Love-fifteen.
Up the toss went, way off to the side, where it bounced listlessly and slowly rolled away to the fence. I retrieved it, keeping my eyes firmly off Thomas. Up it went again. I missed. Oh, this was hell.
Love-thirty.
Guilberto came over to me. “Remember what I told you, Priscilla. Take your time. Toss the ball firmly but gently. Keep your eye on the ball, bring your racket around smoothly and hit it squarely at the top of the arc.”
I took a breath. ”Grazie, Guilberto.”
Somehow, probably due to fury—because just as I was about to try again, Giovanna showed up and kissed Thomas before sitting down next to him—I fought and fought, and I won my serve. Thomas’s mouth was hanging open. Everyone clapped and cheered. Except Giovanna who looked put out that anybody would care what I did when they had a world-famous television reporter right there in front of their noses that they could be paying attention to, instead.
When all was said and done, Giancarlo and Marjorie won the match.
“Nicely played, ladies,” Thomas said to Marjorie and me.
“Thanks,” I said and draped a towel around my neck and flipped my racket around as though this were something I did on a regular basis. “I’m thinking of going on tour.” We all laughed. “Good morning, Giovanna. Did you have a good sleep?”
“It was all right. Once all the alarms stopped going off”
“That was awful,” Marjorie said. “I had a terrible time getting back to sleep.”
“Marjorie,” Giancarlo said, “how was the Constantines’ party last night? Dreadful? You beat us home.”
She looked at Thomas and then at Giovanna. “It was just like all the rest of the gala parties. The anticipation is more fun than the real thing.”
Giovanna tilted her lips. Let her, I thought. Let her have her little smirk and my husband. She was welcome to him. The biggest heist in the history of diamond heists had gone on right under their noses while they were asleep in their beds and they didn’t even know it. In spite of all the hype and hoopla, she wasn’t much of a reporter. And he wasn’t much of a detective.
F O R T Y - E I G H T
The rest of the day was spent at leisure—nothing scheduled, a day given to beauty treatments and walks. I stayed in my room and napped and read my book and didn’t see Thomas, Lucia, Giovanna, or Giancarlo, which was fine. I didn’t really need to see anybody until this evening. The ball began at eight o’clock.
At about four, I took one of my big Hermès canvas tote bags out of the closet and started to get organized. I think these sacks were originally designed to carry saddles or tack, but they’re invaluable for overnight trips or major shopping forays. Sturdy. Unobtrusive with their natural canvas sides and saddle leather trim. Like most Hermès bags, they have a deceptively large capacity.
All my jewelry except what I planned to wear to the ball—and the Star that I kept around my neck—went into the bottom, followed by two pairs of slacks and sweaters, soft-soled walking shoes, a package of dog food, lingerie, scarves, small toiletries and makeup kits, my passport, driver’s license, credit cards, various other odds and ends, and dark glasses. On top I placed another identical tote bag and closed it all up. Then I dressed in a light shift dress and sandals, shouldered the tote, and went down the back stairs to the garage courtyard.
“Buona sera,” I said to the guard. “I need to get something out of the trunk of my car.”
He began to accompany me.
“It’s all right,” I told him. “I know where it is.”
He opened his mouth to insist, but thankfully, another guest appeared, wanting to make sure his car had been washed properly and that it would be ready for his departure first thing in the morning. I crossed the courtyard as quickly as I could without sprinting, and popped open the trunk of the Mercedes, which contained only Bijou’s travel bag and the car’s heavy touring blanket. I pushed the dog’s case aside and set down my satchel, unlatched it, pulled out the extra tote, and stuffed it with the car blanket. Then I closed the trunk, leaving my packed satchel inside next to Bijou’s bag, slipped the car keys back into my pocket, and went back in the house, tote slung over my shoulder.
The deadbolt was securely in place when I climbed into the bathtub and lay there peacefully, enjoying the view across the bay. I’d be sorry to leave Portofino. But it would just be for a while. I might be back soon to start my new life—it all depended on how the next forty-eight hours went. I was not, however, sorry to be leaving the company and the antics of the count. I really had the most terrible judgment in men. I closed my eyes and let the hot water soothe me while I focused my mind on what lay ahead.
The knock on the door was faint and far away. My heart stopped. I lay silently to see if it came again. It did. If this is Giancarlo, I will slap him to death. But it might be Thomas.
Reluctantly, I climbed out of the tub and pulled on a terrycloth robe.
“Who is it?” I asked through the bolted door.
“It’s me, Kick. It’s Thomas,” he whispered.
I opened the door just enough for him to slip inside. “What do you want?”
“To talk to you,” he said. He looked extremely distinguished in his evening clothes, a white dinner jacket and black-ribboned tuxedo pants. A small red rose in his lapel, presumably a security-related designation so they could all recognize each other easily.
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at him without speaking.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“Clearing my name.”
Thomas studied me.
“It’s not me, Thomas.” I felt cold. Angry.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Kick. I … ”
The sound of his voice was suddenly drowned by the clanging of an alarm bell. “God damn it! Not again!” he yelled over the din and threw open the door. He headed for the stairs.
“Maybe it’s the Shamrock Burglar,” I yelled back at him. “You, you shit.”
That stopped him midstride and he turned to look at me. I might as well have punched him in the stomach he was so shocked at my language.
“And I mean it.” I slammed the door as hard as I could and locked it tight.
There was a split of Cordon Rouge on my coffee table, which the maid had very thoughtfully delivered to my room, along with an accompanying note from Giancarlo.
“Till this evening. Baci, baci, Giancarlo.”
“Baci, baci, my foot,” I said and filled my flute right to the top. I got back into the tub. I should have been happy and excited, but I was fuming. It took two glasses – the whole little bottle—for me to calm down and continue my toilette. I couldn’t afford to get upset, I had a long way to go and no one to help me.
The fact was, I could leave right now if I wanted to. But my absence would attract attention and put matters in motion way too soon for me to make a clean getaway Besides, there were a couple of other steps to complete. I wanted to see what Lucia did, see how she had planned to steal the Star. The replica I’d left in its place was so fine, it would remain undetected for quite a while, but I wanted to see what she did about it.
And, I wanted to tell Thomas good-bye.
F O R T Y - N I N E
I selected a very special dress—a strapless, salmon-pink, taffeta ball gown with a wide taffeta shawl that framed my face and shoulders like a portrait collar. I chose important, attention- getting jewelry—a necklace of white and pink diamonds and oriental pearls; earrings with pearl centers and eight-carat, pink diamond drops; diamond combs in my hair—along with another gardenia from the crystal dish on my dressing table. They were such a nice touch, I decided it was something I’d continue doing, wherever I ended up. I jimmied my fingers, hands, and arms into elbow-length, white kid gloves that were so tight it was like adding a second layer of skin, and once I’d gotten the little pearl buttons done up—which really almost sent me into a lather, they were so tiny and frustrating—I added the final detail, a wide diamond cuff, s
imilar to the Queen’s Pet.
I then dropped a few pertinent items into my pockets and tucked the Star into a secret compartment in the corsage of the dress.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little like a princess as I descended the wide staircase, my gown billowing around me. Giancarlo waited at the bottom of the stairs and he looked so, so handsome in his white dinner jacket and black tie. His silver hair was perfectly combed and his silvery blue eyes lit up when he saw me. It was easy for a moment to forget what a nitwit he was.
“Bella, bellaPriscilla.” He took my hand. “People are just starting to arrive. Come help me greet them.”
The media were everywhere, their white flashes and video camera lights giving the feeling of a Hollywood premiere. Giovanna was in the center of the action, lovely in a plain black Armani sheath, live on the air, interviewing celebrities. I watched two ladies enter the Jewelry Room and two exit, sparkling like Christmas trees, and join their escorts who had waited uncomfortably alongside the stone-faced, armed guards who were now backed up by wary German shepherds.
The set and lighting designers had transformed the area from the main entrance to the terrace into an ethereal corridor of breezy white. Instead of trying to inject color into a space that was already as white as it could be, the designers had emphasized it, creating a walkway of floor-to-ceiling panels of snowy gauze that concealed the dinner tables, the way the curtain hides a stage set. I peeked behind one panel. The cloths were persimmon, the chairs gold, with sumptuous arrangements of Casablanca lilies, roses, and hydrangeas in the center of each table. Dozens of candlesticks and votives waited to be lit. Each setting had five sparkling crystal wineglasses of various sizes and shapes and an array of silver flatware.
I took my place beside Giancarlo at the central archway to the terrace and greeted people as they passed us, through another media phalanx, and into the classic Riviera evening for cocktails and hors d’oeuvre. A jazz trio played softly. The huge golden ball of the moon had just appeared over the silhouetted ridge of hills.
Shortly, Alesandro, looking very energetic and snappy, arrived with a nicely done-up woman who I think was the same woman he’d been with at the museum in Paris—the older woman who I now assumed was one of his accomplices. “Priscilla!” he said. “Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Contessa Sophia de Camarque. Sophia, this is Priscilla Pennington. From London.”
I took her gloved hand. It was as limp as a bad baguette. She was no more a contessa than I was. “Contessa de Camarque, what a pleasure to meet you.”
“We love London,” Sophia said, without the slightest indication that she loved London, or anything else.
“It is a wonderful city, isn’t it?”
“I hope you’ll save a dance for me later,” Alesandro said. “You won’t mind, will you, Sophie?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Well then, by all means,” I answered. “I’d love to.” I looked around for the third in his trio, the tough-looking girl he’d had lunch with. I knew she’d be lurking around here somewhere.
Sissy McNally accepted kisses on each cheek from Giancarlo. She looked sensational in a slinky black satin sheath and a suite of diamonds and rubies that were so big they could choke a horse. Her eyes were bright as Roman candles, boosted up on something.
Not surprisingly, Lucia was the epitome of elegant understatement in her shell-pink peau-de-soie gown and pearls and long white kid gloves. She simply appeared, without calling any attention to herself, and joined her father and me in the receiving line.
We kissed each other. “You look stunning, Lucia.”
She smiled. “Thank you. So do you. Oh, my, look at your bracelet.” She picked up my arm and examined it closely “Remarkable. Do you know it looks almost exactly like the one Queen Victoria is wearing in the Winterhalter painting The Firstof Maywith Prince Albert and the Duke of Wellington.”
At least she’s done her homework, I thought, and appreciates what she’s got. “How wonderful.”
“It’s a beautiful painting. I’m surprised you aren’t familiar with it since you’re British. It’s in the British Museum.”
“Well,” I sighed. “There are lots of paintings in Britain. I’ll look for it the next time I’m at the museum.” I stepped aside to make room for her. “I’ve been standing in for you, but now that you’re here I’ll let you take over your official duties.”
“No, I like having you here. Please stay”
I spotted Alesandro’s young woman—she was dressed as one of the caterer’s cocktail waitresses. Between Alesandro and Lucia, there was going to be some action tonight. Who would get there first? Oh, sorry I mean, second.
I looked around for Thomas but he must have been with Marjorie. Giovanna and her cameraman were roving the crowd on the terrace, interviewing celebrities she’d missed in the foyer. The more I saw of her, the less I could picture Thomas being interested in her. She was such a cold fish. Thomas didn’t care about glamour, he cared about substance. But, the fact remained, he and Giovanna seemed to be an item. Oh, well, he was no doubt just as baffled by Giancarlo and me—talk about a superficial relationship.
A trumpet fanfare sounded and Giancarlo stepped into the center of the archway. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Our guest of honor has arrived.”
All the lights went out, leaving the party in the silvery glow of the moon. Suddenly a shaft of bright light blazed down at the far end of the white-draped corridor, illuminating Marjorie, a solitary figure on an otherwise dark stage.
The gasps were audible, and she paused there for a moment, letting the effect sink in. She looked like a goddess. Her strapless black gown followed every curve of her body and a full train, gathered from the small of her back, fanned out behind. She stood straight as a stick, head held high, black hair pulled back. She wore no jewelry but the Millennium Star and diamond stud earrings. She began a slow stroll down the walkway, boxed by four lockstepping armed guards in DeBeers LV uniforms. It was like watching a ball of fire roll toward us.
“Doesn’t it just make you hate her guts?” Sissy whispered in my ear.
Thomas appeared close by me, his eyes scanning the crowd.
Now, here is the difference between a detective and a criminal—we watch completely different things. (I know he’d been the Samaritan Burglar and all, but I didn’t consider that really very challenging or risky criminal activity After all, he’d been an insider—what he’d done was like stealing candy from a baby.) He was watching the crowd to see if he could spot someone suspicious.
I, on the other hand, was watching the Millennium Star—it was no wonder the firm in Zurich charged so much. I’d paid a quarter of a million dollars for this replica and it was perfect.
Lucia stood next to me, calm and detached. Reviewing her plan.
F I F T Y
The cocktail hour whizzed past—I stayed close to Marjorie and Thomas, which wasn’t too hard to do because so did Giancarlo.
I didn’t know about Thomas, but I felt sad. All we needed was an honest conversation to solve our estrangement, but he would have to initiate it. I was surprised that no one seemed to sense the tension or feel the electricity between us. I couldn’t wait for the evening to be over and to get out of here.
Dinner was finally announced by another dramatic trumpet blast commanding our attention be directed indoors where the white panels now glowed with illumination. Then, one by one, just as though it were a Busby Berkeley movie musical, attendants peeled away the stanchions holding the curtains, revealing the gold and red candlelit dining room. It was dazzling.
Dinner proceeded very smoothly, especially for such a large gathering. While the entrée was being cleared, Marjorie dabbed at her lips and laid her napkin alongside her plate. “Excuse me for a moment, will you?”
“I think I’ll powder my nose as well,” I said and stood up. So did Lucia.
“All three of you?” Thomas said. “I’d be more comfortable if you just went
one at a time.”
“Why?” Marjorie said. “Do you think one of us is the Shamrock Burglar?”
“That’s not the point,” Thomas replied, avoiding an answer. He gave me what I knew to be a warning look. “It’s just better security-wise.”
“Oh, don’t be an old fuddy-duddy, Thomas.” Marjorie put her arm around him and he and the guards walked us—the hostess, the star, and the princess—to the powder room and locked us in so no one could get in and steal the Star.
The powder room had two white marble sinks set in a long, dressingtable-like counter with a pleated, red satin-damask skirt. Lucia opened a drawer in the counter and pulled out a package of cigarettes and a lighter. We all had a smoke and fixed our makeup. All three of us acted a little tipsy, but I’m not sure if any of us really was.
“This is a wonderful break,” Lucia said. “Evenings like this are torture to me. You’re so good at them, Marjorie. I envy you, and you look so beautiful. What a wonderful idea not to wear any other jewelry The diamond by itself is surreal.”
“Isn’t it?” Marjorie took the fake stone between her thumb and forefinger and twisted it back and forth, making it sparkle.
“I wish I could try it on,” Lucia said.
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t dare. What if I dropped it? Or broke it?”
“Don’t be silly. You can’t break diamonds. They’re the hardest substance on earth. Come on. I want to see what it looks like on you.”
Lucia reached her hands behind her neck and removed her necklace. “Truthfully? I’d love to.” She placed the pearls on the dressing table where they clattered like marbles.
I pretended to concentrate on applying my lipliner but I watched the whole operation in slow motion, knowing every move that was to follow.
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