“Are you certain?”
“Sì. End of discussion.”
“Well, if you insist, I’d love to stay. That is very generous of you. And you don’t need to send a car for me. I have my own.”
“Perfetto. Come whenever you are ready. Ciao.”
“Ciao, Giancarlo.”
T H I R T Y - T W O
As I drove up the hill toward the palazzo, I had to pull over to the side of the road to make way for an armored truck that was on its way down, which signaled to me that the Millennium Star and the jewelry for the gala had just been delivered.
The road wound past the lane to my little pink bungalow. Just knowing it was there, safely tucked away in the hillside invisible behind the trees, gave me a sense of well-being. I’d tucked the front door key into my pocket in case of emergency.
Security at the main villa’s gate had been beefed up significantly from last night. A black-and-white striped barrier blocked the road and two uniformed officers examined my papers and checked my name on their list before calling to make certain I was still expected and that someone would come out to meet me. They were extremely polite—they even gave Bijou a little cookie—but I had the feeling that if I said or did anything untoward, they would shoot me. And my little dog. I had no idea how many officers were on the Portofino police force but their squad cars had caused a complete traffic jam in the villa’s courtyard.
I guided my Mercedes to the front steps where a tiny houseman in Giolitti livery introduced himself as Vesuvio. He looked like he was one hundred years old and didn’t weigh more than ninety pounds dripping wet.
“Benvenuto, signora.” He held out his hand toward the open front doors. ”Prego.”
The huge lobby/foyer and terrace, where we’d had cocktails last night, swarmed with activity—people with clipboards, people pushing around palm trees on dollies, people pointing, and people ordering people about. Everybody had on a head-set with a microphone. A piano tuner kept hitting the same note over and over again and the orchestra sound man was doing sound-checks, high-pitched electronic squeals added unpleasantly to the cacophony. The lighting designer was throwing a tantrum, red-faced and screaming at his weeping helper who teetered on top of a high ladder. It was chaos.
Over in one corner, a dozen dark-suited men and women wearing earphones were gathered around Melissa Carrington, the Refugee Foundation’s director, and the security chief having a staff meeting, checking and cross-checking their plans to make sure they’d covered all contingencies for the priceless jewels that the ladies and movie stars would be wearing. Judging by all the firepower, I gathered that I’d been correct about the armored truck: The Star had been delivered and stored in what Giancarlo had referred to as the “Jewelry Room.” The fact that the ladies would put their pieces on when they arrived for the party and give them back when it was over—all on the premises—made for a very clean, smart, and completely controllable operation.
At least they hoped that was how it would go. That was their plan. The difference between the security contingent’s plan and mine and the actual burglar’s was: The thieves had only one or two schemes but the security people had to be ready for five or six. Except for their guns, they were always at a disadvantage because they didn’t know what was going to happen. We did.
When I stole pieces from Ballantine & Company, pieces that had come in for auction, I’d always spent weeks in my secret workroom at home creating a perfect replica of the brooch or necklace. I worked from huge color, close-up photographs of the piece, the photos taken by the house photographer for the catalogue. A few days before the sale, I’d FedEx the finished item to myself at the office and store it in my desk drawer.
Typically, when a jewelry auction begins, the actual pieces are in jewelry cases in the exhibition room and the house security guards bring in rolling jewelry vaults that resemble armored stacks of safe deposit boxes. In the sale room itself, only photos of the pieces are shown on large screens. The displays are dismantled by what are known as the Jewelry Ladies as the auction proceeds nearby in the sale room. I always helped the Jewelry Ladies move items from the cases to the safes, my perfect replica ready in my pocket. As soon as the gavel fell on “my” piece, if it were bought by a private party, not a dealer—I’d never try to trick a dealer—I’d make the swap. Just as smooth as could be. Out of one pocket into the other.
So, based on my experience, if I were going to steal the Star, I would do it with a sleight-of-hand swap. In a controlled environment like this, a smash and grab would be far too crude and risky, especially because these guards, unlike bank guards, were armed and, I assumed, they had bullets in their guns.
I hated to admit it, but the thought of all the jewelry in such close vicinity made my mouth go dry and my fingers tingle.
“Mi dispaccio,” I apologized for the tenth time to Vesuvio, who’d just completed his third trip carrying my luggage to my room. “Please let me help you with that.”
“No, no, signora.” He smiled, showing me what looked to be newly restored teeth. “You want to know the truth?” His watery eyes looked at me conspiratorially from beneath their droopy lids. “Signora Sissy has ventesuitcases, just like this, big, heavy suitcases. And two dogs!”
“Twenty?”
“Sì. Big, big cases like this. Every year she almost kills me, but I love her. She’s so kind and gracious. She’s from Texas in the United States. Her maid, Bessie?” He flipped his thumbnail on his front tooth in a sign of contempt. “She’s a snob. She does nothing to help us. So”—Vesuvio shrugged philosophically—“we do nothing to help her. You understand?” He disappeared out the door to make another trip.
“I do.”
My bedroom room was an extravaganza—a wonderland of pastel-painted rococo furniture, a crystal chandelier and sconces and gilt-framed paintings. A huge, smoky-with-age mirror in a frame that must have weighed five hundred pounds hung above a marble-topped sideboard upon which sat a number of candlesticks and two topiaries in painted-metal jardinières. A bouquet of shell-pink hydrangeas utterly overtook the fireplace, filling the opening completely. Linen slipcovers had been installed for the summertime: The canopy and bed hangings on the four-poster were of pale melon and white, in an almost tropical pattern, and the sofa was covered in the same crisp, sunny fabric. The carpets had been rolled up for summer, as well, leaving only a shiny glazed white tile floor.
A bottle of Dom Perignon sat in an ice bucket on the coffee table, along with two flutes, a plate of cheeses, and a plate of chocolate truffles.
It was a fresh sun-filled room fit for a visiting dignitary—done up exactly the way I’d decorate a guest suite in a palazzo. Anything less would have been disappointing.
“Mi dispaccio,” I said to Vesuvio again. What more could I say? I guess he was grateful I traveled with only one dog, no maid, and only five heavy-duty Vuitton suitcases. None of this soft-sided, lighter-than-air, roll-along baggage for we ladies of means with taffeta evening gowns and silk afternoon dresses packed in tissue paper.
“I will send Sophia to see to your unpacking,” he puffed, once he’d hauled the last piece of luggage.
“That’s not necessary, Vesuvio. I prefer to do it myself.”
“Prego, signora. In here … “ He directed me to join him in the dressing room where five white gardenias floated in a carved crystal dish on the mirrored dressing table, filling the air with their lush, hypnotic scent. Vesuvio opened one of the closet doors. A hotel-type safe sat above the built-in drawers. “ … is a safe. You can make your own combination. Do you know how to work it?”
“I do, thank you.” This sort of safe was designed only to instill confidence in the naive traveler. It certainly wasn’t designed to protect anything valuable and anybody who put anything of value in one of these things was just asking to be robbed. You could practically open them by saying, Boo! Their only benefit was that if you didn’t put your jewelry in the safe and you were robbed, your insurance wouldn’t cover the stol
en pieces because you hadn’t tried to protect them, as the cashier at the Ritz had pointed out so succinctly when the White Tiger Suite was stolen. I was certain that, here at the villa, all the houseguests’ jewelry of consequence was stored either in a main vault or stashed in hiding places in the rooms themselves.
“There is also a large vault down the hall which you are welcome to use, if you like. It is attended.”
“Grazie, Vesuvio.”
“Bene.” He checked his watch. “Conto Giolitti and Principessa Lucia will greet you at twelve-thirty on the family terrace.”
“Grazie.”
“Prego.” He began to close the door.
“Oh, wait! I left my dark glasses in the car.”
“I’ll send them up pronto, signora.”
“No, no. I’ll go get them—I probably forgot ten other things. Just point me in the direction of the garage.”
“Prego, signora.”
T H I R T Y - T H R E E
Forgetting my glasses was a ruse, of course. I wanted to see where my car was in case I needed to get out of here in a hurry.
I followed Vesuvio along the upstairs corridor past other bedroom doors, some open, some closed. An army of maids moved quietly around the hallway, some carrying stacks of linens and fresh towels, others carrying fresh flowers, others clothes. I saw two spectacular evening gowns come out of one room on their way downstairs for pressing, and jackets and slacks brought back up to another in time for lunch. The maids’ rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the terra-cotta tile floor. Arrangements of snowy white hydrangeas billowed from side tables beneath yet more wonderful paintings, most of them of the region. Watercolors, oils, pastels, collected by generations of Giolittis, formed a record of centuries of Liguria and the villa.
“Here is where you may store your jewelry,” Vesuvio said. “This is Armadio.”
Armadio, a formidably sized fellow, sat at a desk, looking for all the world like a concierge in a fine hotel. What looked like the door to a bank vault loomed behind him. I studied the door as best I could—it was a serious thing. Not uncrackable, but if I was going to try to break into this vault, it would certainly draw upon all my skill and gadgets. Security cameras covered the entire area and I was confident these were hooked up, unlike the bogus ones at the Paris museum. It also looked as though Armadio had a big gun under his jacket.
“Buon giorno,” I said.
“Signora.” He nodded, his big, flat face expressionless.
I followed Vesuvio to a back service staircase that took us down to the main floor, ending up near the library where I’d had cocktails the night before with Giancarlo and Lucia. All the woodwork gleamed with fresh wax and smelled like cedar.
“Prego,” Vesuvio said and held open a heavy door that led into a long, dark hallway that led to yet another ancient door, this one banded with thick iron strips, as though it had originally been in a dungeon. Finally, we emerged into a large square courtyard. Two walls of the yard were parking stalls—maybe twenty of them, separated by ancient stone walls, their tile roofs covered with thick vines of blooming wisteria. This must have been the stableyard and box stalls at one time. Now it looked like a luxury car dealership. Vesuvio consulted with a guard, took me to my car, and waited while I retrieved my glasses and a lipstick that had fallen on the floor. I was relieved to see that the keys had been left in the ignition. I grabbed them as well.
Then he escorted me back to my room. I could tell that wandering at will around Villa Giolitti was politely, but efficiently and effectively, discouraged.
I went out on the balcony off my sitting room and lay down on the chaise to catch my breath. Between the lack of sleep last night, my early morning tennis game, breakfast with Alesandro, and the last-minute packing and move—I was tired. I closed my eyes and stretched out in the sun. I didn’t know precisely what would happen next, but I knew I was in control of what mattered. For instance, I knew which one of us—Alesandro or Giancarlo—would get to the Millennium Star first. There was only one Shamrock Burglar.
There was a knock at the door.
“Signora,” a woman’s voice said. “It is a quarter to one. Are you all right? May I help you dress?”
Oh, my God. I’d fallen asleep! And now, I was late for lunch and I hadn’t even opened my suitcases.
“I’ll be down in five minutes.”
T H I R T Y - F O U R
The unplanned catnap had had a completely revitalizing effect. My mind was clear as a bell and I moved quickly but without rushing—stopping long enough to turn on SkyWord to see if there was any update on Thomas’s progress toward the peninsula. I turned up the volume enough that I could hear it in the dressing room while I unlatched my bags. I quickly found what I was looking for: one of my favorite dresses that matched the color of my eyes almost perfectly, an aquamarine shantung silk sheath with a jewel neck and cap sleeves.
Around my neck I put another favorite: a fifteen-strand torsade of Burmese peridot and deep blue South American tourmaline beads. The gold clasp was studded with a large lapis cabochon.
Peridot, an especially delicious lime-green gemstone, has been in continuous use since 4000 B.C. Many Egyptologists claim it was Cleopatra’s favorite stone, probably because it is said to have many mystical properties including the ability to enhance awareness, insight, and intellect. It also imparts wisdom, relieves anxiety, depression, and insomnia, and provides enthusiasm, self-confidence, and inspiration—all characteristics Cleopatra had in spades. Tourmaline is also said to do many of these things including being helpful in treating eye and brain disorders, and helping to regulate metabolism and the digestive process. Both stones are said to bring good luck.
Why would anybody ever wear anything else?
When the ropes of tourmaline in my torsade were twisted with the ropes of peridot, they made the most refreshing summertime combination—like limeade and blue birds.
The television news droned along. They replayed the earlier interview but evidently nothing new had happened.
I added large gold earrings encrusted with peridot mêlées and my own blackamoor-style bust brooch—a much finer piece than the one Thomas described that had been stolen. Mine was a work of art—a shining coral face framed by a carved emerald turban and a dazzling bib of carved rubies, amethysts, cabochon sapphires, pearls, topaz, and lapis.
I stashed my jewelry cases, stepped into aquamarine, sling-back Manolo pumps, touched up my lipstick and blusher, and tucked one of the gardenias into my French twist. A quick fifteen minutes after the knock on my door, I looked in the mirror. I looked like a contessa. Thecontessa, to be exact. Of this palazzo. I was a little bit late. But? No problema. This was Italy No one did anything on time.
The gala preparation maelstrom was still in full swing when I got downstairs. I said ”Buon giorno” to the guard at the Jewelry Room, and then passed through a series of sitting rooms and out onto the family terrace. A round, glass-topped luncheon table was set for seven with delicate yellow Madeira linens and a low, tightly packed bowl of creamy roses. Marble urns and planters, filled with red geraniums and pink petunias, framed the patio. The terraced garden spread below us like a postcard with everything in full bloom: banks of magenta azalea bushes and hydrangeas as big as beach balls. The petunias perfumed the air.
Lucia wasn’t there yet. Giancarlo was talking to Sissy McNally and Marjorie Mead.
And Thomas.
And Giovanna McDougal.
T H I R T Y - F I V E
I wasn’t nearly as surprised to see Thomas as he was to see me. And I was extremely irked to see Giovanna. In person, she was even more beautiful than she looked on television with her clear, healthy tanned skin, a slim Armani pantsuit, and perfectly done television makeup. She was young enough to be his daughter.
Thomas’s and my eyes met. I’d been prepared to see him but I was unprepared for how it would affect me—for a moment I forgot anything had gone wrong between us and almost rushed over and grabbed him. He looked so
handsome, so distinguished and solid. His blue eyes took me in with a look of complete appreciation, a compliment at how beautiful I looked. I don’t know if my return gaze portrayed any of the confusion of emotions I felt. I hoped not. But we knew each other well. Then I remembered, he usedto be my Thomas—now he was a traitor. I dropped the curtain, letting an Arctic blast replace the warmth that had been there.
Giancarlo strode toward me with his arms wide open—a champagne glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Movie star dark glasses hid his silvery blue eyes. He looked like a matinee idol in his loose gabardine trousers, white cotton shirt, and pink linen sports coat. I don’t believe there was an ounce of fat on him he was so fit.
“Ah, my bellaBella, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been missing you terribly.” He put down his drink and cigarette and took my face in his hands and kissed my cheeks. His cologne was tangy, made from oriental spices. “Let me look at you. You look gloriosa, magnifica, as ever.” He made it sound as though we were old friends, even lovers. Good. It would let Thomas know I hadn’t been sitting around sobbing my heart out because he’d deserted me. Dumped me like a sack of potatoes. Oh, I hate you. You bastard.
“I’m sorry to be late,” I said. “I got totally carried away with the view. My room is so beautiful, Giancarlo, I hated to leave it. And thank you so much for the bottle of champagne—how did you know that’s my favorite?”
“You are always worth waiting for, cara mia. Always.” He kissed my hands. “Besides, you aren’t late at all—this is Italy.”
I might have blushed a little. ”Grazie, Gianni.” I took the liberty of using the diminutive of his name. “Thank you so much.”
The expression on Thomas’s face was a combination of confusion, fascination, humor, jealousy, and complete shock. I glanced at him ingenuously.
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