2 Priceless

by Marne Davis Kellogg

  Marjorie unclasped the diamond chevron necklace with its priceless pendant. She handed it to Lucia who took it gently, gingerly.

  “Dio,” she said. “It’s heavy!” She lifted it to her neck but the ends slipped from her fingers and the piece fell to the floor, disappearing beneath the edge of her gown and the damask table skirt. “Oh, no!” Lucia knelt to retrieve it and I watched her make the switch beneath the masses of fabrics. I could not have done it more smoothly myself.

  Blushing and flustered, she handed the necklace back to Marjorie. “I can’t believe I did that. I’m so sorry. Please put it back on before anything happens to it.”

  “You didn’t hurt it. See? It’s fine.” She reclasped the piece behind her neck.

  It was a very good copy. Very, very good. Of course, the necklace itself was a regularly available commercial piece, Lucia could have bought it at DeBeers LV or Cartier or Graff, but the Millennium Star was a challenge she had met cleverly—just as I had. It was synthetic. But evidently, she couldn’t afford to pay the going rate for the finest replica possible. She’d cut comers.

  Not as drastically as on the copy of the Empresse emerald that was clearly a fake, but with professional scrutiny by an experienced naked eye, this stone would he spotted as paste. I needed to move along shortly.

  Marjorie rapped on the door, Signaling we were ready to come out. The guard unlocked it and opened it up. Thomas was waiting.

  “Come, Inspector.” Marjorie put her arm through his. “I love it when you squire me around.”

  F I F T Y - O N E

  Giancarlo asked Marjorie to dance, and she accepted. Thomas stood on the side of the dance floor, hands in his pockets, watching them whirl around.

  I walked up to him. “Inspector,” I said. “I know you need to stay close by Marjorie and I’m quite sure you don’t want to clunk around the dance floor after her like a trained monkey. Would you like to dance with me?”

  He smiled. “I’d love to dance with you, Mrs. Pennington.”

  I tried not to feel comfortable in his arms. I stood stiffly, far away from him and stumbled over his feet a number of times, scuffing the shoe shine he always took such prudish pride in, even if his clothes were always a rumpled mess. He tried to pull me closer and I resisted. “Mrs. Pennington,” he said. “You’re a surprisingly dreadful dancer.”

  “I refuse to laugh, Thomas. But I do have some information for you.”

  “Oh?” His eyes brightened.

  “The Shamrock Burglar is Alesandro de Camarque,” I said, hoping that if he’d gotten any inkling that it was Lucia—he knew it wasn’t me—this would head him off in another direction.

  “Alesandro de Camarque?” He looked surprised.

  “Yes. He’s a Brazilian count who’s really from Colombia and he’s got a ring of thieves here tonight.”

  “He does?”

  “Don’t say I never did you any favors.”

  Thank God, the music stopped and we all sat back down.

  Once dessert was over—a banana chocolate concoction, not worth the calories—I excused myself and went upstairs and got Bijou.

  “I’ll bet you’re ready to go out.” I picked her up and kissed her on top of her head and clipped her rhinestone leash to her “diamond” collar with the big emerald drop—the copy of the Empresse I’d bought in Paris.

  Upstairs was quiet and deserted. The sound of the orchestra could be heard, echoing far in the distance.

  I went down the hall and around the corner to Lucia’s bedroom. Her door was open. Two lights burned dimly on either end of the sofa, giving the suite an aura of calm. I carried Bijou through to the dressing room and looped her leash around the bathroom doorknob, last replaced in 1922, according to the big red log book.

  I was so at home, it was positively luxurious.

  Lucia’s dressing room was immaculate, no typical last-minute jumble of makeup or shoes. Not surprisingly, she was extremely meticulous. She had left a marker—an almost invisible strand of her hair closed in the top of a closet door. The strand would fall out if the door was opened—letting her know if anyone had tampered with anything. I pushed on the door, activating the spring-latch, and caught the strand as it fell. I carefully noted the location of the hangers. Then I shoved them aside, starting with the bronze ball gown. There was the safe, secured with an electronic lock, for which I was terribly grateful because it is aggravating as hell to try to crack a safe wearing gloves, even if they are of the finest, sheerest kid.

  I pulled the scanner out of my pocket and opened it up. They were all there, arranged like trophies in a showroom: the Empresse, the White Tiger Suite, the blackamoor brooch, the matching diamond cuffs, an incredible pink diamond brooch of three elephants—was it the famous Pink Elephant Diamond? I didn’t even know it was missing. The vault was packed with other one-of-a-kind pieces there was no time to appreciate, except for, unfortunately, the Queen’s Pet. I would have liked to have taken the old girl with me. But it was not to be seen.

  I struggled with my conscience. Oh, what the hell, I muttered under my breath and reached in and grabbed. Before closing the safe, I pulled the gardenia from my hair and laid it lovingly inside.

  All of a sudden, Bijou barked and I heard footsteps crossing the bedroom.

  F I F T Y - T W O

  “I’m so sorry, Lucia.” I was on hands and knees on the floor, rubbing it with a tissue. “Bijou escaped and ran down the hall and had an accident in your bathroom. I’m so embarrassed.” I dropped the perfectly clean tissue in the bowl and flushed. “But I think I’ve got it all cleaned up nicely.”

  Lucia’s eyes had gone first to her closet door and her marker that was exactly as she’d left it. “Dogs.” She laughed. “Aren’t they wonderful?”

  “Well, they certainly have their moments.” I got to my feet. “Are you all right? Your face is flushed.”

  In truth, her face gleamed with energy, just as mine did when I’d made a perfect score. Elated. Triumphant. She was a talented girl with a lot of promise.

  “Yes, I’m just fine. I had to get away from the hubbub for a minute or two. I don’t know how people go to parties like this all the time.” Her words came out in a rush. She was anxious to get the Millennium Star out of the hem of her dress and into her safe. “Some of these people—that’s all they do all year long. They have no lives at all except getting dressed up and having dinner with the same boring crowd, night after night.”

  I nodded. “Well”—I picked up Bijou and stuck her under my arm—“I’ll see you back at the party.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Let me see Bijou’s collar. Isn’t it wonderful?” Lucia held the emerald cabochon in the palm of her hand and rolled it slightly. “It looks just like the Empresse.” She studied it more closely.

  “Isn’t it a treasure? I bought it on the Rue de Rivoli right after the robbery—the day I met your father, actually. But I rather feel I need to get her something new, now. I think we’re all finished with the Empresse, don’t you? She’s had her fifteen minutes.”

  Lucia laughed and continued to examine the stone. Then she let go of it. “It is a remarkably good copy, though.”

  I nodded. “It’s amazing what they can do with faux these days, isn’t it? It looks exactly like the real thing. I’ll see you downstairs.” When I reached the doorway, I paused. “One more bit of advice, Lucia. If you want to play in the big leagues—be sure you’re prepared to pay the price. I’ve saved you from yourself tonight, but I won’t do it again.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand what you mean, Priscilla.”

  “You will.” I disappeared around the corner.

  F I F T Y - T H R E E

  “Priscilla! Priscilla!”

  I could faintly hear her calling my name—her voice echoed almost imperceptibly down the back stairs and through the narrow passageway as I stepped into the now-chilly night and the parking courtyard.

  “Just taking my dog for a quick spin,” I told the guard,
who smiled and went back to the soccer game on his miniature TV set. He was accustomed to rich people doing silly things like taking their dogs for midnight, moonlit drives. I pulled my shawl more closely around my shoulders and crossed the cobblestones. It was hard going in my smooth-soled, high-heeled evening shoes. Halfway there, one of my feet slipped and I almost fell, twisting my ankle painfully. But I didn’t let it slow me down. I was on my way. I gathered my full skirt up with my other hand so I could see the ground and paid closer attention to where I put my feet.

  The big engine turned over smoothly. I forced myself to drive slowly out of the back gates of Villa Giolitti. Then, like Lucia, I gunned it and sped down the hill, removing my jewelry as I went, dropping it into the map pocket in the car door. Before turning onto the A-12 in Rapallo, I stopped long enough to put up the top. It was freezing outside.

  I could picture Lucia, move for move. She had no doubt made sure I was well down the hall before locking her bedroom door. And then, after peeling off her gloves, she’d taken a deep breath and punched in the numbers to open her safe and place her big prize safely inside with her collection of trophies. Instead, she saw the gardenia lying where the Empresse had reigned. And then, because she was a novice, she panicked and raced full speed down to my room, calling and calling my name. And when she found it empty, she pulled herself together, regained her composure, and descended the main staircase, slowly and regally as was required of her, and returned to the party to search for me. It wouldn’t take her too long, maybe a couple of minutes, to realize I wasn’t there, either.

  I wondered how long it would take for one of the DeBeers people to realize the Star was a fake. I wouldn’t think it would take them long. And once the robbery had been discovered, it would take Thomas no time at all to figure out I had vanished.

  Between Genoa and Turino, I pulled into a roadside comfort area. The prostitutes, whose territory it was, first eyed my car enthusiastically—a man in a Mercedes SL500 could make a girl’s evening. What a gruesome way to make a living, servicing truck drivers behind the trees next to the Autostrada or in the back of their cabs.

  When they saw a woman emerge from the Mercedes in a ball gown, they turned suspicious, a couple of them even looked a little hostile, as though they might take some pleasure in beating me up.

  “Don’t worry,” I said in Italian to what looked to be the prostitute-in-charge, a girl of maybe twenty-two who was done up to look like an innocent fifteen-year-old. “I’m just here to change my clothes and be on my way.” I ran into the women’s rest room, and changed into slacks and a sweater. On my way out, I handed a thousand euros to the woman. “I was never here. Never. I’ve just left my husband—if he finds me, he’ll kill me.”

  “Never.” She smiled. “Good luck.”

  She and her coworkers understood better than anyone how dangerous it was to be sought by an angry man. They all waved good-bye as I pulled back onto the highway.

  Thomas and his merry band of detectives would never match that amount of money They thought a hundred euros was a big deal.

  By now, Thomas had realized I wasn’t at the party. He might even have gone upstairs himself to check my room. He would open the closets and drawers but the only clue that I might no longer be on the premises would be that Bijou was gone.

  “Dammit,” he would say “I never should have let those three women into the loo together.”

  No. You shouldn’t have.

  And Lucia would blame the switch on me. And the whistles would start to blow.

  I headed up the A-26 in heavy traffic, almost all of it trucks, and after an hour was relieved to be out of the coastal hills with their sharp turns and tunnels. Now I could really turn on the afterburners. I appreciated the Mercedes’s heavy, steady, powerful ride. Like my Jaguar, it was a car that had to be driven every second, which helped me stay awake and alert. I stopped only once for gas and a coffee—north of Turin in a roadside farmers’ market where the produce trucks from the countryside were being unloaded. I put on a scarf and zipped Bijou into her travel bag so she couldn’t be seen—people might not remember me when questioned by the police but they would certainly remember the dog. From there, I continued up into the Alps to the Valle d’Aosta and finally through the Mt. Blanc Tunnel into Switzerland.

  It was just a little after six when I reached the Geneva airport, where I made a stop at a roadside DHL Overnight Courier kiosk before turning in my car. I locked the door to the Hertz ladies’ room and bid Priscilla Pennington a fond farewell in a little bonfire ceremony, incinerating her passport and driver’s license. Then I dug out one of the cans of temporary hair color I’d brought from my stock at home—an execrable product that is supposed to turn gray hair black—not that I have gray hair—and sprayed it onto both Bijou and me. The thick coating gunk did as advertised in the theatrical supply catalog, turning me into a tired-looking middle-aged woman with bags under her eyes and dingy hair, and Bijou into an unhappy, ill-tempered, dirty little Scottie.

  At eight o’clock, American Lucy Templeton and her sulking dog, Jenny, boarded a flight to Paris.

  F I F T Y - F O U R

  “Welcome to the Hôtel du Palais, Mrs. Templeton,” the man at the registration desk said in English. His accented words lacked any modicum of sincerity or warmth. “One night?” He looked past me out the doors to where a tour bus had just pulled up and began to disgorge its contents—overweight Americans in tank tops, shorts, sneakers, and backward baseball caps. His nostrils flared.

  “Unfortunately,” I answered, trying to be friendly. “I wish I could stay longer.”

  He rang his little countertop bell for the porter, and that was that.

  This was my first and last visit to the Hôtel du Palais, a great big, run-down tourist hotel that resembled a Soviet-era-style apartment block, near the Palais Royale. Without a fifty-million-dollar renovation and total overhaul of its staff, the Hôtel du Palais would never, ever be able to live up to its name.

  The bellman, who needed to wash, took me to a dreary room—the carpet was worn and the closed curtains sagged—and put my bag down on the bed and stuck his hand out for his tip. I gave him two Euros. He snorted and departed. What more could he expect from a bedraggled, broken-down American and her churlish little dog?

  I turned on the television set, slid the security chain on the door, and pushed open the curtains, which made a flurry of dust fill the air. Even if the windows had been clean, there wouldn’t be anything to look at, unless you were interested in the back wall of the Musée Montpensier.

  Shortly, Giovanna appeared on the screen in front of what I assumed was the Portofino police station. She was still in her evening gown and had tied a sweater around her shoulders, covering her bare arms. “It’s really so thrilling,” she said. “One mystery solved and another one emerges. Just after two o’clock this morning, it was discovered that the world-famous DeBeers Millennium Star diamond—the largest perfect diamond in the world—203 carats—had been stolen by the Shamrock Burglar. We’re here at the Portofino, Italy, police station waiting for Commander Thomas Curtis, actress Marjorie Mead, and Princess Lucia Giolitti to arrive. The ladies have volunteered to come and look at pictures of possible suspects.”

  Giovanna continued. “Inspector Thomas Curtis, who is the head of the international coalition mandated to capture the Shamrock Burglar, was trumped again last night by this incredibly talented burglar who’s been on a crime spree that began three weeks ago in Paris with the theft of the Empresse de Josephine emerald from the Musée Montpensier.

  “Movie star Marjorie Mead was wearing the Millennium Star diamond to the Gala di Portofino last night when the officials of DeBeers LV, owner of the giant stone, discovered it was a fake. Miss Mead admitted she’d accidentally dropped the necklace in the ladies’ room and it was possible that it was switched at that time by a woman known to her as Priscilla Pennington who has since disappeared. Interpol has issued an international all-points bulletin for airlines and train s
tations to be on alert for a middle-aged blond Englishwoman—no photos were taken of the woman at the gala. Miss Mead, Princess Giolitti, at whose villa the ball was held, and Commander Curtis should arrive any minute at the Portofino police station to look at mug shots of possible suspects. Oh, here they come.”

  The screen filled up with a flurry of blinking blue police car lights and the blaring sound of sirens. A brawl of uniformed Portofino police jostled for camera position as the Mercedes limousine delivered Marjorie, Lucia, and Thomas. They pushed through the crowd like rock stars arriving at a concert. The girls were very collected. Marjorie even said something to Thomas and they both smiled.

  “Well, Commander.” Giovanna thrust her microphone into Thomas’s face. He was still wearing his evening clothes. He was frowning and he looked baggy, tired, and in extremely ill humor. “Any progress on catching the Shamrock now that she has eluded you again? What do you plan to do next?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. Excuse me, will you?” With that, Thomas turned and disappeared from the screen. It looked as though his and Giovanna’s Riviera romance was over.

  “Come, precious,” I said to my bedraggled little puppy after I’d had a tepid shower—the Americans had evidently used up all the hot water – and put myself together as much as I dared. I reapplied the hair darkener and only minimal makeup—I looked like hell, as unremarkable as could be. I spend a bloody fortune on my hair keeping it the soft, gentle blond it is and it practically made me sick at my stomach to turn it black, especially such a dark, cheap black. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I stuffed things into my tote bag. My face had a grim sort of fix to it, a focused determination and fatigue I didn’t need to fake.

  I fastened the real Empresse around Bijou’s neck—I had to wrap the diamond necklace around a time and a half-which made her even unhappier. I slung my heavy tote over my shoulder. “Let’s get some lunch.”