The SkyWord reporter, Giovanna McDougal, a trim, pretty young woman with cropped blond hair, a white T-shirt, and print cotton skirt, stood on the terrace of the hotel in Beaulieu with flower boxes of sizzling red geraniums and the shining Mediterranean as her backdrop.
“It was here in this fairy-tale setting,” she explained, “in the heart of the Côte d’Azur, playground of the rich and famous, that the ubiquitous Shamrock Burglar struck again. Two more robberies last night at two more of the world’s most exclusive resorts. Here in Beaulieu, over half a million dollars in diamonds were stolen from an unidentified guest’s dressing table as she slept, replaced by the now-famous bouquet of shamrocks and their elegant gold satin ribbon. A second robbery occurred at another beautiful watering hole not far down the road. This makes four robberies in just ten days by the elusive Shamrock.”
I was completely captivated and sat at my breakfast table watching with bewildered fascination along with everyone else on the Rivieras. I felt detached from the whole affair and started not to take it so personally. At least, if I had to, I could prove I’d been here for the last week, not in Cap Ferrat or Beaulieu.
Giovanna McDougal continued. “We’re fortunate to have joining us Commander Thomas Curtis. Commander Curtis retired recently as one of Scotland Yard’s most respected investigators. He is now head of the international task force assigned to apprehend the Shamrock Burglar. Welcome to SkyWord Commander Curtis.”
WHAT?! I almost fell out of my chair. There he was, talking to Giovanna McDougal on a terrace in Beaulieu. It was surreal. He looked wonderful. The sun gleamed off his white hair, and his piercing blue eyes were as beautiful as ever as he squinted slightly in the morning sun. Never a clotheshorse, he had on a badly wrinkled linen suit and regimental tie—that was so Thomas, a regimental tie with a linen suit. At least his shirt was ironed and I was grateful for that. And I knew his shoes were shined. I wanted to pick up the phone and say, “Thomas, I’m just down the road from you. Please get over here and let’s get this whole thing straightened out. It’s not me—I’m not the Shamrock Burglar anymore.”
I wanted to kiss him and put my arms around him and smell his Trumper’s lime cologne. I wanted him to put his arms around me. I couldn’t seem to get my mind around the fact that we were on opposite sides of the game now. That he was publicly and officially in charge of tracking me down. I watched, completely mesmerized.
“You had quite a lot of experience with the Shamrock Burglar in London, didn’t you, Commander?” Ms. Giovanna McDougal asked.
“I did. Although it was never my assignment—I focused primarily on homicides—I’m well familiar with the case and its intricacies.”
“In spite of the hours New Scotland Yard has spent on the case, it’s never even had what could be categorized as a strong lead on the elusive Shamrock.”
“No. Quite right.” Thomas clearly didn’t care much for the question, but he answered it.
Giovanna just seemed to float along, not particularly interested in Thomas’s responses so much as in her questions. “And now the Shamrock has gone international. Are you convinced this is the real thing?”
He nodded. “Yes. We are. It has all the earmarks of the original.”
I’m getting to hate you, Thomas Curtis.
“What’s next?” Giovanna asked.
“We’re closer to the Shamrock now than ever before. I expect we’ll have an arrest in the next few days.”
Really? That’s what you think. You couldn’t catch me then and you can’t catch me now.
I went inside and dug out my Michelin maps and red book and studied the coastline between Beaulieu and Portofino and tried to put myself in Thomas’s position, just as I knew he was trying to put himself in mine. I felt confident my impostor would show up in Portofino very soon. But I was also quite sure Thomas hadn’t connected the dots to the DeBeers Millennium Star and the Gala di Portofino. Yet. Which property would I think would be hit next if I were him? There were a number of excellent choices between here and there. Even the most bumbling, inept burglar could make a fantastic living robbing hotels and villas in Monte Carlo alone. I couldn’t decide. Thomas and I were in the same boat—we’d just have to wait and see. In fact, as far as I was concerned, it didn’t make much difference what the burglar did until the gala. I had made my plan, staked out my territory, and now was not the time for me to start moving around.
I finished my breakfast and decided to get in the shower and put myself together before I planned the rest of my day.
If I looked over the side of my terrace, the front edge of the main dining room and bar terrace two floors below were visible. I had a perfect vantage point. I checked for familiar or suspicious faces several times a day from my perch but so far no one familiar had appeared. Until now.
It was the man who looked like Antonio Banderas. The same man I’d seen in the Musée Montpensier in Paris.
I watched the captain hold a chair for him. He was dressed in tennis whites, a sweater tied jauntily around his shoulders. He was the tannest person I’d ever seen.
Every now and then his eyes would roam the terrace, but he knew as well as I did that no woman worth robbing was going to show up for breakfast in public.
We were all still upstairs with our faces packed in ice.
E I G H T E E N
Since arriving in Portofino, Bijou and I had spent our afternoons hiking along the rocky, steep hillsides above the port, climbing precipitous, endless stone stairways, and ducking through narrow passages that smelled of mulch and antiquity and led like secret tunnels to the villas dotting the hills. It was easy to understand why Portofino’s real estate was among the most sought after and costly in the world. The air is fresh and balmy, easy to breathe. The vistas are soothing, nothing jars the eye because everything is in its perfect place, as though arranged for a picture postcard. The sky is always cerulean blue with a few puffy clouds floating about; the yachts bobbing in the harbor are big and white; flowers billow from every window box and cascade down stone walls that have disappeared under thick blankets of ivy and jasmine. It is a perfectly cared-for town for the super rich. Privacy and anonymity are available and respected. It is heavenly.
It was still fairly early in the season and a handful of the villas that had been closed for the winter were just concluding their spring cleanings—windows thrown open with dustcovers being shaken and snapped in the fresh ocean air. Most were spectacularly well looked after—painted in the rich ochre, pink, and terra-cotta colors and trompe l’oeil style that Portofino is known for. A few of the villas were run-down and overgrown, in need of repair—their owners out of town or out of money.
I had succumbed to the charms of this ancient town and purchased a small house as an investment, as well as a hedge against a plan gone awry. It was a charming, little pink-stucco borgo, snuggled into the hillside—too small to be of interest to anyone but a single woman and her dog. The garden was overgrown and the house needed a great deal of work but was livable. If I were going to end up changing my life, it would be on my terms. I wanted to be ready.
Every day, at some point on my circuit, I passed the walls of Villa Giolitti, a gigantic yellow and white, three-story affair with pink shutters on its dozens of windows and doors. It sat on several private acres on the top of the hill and was in glorious condition. Legions of gardeners worked the grounds and there was a constant stream of traffic in and out of its main gate, which was formidable, not a fancy wrought-iron affair, but rather greenish sheets of solid steel that when closed barred even a small ray of sunlight from escaping. A couple of times, warned by the squeal of tires and the roar of a fast-approaching big engine, I’d had to pick up the dog and step off the road to get out of the way as a red Ferrari convertible with a woman behind the wheel screamed around the comer. Another time it was a black Lamborghini, but I couldn’t see who was driving behind the tinted windows. Villa Giolitti was the residence of Count Giancarlo Giolitti—one of Portofino’s leading
patrons. The Gala of Portofino was held at this villa.
I’d thoroughly scoped out its perimeter, looking for openings I could breech in case I didn’t get invited to the party and had to crash it. Scaling the wall was out of the question, and I found only one gate that, as far as I could tell, didn’t have cameras. It was another large steel affair, as high as the villa wall, approximately ten feet, and looked to be seldom used. I assumed it was just for major landscaping undertakings because there was a regular service entrance that accommodated the staff and service trucks. One afternoon, the gate was open and I saw that it was controlled by an electronic keypad on a drive-by post, which presented no problem to my garage door opener/digital electronic scanner. While I’d been able to assess the security outside the villa walls, I could only guess at what steps had been taken inside and I assumed they were significant. If I had to, I supposed I could make it up to the big green gate in my ball gown. I’d rather not, of course. I’d rather receive a proper invitation.
As I walked, I constantly worked two smooth stones in my hands. One was approximately the size of the Millennium Star—the perfect copy of which had arrived, on schedule, from Zurich and was now in the hotel’s vault—and the other a little larger, about the size of the Empresse de Josephine emerald.
My route was the same every day. Bijou and I were getting to be known by the locals, the gardeners, and the household help—which was part of the plan, because if I should come under any suspicion, I’d want locals to be able to say, Oh yes, we see her every day. She and her little dog on their walk. She lives somewhere nearby.
Today, I hiked over the hill and stopped for lunch at a trattoria on the square in Paraggi, a sleepy little cliff-top town. I ordered mussels that arrived with garlic and olive oil in a skillet so hot and sputtering it was impossible to touch, a fresh loaf of bread, an arugula salad with garden tomatoes, and drank glasses of red wine from a pitcher the owner refilled out in the garden from a giant cask. The air smelled of pepper and spice and the little Bay of Paraggi sparkled at the bottom of the cliff as though it were covered with diamonds.
I was so happy. In fact, if I kept my mind off the real world, I was actually as happy as I’d ever been in my life.
I never take anything for granted, and it didn’t escape me for a second how fortunate I was to be able to be in such a beautiful spot and how eternally grateful I was I’d chosen precious gems as my métier, not insurance or accounting or something that didn’t involve beauty, and romance, intrigue, and danger. I was also starting to enjoy this plotting and planning, to remember why I’d loved my business so much. Who knew? Maybe I actually would steal the Millennium Star and keep it for myself.
I read my book during lunch and then, over a hazelnut gelato, flaky sugar cookie, and espresso, I thought about “Antonio.” Was he the one? Or just a run-of-the-mill second-story man? Or just a coincidence—a good-looking, nicely decked out fellow who’d been in Paris and was now in Portofino for the gala? I’d exhausted myself trying to figure out how I was going to go about getting invited to the party. I knew some opportunity would present itself. They always do if you give them a chance, but when would people start showing up? Showing a little interest? The hotel manager had sent me a note saying that they would be able to accommodate me during the gala days after all, and I wouldn’t need to leave the hotel or change rooms. Was this a good sign or bad? Did it mean people were canceling? When would things start happening?
I ordered a little limoncello and it made me feel much better.
It was midaftemoon when I got back, and the hotel’s typically quiet parking area was jammed with Ferraris, Lamborghinis, limousines, and Porsche Turbo convertibles. The lobby buzzed with famous and important-looking new arrivals and mountains of expensive luggage.
“What’s happening?” I asked as the man at the front desk handed me my key.
“Gala di Portofino,” he said, beaming. My heart skipped a beat.
“Tonight?”
“No. No, Signora Pennington. Three days. But many parties happen around it. Very fancy. Very fun. It will get even busier.”
Finally.
It was fun. Fun to watch. Everyone seemed excited to be here. No one was having a tantrum. No one was showing off how important he or she was because they were all important. We all knew the trouble would start when they began to arrive at their suites and rooms and then some would be obviously much more equal than others. Everyone simply cannot have an ocean view. I wouldn’t want to run a hotel for anything.
Antonio was at the concierge’s desk, his back to me. I leaned toward the front desk man. “Tell me, signor,” I said under my breath. “What is that man’s name? I think he’s an associate of my late husband’s.”
The clerk glanced over and then leaned in conspiratorially “That’s Count Alesandro de Camarque,” he said. “From Rio de Janeiro.”
“Rio. Right.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Alesandro de Camarque. Thank you so much.”
I retrieved my jewelry cases from the hotel safe and got upstairs quickly before the new arrivals began to get to their rooms, and the joy in the lobby began to unravel.
N I N E T E E N
Several hours later, after a manicure, a pedicure, a massage, a nap, and a long bath, I sipped a glass of Cordon Rouge while I dressed. I’d gotten a flattering bit of color in my face from all my hiking, so I selected a white wool crepe evening pants suit that would complement my tan. I stepped into high-heeled sandals, and added a necklace of pure white, sixteen-millimeter pearls that rose and fell across my belle poitrine—as Sir Cramner liked to call it—as though they were a string of miniature Ping-Pong balls lolling on the sea.
I opened another jewelry case and after some consideration decided on a twelve-carat, emerald-cut diamond engagement ring that went perfectly with my own pavé diamond wedding band that I refused to take off no matter how much of a bastard Thomas was being—he knew it wasn’t me. He knew it and all he needed to say was, “No, there are distinct differences between London’s original Shamrock Burglar and this one. This is clearly a counterfeit. A copycat.” But, no. He said, “Yes it all seems identical.” Or something like that. You bastard. You bastard. Well, this story wasn’t over and I was going to win this argument and I would keep my wedding ring on until saw him in person—probably in court at our divorce proceedings—and I would throw the damned thing right in his face and say, “I never gave up on you. I never turned you in, you …, you …, excuse-my-French …, you shithead.”
We’d made promises to each other, and a promise was a promise.
I added a spectacular diamond and Persian turquoise suite that, because it was set in gold, made the pieces more casual, more appropriate for summertime. They weren’t quite in the trophy category but they were exquisite. The brooch, bracelet, and earrings were Cartier estate pieces from the thirties. They looked like comets or shooting stars. The fact that the diamonds were set in platinum before being placed on the gold made them sparkle as though they actually were stars, shining in a creamy, azure sky
I dabbed a little Bal à Versailles behind my ears and took a last look in the mirror before I went down. I looked wonderful—healthy, tanned, well rested. Rich. I looked like someone it would be fun to be with and easy to rob and the fact was, I was.
“Buona sera, Signora Pennington, will you be dining with us this evening?”
The last of the sun, setting over the sea, had turned everything gold and set my jewelry ablaze. Evening had brought the jasmine to life and the air was practically dizzying with its rich, erotic scent.
“I will.”
He guided me to a cocktail table along the railing. The terrace was about three-quarters full with dressy guests—some couples but also a number of larger groups of famous movie stars and jet setters.
Bijou jumped onto the chair next to mine, and looked about expectantly. She still wore the faux diamond and emerald collar I’d bought on the Rue de Rivoli. I’d disconnected the emerald pendant—the copy
of the purloined Empresse de Josephine.
Alesandro de Camarque was there, facing me, just one empty table away He was alone, smoking a cigarette, sipping what looked like Scotch or bourbon on the rocks, wearing his dark glasses. He wore a crisply pressed natural linen suit and an open-necked shirt. He kept his face on the ocean as I was seated, but I could feel his eyes on me. The fact that he was known by name at the hotel, and an aristocrat at that, meant nothing. There is no titled aristocracy in Brazil and he looked too Spanish to be Brazilian.
However, Brazil is home to many nefarious and notorious individuals living outside the law. So is Colombia. The most accomplished jewel thieves in the world today come from Colombia, with Russia and Uzbekistan not far behind. The Colombians work in high-speed rings—pieces disappear so fast, sometimes the victims aren’t sure if they’d even been there at all. That’s an exaggeration, of course, but the Colombians’ ability to coordinate the theft and passing-off of a piece of jewelry in one smooth movement is a technique that requires split-second timing, talented acting, and seamless choreography—not to mention hands with the sensitivity and dexterity of a surgeon’s. Alesandro was neither Russian nor Uzbekistani but he could certainly be Colombian. And, I couldn’t help but notice, he was handsome and fit enough to be able to entice and rob two ladies in one night.
I wondered who he was taking to the gala—it would not be his accomplice, if he had one. It would be a foil, a legitimate consort, such as I. His accomplice would be there in a different guise altogether.
“May I bring your regular vodka martini or would you like to try something new?” the waiter asked.
“Something new? Well, I’m not sure.” I spoke just loudly enough for Alesandro to hear me. “I haven’t tried anything new for decades. What do you recommend?”
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