Brilliant

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

  “Lord Spaulding?” Owen looked blank.

  “You know,” I said. “Lord Richard Spaulding, eighth Earl of Lincolnshire, as in Spaulding Air, the Spaulding Group. Spaulding Scotch Whiskey. Hello? Any bells yet?”

  Bertram shook his head and laughed.

  “Right.” Owen smiled. “I’m with you.” He took the receiver. “Lord Spaulding, what a pleasant surprise to hear from you. How may I be of service?”

  Owen was learning fast. He listened. Nodded a couple of times, kept listening, and finally said, “I’d love to, thanks. See you then.” He hung up. “I’m going away next weekend.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going fishing in Scotland.”

  “That’s terrific,” I said.

  “No big deal.”

  It was a very big deal, and it was exactly the sort of affirmation Owen had been seeking. This was his first invitation into the inner sanctum of that upper-class, private world, where people had hunting and fishing lodges on gigantic private acreages, and art and sword and suit-of-armor collections that had been in their families for generations, for all the good that would do us now, once we put Bertram’s specialization plan into effect.

  “Their retrievers and spaniels have better pedigrees than most of the aristocracy,” Bertram commented. “Well done, Owen. This is a landmark. Invitations to Richard Spaulding’s castle—Lord Richard’s anything for that matter—are hard to come by. I’ve only been there a few times myself.” He couldn’t help preening. “Better get yourself over to Hardy’s.”

  “Hardy’s?”

  “You know, man. The House of Hardy. The fishing store down around the corner. You’ve got to get properly suited up. This will be a crowd that takes their fishing seriously.”

  “Right.”

  “Funny. I’ve heard the sport up there is for more warm-blooded prey,” I said, unable to keep an unfortunate cryptic sneer out of my voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That it’s like the Playboy Mansion of Scotland.”

  “Rubbish!” Bertram barked. “That’s those bloody tabloids for you, always just short of libelous. It’s nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh,” Owen looked disappointed. “Too bad. I’d much rather fuck than fish.”

  “OWEN BRACE!”

  “Sorry, Kick.” His face was instantly red. “I’m kidding. Sorry, Bertram.”

  “One step forward, ten steps back,” Bertram muttered as he left the room.

  F O R T Y - N I N E

  “Will you be okay on your own this weekend?” It was Thursday noon, and Owen was leaving in an hour. “I know we’d talked about going to the country.”

  “Of course. I’ll be fine.” My tone was more abrupt than I wanted it to be.

  Deep down, I was disappointed he was going away without me, although I never would let him see it. I was really getting to like being with Owen, counting on it, getting the hang of this love thing. He made everything a challenge, kept me constantly on my toes, always ready to thrust and parry. He forced me to go in directions that had never appealed to me, such as listening to rock and roll—I kept telling myself that the headaches were getting smaller, but I swear to God, most of the time I felt like pulling out a gun and shooting the radio. Or eating a late dinner—he was a night person. I was not. I’d stopped cooking. I don’t think he even realized I knew how, but who wants to start putting dinner on the table at nine o’clock at night? And then clean it up? Not I. There was nothing peaceful or relaxing about our relationship, which I regretted in one corner of my mind because I loved peace, quiet, stability, the simple repetition of my day-to-day patterns. I didn’t like always being on guard, but I’d done enough reading to know that is the sort of thing that keeps one mentally agile, even better than crossword puzzles, which I also hadn’t had time to do. In the other corner of my mind, of course, was the fact that we kept each other in an almost constant state of mental and sexual stimulation and anticipation. I reminded myself regularly not to confuse this with love; but it was getting harder and harder not to, especially because he talked about it all the time.

  I told myself I was relieved he was going away for the weekend. I hadn’t been to France for over a month, and I was longing to get to my little farmhouse and just be me. Quiet, peaceful, predictable, stable me. Catch my breath. Make an omelette. Roast a chicken. Okay, that’s a bunch of bull. I was jealous. I didn’t want Owen to go to Richard Spaulding’s castle, I’d read too much about it. Even if it was rumor mongering about the parties and the girls—every lie holds a kernel of truth.

  “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Look out for those Spaulding flight attendants,” I said. “I’ve heard it gets pretty wild up there.”

  “This is men only. Besides, I’ve already lived that life. You know that, Kick.” He traced his finger down my cheek. “If I wanted some mindless chimp of a calendar girl, I wouldn’t have to go to Scotland to find her.” It was true. Just because he’d taken himself off the market—our picture had already been in the Seen About Town column twice! Okay, let me tell the truth: Owen’s picture had been in the column with a partial me in the vicinity. My face was never really seen and my name was never mentioned, but I knew it was me—I was the one there with Owen, not some bimbo, and I knew it and he knew it. But the demand for him by the girls never abated. They still called up all day long.

  “I’m all yours.” He put his arms around me and kissed me. “Seriously, what are you going to do?”

  “Work in my little roof garden, put away my winter clothes. Get some uninterrupted sleep.”

  I went home and started packing.

  F I F T Y

  I’d just started the dishwasher and was almost out the back door for Heathrow and the ten o’clock flight to Marseilles, when the downstairs buzzer rang. I must have jumped ten feet in the air. What on earth? Owen was in Scotland, he’d flown up on Lord Richard’s private jet. I knew they’d taken off and landed because I’d checked, and Owen had called me when he arrived. He’d lugged along twenty thousand dollars worth of brand-new, salmon-fishing gear and clothing, the finest available on earth. ‘Why don’t we own this company?’ he’d asked me. ‘It would fit right in with our other lines.’ ‘You need a fishing-gear company like you need a hole in the head,’ I told him.

  “Yes?” I answered the buzzer.

  “Good evening, Kick. Commander Thomas Curtis, here. Have you got a moment?”

  Oh, brother.

  “Of course, Thomas. Just give me a minute. I was just getting into the tub.” As I dashed into my bedroom, ripping off my wig and glasses, pulling off my clothes and throwing them into the closet, a million things went through my mind. He’d become a fixture of sorts around the office, but why would he come to my house, unexpectedly? It didn’t seem possible that there were any questions left unasked. He’d drilled us all, researched every possibility, for weeks. Was it possible he was onto me as the Shamrock Burglar? No! No way. My mouth went dry. I pawed through my closet and slipped on a deep turquoise, heavy Chinese silk robe with coral silk lining and gold frog closures, silk slippers, sprayed on a little scent, and buzzed him in. What else could I do?

  My carry-on suitcase was sitting in the back hall at the door to the service entrance. My purse and gloves resting on top. I darted into the kitchen, opened the utility closet, and shoved them inside, remembering suddenly I still had brown contact lenses in my eyes. I dropped the second one in my pocket just as he reached the landing.

  “Please,” I said. “Come in.”

  I could smell tobacco, and a vague tinge of Trumper’s lime cologne. “What’s wrong?” He sounded concerned. “Do you have something in your eye?”

  “No. Just an eyelash or something. It’s gone now. May I take your coat?”

  He shook his head no and dug his hands in his pockets. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced. I hope I’m not interrupting.” His eyes took me and my flat in at a glance.

  “No.” I shrugge
d. “Just wrapping up the day. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or how about a whiskey?”

  “Actually, a light whiskey would be much appreciated.”

  “Wonderful. I was just going to have one myself.” I selected a bottle of hundred-year-old, single malt from my well-stocked drinks table and a cut-crystal tumbler.

  “This is a first-rate painting,” he said. “It’s not a real van Gogh, is it?”

  I shook my head. “School of.”

  “I wonder where it was painted, it’s beautiful. Provence, I imagine. Have you ever been there?”

  “Once. On a vacation with friends. It is beautiful.”

  “I’d love to live there when I retire.”

  “Who wouldn’t. Ice?” My head started to ache, a big sharp throb behind my left eye.

  “No. Neat is fine. It would be a sin to dilute that,” he said.

  “I agree.” Thank God. I didn’t want to have to go into the kitchen.

  He might have followed me. Even though Owen thought my outdoor pots of shamrocks were sprouts, I was certain Thomas Curtis would not be so easily fooled.

  I poured us each a good one-inch wallop. “Please, sit down.” I handed him his glass and settled in my favorite red-and-gold silk damask wing chair. Between the robe and the chair, I was amazed he didn’t have to squint to look at me. “This is a pleasant surprise. Salut.”

  He scanned the room as he drank. “You’ve done well for a juvenile delinquent from Oklahoma.”

  “There’s little mystery if you know the story.” I placed my glass on the table.

  “It’s none of my business, Kick. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “I was Sir Cramner’s executive aide and confidante for twenty-five years. I was also his mistress. He settled me well.”

  There it was again: the Truth. The sparklers in my mouth. What was it about Thomas that made me want him to know about me? He knew more truth from our few meetings than Owen did from a few months, a few very intimate months. Owen knew my body more intimately than anyone ever had, but when it came to me, personally? He still knew basically zero. He took what I said at face value. He was completely uninterested. I’d pretty much come to grips with the trite, but true, fact that Owen was a male caricature, interested in three things: sex, business, and fast cars. The order was random, and equally satisfying for limited periods of time at every stage.

  “Anything else you’d like to know? You seem to have a way of going to the heart of my secrets.” I liked the way Thomas looked— comfortable, intelligent. Maybe not smarter than Owen, but definitely more cerebral. Accessible. Okay, let me put it this way: Thomas and Owen were probably the same age, but Thomas was, as he’d already pointed out, a grown-up man, substantial. Owen was an overgrown brat. Thomas was like Bertram and Sir Cramner—if only I’d met him earlier.

  My hand drifted absentmindedly to my neck and began playing with the thin chain that was attached to the Pasha, twisting it around my fingers, slowly pulling the stone into sight, like a bucket of sparkling water being drawn from a dark well into the sun.

  Thomas’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. He scratched his ear and struggled to keep his eyes on my face. “No.” He grinned and his cheeks reddened. “But I will say Sir Cramner was a lucky man.”

  “Yes, well, I looked pretty good when I was younger.”

  “You’re still so beautiful, I don’t think my heart could have taken a younger version.”

  Our eyes met, and we both looked away quickly.

  “Sorry. That’s not why I’m here, either.” Thomas twirled the whiskey in his glass. “We’re close to concluding the investigation around the bombing—at least to clearing all the Ballantine employees of any involvement.”

  “That’s good news. Not unexpected, though. We’re a pretty honest group.” I smiled at him, and he grinned back.

  “Yes. The fact is, during this period, some other elements—unrelated to the bombing—have emerged, and I was thinking that possibly you could shed some light on them.”

  “Other elements?” I crossed my legs and smoothed the silk robe. “You mean besides Gil Garrett’s missing past?”

  Thomas nodded slowly. Portentously.

  My mouth filled with cotton. The air in the room became thick as molasses, weighted down with danger—as though a giant safe or atom bomb was approaching from above at a high rate of speed and at the next second would crash through the ceiling and flatten us into pancakes or blow us to smithereens.

  The Pasha swung from my fingers like a hypnotist’s charm. Thomas cleared his throat and rolled the glass between his hands.

  Then he looked into my eyes. Then at the stone. It was taking him too long to speak, and the longer it took, the more my head ached. I began to prepare myself, mentally, for a rout. To assess and try to identify what I’d done wrong. Except for overstaying my time in Lady Melody’s dressing room, I hadn’t gotten sloppy, and I hadn’t taken any chances. There hadn’t been any complaints at the company about inferior stones or suspicious pieces. While Thomas seemed to be girding himself for something, I took advantage of the silence to sort through the last few heists. I couldn’t see a crack anywhere in my operation, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’d left a calling card other than shamrocks and a lump on some stranger’s head at Mrs. Winthrop’s. Maybe I’d left clues somewhere big enough to drive a truck through.

  How stupid of me not to follow my instincts and bail out for France months ago. I would be safe there by now.

  Oh, hell. Why doesn’t he say something? He looked like he was a million miles away.

  Is this how it will conclude, my brilliant career as one of the most brilliant jewel thieves in history? This easily, in my own living room, without scramble or bloodshed or fancy gunplay? Were there police in riot gear lined up outside my door waiting to take me into custody? Or shoot me if I put up a fight? My mind skipped down a list of solicitors.

  Would Owen come to my aid? Don’t be silly. Not a chance.

  I was on my own.

  F I F T Y - O N E

  “Thomas,” I said. I couldn’t take it anymore. Whatever it was, I wanted it over with. “Have you fallen asleep? What other elements?”

  His eyes looked glazed. “Sorry. It’s that damned diamond or whatever that thing is. I can’t take my eyes off it.”

  My hand caught the pendant midswing and held it tight. “It’s the Pasha of St. Petersburg. A gift from Sir Cramner. Thirty-five carats. I’ll put it away.” The stone vanished down my front as quickly as a shooting star, causing his head to jerk slightly and his vision to clear. I gave him a big smile. “You were saying something about other elements of the investigation?”

  Thomas took a swig of whiskey. “Right. Just how much do you know about Owen Brace?”

  “What?” Stay cool. Stay cool. I could not let my relief show. He didn’t want to know about me. It was Owen. Talk about a break. “What do you mean, how much do I know about Owen Brace? You mean about his business life, his personal life. What?”

  Thomas smiled guilelessly. “You’re right, it is a rather broad question. Let me put it to you differently. During the course of the investigation, we’ve uncovered some questions about his background, and I was hoping you could possibly help answer them.”

  “I’ll do what I can to help. I don’t know him all that well.”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “I wouldn’t go that far, Kick.” At least he had the class not to make a crack about droit de seigneur or my being company property, and for that, I was grateful and impressed.

  “You know what I mean,” I said.

  “Yes. I do. The fact is, I suspect you don’t know him well at all. An unusual string of coincidences has emerged, completely unrelated to the bombing.”

  “Such as?”

  “Has he ever talked to you about his first wife?”

  “His first wife? Let me think.” I worked to recall what he’d said. “I think he said they lived in New Jersey and she was killed in a car accident.
”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not that I remember, but I really didn’t pay that much attention. If you must know, we don’t spend a lot of time talking about his ex-wives.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do. But if you’ll indulge me . . . what about his second wife? Has he told you anything about her?”

  I frowned. This was getting a little weird. “What exactly are you after, Thomas? You’re making me uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m after. Probably nothing. Just some rumors, bits of stories floating around. That sort of thing.”

  “All right. Let me make this quick.” I didn’t attempt to hide the impatience in my voice. “Here’s everything I know about his wives: The first one died in a car wreck. He said he loved his second one. I don’t think he said what happened to her, just that she’s dead. Then his marriage with Tina hit the skids, and he says he’ll never get married again, because he has such bad luck.”

  “When did he tell you all this?”

  “The night he filed for divorce from Tina.”

  “Who then died. That night.”

  “Oh, give me a break. You’ve been watching too much television. She committed suicide.” I got up and poured more scotch in our glasses. I didn’t want to appear to be rushing him, but I was thinking that if he left within ten minutes, I could still make my plane. “Besides, why aren’t you asking him these questions?”

  “I have.”

  Funny, I thought. Owen didn’t tell me he’d had such a conversation with Thomas. But then, I didn’t tell him about mine, either.

  “He said the same thing you said, that the first was killed in a car accident in New Jersey—the car went off a bridge and fell hundreds of feet into a river. However, when I contacted the New Jersey State Police, their records revealed they suspected foul play but never had been able to determine, definitively, what happened. Now as to the second Mrs. Brace, according to Brace himself, she was killed in a fall in the Grand Canyon when they were on their honeymoon—he was living in Las Vegas at that time.” Thomas’s tone was pejorative.