I mounded the olives and apple slices here and there artistically among the cheeses.
I was as happy as I’d always expected I would be. Everything was as I wanted it. I’d gotten a puppy. A beautiful, fluffy, little snow-white Westie. I named her Jewel. I took her everywhere with me. I helped out four mornings a week at the library in St. Rémy, and gave English lessons in the afternoons. I frequently met friends for dinner and had been invited to take a trip to Turkey in November.
My old ways had served their purpose and no longer held any attraction.
S I X T Y - E I G H T
By the time I got back out to the terrace, a number of guests had arrived. The evening was chilly, and a fire roared in the outdoor fireplace. It was twilight, and the flames danced on our faces, giving us all a healthy, golden glow. Lights flickered here and there across the valley. Flaminia motioned me over.
“Kick, come here. I want you to meet someone.”
The man turned to greet me and held out his hand. It was Thomas.
I stared at him, unable to believe my eyes.
“Thomas,” I said at the same time he said, “Kick.”
“You know each other?” Flaminia said. “I can’t even believe it.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I tracked you down.”
“Excuse me, I have other guests to attend to,” Flaminia said, but we ignored her.
Oh, no. Please don’t let this be happening. “How?” My mouth was so dry I could scarcely get the word out.
“I was a detective, you know. A commander.” His blue, blue eyes studied mine, but I could not read what they were saying. They looked kind and gentle as I remembered, but perhaps they always had that sorrowful glow, even when he was making arrests. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
A huge pain shot through my eye. I tried to speak, but no words would come out. I put my hand over my mouth and took a deep breath. I was sure I was about to have a stroke. My thoughts ricocheted: Here I was at a friend’s house, about to be arrested. All the years of secrecy, all the effort, everything, for naught. Who would take care of my puppy? I knew I was about to cry and decided to ask Thomas to take me discreetly, escort me to the parking lot to make the arrest, not do it here during Flaminia’s beautiful soirée. Not humiliate her and Bill. And me. “Thomas . . . ,” I began.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said.
“Thank me?”
“The collapse of the House of Brace could only have been orchestrated by you—it was masterful and elegant. The style with which you did it made me admire you even more. Not to mention the fact that it let me leave my career on a very high note.”
I licked my lips. “Oh? Good, I’m glad.” Could I be wrong? Is it really possible he doesn’t know? That he’s not here to take me back to stand trial?
“So I set about finding you.”
“Oh? And how did you do that?” I was making what felt like a superhuman effort to be bright and gay, but the edges of hysteria welled up in me, choking off my breath and threatening to make me sob out loud with fear. I decided to see if I could take a sip of my drink without spilling it. The swallow of undiluted scotch went down like a spine-stiffening tonic. I took another and my pulse began to slow.
“After I traced you to Liverpool Street Station, where you literally disappeared from the face of the earth, I only had one unsolved clue: the painting in your living room, you know, the one from the School of van Gogh.”
“I know the one you mean.”
“Well, I recalled that during that brief discussion we had about Provence, your eyes took on a sort of special shine, then you changed the subject immediately, which is a dead giveaway when somebody’s trying to hide something.”
“It is?”
“Yes. So I was quite confident I’d find you in Provence. I knew I was going to retire here anyhow, so when I got here, I pulled some strings with the local gendarmes and eventually, some dozens of towns later, I found you. It’s a matter of volume.”
“You didn’t want to find me for any other reason than to thank me?”
Thomas shook his head. “Yes and no. I wanted to find you because I wanted to see you again. I was upset when I discovered you’d vanished, Kick. I didn’t like the way it ended between us, with me standing you up for dinner. Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Well, it is kind of a shock that you’re here, Thomas. I guess it is a little like seeing a ghost—I really never expected to see you again.”
“Are you sorry?”
“No.” I started to laugh. “Actually, I’m so delighted, I just can’t seem to comprehend it. Are you the man Flaminia was talking about who’s staying at Baumanière?”
Thomas nodded and held a match for my cigarette and then lit his own.
“Detective work must pay better than I thought. That’s one of the most expensive hotels in France.”
“I have other resources.”
“Evidently. How long have you known Flaminia and Bill?”
“I met them last week when they were at the hotel having lunch. When Flaminia heard I was single, she practically held my neck to the ground with her foot until I said I’d come this evening. I knew you’d be here.”
“How did you know?”
“She told me.”
“That’s not really very good detective work, is it? Just to have it all handed to you like that. Flaminia says you’re a retired law professor.” I was feeling more comfortable.
“True. Among other things. I’ve had a number of incarnations—law professor, barrister, magistrate, detective—but they were in the first half of my life. I have other pursuits in the second half—I plan to become a gourmet cook, a wine connoisseur, and a porcelain expert.”
“I can’t believe how happy I am to see you.” I held up my glass. “I’m so glad you persevered.”
“You look even more beautiful than I remember,” Thomas said. “And that bracelet is amazing. Where did you get it?”
This was it. This was where my rubber hit the road, wasn’t it? The moment upon which the rest of my life would hinge. I had to make a choice, and the decision was that I wasn’t going to live in or with any more lies, no matter the consequences. “Thank you,” I said. I put my hand on my wrist and fingered the clasp with its diamond melee and secret portrait of Prince Albert. “It is beautiful, isn’t it. I stole it. I used to be the Shamrock Burglar.”
“Right.” Thomas laughed. “And I used to be the Samaritan.”
I had told the truth. It was up to him to believe it or not.
“Do you want me to give you a lift home?” It was almost eight, and guests were starting to depart.
“I know it’s out of your way, but I sent the driver back.”
“Come with me.”
I took him to my house, instead.
“Do you want something for dessert?” I asked, after taking him on a quick tour. “I have some fresh apples. I could make a Tarte Tatin.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like more. I saw a bottle of ’71 Château d’Yquem in your cellar. It’ll go perfectly.”
Of course. He knew without my having to tell him.
I peeled and sliced the apples and put them on to simmer in a cast-iron skillet with a huge amount of butter and sugar. While they caramelized, I went to work rolling out the pastry. Thomas poured us each a small glass of the exquisite dessert wine, which filled our mouths with bouquets of rich, sweet fruit.
“I’ll be right back. I brought you a gift. I left it in the car.” He was back moments later. “Come here.”
I put down my rolling pin, picked up my glass, and followed him into the living room. “What?” I looked around and didn’t see anything.
“Over the mantel,” he said.
It was the Renoir Polonaise Blanche, stolen from Sheiglah Fullerton’s bedroom.
I turned to face him. “You?” I said, incredulously. “The Samaritan Burglar?”
He
nodded and put his hands on my shoulders. “Yes, and I’ve been meaning to speak to you about it. You didn’t need to give me that mighty a whack—it took almost a week to get over the headache.”
“I promise I’ll never do it again.”
“Good. To us, Kick. To our new lives.”
“To us, Thomas.”
We clinked our glasses, put on the music, ate the whole tarte, and laughed all night.
E P I L O G U E
Owen Brace—Owen was charged with grand theft, grand larceny, fraud, and conspiracy, but David de Menuil got him out of jail that afternoon on bail, and thanks to David’s expert legal maneuvering, all the charges eventually were dropped. It hadn’t amounted to much more than a tempest in a teapot, but at least I caused Owen a little final humiliation and heartburn of his own. Christie’s and Sotheby’s protested that the whole thing had been a publicity stunt. The auction was a huge success.
I’d left a gigantic clue for Owen to demonstrate his innocence in the theft in case he needed it: a bouquet of shamrocks on his bed pillow. But I knew he’d never make the connection—he’d just think it was a new addition to the hotel’s turn-down service and throw them away. I was right.
I’d also left a note on his bed table along with the engagement ring, telling him I couldn’t go through with the wedding and had gone to Palm Beach to stay with friends indefinitely. He was unaccustomed to being jilted, so it’s possible this added to his humiliation.
Brace International declared bankruptcy, Panther Automobile Company and Ballantine & Company were sold, at sizable losses. Owen moved to New York, and, within months, he and Gil became partners in a luxury cruise company (not associated with the Niandros Lines).
No investigation was ever made into whether or not Owen had murdered all his wives and Lady Melody, although Thomas continued to contend he had. Looking back on it, I think if they had been murdered, Gil was probably the one who did the dirty work.
Those responsible for planting the bomb that blew up Dimitri Rush’s car have not yet been apprehended, although various factions continue to emerge and claim rightful ownership of the jewels which, to my knowledge, remain the property of Mr. Rush’s family and are still stored in the Ballantine & Company cellar.
Thomas insists that Owen planted the bomb as a publicity stunt, but admits the chances of bringing him to justice are zero.
The replicas of Lady Melody’s furniture and paintings were destroyed.
Bertram Taylor—Thanks to his grubstake, Bertram had no trouble putting together a limited partnership to buy Ballantine & Company. If I were to have any regrets, which I don’t, it would be that I would have liked to have been able to see Owen’s face when he learned Bertram held the KDK Trust. That would be a moment.
Bertram’s idea of making Ballantine & Company a specialty auction firm was successful, and today the company dominates its fields of expertise, especially jewelry. The Arianna Auction guaranteed Ballantine’s spot as the most powerful jewelry auctioneer in the world.
Thomas and I—We got married and are living happily ever after in Provence. We read books, have lunch, take walks, listen to music, teach English at the library and school, drink wine, cook, and make love. But the fact is, some things really are better than sex. We are unbelievably happy.
Every Saturday morning, I still check my e-mail for a message from my lost child. No word yet.
Want to know more about Kick Keswick—international jewel thief, fabulous dresser, and gourmet cook? Marne Davis Kellogg online has details on all of Kick Keswick’s adventures.
The fifth installment in the Kick Keswick Mysteries,
THE REAL THING
will be available in e-bookstores November 5, 2013.
Visit Goodreads to learn more.
A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S
Every time I sit down to write a book or tell a story, I’m reminded that I’m the luckiest person in the world, getting to do what I love best. In the case of Brilliant, not only was I surrounded and supported by my family and friends, but I got to write about jewelry, fraud, theft, good food, and fine wines—what a delicious combination. It was heaven.
My thanks for guidance in the beautiful world of gems, jewelry, and jewelry-making go first and foremost to Bob Gibson at Raymond C. Yard, Inc., in New York, and Brien Foster, Foster & Son, Denver. Both gentlemen were extremely generous with their time, knowledge, and expertise, and any mistakes that have been made are mine. Thank you also to master jeweler Salvador Vargas, who taught me the basics of making fine jewelry; Henry Baker of Oscar Heyman, Inc., New York; and Lana Lee of Neiman-Marcus Precious Jewels, Denver, who gave me a professional jeweler’s loupe, which I treasure. I also appreciated the courtesy with which I was greeted and given behind- the-scenes tours at Van Cleef & Arpels, Place Vendôme, Paris, and Harry Winston, Beverly Hills.
Thank you to Jacqueline Fay and the Sotheby’s jewelry department for the opportunity to observe an auction of important jewelry from the inside. Kick Keswick’s skill at stealing jewelry from Ballantine & Company Auctioneers is fictitious and has absolutely nothing to do with Sotheby’s or anything I learned or observed at Sotheby’s.
When it came to selecting the wines for the meals in Brilliant, Dorothy Gaiter and John Brecher, who write the Wine Journal for the Friday edition of the Wall Street Journal and are the authors of Love by the Glass, made exquisite choices. I’m indebted to them for sharing their time and vast knowledge.
There are not enough words of thanks for my agent, Robert Gottlieb, president and CEO of Trident Media Group; Kimberly Whalen, director of Foreign Rights; and former Foreign Rights director Maya Perez, for guiding and representing me so well and landing me at St. Martin’s Press. Sally Richardson, publisher, St. Martin’s Press, and Matthew Shear, senior vice president and publisher of St. Martin’s Paperbacks, are outstanding to work with and I am very grateful for their enthusiasm about my work. My editor, Jennifer Enderlin, associate publisher and executive editor, is a total visionary and genius. Working on a regular basis with her and her assistant, Kimberly Cardascia, has been one of my most delightful experiences, ever.
What would I do without our friends? Mary and Richard, who read early manuscripts and have bottomless bottles of rum and scotch; and Marcy and Bruce, who not only have thrown spectacular launch parties at the Denver Public Library, but also provided research materials and access essential to the completion of this book. Delores and Stephen, for introducing us to Provence. Thanks also to Pam and Bill, Mary Lou and Randy, Judith, Mita, and the Norfolk book ladies.
My family is so great—they are all fun and funny and they amaze me: my parents with their strength, courage, and steadfast observation of the five-o’clock cocktail hour no matter the obstacles; my brother John, with his encyclopedic knowledge; my brother Drew, with his business expertise and culinary nerve; Hunter, Courtney, Duncan, and Delaney, for their energy and beauty and for making the tremendous sacrifices required to be in the Marine Corps; Pete and Bede, for their independence, talent, good humor, and creativity; our wire fox terrier, Kick, for keeping our world in a constant chaotic roil, and, of course, my husband, Peter, who, like line wine, just gets better and better and better—cowboy boots and all.
Marne Davis Kellogg
Denver, Colorado
2003
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marne Davis Kellogg is the international, best-selling author of 11 mysteries, including the highly popular series of capers featuring Kick Keswick, the world’s greatest jewel thief. In addition to her writing life, she is Executive Vice President of The Kellogg Organization, Inc. Marne and her husband, Peter, live in Denver and on their Colorado ranch in the summertime where she attempts to cook the decadent meals found in her books.
www.marnedaviskellogg.com
Please enjoy the opening chapters from the second book in the Kick Keswick series, PRICELESS, where Kick Keswick, one of the most charming, enchanting, and best-dressed heroines of fiction, discovers that a life
of crime can be impossible to leave behind . . .
Kick Keswick has lived an extraordinary life. For twenty-five years she was the power behind the throne at a venerable London auction house and a master jewel thief. (Stealing only from those who deserved it, of course.) That changed when she fell in love with Commander Thomas Curtis of Scotland Yard and retired to Provence to live respectably, surrounded by beautiful food, wine and picnics in lavender-filled fields. But now, someone is stealing irreplaceable jewels from Paris to Portofino—and using Kick’s signature techniques. To make matters worse, Thomas has disappeared with her secret cache of precious stones. It looks like someone is trying to lure Kick out of retirement, and perhaps Thomas is involved. With Marne Davis Kellogg’s trademark descriptions of fabulous places, wonderful food, and the ultimate in luxurious living, PRICELESS is a deliciously indulgent treat, told with style and wit.
P R O L O G U E
The St. Honoré Room at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, one of the most elegant private dining rooms in the world, thundered with applause as Cécile Everett rose to accept the Legion d’Honneur honoring her late husband, industrialist Cameron Everett. Soft light from the crystal chandeliers and the candles on the tables and torchères in the garden bathed the darkened room, while on the podium, Mrs. Everett stood still—the spotlight sparkling off her jewelry and honey-colored hair—and prepared to receive the ribboned sash from the president of France. Once the black-tie crowd of international industrialists and celebrities quieted, the president spoke.
Brilliant Page 27
