Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  He never finished the sentence. There was a sudden blinding flash, and a tremendous explosion lifted the Beatriz clear out of the water and then tore her apart, the homemade napalm raining fiery debris all around.

  A quarter of a mile away, Donough Kildare braced himself against the shock waves. One moment the Beatriz was there; the next she was gone.

  All that was left were furiously burning pieces of flotsam.

  "Bon voyage," he said softly, giving a sardonic salute.

  Then, adjusting his course for Fort Lauderdale, he sailed off into the sunset.

  Chapter 45

  Saturday, March 9, the day of the princely wedding, dawned stormy and gray. Princess Sofia awoke to flashing lightning and booming thunder. A fierce rain lashed Schloss Engelwiesen's hundreds of tall windows, and the waters of the lake seemed aboil with malevolent fury.

  "Wach auf!" Sofia elbowed her husband awake.

  "Ow!" Erwein, tasseled bedcap harking back to an earlier century, let out a startled yelp and sat up straight.

  For a moment he didn't know where he was. And then he remembered. They were in the bedroom of a two-room suite on the second floor, to which Karl-Heinz had relegated them, and about which Sofia had complained bitterly.

  He looked at her. "Was gebt's?" he mumbled sourly.

  Her eyes glowed like a cat's in the dark. "Oh, Erwein, listen! Just listen—" She gestured to the window.

  As if on cue, an ear-shattering crack of thunder shook the Schloss, accompanied by particularly impressive flashes of lightning.

  Sofia smirked. "You see? What did I tell you, Erwein? It is just as I said. The big day," she announced triumphantly, "is going to be a disaster!"

  "Ja, Liebling," Erwein sighed, thankful that the storm had put her in a good mood. "You were right, as always."

  Yes, Sofia thought smugly, I was.

  Erwein lay back down and fell fast asleep.

  But on this day, Sofia's disposition was dependent upon the vagaries of the weather, and it seemed the weather was out to taunt her.

  By nine o'clock, she was back on the warpath.

  The thunderstorm had long passed, and the prevailing easterly had swept away every last vestige of cloud. The sun shone brilliantly, the deep blue lake was mirror-smooth, and the distant snowy Alps looked like jagged mounds of whipped cream, the view so razor sharp that she felt she could almost reach out and touch them.

  Erwein was in the bathroom shaving when he heard her calling.

  "Errrrrweiiiiin ..." she cooed.

  His hand jerked, and the pearl-handled straight razor slipped and cut a gash in his cheek.

  "Errrrrweiiiiin ..."

  He looked around wildly, desperately seeking escape. Unfortunately, this particular bathroom had only the one door and a small window.

  Scheisse! He was trapped.

  "Errrrrweiiiiin ..."

  Shoulders slumping, he dropped the razor in the sink. Might as well get it over with, he thought miserably.

  "Ja, ja," he said, weary resignation in his voice, "lch komme schon ..."

  The wedding ceremony, with typical Germanic punctuality, had been scheduled for exactly two-thirty in the afternoon.

  At one forty-five Zandra was still upstairs in the Brautkammer of Das Trauungshaus, the von und zu Engelwiesens' bride-to-be's residence in Augsburg, turning a deaf ear to the anguished duckings of Grafin Fuchswalder and Baroness Frohlichhasen, both of whom insisted it was time to head to the cathedral, and—Gott im Himmel!—the bride wasn't even dressed yet! As if they could leave without the limousines having arrived, or the trio of aunts—Lady Josephine, Lady Cressida, and Lady Alexandra—part of Zandra's English contingent, still dawdling in their respective guest rooms, presumably powdering themselves or doing whatever it was old ladies did.

  Kenzie, who had also stayed the night in this, the finest Renaissance house on the Maximilianstrasse, the finest Renaissance street in all Germany, doubted that those grand old ladies would permit themselves to be rushed.

  She herself, however, was pacing the front parlor, the uniquely chic, Empire-waisted violet silk mousseline gown with its one gold-embroidered sleeve and a single long matching gold glove, at odds with her bourgeois agitation.

  Weddings always made her uneasy, but this—a princely wedding in a cathedral, with a guest list culled from the oldest, the noblest, and the grandest of all European noble families, as well as a veritable Who's Who of international cafe society—only added to her disquiet.

  The doorbells chimed, and from upstairs, the voices of Grafin Fuchswalder and Baroness Frohlichhasen rose in feverish pitch.

  Not that Kenzie could fault them. The two noblewomen, who made their living by arranging proper comings out, weddings, and funerals, had been put in charge of the wedding—a major feather in their hats if it came off well, the certain road to bankruptcy if it didn't.

  A uniformed maid showed two identically dressed arrivals, who wore humongous round yellow hats pinned back at the front, into the paneled parlor.

  "So where's the bride?" Dina inquired, swirling out of her yellow boucle coat and turning around in a diaphanous cloud of pale lemon yellow silk.

  Kenzie pointed upstairs.

  From the sounds drifting down the stairwell, it was obvious that the well-bred composure of the wedding planners was being severely tested.

  Becky said: "Mon Dieu! Who is making that wretched noise?"

  "The Grafin and the Baroness," Kenzie sighed. "They're worried that Zandra is going to be late."

  "How utterly Germanic," Becky pronounced, discarding her coat on a low-backed chair with stretcher-joined legs and gold-fringed velvet. "In my experience, it is the prerogative of a bride to be late to her own wedding. Alors."

  She looked around.

  "A glass of champagne would be exceedingly welcome, n'est-ce pas? Especially in view of the fact that a High Mass precedes the ceremony." Dina beckoned imperiously at the maid who was picking up their coats. "Bring us two champagnes, please."

  As an afterthought, she glanced at Kenzie.

  "Oh. Would you like one, sweetie?"

  "That would be nice. Please."

  "Three." Dina held up three fingers and spoke as to a child. "Drei. Champagne. Chilled. Er ... kalt. Kalt!"

  "Chilled champagne, yes," the maid replied in perfect English. "Would you prefer Dom Perignon or Cristal?"

  "Cristal," Dina said, adding, under her breath: "Show off!"

  Becky drifted, slapping long yellow gloves in the palm of her hand as she gazed around.

  "Wonderful woodwork!" Dina effused.

  "Oui." Becky shrugged. "If you like Renaissance mit Hun."

  Dina frowned. Then, as if truly registering Kenzie, she glided forward for a closer inspection.

  "So," she said, pretending to have to search her memory cells. "Ms.... Turner! Is that right?"

  "That's-a-me!" Kenzie said, trying for humor.

  It was lost on Dina, who seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

  But no matter—just then the three aunts, slowly descending the staircase, drew their attention. All three wore flower-heavy hats, and Kenzie calculated, correctly, that the slim, haughty one in the lead, Lady Josephine, was the most formidable.

  Lady Alexandra, at near eighty the eldest and frailest, was a sweet- faced, gin-scented darling with yellow seed-pearl teeth and a perpetually startled expression, as if surprised to find herself still alive.

  Lady Cressida, moon-faced and largish, had an unsettling mongoloid look, with eerie, wide-set pale, pale eyes, each of which went in a different direction, and a tiny horizontal sliver of a lipless mouth.

  All three wore outdated, flower-patterned garden party dresses, strands of exceedingly good and very, very large real pearls, and positively reeked of Old Money.

  "Z-Z-Zandra?" Lady Alexandra tottered across the room and peered nearsightedly up at Becky, then Dina, and finally Kenzie.

  "Zandra's not here, Alex," Lady Cressida half-shouted.

 
"What?" Lady Alexandra cupped an arthritic hand to her ear. "I can't hear you!" she shouted. "Why don't you speak up?"

  Lady Cressida took her by the arm. "Looks like Zandra's still upstairs," she said, having to raise her voice. "Where's your hearing aid, dear?"

  The ancient lady's chin went up. "I refuse to be seen with it," she shouted with dignity.

  "Where is it, Alex?"

  Lady Alexandra smiled triumphantly. "I flushed it!"

  Cressida rolled her eyes. An unsettling sight.

  The maid came with the champagne.

  "Ah, gin!" Lady Alexandra clasped her hands to her flowery bosom. "Lovely."

  "No, Alex, it's champagne."

  "Oh."

  Cressida patted her on the arm. "Don't worry. We'll get you a gin, dear."

  Lady Alexandra looked around. "Where's Rudolph?"

  "In hospital, dear. Remember?"

  "Hospital?" Lady Alexandra blink-blinked her eyes. "But someone must give the bride away! Oh, dear. Who will give Zandra away?"

  "I imagine I shall," Aunt Josephine intoned regally.

  "Oh," Lady Alexandra fretted. "Oh oh oh! If only poor Stefan were—"

  " 'Poor' Stefan drank himself to death," Lady Josephine said ominously. "Thank God he's not here. And as for Rudolph—" She pronounced his name with rolling R's, as if it were a two-syllable song "—he'd probably be passed out by now."

  "Josie!" cried Cressida, scandalized.

  "Well, he would do. Takes after his father," Josephine sniffed.

  Suddenly the sound of horses' hooves could be heard outside the window, and a car horn hooted, followed by a rapid-fire stream of urgent German coming from directly above.

  Then Baroness Frohlichhasen leaned over the landing of the staircase, one hand clutching the banister, the other holding onto her big turquoise picture hat.

  "The vehicles are here!" she called down. "Help us, somebody! The bride refuses to come out of the bathroom! She has locked herself inside!"

  The aunts looked at one another serenely, as if this were common behavior in the family, and was to be expected.

  "Please ... anybody!"

  Becky looked at Dina.

  Dina looked at Kenzie.

  Becky looked at her, too.

  Guess I'm elected, Kenzie thought, and hurried upstairs.

  Zandra, wearing her white slip and white lace stockings, was doubled over the sink.

  She didn't know what had come over her. She had barely picked up her bridal outfit when a rush of intense heat had engulfed her. Dropping the dress, she'd rushed into the bathroom and locked herself inside.

  She barely made it in time.

  When there was nothing more to throw up, Zandra ran cold water and splashed handfuls of it up into her face and thought, Some bride I am.

  She stared at her pallid reflection in the mirror.

  It must be my nerves. Just a case of the last-minute jitters.

  Suddenly a convulsive sob rose from her chest. The reality of the wedding was more than she had bargained for.

  It's too much. It's all too damn much. She felt as if her life had spun crazily out of control. And it has.

  Zandra remembered the poem, "The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost. But when, she wondered, did two roads diverge for me? When had she taken that first fateful step which eventually led her here, to this particular spot, at this very moment?

  Knuckles rapped an urgent staccato on the bathroom door.

  "Zandra?" The concerned voice was Kenzie's. "You okay, kiddo?"

  No. I'm not okay. What did W. C. Fields say? "I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

  "Zandra? Will you let me in?"

  "One sec."

  Swiftly Zandra rinsed out her mouth with handfuls of water and patted her lips dry on a towel. Then she unlocked the door, opened it just wide enough for Kenzie to slip through, and quickly bolted it again.

  Kenzie took one look at Zandra and shook her head. "Lord have mercy."

  "Is everything all right in there?" Baroness Frohlichhasen called from right outside.

  "It will be, if you'll leave us alone," Kenzie called back. "This is Zandra's wedding. If she's a little late, it won't make the trains not run on time."

  Despite herself, Zandra had to giggle. "Gosh, Kenzie. You darling, darling fool. Mussolini. He's the one who made the trains run on time, Mussolini, Kenzie. Not Adolf."

  "Who cares? They both wore weird pants."

  "Awfully baggy, weird pants," Zandra agreed, giggling some more.

  Then her composure abruptly faltered.

  "Oh, darling," she gasped. And holding out her arms, she began to weep.

  Kenzie engulfed her in a warm embrace. "That's right. C'mon ... let it all out ..."

  Zandra buried her face in Kenzie's shoulder. "It's as though—" She was racked with sobs "—as though everything's suddenly so ... real."

  "Shush."

  "And I'm frightfully scared and—"

  "There's nothing to be scared of." Kenzie patted the stooped, heaving bare back.

  "But there is."

  "Why? Because you can't go through with the wedding? Is that it?"

  "It ... it's not a matter of can't. Darling, I-I've got to."

  "You do not! You have a God-given right to pursue your own happiness."

  Zandra choked back a sob. "I told you. I made a deal."

  "So?"

  Kenzie pulled away and held Zandra at arm's length. "You know Heinzie won't hold you to it."

  Zandra bit her lower lip.

  "Don't you?"

  "Yes. That's why it's up to me not to put him in a compromising position."

  "Is that the famous von Hohenburg-Willemlohe pride speaking?"

  "Oh, bugger pride! I believe in paying debts of honor."

  "Zandra, listen to me! Paying one's debts is one thing. But slavery's been outlawed."

  Zandra sniffled and wiped her eyes.

  "Now, be honest with me," Kenzie said softly. "This is just between the two of us. Okay?"

  Zandra nodded.

  "Do you love Heinzie?"

  "Jesus, shit, Kenzie. Hell kind of question is that?"

  "The honest kind that requires an honest answer."

  Zandra sighed. "Well, if you must know, at times I actually think I do."

  "And at others?"

  Zandra pinched her slip here and there and pulled it straight. "At others, I'm not quite sure."

  "But he did say he loved you?"

  "He told me so." Zandra gave an assessing frown. "Yes."

  "But you're still not sure?"

  "Kenzie," Zandra said. "Whatever powers do you attribute to me? I'm not clairvoyant, you know."

  "I know that. But it's not too late to change your mind."

  "Yes, but I won't."

  Now that her physical upheaval had lessened, Zandra wiped her eyes and peered around, as if to orient herself. With her fingers, she brushed back a tangle of marmalade hair which had fallen over one eye. Then, seeing her reflection, she braced herself like steel.

  "God. That's me? How could I ever have made such a mess of my makeup! Hand me a tissue, darling, would you?"

  Kenzie pulled out a handful.

  "Oh, good. Now, if you'll help me repair the damage, I'd walk through hot coals for you."

  "I take this to mean you're going through with it?"

  "Of course. Told you. For richer, for poorer; for better, for worse. Yes."

  "You really want to?"

  Zandra held her gaze. Her pallor had receded, and some of the color had returned to her face. "Yes, Kenzie," she said quietly. "I do."

  "There's no shame—"

  "Oh, do stop it. Darling, it was only a case of the last-minute jitters. You know. A bride is entitled to an anxiety attack, isn't she? I feel better now. Tons better."

  "Prenuptial anxiety? You're sure that's all it was?"

  "Yes. And I needed a good cry. Thanks for the shoulder. And for being here. For everything, actually."

  "Rememb
er, I'll always be there if you need me."

  Zandra took Kenzie's hands and squeezed them.

  "I know. And I do appreciate it, darling. Really I do."

  She smiled tentatively and Kenzie smiled back.

  "Now, before we both get misty-eyed, please. Help me get presentable! There's the makeup to do, and—shit! I'm not even dressed!"

  They both got busy.

  Ten minutes later, Zandra was ready to face the world. The transformation that had been wrought was remarkable.

  The uncertain woman who had locked herself in the bathroom had been pale and ill and red-eyed. The one who gazed into the full-length mirror at herself was self-assured and ready to do a cover shoot for Brides magazine.

  "My God," Kenzie whispered. "You look incredible!"

  Zandra hugged her.

  "Well? What do you think, darling? Shall we put Grafin Fuchswalder and Baroness Frohlichhasen out of their misery?"

  The square in front of the cathedral wore a festive air. Bells pealed from high in the Gothic spires, and sidewalk vendors were doing a brisk business. The crowd which had gathered included many whose own ancestors had, over the centuries, stood here to watch von und zu Engelwiesens arriving in gilded coaches and carriages for their nuptials.

  This being the last half of the last decade of the twentieth century, tabloid photographers were out in full force, and video crews from various countries had come to capture the rich, the famous, and the titled for television.

  A roar rose from the crowd as a motorcycle escort in green and white Polizei uniforms turned the corner, leading the cavalcade to the cathedral. Behind them came a train of stately Daimlers and Mercedes limousines carrying the bride and groom's closest relatives, the best man, the bridesmaids, and the flower girls.

  Next came a group of mounted horsemen who rode two abreast in perfect cadence, their nineteenth-century uniforms exquisite, with polished boots trimmed in gold lace and ceremonial swords in filigreed scabbards.

  Behind them, inside a gilded horse-drawn carriage emblazoned with the von und zu Engelwiesen coat of arms, rode Karl-Heinz.

  The crowd's cheers intensified as he waved from inside.

  His carriage was followed by another group of mounted horsemen, and then came a second, even more elaborate horse-drawn coach.