2 Priceless

by Marne Davis Kellogg

  The day was miserable—hot and muggy—and I was starving. I took a sidewalk table at a brasserie in Place André Malraux and ordered a baguette with butter and jambon. I smeared mustard on the lean country ham, reclosed the sandwich, and took a bite. The baguette was soft and chewy and the ham salty-sweet and mustard so hot it made my nose tingle and my eyes burn. I washed it down with a healthy swallow of beer. After a double espresso and a cigarette, I felt much better, restored and eager to get it over with.

  F I F T Y - F I V E

  Evidently, the fifteen minutes was, in fact, over, not only for the missing Empresse de Josephine, but also for the Musée Montpensier altogether. In the last two weeks, their heyday had passed and now the place was really on its last legs. Their only legitimate attraction was long gone, as was any residual interest in its absence. The cobblestone courtyard was empty and Mme. DeBussy was no longer sitting on her chair at the door eager to tell her story for an extra fifty euros. She was nowhere in sight. They had not yet lowered the admission back to where it was prerobbery but I imagined that would be just a matter of time and when they did, it wouldn’t make any difference anyway. No one was there and no one was going to come.

  It was stuffy inside and I noticed the fresh shamrock bouquet hadn’t been replaced for a number of days. It lay beneath the fake necklace like a pile of, well, dead shamrocks.

  I wandered around. Nothing had changed. The exhibition room still had five ways in and five ways out. The security cameras were still disconnected. No other security was evident. I looked in all directions and stepped into the dark hallway that was blocked by the ACCÈS INTERDIT sign and went up the stairs.

  Other than a small empty office with an antiquated adding machine, an IBM Electric typewriter, and a cigarette smoldering in a full ashtray, the rooms were dusty and deserted. I selected one that was filled with stacks of cardboard cartons and made a hiding place for Bijou and me behind a wall of boxes, next to the window that I told myself I could jump from if I had to. Who’s kidding who? It was about twenty feet to the ground, and if the fall didn’t kill me, it would minimally break both my legs, and probably my back.

  No. I was going to exit via a regular door—I was too old to jump out of windows or onto speeding trains. I was too old for this business. I pulled a jacket from my tote bag and made a pillow, and Bijou and I lay down. My old life seemed as far away as Oklahoma. After a while I went to sleep.

  I wakened at nine o’clock. It was almost completely dark outside and wonderfully cool. I lay quietly and listened. The only noise was the tinny sound of a radio or television. After about ten minutes, I sat up and removed my night-vision goggles from the tote, put them on and replaced Bijou’s necklace with her regular collar and leash. I slid the Empresse into my pocket. Then I stuck the dog into the bag, zipping it so only her head was out, and hefted it over my shoulder.

  I crept down the hall. Someone was still working in the office. A TV set blared with another soccer game and a man was talking on the phone. I was grateful for the noise. I tiptoed past and went down the stairs, I wasn’t worried about running into an after-hours cleaning crew because that had obviously been the first line item to be cut when their star fell from the sky The place was even dirtier than it had been two weeks ago.

  The salon was pitch-black, and after a cursory scan, I headed directly for the Empresse. My eyes and concentration were so fixed on my plan, I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. Suddenly my foot hit something soft and there was a huge shriek. It was a cat. It screamed bloody murder and shot up the stairs. Bijou gave a loud bark and wiggled around, trying to escape from the satchel. I clamped her mouth shut and raced into the archway that led to the main entrance and hid behind a display for the shop, hugging my bag close to my chest.

  A light came on in the stairway.

  “Qui est la?”a man’s voice said. His footsteps sounded like sandpaper coming down the grimy steps. “Qui est la?”he called again. He switched on the lights and circled the room, testing the doors into the garden that were locked. “Humph,” he finally said, turned the lights back off, and went back upstairs.

  After that, I wasted no time. It took only seconds to replace the piece, and even less time than that to add my own piece de resistance, my coup de grace, my flourish and fillip: a formal card written with straightforward print, nothing frilly or scrolly, like those silly things Lucia had left for the Shamrock Burglar. No. This was a man’s card, something for Thomas. I hoped it gave him a serious case of indigestion.

  The Samaritan Burglar

  I turned the Empresse’s spotlight onto her, blew her a kiss, and walked out the front door.

  F I F T Y - S I X

  The TGV Méditerranée raced at speeds up to two hundred miles per hour through the countryside all morning long, but I missed the scenery. I slept as though I were dead during the three-hour journey from Paris to Marseilles. I took a taxi to the airport parking lot and when I saw my trusty little black Mercedes wagon waiting for me, I felt like shouting for joy. Bijou jumped into the passenger seat and curled up and slept all the way home, probably the first decent sleep she’d had since we’d left—what was it? Two weeks ago? Three? I couldn’t think, and it didn’t make any difference, anyway.

  Would Thomas be home? Come home? I had no idea. Did I even want him to? I had no idea about that, either. All I could think about was getting into my bathtub and getting my hair back to normal—I’d worry about the rest of my life after that. I knew my “Samaritan” caper had been discovered by now and I’m sure it made him laugh. I wondered if he’d received the overnight shipment I’d sent to him from Geneva, or if someone in his office had opened it. Either way, it would be the biggest story to hit the news in a long time. I was certain he was in either Paris or London right now, talking to Giovanna on the television set, he was such a publicity hound.

  I turned onto my road and peace fell on me like a soft comforting blanket. Pierre had stacked all the mail neatly on the counter and left my daily baguette. Fresh eggs, milk, and butter were in the refrigerator. There were a few messages from Flaminia, but otherwise, that was it. I lugged my heavy travel bag into the pantry and heaved it onto the table—grateful to put it down—and opened the safe behind the cabinet and replaced all my jewelry. I’d left some sensational clothes behind at Villa Giolitti but I could always get more clothes.

  I didn’t need fancy clothes anymore, anyway. I was never going to leave my farm again.

  After a delicious, gardenia-scented bath and a quadruple shampoo for me and Bijou, I put on my favorite pajamas—Chinese pink silk with gold frog closures and gold dragons embroidered on the collar and pink moiré slippers. I went into the kitchen. It was a warm afternoon—everybody and everything was asleep, even the bees. I padded into the living room and pushed open the shutters and looked across at Les Alpilles and at the church on the hillside. If Thomas came back, fine. If he didn’t, fine. I had a lot of things to sort out—why he’d left me and why he hadn’t admitted he knew the new Shamrock Burglar wasn’t me—and now I had all the time in the world. I took the phone off the hook and went back to the kitchen.

  Everything glowed—the gleaming range, and white cabinets, the blue and white tiled countertops and floor, the yellow ceiling and walls. Pierre had also put a big bouquet of fresh lavender on the counter and the light filtered through it as though through gathered layers of tulle. I was home. Rooted to the center of the earth.

  “Bien,” I said out loud.

  I popped open a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, poured a glass, and switched on the television set.

  I wanted something to eat. Something special and delicious. Something complicated, complex, and challenging. I wanted bagatelles, the little chewy chocolate cakes I’d been working on the day before my world got dumped upside down. I draped my favorite chef’s apron around my neck, secured the ties, and went to work.

  From the pantry, I removed a block of unsweetened chocolate and set it on the cold marble cutting board next
to my antique blue porcelain canisters of sugar and flour, Sucreand Farine. I went to the bar and retrieved bottles of kirsch, Grand Marnier, and Amaretto and after quite a lot of sniffing and a little bit of sipping, I settled on kirsch. The over-the-top, decadent combination of chocolate and cherries filled the bill for today’s celebration. From the refrigerator, I removed one large egg and a slab of creamy farm butter. I turned the oven to 350°.

  It wasn’t long before the story came on. I watched while I buttered the miniature cake pans and dusted them with flour, banging the excess into the sink.

  Giovanna had changed into her business clothes, a slim black suit and white blouse. “I’m here in front of New Scotland Yard, thanks again, to the Shamrock Burglar.”

  I placed the cake pans on a cookie sheet and slid them into the freezer because when it comes time to bake, and the frozen metal hits the hot oven, it forces a wonderful, smooth, buttery crust onto the cake that helps the silver leaf adhere, when they’re done.

  “Night before last, this brilliant thief, who now has achieved cult status throughout most of the Continent, somehow stole the Millennium Star—the largest, most perfect, and most protected diamond in the world—right out from under the noses of an army of security personnel at a charity ball in Portofino, Italy.”

  I used a butcher’s knife to slice the block of chocolate into slivers and then slid them into a double boiler to melt with a good-sized piece of the butter. While that was in the works—melting chocolate and butter in a double boiler requires no attention at all—I poured a cup of sugar on top of another hunk of butter and turned on the mixer. I kept my eyes on the screen, watching for Thomas as the beater circled and circled, creaming the butter and sugar into a light, fluffy confection.

  “Known only as Priscilla Pennington,” Giovanna continued, “an identity which has since been found to belong to an eighty-five-year-old, retired schoolteacher in Leeds, the Shamrock Burglar has stolen many, many millions of dollars’ worth of one-of-a-kind, irreplaceable, priceless pieces of jewelry.”

  I sipped my champagne.

  Shortly, the butter and sugar were blended. I cracked in the egg, added a teaspoon of kirsch, and mixed all that together. By now the chocolate and butter were melted and using a rubber spatula I stirred them until they were well combined. I then poured the velvet like mixture into the bowl of creamed butter and sugar. I mixed some more. Once I was satisfied that the chocolate batter was properly blended and sufficiently smooth, I sifted on the flour, a quarter of a cup at a time, pausing between additions to fold it in thoroughly.

  “An international dragnet was put out for her when the theft was discovered at the ball, but with no success, and so far, no pictures of her have been uncovered. This morning an overnight package was delivered to task force leader Commander Thomas Curtis at New Scotland Yard. We have been informed that the package contained all the pieces stolen by the Shamrock Burglar over the last several months, not only the Millennium Star and the well-publicized pieces from the last three weeks, but other items the police had kept unannounced. I understand the overnight box also contained a fresh bouquet of basil tied with an ivory ribbon—evidently the burglar didn’t have any shamrocks or any of her regular gold ribbon on hand.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said. “You try finding fresh shamrocks in an Italian farmer’s market an three o’clock in the morning.” Besides, the basil was gorgeous.

  “I’m expecting Commander Curtis to join me here any minute now.”

  I ladled the batter into the little frozen cake pans, set them in the oven, and set the timer for twelve minutes.

  I studied the TV screen impatiently in anticipation of Thomas’s appearance and then, without warning, felt myself becoming very emotional. I wanted to see him, hear what he had to say—but I didn’t. There was more of him in this house, more of him in me, in our life, than I wanted to deal with right now. I looked out the window at the mountains.

  “Good-bye, Thomas,” I said and raised my glass.

  “Kick?”

  F I F T Y - S E V E N

  The voice so surprised me it almost gave me a heart attack. I grabbed my chest and spun around. It was Thomas. “My God, Thomas, you scared me to death.”

  He stood in the kitchen door, in a supplicating sort of way. He looked like hell—completely exhausted, and he clutched a large bouquet of what looked like at least three dozen salmon-pink roses. “May I come in?”

  “Well, certainly. Come right in.” I wasn’t sure how to act. “I thought you were in London.”

  “Do you mind if I turn the television down?”

  “No. Heavens, no. Do whatever you like.”

  He laid the flowers on the refectory table and crossed in front of me to the little television on the kitchen counter and switched it off.

  I struggled against so many different emotions—predominantly joy and fury—I decided to keep my mouth closed, only speak when spoken to.

  “May I sit down?”

  “By all means,” I answered. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  He took a stool on the opposite side of the counter. “Would you like to join me?”

  “No, thanks. I’m pretty happy right here where I am.” I took a swallow of champagne for a little fortitude. My hand was as solid as a rock.

  “I owe you an explanation,” he said.

  Silence on my end.

  “Just before our picnic lunch in the apple orchard, the Yard called and said it was an emergency—they needed me back immediately to work on a top-secret antiterrorist task force to develop an urban interdiction plan. I wasn’t to tell anyone about it. Even you.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly become Mr. Task Force, haven’t you? Mr. Terrorist Task Force. Mr. Jewel Thief Task Force.”

  He didn’t say anything and the silence stretched between us like an unbreechable gulf.

  “You could have told me you were leaving.” My voice was even. “I would have understood, even if you couldn’t say why.”

  “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d get stirred up and distracted and ruin the lemon meringue pie.”

  “If you’re trying to get me to laugh, Thomas, you’re failing.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. I have feet of clay. It was supposed to be just an overnight meeting—that’s what they said—and I thought I could get away with telling you I’d be in Marseilles and I could pick up that little painting you wanted on my way back home from London. But, after I got there, it became clear it would be an extended visit, and since there was no way you could contact me—our communication was strictly monitored, I decided to send you a note. There wasn’t anything else I could do. And then this whole episode with the Shamrock Burglar broke loose and went public.”

  “You could have called and said you knew it wasn’t me. You didn’t need to ruin my life. Why did you call the police and turn me in? Why did you force me to run away from my home?” I was getting angry.

  “Kick.” Thomas was getting angry as well. “I tried and tried to call you for days—on your cell phone and at the house—and there was no answer. I called the police because I was worried about you, not because I wanted to arrest you. I asked Chief Bernard to come over and see what he could find out. Make sure you were all right. But you were gone. Where did you go?”

  “I went to Paris to see for myself and when I came back the house was full of police. Police I assumed you sent to arrest me.”

  He shook his head. ’That’s why I was trying to find you—to tell you I knew you weren’t the Shamrock Burglar. There’d been a series of unpublicized incidents over the last few months leading up to the museum robbery We all knew the color of the ribbon was all wrong and that the real Shamrock Burglar didn’t leave a note.”

  The buzzer went off on the timer and we both jumped. I slid the pan from the oven.

  “Here, let me help you,” Thomas said.

  “Just stay where you are. I don’t need any help.”

  I put the little pans on a rack and
immediately began to turn the cakes out one at a time, laying almost transparent sheets of silver leaf over them, sealing each one into a perfect little package.

  “Why didn’t you just leave me a message saying you knew it wasn’t me?”

  “Are you crazy? Leave you a message saying, ’Kick, all these Shamrock burglaries—I know you aren’t doing them’? I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t get through to you, Kick. I didn’t know where you were.” He got up and took a champagne glass out of the cabinet and poured himself a glass. “Finally, we found your station-wagon at the Marseilles airport, Bernard said the Jag was in the garage—but the trail went completely cold at that point. I had no idea where to find you, but I figured you’d decided to take matters into your own hands. So, I volunteered to head up the task force. When you showed up at Villa Giolitti in Portofino—I was the one who almost had a heart attack.” He downed the glass. “You and that stupid fop, Giancarlo.”

  I ignored the remark because I didn’t want to begin that particular conversation. I knew if Giovanna’s name came out of my mouth, flames would, too. But I couldn’t help myself. “Really?” I said. “What about you and Giovanna?”

  “Me and Giovanna? Give me some credit, Kick.”

  I helped myself to more champagne. Picked up the plate of silver cakes and went into the garden and sat at the table.

  Thomas followed. “You know me better than that.”

  “I’ll admit I was surprised—it did seem out of character.” I picked up one of the cakes and so did Thomas. I still hadn’t looked at him. I knew what I wanted to have happen, but I wasn’t going to make the first move.

  He took a bite of his bagatelle and out of the comer of my eye, I saw his face light up. The cake was so good he couldn’t help it. I squeezed my lips tight to keep from smiling.