Brilliant

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

Sir Cramner and Ballantine & Company Auctioneers became my life. I loved him, the company, and the business. I loved the person I’d become. I was elegant. I was refined. I was a lady.

  My life of crime continued, but on a much more elegant scale. In the beginning, my financial security was most definitely a factor, but not the only one. As I got older, I saw more and more completely unnecessary injustices inflicted on total innocents by those who had so much and still felt the need to take advantage of others. I’d been able to leave my childhood neglect behind me long ago, gotten over it, landed on my feet and flourished through my own sheer will, determination, and opportunities presented by Sir Cramner. But not everyone’s got the same grit, and legitimate victims do exist, and when I see a person of wealth and means inflict cruelty or abuse on a defenseless creature, two- or four-legged, if it is within my abilities, I will not let it pass unpunished. People who have money should be grateful for what they’ve got because the fact is, money can solve most of one’s problems and there is absolutely no excuse for a rich person to cause pain and suffering for a poor one. So, in my own little way, I do what I can. I steal what I hope they love.

  I’m not trying to make myself sound saintly or like Robin Hood or a do-gooder, because I’m not. I do give away at least 10 percent of everything to charity but I keep the rest for myself. Tax-free.

  I know if anyone knew my secrets, they would be surprised. Who am I kidding? They would be beyond surprised. They would be thunderstruck. But, there’s nothing I can do about it—it’s just who I am and what I do. What I’ve always done, and as I set out to be all those years ago: I’m one of the best in the world.

  Just to add a touch of class to my residential burglaries, a little bouquet of shamrocks tied with an ivory satin ribbon replaces the goods. A signal to the target that the bad news is they’ve been robbed, but the good news is they can take pride in knowing they were robbed by London’s best: the Shamrock Burglar.

  F I V E

  And now tonight, just like that, with Sir Benjamin’s single shot to his muddled head, my world had changed again. My debt to Sir Cramner and Ballantine & Company was discharged, paid-in-full.

  I rolled out of bed, slid into my robe and mules, padded into my pink, mirrored dressing room, and looked in the dressing table mirror. I was as pale as a ghost. I frowned at myself. I didn’t know what to think. It was as though I were looking at someone else.

  The clock said four-thirty—too early to go to work, too late to go back to sleep. I went into the kitchen and switched on the lights in my ivy-walled garden. Icy rain struck the windows, and for a while, I sat in the dark at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of coffee and watched it cascade off the lattices and splash on the bricks. The garden lights illuminated the trunks of the potted fruit trees, making them shine like black patent. My mind spun. I thought about everything and nothing. My stomach growled.

  What I needed was an omelette.

  With a flip of the light switch the rain receded into the distance and my old-fashioned, professional chef’s kitchen blazed into view. The heavy white enamel appliances, chrome knobs and handles, and glazed tile surfaces glittered and gleamed like an ad in a cooking magazine. I took kitchen scissors and clipped shoots of chervil, parsley, chives, and tarragon from my indoor herb garden along the kitchen windows. The outdoor freshness of their fragrance calmed me. The omelette pan came off its hook, and fresh eggs, a chunk of aged Gruyere, and butter came from the refrigerator.

  I grated a handful of cheese and then, as I cracked the eggs into a glass bowl, I began, seriously, to examine my options.

  All right, then. What should I do first? Quit? I could. I had plenty of money, and I still had my looks. I was good-sized. Not obese or anything, I just have never really denied myself much in the way of food or drink. I’d say I look healthy, toothsome, fine-figured. Sir Cramner once described me as a sort of full-bodied Catherine Deneuve, and it’s a pleasing, and I think fairly accurate, comparison. A little work’s been done to tighten up my jawline and take the bags out from under my eyes. People have given up trying to figure out how old I am, and I don’t tell.

  I turned a burner onto HIGH, and whipped the eggs with a fork until they were just blended. A nice hunk of butter went into the cold pan, which I placed on the hot flame and rolled until the pan was coated and the butter melted completely and released its creamy bouquet. The eggs slid from the bowl and burbled in the sizzling heat. I gave them a couple of seconds to begin to form and then grasped the handle of the omelette pan, tilted it up and began to jerk it toward me roughly. Julia Child says, “You must have the courage to be rough with the eggs or they won’t loosen themselves from the bottom of the pan.” Mine loosened nicely and the eggs began to curl over on themselves a little more with each pull. I sprinkled in the herbs and cheese.

  “What do you think, old boy?” I said aloud to Sir Cramner’s spirit.

  “It’s time,” he answered.

  “I miss you.”

  “Move forward. It’s time,” he said again. “But whatever you do, don’t liquidate the Trust.”

  Those had been among his dying words. The KDK Trust. My secret weapon.

  “What’s your whole name, Kick?” Sir Cramner asked one day. By then he’d promoted me to being his executive secretary and assistant.

  “Kathleen,” I answered.

  “No, I mean your whole given name.”

  “Oh, given name,” I said knowledgeably. Given my mother’s condition, I think I was pretty lucky to have any name at all, but I knew what he meant. Whole three name, name. “Kathleen Day Keswick.” I had picked “Day” ages ago, of course, because of Doris.

  That’s how the KDK Trust, LLC, came into existence.

  “I’m not going to live forever,” Sir Cramner said. “And I don’t ever want you to worry about your independence. No one can find out who is behind the KDK Trust, the bank will manage it. Don’t ever tell anyone what I’ve done.”

  And then, with a stroke of his pen, he gave me 15 percent of Ballantine & Company.

  To this day, no one knows who’s behind the KDK Trust, not even our new owner, Mr. Owen Brace, with all his megamillions and high- powered lawyers. The trust and my control of it were shielded by England’s strict banking laws regarding confidentiality. It had frustrated and infuriated him when my bank continued to reject his offers to buy my shares, especially when the offers had been so lucrative. The entire Ballantine family finally relented and surrendered all their holdings, leaving me as the only outstanding shareholder. Fifteen percent is enough to make a difference. Brace knew it, and I knew it, and it drove him nuts. Too bad.

  My omelette slid onto a warm plate, and I skimmed the top of it with a film of butter and a sprinkling of more cheese. I carried the plate to the table, sat down, and picked up my fork and knife. The first bite was as delicious as I knew it would be and filled me with a sense of well-being. Warm, almost hot. Creamy and tangy. Rich and satisfying. I took a deep breath and inhaled all the fragrances. I think it was the best omelette I’d ever made.

  Then I got out the calendar. November 1—a good day for my new life to begin. I would give my notice on December 1, and leave at the end of the year.

  At six o’clock, I got into the shower and by seven, my hair was dried and pulled into a knot, my makeup applied. I stepped into a black Chanel suit, sheer stockings, low-heeled pumps, and a triple string of pearls. I looked simple and elegant. And respectful. After all, I was about to find out, officially, that I had a funeral to arrange.

  S I X

  two weeks later

  “We wish you luck, Mr. Brace,” Mr. Radcliffe said, getting to his feet. He was as tall as a stork. “But we’ve decided to accept Sotheby’s offer.”

  “May I ask why?” Owen concealed his surprise well. This was his first opportunity to try to close a major piece of business for the house. He’d assumed that the highly prized and pursued Radcliffe Collection would fall into his lap based sheerly on his personal celebrit
y. “Would you like to discuss the commission further? I’m willing to negotiate.”

  “No, no. Both houses have made identical offers, and I know there’s negotiating room.”

  “Is it the publicity package? Do you think it should be increased?” Color had crept up Mr. Radcliffe’s neck, and his wife’s lips were so tightly clamped, they had almost disappeared into her mouth. “Please tell me, sir,” Owen pressed, “so I don’t make the same mistake again.”

  “All right, young man, I will tell you because you’ve asked me. The fact is, I’m sorry to say, I just can’t relate to a man who wears as much jewelry as you do. We wish you good day.” With that, the Radcliffes left.

  Whoa. The words were almost incomprehensible to a man whose fortune had been built on high fashion, to whom the concept of less-is-more was impossible to grasp. At Brace International, understatement was practically a firing offense. And suddenly, wham, a cold fish right in the face from a member of that upper-class club Owen was so anxious to join. One succinctly cutting phrase forced Owen to acknowledge that his flashy hundred-thousand-dollar, multi–time zone, calendar watch and the Boucheron gold-and-diamond cuff links had just cost the house several million dollars in commissions. Dollars he desperately needed.

  I felt sorry for him. A flush of embarrassment darkened his face and reddened his eyes, which, as best as I could tell, were as close to indigo as eyes can get.

  I closed the office door. “If I may, sir,” I ventured.

  “What is it, Kick?”

  “Well”—I sought to be tactful—“in the auction business, appearances are everything.”

  “Appearances are everything in every business. What’s your point?”

  I persevered. I had nothing to lose. “There are a few realities you need to hear if you’re going to get anywhere . . .”

  Why did I care if he got anywhere? Well, there was just something about him that intrigued me, in spite of his harsh bullyboy manner, rough edges, and absence of Golden Rule ethics. Or maybe it was because of those things. I’d never met anyone like him in my life.

  I couldn’t wait for the next installment in the daily soap opera of his fourteen-month-long marriage to movie star Tina Romero, and the way she bamboozled him, as only a twenty-two-year-old, Puerto Rican, sexpot bombshell can bamboozle a fifty-four-year-old man. She was a tempestuous, spoiled, completely immature, stacked, keg of nitroglycerin. A glamour-puss with a Charo-type accent who would sweep into the office, unannounced, dressed in clothes that could only be described as “missing,” or “transparent,” or “extreme.” These were the kind of clothes that were held in place with double-stick tape. Surefire, front-page attire for an international movie star at the Academy Awards or the Cannes Film Festival, but not the sort of image an auction house seeking its survival ought to present to well-heeled potential clients. I mean, if Mr. Radcliffe thought Owen’s accessories were flashy, I truly cannot even begin to imagine what he would have thought if he’d gotten a look at Tina.

  And she adored Owen. She climbed all over him like a monkey, like a little girl on a favorite uncle, like a woman-child on a sugar daddy, which was fine in private, but she pawed him no matter who was watching. And Owen couldn’t or wouldn’t stop her. It was pretty amazing. She called him Daddy.

  I was astounded by the parade of famous models and movie stars who called him, or whom he called, constantly, and with whom he had quick flings. By quick, I mean like between courses at lunch. Whatever it was he did to them, they liked it. They kept coming back for more. He was some sort of human animal sex magnet.

  He counted on me to keep these ladies straight with his schedule, and then right out of the blue, he’d instruct me to break off an affair.

  “Forgive me for being impertinent,” I said to him one time, “but I don’t think you can exactly call this an ‘affair.’ ”

  “Excuse me?”

  “These are not affairs, or even liaisons. I think an affair connotes a relationship where the two parties have met more than three times.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I just don’t think you should call these little get-togethers ‘affairs.’ I’d call them ‘proceedings.’ Or ‘incidents.’ That would be more appropriate.”

  He studied me like I was an idiot. I didn’t care. He needed to know these things. “Very well,” he finally said. “Would you be so kind as to break off the ‘proceeding’ with Letitia.”

  “Of course, sir. Consider it done.”

  Then I would call the girl with a last-minute cancellation and a heartfelt apology, which would be immediately followed with the delivery of a gift from one of Brace International’s manufacturers of luxury goods—a pashmina cashmere shawl from the Cesarina Mittando fashion house, or a crocodile handbag from Percoco Leather, or sometimes a combination of the two. It was the least I could do. I only sent liquor from Lividia Spirits, Nottingham Whiskey, or Père Patrice Champagne to business associates. No former girlfriend had received a car from the Panther Automobile Company, or a yacht from Geo Shipbuilding.

  In spite of my disdain, I felt myself being seduced by Owen’s charm, or charmed by his seductions, I’m not sure which, but I was being pulled inexorably onto his team. I found myself wanting him to succeed because I truly enjoyed fielding calls from the world’s richest people and most powerful leaders—heads of state, companies, and banks, who sometimes sought, sometimes offered, advice or money. Some of them were beginning to learn my name.

  At the bottom of all this, though, was the money. I was transfixed by the money. Not only by how Owen was pouring it into Ballantine & Company, buying top experts by raiding other houses and offering exorbitant salaries, freshening up certain aspects of our fusty image, and restoring and renovating our three-hundred-year-old building, which still had hundred-year-old plumbing and wiring; but also by how he juggled the finances among all his companies, constantly shifting funds among them to maintain solvency. Every single one of them—clothing, luggage, wine and spirits, cars and yachts—was in a Code Blue financial situation. They were the highest-end, highest-quality goods available, but unfortunately, the size of their institutional marketing budgets generally equaled the size of their sales. It was a textbook, business school example of how paying to keep up an image can be a self-canceling exercise to the bottom line.

  The interest and principal payment demands from the banks were courteous but constant, demands Owen met by playing a high-stakes shell game that hinged on his ability to demonstrate to his stockholders and bankers a strong balance sheet of the parent corporation, Brace International. Fortunately the corporation had a highly profitable real estate holding company with numerous properties in key retail locations all over the world. This particular enterprise charged exorbitant rents to its tenants, thus providing a large and predictable enough cash flow to offset any losses by the subsidiary firms.

  The point is: It was all a giant fraud. The high-rent tenants were the selfsame, money-losing subsidiaries, which, if they hadn’t had to pay such steep rents, might have been able to turn small profits. The holding company owned the land under all the corporation’s factories, office buildings, and shops. This was a closely held secret, known really only to four people: Owen; his attorney, David de Menuil; Gil Garrett, the president of Panther Automobiles; and me, although I’m sure he didn’t think I had the sophistication to understand what was going on. It was a high-wire act like nothing you could imagine. His composure and sangfroid were astounding. He worked autonomously. I never once heard him consult a board member, although he had several. I don’t know how he took the pressure.

  Initially, I was outraged by how he operated, putting our beloved company in an even more precarious position. I couldn’t understand why he would want to own Ballantine & Company, but then I saw how it could work. An auction house, a successful one at any rate, generates a huge amount of cash flow, much of which can go straight to the bottom line. Brace International and Ballantine’s were each other’s last hope. And I
had a front-row seat.

  I succumbed to his energy and antics. I couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next. Now that I could leave whenever I wanted, I couldn’t wait to get to work in the morning.

  Okay, I’ll admit it: I was starting to find Owen Brace unbelievably attractive.

  “. . . because appearances in the auction business are the opposite of all your other enterprises,” I explained, the Radcliffes now just a memory. “We don’t want to be trendsetters. We’re guardians of the past. You need to look good, look solid. You can’t go around looking much better-off than the clients, even though, in most instances, you probably are. Or at least, they think you are. They’re trusting you with their most treasured family possessions, things they love and usually don’t want to give up. You should view yourself the way you would look at a funeral director—you can’t afford to appear as though you’ll be disrespectful or cavalier with their goods. That’s why Ballantine’s has always had a dress code, which you are making a mistake to ignore.”

  He listened to me carefully. His dark eyes glittering like glass.

  “I know the backstage of this business is not anything you expected.” I shrugged my shoulders and crossed my arms across my chest. “But, that’s the mystique of it, and if you’re really committed to getting this old girl off the ground, which you seem to be, judging by the amount of cash you’re shoveling into her, and attracting the sorts of high-visibility clientele you need, well, sir, you can’t go around dressed like a gigolo.”

  I might as well have whacked him on the side of his head with a frying pan. He stared at me for two full beats, and I returned his look without blinking. “How long have you been with Ballantine & Company?”

  “Much, much longer than you,” I answered.

  “Are you always so honest?”