“I’m sure our paths will cross. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
I twirled my racket around like a baton as I walked through the forested grounds back to the hotel lobby. There was no question but that Alesandro was a thief. If he wasn’t, he would’ve have been more interested in talking about the burglaries. As it was, he just skipped the whole subject. But: Was he the thief?
“Signora Pennington,” the front desk man said as I passed through. “This arrived for you.” He handed me a heavy ecru envelope. I opened it on the elevator. A thick card with a coat of arms blind embossed at the top and the name Giolitti just beneath.
“Sra. Pennington,” it read. “Please join us for dinner this evening at the villa—a salute to Marjorie and our special patrons. I’ll call for you at seven. Regards, Giancarlo Giolitti.”
I leaned against the elevator wall and looked at the invitation. Relief flooded me. Evidently, Consuelo, his dour and dreary companion who’d not shown up last night due to illness in her family, was still unavailable. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t thrill me. For the time being, it would let me stay with my Plan A (Plan B being the one where I made my way up the hill in my evening gown and attempted to breech the villa’s security) and put me in the direct vicinity of the Millennium Star and, hopefully, its thief, who might very well be Giancarlo himself. He had all the right qualities for a master jewel thief, and I’ll admit, taking my schoolgirl infatuation into account; I was excited and flattered that out of all the ladies he could have invited to the party tonight, he’d invited me.
The camel’s nose was under the tent.
I took a quick shower, put on loose silk trousers, a sweater set, an inordinate amount of gold jewelry, grabbed my book, and left for lunch in town. I’d reserved a table on the terrace at Splendido Mare so I could watch the mega-yachts come and go. I wondered if Alesandro would show up. I could tell he was interested in me as a target. But what self-respecting jewel thief wouldn’t be interested in someone who’d been doing all the drinking and wearing all the jewelry I had? And I was just getting warmed up.
As it turned out, Alesandro, and a young, quite ordinary-looking woman ended up sitting at the table next to me. I assumed she was one of his accomplices. They were so locked into their conversation, he scarcely acknowledged that we’d even met.
T W E N T Y - T H R E E
The Gala di Portofino is known for its exclusivity, which is why it attracts many of the world’s top industrialists and financiers. Many people think these VIPs come to the party because they want to rub elbows with major movie stars and celebrities, but the fact is, they want to rub elbows with each other in a neutral, nonbusiness setting. Check each other out. Have “casual” conversations, some of which have been in the planning stages for months. Many deals and mergers are consummated, born, delivered, or die at the gala, which was started in 1945 by Giancarlo’s mother, Principessa Giolitti, to assist World War II refugees and displaced persons. It had grown into a powerful international organization that not only assisted refugees worldwide, but also helped governments develop humanitarian policies to deal with an influx of unexpected and unwanted visitors in their countries.
The cost to attend the gala was prohibitive to all but the super rich, or to super determined social climbers. The party was limited to two hundred and fifty guests for dinner. Another two hundred and fifty tickets were sold to attend the live auction and dance after dinner. Dancing and Auction Only tickets cost ten thousand dollars each. Tickets for cocktails, dinner, and dancing started at twenty-five thousand, and that was for the honor of sitting in Siberia. Anyone who wanted to get noticed, needed to make a minimum gift of a quarter of a million dollars. This was special event fundraising at the highest level and every year it raised about fifty million dollars for the International Refugee Foundation. Fifty million dollars can buy a lot of influence in any language and on any number of different levels.
As with all major international events such as this, the celebrities and their hangers-on come for free. That doesn’t matter to the paying guests who vie for the privilege of flying a movie star, and her or his entourage, to Genoa in their private aircraft. Or bringing them to town on their yachts. The celebrities’ contribution is their time.
As Alesandro had said, while the ball itself would include all the patrons and guests, the party tonight was restricted to the seven-figure donors—the elite of the elite. The normally inaccessible celebrities would circle around them like stars around the sun and make them feel good.
I seldom have trouble deciding what to wear. I know myself well, which is one reason why, in order to accomplish my goals, I’m able to assume different identities and not get lost in them the way an actor does in a role, and also why I’ve never participated in costume parties. I’ve never wanted to be anyone but myself. I also have a few rules for living, some may call them bromides and simplistic, but they work for me. One of them is: You never get a second chance to make a first impression. A lot depended on how I presented and handled myself this evening, it would be the crucible for how the next steps unfolded.
Tonight was a little more casual than the actual ball, which was day after tomorrow. So, after two glasses of champagne and a few false starts—some too dressy, some not dressy enough—I finally settled on a monochromatic Chanel ensemble: an iridescent taupe taffeta skirt with a matching quilted-silk jacket and sensational art deco, Cartier estate, diamond-and-topaz jewelry—necklace, earrings, and bracelet. I looked at myself in the mirror. It wasn’t working, I was too monochromatic. Just as the phone rang letting me know Giancarlo was waiting in the lobby, I grabbed a stunning Van Cleef brooch and pinned it to my jacket: a four-inch-tall parrot made with vibrant mêlées of sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and intense goldenrod-yellow diamonds.
I looked in the mirror again. Just right. Regal and elegant. I looked like a queen who, because of the brooch, just might have a sense of humor.
“Buona sera, Bella,” Giancarlo exclaimed when I got off the elevator. He was perfectly put together in his evening clothes. “You look magnifica.”
“Thank you, Giancarlo. So do you.”
He kissed my hand and guided me through the front door to his Mercedes limousine. Everybody in the lobby watched us. I felt like Cinderella going to the ball.
The drive from the hotel to the villa, such an arduous hike for me, took less than two minutes, and when we passed through the gates, I saw there was serious security in place: Two friendly men in blue suits, white shirts, and ties waited inside the gate, one with a checklist, the other with a walkie-talkie. On the other side of the gate, blending in with the greenery, was a chap in fatigues with a beret, a dog, and a gun.
Giancarlo helped me out at the front steps. “Be careful, Bella.” He took my arm. “The floors have just been polished and they can be a little slippery”
We entered a high-ceilinged reception hall that was as massive as the lobby of the George V in Paris. Opposite were several sets of Palladian double doors thrown open spectacularly to the sea. The floor was pure white marble with the Giolitti coat of arms inlaid in brass-rimmed amber marble just inside the front door, framed on either side by white marble, single-pedestal tables. In the center of each table sat a potted palm in a gigantic blue and white Chinese brazier. The room was vast and uncluttered, punctuated only by spare seating arrangements of armchairs and ottomans, upholstered in a flaming orange-red duck. Small, square, black-iron occasional tables sat next to the chairs.
Beyond, outside on the flower-banked terrace, a gathering of about seventy-five guests was already sipping cocktails and enjoying the setting sun.
It was extraordinary. Everyone was famous, or at least recognizable—movie stars, royals, tycoons, fashion designers, consorts, and captains of industry And while everyone might not have been beautiful or handsome, the power and influence this group wielded made up for any shortcomings in physical appearance. They all milled around, chatting happily
Except for at a
uctions, I’d never seen so much important jewelry in one place. I knew that a number of the world’s major jewelers—Harry Winston, Graff, Raymond Yard, and Van Cleef & Arpels, to name a few—had eagerly loaned pieces to the celebrities. And if these were the pieces they were wearing to the private party, I couldn’t imagine what they would put on for the more public gala when the media would be out in force. Tonight there seemed to be only one videographer floating silently about while a handful of photographers snapped away unobtrusively. There were also four security men standing away from the gathering, two at either end of the terrace, not even attempting to blend in. Former soldiers, they all stood “at ease,” their feet slightly spread and their hands clasped in front, their eyes taking in every new arrival and scanning the perimeter.
“Vené, Priscilla.” Giancarlo escorted me through the dazzling crowd. “Let me introduce you. Although you probably have a number of friends here already.”
I seriously doubted that. I simply smiled.
T W E N T Y - F O U R
“Sissy,” Giancarlo said. “Please meet my friend Priscilla Pennington.”
I wasn’t a bit surprised to see Sissy McNally, the Texas socialite-billionairess, at this party—from all I’d read about her, she attended two or three parties every day, including the charity picnic at our farm. And just as at the museum in Paris, she had no inkling, not even the most fleeting, of having met me before.
Up close, Sissy looked to be in her mid thirties, but wasn’t. She had on a cream silk cocktail dress and a superb replica of l’Empresse de Josephine. So superb it could have been the real thing. The diamonds, emeralds, and pearls in the collar burned with energy, and the dark green Empresse cabochon emerald itself was hypnotic and mysterious against the cream silk of her dress.
She held out her hand. “I’m delighted to meet you. What a gorgeous pin. Where did you get it? Van Cleef?”
I nodded. “Thank you,” I said. “I was just admiring your necklace. It’s extraordinary. I think that’s the largest emerald I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh!” She laughed. “Isn’t it a kick? I had to have it. I picked it up in Paris the other day at Fred’s. It’s a copy of the one that was stolen from the museum. But actually, if you want the lowdown—this emerald is much better than the missing one. I think it’s kind of fun.” She wrinkled her nose and squeezed her eyes shut in an annoying, ingénue sort of way she was much too old to affect.
Anyone who picks up necklaces at Fred’s for “fun”—Fred’s is one of the most expensive, and thereby exclusive, jewelers in the world—is living on a planet that has basically nothing to do with this one.
I studied Sissy as closely as I could without being rude—she looked almost exactly like her pictures that appeared regularly in W, Town & Country, and Été—very petite with meticulously coiffed Texas-sized blond hair and a bright, effervescent, lively face and smile. In person, though, signs of strain showed around her mouth, and there was a blue tinge to the skin around her eyes, as though she might have some sort of slight substance abuse problem. Or else she traveled through too many time zones, too often, to attend too many parties, and took too many sleeping pills. In spite of fresh plastic surgery scars behind her ears, the excesses of her lifestyle were beginning to take their toll.
“I’m so glad to meet you,” she drawled in her distinctive Texas accent. “I hope once Giancarlo is through showing you off, we’ll have a chance to visit.”
“I agree.”
“Come, Bella.” Giancarlo took my arm.
“Marjorie,” he interrupted the guest of honor. “You remember Priscilla from last evening.”
“How could I forget?” She smiled warmly and we kissed each other’s cheeks. She was covered in diamonds and looked absolutely sensational in a gauzy, low-cut, red chiffon evening gown. “How did you feel this morning? I’ve never been so hungover in my life.”
“I didn’t feel fabulous,” I said. “But you look as though you’ve fully bounced back.”
“It’s my job,” Marjorie confided. “Looking good is all I’m required to do for this occasion. Good heavens—who loaned you that necklace? Cartier?”
“No one. It’s mine. But it is from Cartier.”
“You’re joking? You own it?”
Nodded. “Of course I own it.”
“Well, that’s the difference between your world and mine: Yours is real. Mine’s all make-believe. I’d better get back to work. See you at dinner.” She turned to be greeted by another well-wisher.
Giancarlo got me a Scotch, introduced me to a couple of other people whose names I didn’t catch, and then excused himself to tend to his duties as host. I put up with being ignored for a couple of minutes and then stepped to another group and, when I saw an opening, introduced myself. No reaction. This was a crowd that obviously didn’t want or need any new friends.
I tried a “Buona sera”to Katrine Forcescou, the Rumanian movie director’s wife, but her expression was as out of touch as it had been the night before.
So concluded my attempts at being social. The fact is: I don’t want or need any new friends either.
I stepped over to the balcony rail and looked out at the fabled port with its brightly painted buildings and snow-white yachts. From this vantage point, the inside looking out, the gardens of Villa Giolitti were magnificent. Flower-filled terraces descended to a thick grove of olive trees that arced along the stone-walled perimeter. Naturally, I studied the grounds with my thief’s eye to see if I could pick out other possible entrances I could use if needed to break in or break out. From inside, it looked like an even greater challenge than I’d surmised from my reconnaissance. Not insurmountable if you had the right equipment and expertise, not to mention youthful agility, but not a cakewalk by any means.
Every square inch of the property was under video surveillance and I assumed there were trip wires and pressure pads out among the flower beds as well. I didn’t see any evidence of dogs, but they probably weren’t let out until after dark. I turned to study the villa itself and saw that each window and door had two little dice-sized motion detectors whose beams crisscrossed from comer to comer and side to side, very effectively covering the full area of the opening. This was a world-class system. I was impressed. In a town so sleepy and charming, especially an Italian town, who would imagine that the twenty-first century’s most advanced security technology lay beneath its serene surface.
There was no question but that any move on the Millennium Star would have to be an inside job.
I scrutinized the guests—any number of them could be the burglar. I could only legitimately add one suspect to my list: Sissy McNally. But I added two. Marjorie.
I felt a hand at my elbow. “Let me show you around—no one will even notice we’re gone.” It was Giancarlo.
T W E N T Y - F I V E
Villa Giolitti was a sumptuous palazzo of the old order, large as a good-sized hotel, with high ceilings and grand rooms on the main floor, probably a dozen suites upstairs, and staff quarters on the third floor.
“It’s been in my family for centuries.” Giancarlo guided me down the colonnade with his hand placed gently on the small of my back—it was a warm, intimate gesture that made me feel welcome and desirable. “There used to be so many of us and the whole family would gather here for the entire summer. It was very fun, noisy, busy with all the cousins running all over. But times have changed. I have no brothers or sisters and my cousins are all settled in their own villas with their own families. Now, it’s just my daughter, Lucia, and me.”
I didn’t ask Giancarlo about Mrs. Giolitti. I didn’t want to know him that well, especially because, I reminded myself, I was there under false pretenses—phony name, phony interest. Depending on how things worked out, perhaps one day I’d introduce him to the real Kick Keswick.
We meandered through a series of reception rooms, each richly decorated, very formal, very Italian, completely unlike the spare, more public entry hall. Great works of art and family
portraits in thickly carved gold frames covered every square inch of the walls. He’d point out one here and there, “That’s my ancestor who became pope. We have five cardinals.” He named them all. “This Titian shows St. Peter welcoming the pope to heaven with Cardinale Giancarlo Giolitti Primo looking on.”
On and on it went.
“What an extraordinary collection,” I said. “And it looks as though it’s in perfect condition.”
He nodded. “Since Heini Boumemiza died and his collection was broken up and taken to Spain of all places, ours is the largest privately owned collection on the Continent. We have two full-time curators and a staff of six restorers. This climate is very hard on paintings. Lucia supervises it all. Fortunately, she is very passionate about the subject and appreciates what we have.”
As if on cue, a tall, slim figure approached from the far end of the gallery. She walked toward us purposefully. She had broad, bony shoulders and wore a black bustier, a black organza skirt and sandals.
“Ah, here comes my Principessa Lucia,” Giancarlo said. “Let me introduce you to Signora Pennington.”
We all know what an Italian principessalooks like. Is there any answer other than Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday? I’m not sure if she was even supposed to be Italian in that film, but she set the standard.
Lucia set a new one. She was the real thing. A swan. Her low-key appearance and demeanor were in direct contradiction to her father’s glamorous world of movie stars. She wasn’t hard on the eye, far from it. She lacked his perfect features and easy manner but she had an assurance and elegance that could only come from generations of entitlement. Her short black hair was cut with long, squared-off bangs that fell to her eyebrows. Scholarly, black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses framed her dark, wide-set eyes. She wore little makeup, except for a slash of red lipstick. She had crooked teeth and a genuine smile; a wonderful, long neck and strong jaw. Around her neck was a twisted black satin cord from which hung a very, very large cabochon emerald, suspended like a big green drop of water that had fallen from a tree in the jungle. The stone was exotic and dangerous, like the gleaming eye of the tiger.
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