in the long-term lot, figuring if the police found my car, they’d conclude I’d left by commercial air. I loaded all my luggage onto a cart and went to the Hertz counter where I rented a silver Mercedes SL500, with a less interesting engine than my supercharged Jaguar XK, but still a very beautiful machine.
Bijou and I stopped for breakfast in a little café in St. Raphäel and by the time I pulled back onto the A-8—La Provençal—the sun had crested the horizon and burned off the morning mist on the Mediterranean. I zoomed along, top down, with totally impractical, hard-sided Louis Vuitton suitcases sticking out of the backseat like giant brown-and-gold shoe boxes. I smiled as I passed the exit for Juan-les-Pins and Cap d’Antibes on my way around the Corniche to Portofino, the crowning jewel of the Italian Riviera. The last time I’d been on the French Riviera, the highway was a two-lane road and I was a girl. Sometimes I couldn’t believe how much time had passed between then and now.
The French and Italian Rivieras are dotted with some of the finest hotels in the world, and one of the best of the best is in Portofino. With the gala coming up in a couple of weeks, I knew my double and every other jewel thief worth his salt had it on their itinerary. Some of the most stunning jewelry in the world would be arriving there shortly. My plan, such as it was, was to craft a scheme to steal the Millennium Star—I was, after all, the preeminent extant jewel thief in the world, and the Star, the preeminent jewel. But beyond that preliminary vision, the rest was hazy and would remain that way until I got to Portofino and got the lay of the land.
There were only a couple of initial, preparatory steps I could take, but they were key.
I called from the car.
“Pronto?” a woman’s voice answered.
“Buon giorno,” I said. “This is Lady Pennington calling.”
“Sí, Lady Pennington. How may we help you?”
I explained that I’d just lost my husband (which was true) and that, as she knew (which she didn’t, but she pretended as though she did because she was in the business of being gracious and hospitable), Portofino had always been one of our favorite spots and did they have a large one-bedroom suite available for three weeks—I needed to rest. They did have room, except for the three nights around the gala. “But we will make every effort to accommodate you during that time—we often have a last-minute cancellation for the festivities.”
“I’m sure it will be fine. I’ll see you in time for lunch.”
“We look forward to seeing you again, Lady Pennington.”
“Arrivederci. ”
My next call was to an old friend in Zurich—the finest synthetic stone fabricator in the world. I ordered a duplicate of the Millennium Star. The cost was $250,000 and the synthetic replica would be delivered to me at the hotel in seventy-two hours.
Next, I called my contact at EKM Elektronika, also in Zurich, and ordered a number of the latest gizmos, each of which had a legitimate and an illegitimate use. For instance, the garage-door opener could be used to open a garage door or unscramble the electronic code of the most sophisticated security door or gate. The TV remote control could be programmed to change channels or short out the electricity to a single house or an entire neighborhood. A tube of lipstick could deliver a painless dart tipped with a powerful, fast-acting amnesiac in the blink of an eye. I covered every base I could.
S I X T E E N
one week later
The waiter arranged breakfast on the terrace of my suite that overlooked the little island and the sea.
A crisp white Pratesi linen cloth appliqued with a nautical blue binding covered the glass-topped table. He then placed a small vase of yellow and white freesia; laid out a service of spotless Buccelatti silver flatware, including a bone-handled fruit knife that he placed carefully along the edge of a plate of peaches; a dish of butter and bowls of raspberry preserves and orange marmalade. And, finally, a basket heaped with warm crusty rolls and sugary muffins wrapped like a present in a linen napkin and tied with a sunflower-yellow grosgrain ribbon. I enjoyed watching him work, appreciated his attention to detail, appreciated whoever did all this exquisite ironing. The starched pique towel draped over his forearm never moved an inch.
The air was perfumed and soft. It was so quiet and beautiful and peaceful in Portofino. If I had to, this would not be a bad place to start a new life. Perhaps it was time for me to make a big change. Every now and then, I’d had to remind myself that the reason I was there was to get invited to the Gala di Portofino, keep the Millennium Star from disappearing out the back door with my name on it, and identify my impersonator.
I was no closer than I’d been a week ago to getting myself invited to the Gala. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t even heard anyone mention it.
“Café, signora?”
“Sí, grazie.”I sat down and tightened my robe around me. He poured a small cup of breakfast coffee—so thick and rich and strong, it’s ridiculous. I love it but I have to add a large dollop of thick cream—more than a dollop actually—and two sugar cubes before I can drink it. He poured freshly squeezed grapefruit juice from a glass pitcher into a tall glass and then removed the silver dome from a plate of eggs scrambled with cheese and chopped spicy hot sausages and a huge bouquet of watercress as a garnish.
“Grazie,” I said again and reached for the morning Tribune.
“Oh, my goodness,” I gasped.
THE SHAMROCK BURGLAR STRIKES AGAIN! The story was on page one. The headline was huge.
“Sí,” the waiter said. “Very exciting. But Ladro Trifoglio here in Portofino?” He wagged his finger. “No. No.”
He made it sound so refreshing—like a cool drink on a hot day. The Shamrock Burglar: Ladro Trifoglio.
“Si,” I agreed. ”Ladro Trifoglio.Very exciting.”
“Will there be anything else, signora?”
“No, grazie.”
“Prego.”
I read the story. This person was on a vigorous bender—two robberies at two Riviera hotels on the same day! The secluded Villa Rose on the Gulf of Saint-Tropez, and the better-known classic, Le Palais de Beaulieu—both secure, elegant, old-fashioned destinations for ladies of means traveling alone. This was a story as old as time. Sometimes these solitary ladies were widows and divorcées actively on the hunt for well-off widowers and divorcés, sometimes they were simply looking for a lovely intermezzo with a man who was well mannered and could dance and would let a lonely woman treat him to a drink and dinner without making her feel cheap or humiliated. There was no shortage of such available men, playboys and gigolos, on the Riviera.
Each of these particular hotels had a formal dining room where it was considered de rigueur to dress for dinner, which of course—as I’d rediscovered in my new state of alone, but not loneliness—is a significant part of the regime when you’re traveling unaccompanied: not only the anticipation of getting done up, but also the act of getting done up itself.
My newly single state was like a refresher course, reminding me that even if there’s no one with whom you can share a dressing drink or review the day, there is still the pleasure of a long toilette, a sweet-smelling bubble bath, a revitalizing masque, a silky new almond body lotion, a leisurely maquillage, possibly with the added fun of a new shade of lipstick or blusher purchased that afternoon at one of those glittering little parfumeries on the promenade, and a flute of fizzy, sparkling Mumm’s Cordon Rouge, with the distinctive red ribbon on its label.
And as any woman knows, the bath, the makeup, the champagne, and the jewelry, when combined with the anticipation that some dashing gentleman may invite you to dance after dinner, are often much more fun than the evening.
The Tribunearticle said hotels along the Côte d’Azur had begun reminding their unescorted female guests to deposit their jewelry in the hotel safety deposit boxes at the end of the evening. But really, ladies, let’s be honest: Everyone knows that when passion strikes, nothing could kill it quite so effectively as excusing yourself to stop off at the front desk to match up your safe-deposit box key with the night clerk’s and disappearing for a minute or two into a tiny, airless, private room to strip off all your twinkles before you join your new friend for the elevator ride upstairs. It really annihilates the spontaneity of the moment. And believe me when I say, there’s nothing more deadening to the twinkle in a middle-aged woman’s eyes than the removal of her sparkles, whether they’re real or not.
Anyhow, the sad reality is that usually by the time you wrap up in the safety-deposit room and get back to your new friend, he’s gone. He’s back in the bar chatting up some other lonely lady who’s still wearing all her jewelry and had the wit to freshen her makeup while he was in the lobby twiddling his thumbs and growing impatient waiting for you. This is why it’s always important to have a good book along. Gigolos are very fickle.
And let’s be reallytruthful about this: When you get right down to it, it’s probably the end of a long day and you’re probably tired anyhow, and up to here with fixing your lipstick every five minutes, and all you are really starting to want is an uninterrupted good night’s sleep.
S E V E N T E E N
The most remarkable thing about these hotel jewelry robberies was that there was still not a clear physical description of the ersatz Shamrock Burglar, at least not in the newspaper where it could do the most good. Each victim vehemently denied she’d spent the evening with anyone in particular or invited anyone to her room. It didn’t make sense. I know that none of these ladies wanted to admit she’d been desperate or duped or robbed, but now that there was a string of robberies all committed by the same person, it seemed to me this would be the time to take a deep breath, swallow the embarrassment, band together, and help the police. The ladies didn’t have to let their names be released and no one would publicize their pictures or put them on television. But it was time to get the word out about whatever this person was doing, just so other women could be alert. Whatever his modus operandi was, it was very persuasive. Had he threatened them? Did he tell them that if they gave a physical description, he would come back and kill them? I couldn’t think of anything else that would make them keep their mouths shut so tightly.
Or was it something too embarrassing to make public, even to the police? Did they lead secret lives and would rather die than let it get out? Or was it a couple of people? Some sort of sexual menage? Making the loss of the jewels easier to tolerate than the risk of such a tawdry scandal? Had they been drugged and really couldn’t remember anything? Or, and I knew this was also a very strong possibility: Were they in on the thefts because they’d had to sell the real pieces a while ago and these were all fakes that they’d collaborated to have stolen to collect the insurance?
At Ballantine’s, it was not at all uncommon to have heirs arrive with their late mother’s or grandmother’s or Aunt Tillie’s collection of jewelry wishing to have them auctioned—the Property of a Lady—only to be informed by our jewelry experts that all the stones were glass or synthetics and the metal was not platinum as they believed but rather silver-plated fourteen carat gold. Aunt Tillie had sold the stones ages ago, probably to pay for her face-lift or that moth-eaten old mink she’d left behind and that they’d just given to the jumble.
My exquisite now-missing bracelet, the Queen’s Pet, was just such an example of a real piece turning up in an unexpected place, while what’s believed to be the real thing is actually a fake. I’d stolen the Queen’s Pet from the late romance author, Lady Melody Carstairs, who, according to my yardstick of ethics, deserved to be ro
bbed. She’d made her fortune on her virgin image until one day a young woman turned up claiming—with very good evidence—to be her daughter. Lady Melody’s lawyers savaged the woman in court and she ended up committing suicide. A perfect example of the powerful destroying the weak and defenseless. Of course, at the time of the robbery I had no idea that her Queen’s Pet was the real thing and had originally been the property of Queen Victoria and later part of the Queen Mother’s collection. It was only after close examination that I realized what I had, a piece of uncommon beauty, value, and structure. I surmised the Queen Mother—who was as notorious for her gambling debts as she was for her love of gin—had sold the original to Lady Melody for an enormous amount of cash. It is truly priceless, a two-inch wide cuff made up of five rows of wonderfully matched, five-carat, old mine diamonds culminating in an oval, diamond-encrusted clasp that hides a secret locket with a miniature Winterhalter portrait of Prince Albert.
It had fascinated me to think that I had had the original in my possession while the royal family innocently held the replica. Just as it now fascinated me to try to fathom why Thomas had taken it.
Was there a Shamrock Burglar for hire who was known only by word-of-mouth among a certain world of ladies who lived in the exclusive stratosphere of the very rich? Maybe these ’victims’ weren’t victims at all—maybe they were part of a crime ring! The concept of a merry band of heiresses stealing their own and their friends’ jewelry was as delightful as it was intriguing.
I poured myself a second cup of coffee. It could be any or all of these scenarios. There must be a great deal of information the police were unwilling to make public. Some relationship, some common element that linked these women.
I put down the paper, spread a fat swath of butter on a triangle of crunchy nut toast, added a big plop of marmalade, and turned on the television. It wasn’t long before the story came on. It was a juicy, gossipy story—a summertime scandal made in heaven for the media.
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