The other way is to call your supplier in Zurich who manufactures synthetic stones and order exactly what you need, which is the route I chose. The synthetic Kashmirs in my copy would be indistinguishable from the original stones in carat, color, and cut.
The necklace was scheduled to be auctioned in two weeks, and this was one of those pieces I was confident would be bought by an individual, not a dealer, because it was so exceptional. It would go for between 5 and 6 million pounds. I had eight color picture blowups of the real thing, each taken from a different angle by our in-house photographer for the sale catalogue, pasted above the bench. The photographic detail was minute.
My copy, which I would swap for the original the second Bertram’s gavel fell on its sale, was progressing well. I planned to finish all eleven of the curved pairs by the end of the weekend. Their connecting diamond clusters were already complete.
I considered sitting down, putting on my light visor and going right to work, but it was dinnertime, and the day’s excitement had made me hungry. Actually, I was starving to death.
My refrigerator is a work of art—always filled with fresh ingredients, a selection of well-roasted meats, cheeses, and delicacies, ranging from Beluga caviar to white Italian truffles. A double-wide, under-the-counter wine cabinet holds an outstanding selection of red and white wines and champagnes. I love wine and spend what some might consider an inordinate amount of time and money selecting vintages for myself. I don’t care. It brings me great pleasure. This evening, I picked out a beautiful Chablis, a 1998 Grand Cru “Blanchot” Domaine Vocoret, poured myself a hefty glass, turned on the lights in the garden, switched on the TV set to hear the evening news, opened my favorite Delia Smith cookbook to Fillets of Sole Véronique—poached sole with cream sauce and grapes—and went to work.
I stirred a third of a cup of rice into a cup of water to leach out some of the extra starch. Although many cooks disagree, I think in the long run, if you soak your rice and change the water at least twice before cooking, it ends up being much fluffier (certainly less starchy, but probably not enough to make any big difference). While the rice soaked, I peeled the outer leaves off a handful of Brussels sprouts and scored their bottoms.
“It’s a sad day for all Britons,” the reporter said. “But particularly all romantic Britons. Eighty-seven-year-old Lady Melody Carstairs died at her home, Carstairs Manor, this afternoon. She leaves a legacy of literary romance unequalled in the history of British letters—668 novels, translated into a dozen languages, almost a billion copies of her books in print.”
I put the rice and vegetables on to cook and unwrapped the two small Dover sole fillets, which I cut in half, salted and peppered, rolled up into one-inch-tall pinwheels, skin-side out, and placed in a buttered skillet.
Pictures of a younger Lady Melody flashed across the screen, but she looked the same in all of them, no matter her age. I wished I didn’t know what I knew about her.
I poured in a half cup of vermouth, added a little tarragon, turned on the heat, and assembled the ingredients for a roux. Unfortunately, I was so concentrated on making the roux—you can’t take your eyes off a roux, or the butter and flour will burn and ruin the whole affair—I wasn’t paying any attention to the news, so when I looked up, I only saw a split second of Tina Romero, Owen’s soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Brace, holding her three eeny-weeny Chihuahuas and crying, then the timer for the rice went off and when I turned back, she was gone and the anchor girl was on to football.
I’d completely forgotten about Tina’s press conference. I checked all the other stations and never saw her again and in the meantime, of course, the roux burned and I had to scrub out the pan and start over.
Finally, at about eight, I sat down to dinner with the evening paper. The fish was sweet and tender and the grapes were pleasingly tart. The buttered rice with the cream sauce and delicate fish were comforting and mouth-wateringly delicious. The Brussels sprouts were okay. I ate them at any rate. The wine was excellent, crisp and fresh and just right with the sole, as I knew it would be.
I was about to start the crossword puzzle when a blurb caught my eye: PRICELESS PAINTING TURNS UP AT BAYSWATER POLICE STATION. The story went on to say that a very rare and valuable self-portrait of Rembrandt had been discovered at the Bayswater police station at approximately three-thirty in the morning leaning against the duty officer’s high desk. Most probably the work of the Samaritan Burglar.
Whoever the Samaritan Burglar was (and I had my suspicions as to his identity), I admired his style enormously. He stole extremely valuable works from residences and offices and in their place left a calling card that read: “If you are going to own a work of this importance responsibly, you’d best improve your security system.” And then, usually before the owner even knew it was missing, it would turn up at a police station in perfect condition.
There was a man who attended many of our fine art auctions, a very dapper fellow I called “David Niven” because he affected the late actor’s pencil-thin mustache and jaunty step. He never bought anything, but of the Ballantine-auctioned works that had been stolen by the Samaritan Burglar, this fellow had been at their sales and made a point of congratulating the buyers in a very familiar way if they were present. I got the impression that the buyers never knew who he was but felt they should, he had that familiar kind of look that put them on the spot. He probably said something to the effect of, “Don’t you remember we met at that beautiful brunch at Lady Pilfley’s last week? So fine to see you again.” Or some such thing. Information he could get out of a column. I had no basis in fact to think he was the Samaritan but something in his appearance and manner didn’t jibe. He had a wiry, athletic body, lithe and agile as though he were possibly a long-distance runner, but he seemed to take pains to conceal his athleticism with racetrack-clubhouse-style clothing. He was attempting to pass himself off as an aristocrat.
In my opinion, the Samaritan Burglar, whoever he was, should not be considered a burglar at all because he was performing a valuable public service with a great deal of class, style, and panache. I knew and appreciated a master when I saw one, and he was a master. Takes one to know one.
“Nicely done,” I said, and turned to the crossword.
F O U R T E E N
By ten-thirty, my day was done.
The bathroom glowed with candlelight and my tub, a footed affair, brimmed with bubbles. I sank beneath them and sipped a glass of champagne while Schubert’s little String Quintet in C Major played quietly in the background. My magnificent solitaire, the Pasha of St. Petersburg, lolled lazily across my breasts reflecting the soft light like a small setting sun, while the bracelet purloined from Lady Melody sparkled from my wrist. Her engagement ring gleamed from my pinkie finger, and a tight fit at that—she must have had tiny hands. Pikaki mist perfumed the air.
I unclasped the bracelet and drew it slowly across my forearm. It was one of the most fastidiously constructed pieces I’d ever seen. It moved as easily as a satin ribbon, every curl flashing and catching fire. The diamonds were among the most perfect, and perfectly matched, I’d ever seen as well. I couldn’t stop looking at them through my loupe. Each was D Colorless Flawless. VVV1. In other words: perfect. The oval clasp was the size of a small egg and encrusted with diamonds of various shapes and sizes, known as a melee. I studied it closely and noticed a tiny latch, invisible to the naked eye. I slid the latch down with my nail and the top of the clasp popped open. It was a locket. It concealed a miniature painting. It looked like Prince Albert, his dreamy blue, hound-dog eyes gazing longingly at me. The work had the most exquisite detail, as fine as a colored photograph. It was a masterpiece. The thought crossed my mind that nothing could be so beautiful but the original. But that would be impossible. The Queen Mother had owned that, so this couldn’t possibly be the real thing. Or could it?
Now wouldn’t that be something?
I put the loupe down and picked up my champagne and considered the possibilities. The late Queen Mother’s jewelry collectio
n was among the most valuable and renowned in the world, containing many exquisite pieces, some better known than others. This bracelet, for instance, while not particularly well-known to the public, was a family favorite. But . . . the Queen Mother had liked to gamble. Her racing debts were almost as legendary as her jewelry. Could she have sold the original and hers was actually a replica? She and Lady Melody, while not contemporaries, were close friends. Is it possible she sold it quietly to her pal for a big pile of secret cash? No.
I studied the maker’s mark. Garrard, 1850.
I laughed out loud. This was ridiculous. Lady Melody must have paid a fortune to have some disreputable jeweler make such a detailed copy. Garrard would never agree to construct an exact replica—they’d lose their warrants and their reputation.
And if it were the real thing. So what? What difference could that make to me? None. I had no provenance.
Closer examination turned up no personal messages engraved in the setting. It was simply the most beautiful vivid, erotic piece of jewelry I’d ever seen.
The diamond engagement ring was a stunner as well, but on closer examination, the stone, which had superior color and clarity, paled in comparison to the quality of the stones in the bracelet. How good was it? Very, very good. Distinctive? Not really. It was a commercial, retail piece, nothing particularly special or distinguishing in spite of the size and quality of the diamond. It was the sort of item that would be bought at auction by a dealer for the breakdown value. It would be remade. Possibly even recut. The ring bore the maker’s mark of Graff, who, if the piece were brought to his attention, could easily identify it and who the original owner was, most likely Lady Melody herself.
So, the question was: Should I sell them through a private dealer or break them down myself and take the stones to my vault in Geneva? I couldn’t take my eyes off the bracelet. Anyone who broke it down should be shot. But one of my hard and fast rules was break a piece down or sell it, immediately. I never took the chance of being caught with stolen goods in my possession. This might be an exception.
I studied it and studied it. If I kept it, where would I wear it? My place in Provence where I planned to retire? No. Nobody wore jewelry like this in the country. And exactly when was this retirement going to come around, anyhow? Talk about a moving target. I was now at least two months behind schedule. I loved Provence with all my heart, I was happier there than anywhere. Why didn’t I just go there and disappear? It would be so easy.
I’d had my little farm outside of St. Rémy de Provence, near the village of Éygalières, for fifteen years. As far as the United Kingdom is concerned, I’m an ex-pat American national who has her passport renewed at the American Embassy every ten years and who’s lived in the same Belgravia residence for thirty-four years, pays British taxes, and flies to her second home outside Marseilles for Christmas, Easter, and August, where she is a taxpaying, land-owning, French visitor in good standing.
That’s one reality. The other is that I use false Liechtenstein papers to travel in and out of England on my frequent jewelry-related business trips, portraying me as Léonie Chaise, a dowdy, middle-aged, Geneva-based international executive in the steel industry. Léonie Chaise has a pied-a-terre in Liechtenstein and is on the road all the time. I maintain her identity the whole time I’m traveling because the number of times I go in and out of England would not be possible or feasible for Kick Keswick, and they’d also be nobody’s business.
F I F T E E N
The downstairs buzzer rang, and I almost had a heart attack. It was ten-forty-five. I ignored it. But whoever it was, was persistent. It rang again and again. I hefted myself out of the tub, wrapped a towel around me, and instead of reopening the workroom to check the screens, I went to the front hall.
“Yes?” I snapped into the quaint intercom. “Who is it?”
“Kick. It’s me.”
The voice sounded familiar. “Me, who?”
“Owen Brace.”
You’ve got to be kidding.
“Can I come up?”
“Of course,” I answered. “First floor. Flat B.”
Presumably he’d forgotten to give me some papers or correspondence or something he needed first thing Monday morning, although I couldn’t imagine what. That’s what faxes and e-mails are for. By the time I opened my door, I’d put on a thick terrycloth robe and a little lipstick. The bracelet and ring were back in the safe.
Owen was holding on to the neck of a bottle of champagne and seemed slightly tipsy. “I’m sorry to barge in at this hour; I hope I didn’t waken you.”
“No, no, come in. I thought you were having dinner with Céline.”
“I was, but I couldn’t take it anymore. She ran into some friends at the bar, and I left her there. I’m sick of conversations with coked-up models who only have first names and no knowledge of life before 1989.”
“You mean they studied the Gulf War in history class?”
“Exactly.” He laughed. “If they’ve even heard of the Gulf War. Most of them are illiterate.”
He pushed past me and walked down the hall into my sitting room and crossed directly to one of the sets of double doors that opened out onto Eaton Square Garden. He smelled brisk and citrusy, and faintly of tobacco.
“This is nice.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “You sound surprised.”
“I suppose I am. Isn’t that a Boule desk?”
“Yes, it is. I’m surprised you recognized it. You must have been studying up.” The bowlegged console—its gold ormolu bumpers, red enamel, tortoise trim, and brass overlay in perfect condition—sat in front of the windows. I always keep a vase of white flowers—lilies, lilacs, French tulips, hydrangeas—on its corner. Tonight they happened to be roses and jasmine.
“Smells like a whorehouse in here.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Just kidding.” He shrugged out of his raincoat and tossed it on the sofa. I picked it up and hung it on the rack in the hall.
I’d worked hard to get my apartment just the way I wanted it, carefully collected its contents, until it resembled, overall, a three-room jewel box. My own Demi-Parure, if you will, to use an archaic jewelry industry term that describes three matching pieces: a brooch, earrings, and necklace. A Parure, itself, has five, including a tiara and a bracelet.
“What can I do for you, Owen? I’m sure you’re here for a reason, other than adult conversation.”
He held up the bottle. “Do you have any glasses?”
“No.”
“You don’t have any glasses?”
“Of course I have glasses, Owen.”
He followed me into the kitchen and sat on one of the stools. “Did you see Tina’s press conference? David left me a message that I should watch—said he’s got it all covered, whatever that means. It’s supposed to be on again at eleven. He sent a video to the hotel, but I didn’t have time to watch.” I set two flutes on the counter. “Do you have anything to eat?”
“Sure. Wait till I get some clothes on. I’ll be right back.”
Well now, wasn’t this a situation? Naturally, it was nothing like my nocturnal visits from Sir Cramner, and I certainly didn’t plan to slip into a negligee. Owen Brace and I were contemporaries, and although he wasn’t aware of it, I didn’t need his approval or his money. I opted for comfort, and pulled on the cashmere warm-up suit.
It was startling to see a man in my kitchen again, especially such a handsome, vigorous one who looked so totally at home. A man with some Sir-Cramner-color in his face unlike the sepulchral Ballantine gray that had matched Benjamin’s suits and complexion. Owen’s jacket hung on the back of a chair. He’d rolled up the sleeves on his white dress shirt and loosened his tie. His banker’s shoes shone, and his suit pants hung straight, held in place by silvery gray damask suspenders with a shadow of pound signs discreetly woven in. Owen was in beautiful condition. He was of medium-tall build, fit and trim, flat stomach, longish hair smoothed back. His eyes moved con
stantly, like a wolf’s, and he had a quick, friendly, disarming smile that he turned in my direction when I walked in. The TV set was on, and he was fixing Brie and cold roast beef sandwiches on sliced baguettes.
“This is great. You can’t imagine how great it is to open someone’s refrigerator and find some actual food inside. Usually it’s just a couple of yogurts and a bottle of Evian. Well”—he picked up his flute— “cheers and thanks.”
“My pleasure.” My tone was as neutral as my attitude.
“You’re quite the gardener.” He tilted his head past the breakfast nook in the direction of the terrace garden, which was always in bloom with one sort of thing or other. “What’re those things?”
“Sprouts.”
“Huh. You didn’t strike me as the sprout type.”
“Well, I’m full of surprises, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, you are.” He smiled again. “It’s unexpected.”
“That’s why they’re called surprises. Oh, here she is.”
Tina’s face, mostly hidden behind her white-rimmed, signature dark glasses, filled the screen. Owen punched up the sound.
“We had a terrible row,” she said into a bank of microphones on the front steps of their former love nest, Chihuahuas tucked in her arms like little pop-eyed Beanie Babies. “I tried to leave, I’ve been afraid of him since the day we married. But”—she began to cry—“I couldn’t take it anymore, and he got so angry, he hit me.” Tina gingerly pulled off the dark glasses to reveal a black eye. “So I threw him out of the house. My heart is broken.”
“What in the hell?” Owen choked, spewing champagne across the counter.
I started to laugh.
“She is a complete idiot. I can’t even believe it.”
“That’s obviously what David meant, that he has it covered. We all saw her leave today, and we can all prove she didn’t have a black eye.”
“I know, but who the hell needs the aggravation.”
Brilliant Page 7
