F O R T Y - O N E
At least, I think it was Sebastian. But on second thought, with the night-vision goggles and the tight black clothing and high turtleneck pulled up over his chin, it could have been anybody. It could have even been Lucy Richardson. She and Sebastian were exactly the same size, and when you get right down to it, from what I knew of Sebastian and what I knew of Lucy, I realized it could absolutely be her. Did that mean I thought she’d stolen the queen’s jewelry? Not at all. She hadn’t. But I was 99 percent positive she was in my house looking to steal my jewelry.
I’d spotted the blind spots in the existing security system and the thief had, too. But he or she’d made the mistake of not checking to see if any modifications had been made since I’d moved into Tinka Alexander’s house.
Although I’d left a few lights turned on low, with the night-vision goggles, the burglar looked like someone from outer space. He’d scaled the side of the porch off my bedroom and entered through that door, setting off the silent alarm of the pressure pad under the door mat. He crept quickly, catlike, to the front of the house and searched the living room, dining room, kitchen, and then back to the master bedroom—moving paintings, sorting through bookcases, pulling up rugs, looking for a safe. Whoever it was, was extremely thorough, but not particularly efficient or savvy. For example, he—or she—moved and opened things before checking to see if there were any telltale booby-traps, such as pieces of thread or paper that only the victim would know if they had been moved. He entered my sitting room and rifled through papers on top of the desk, evidently looking for something incriminating. There was a small wall safe in the bookcases, easily discovered. He pulled an electronic scanner from his back pocket and opened it. Inside were a few pieces of Tinka’s jewelry, nothing spectacular, certainly nothing worth stealing.
Unfortunately, the intruder lifted the cloth covering the canvas on the easel and saw a completely white spread. He let go of the cloth and let it flutter back down and shook his head and then flipped through the blank canvases leaning against the bookcase. I knew there was a contemptuous look on his face and I felt a little embarrassed that my lie about working so hard had been caught out. Well, so what? I’m sure painters get painter’s block, the same way writers get writer’s block. I was having trouble getting started.
Then he went to the closet that contained my workbench and Tinka’s big safe, and found it locked. A locked door is no obstacle for a good thief, or even a semicompetent one. He flipped his lock picks into his gloved hand—he seemed to have them on some sort of instant spring-loaded affair on his wrist, something I would definitely look into—and after studying the lock for a second, selected the proper pick and inserted it.
Although I couldn’t hear it, I knew at that moment, the alarm had gone off. He jumped almost ten feet in the air. It was a horrible alarm, many, many decibels above the norm. A screaming, wailing, high-pitched sound that could deafen you for days in no time. I watched him open his mouth and yell and put his hands over his ears and then I watched him hightail it out of the house and leap over the balcony rail like an Olympic hurdler and vanish from sight into the deep snow below.
Poor Barnhardt. It took a minute for him to get himself together, and by then, the burglar was long gone—he’d sprinted up the hill and was on his way home. Barnhardt ran out of his quarters, barefoot, trying to tie his bathrobe around himself one-handed. He carried a shotgun with the other. Once inside the kitchen, he stood there, an agonizing grimace on his face, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. The blare was so horrific, its source was untraceable. I turned it off and I watched his shoulders slump. He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath and then conducted a good, thorough search of the house. He checked all the window latches and door locks and after leaving me a note on the kitchen counter, he returned to the stable. Shortly after that, his light went out.
I went back to the dance, but the evening’s sparkle had dulled. I was perplexed and preoccupied by the break-in. Thankfully, the party was wrapping up. Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” was just ending.
“Margaret,” Robert said. “I wanted to dance with you to this. It is so romantic.”
“Sorry, Robert,” I said. “Maybe next time.”
If I were going to dance to that song with anybody—which I never had—it would be my husband, once I’d forgiven him. What was wrong with him, running off with the queen like that?
Thank God for fresh, cold air.
I was tired. I’d never been up this late. Although Sebastian had departed earlier, Oscar had remained, ever-present in the background, silently keeping his eyes on his boss and watching the crowd as though he were protecting the president of the United States or the Bank of England. We glided back to Schloss Alexander, with Robert singing “Addio, fiorita asil” from Madam Butterfly, singing out his heart to me. As we drew abreast of Schloss Constantin, he slowed down just enough for Oscar to jump out and then spurred the horses on up the hill to my house.
“Oh, Robert,” I said, as we jingled to a stop. “Thank you so much. What a wonderful, wonderful evening.”
He jumped from his side of the sleigh and came around and helped me down. “Tonight—disco dancing. Tomorrow—gin rummy!”
I laughed and shook my head. “It already is tomorrow.” I put my arm through his as we negotiated the icy path to my front door.
“Thank you again,” I said. I was ready for a move of some sort and curious what form it would take.
“How about a little cognac for your Robert?” He pushed his way past.
Before I knew it he had his arms around me and was kissing me—a very aggressive, very French, very leaned-over-backward opera kiss.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
F O R T Y - T W O
The invention of Viagra has turned mature men into complete idiots. And ruined more good relationships and marriages than outright cheating. Viagra has made them all think that they’re irresistible, that every woman on the planet has been mourning the fact that her husband has had other things on his mind for the last twenty years besides sex. He thinks that she’s just been waiting, waiting, waiting, praying for the day when she could be attacked while she’s trying to get a glass of wine inside herself to give herself some relief from the stress of her responsibilities and get dinner on the table and sit down for a few minutes and catch her breath because she’s spent the whole day shuttling between the nursing home and her job, trying to arrange in-home care for her mother, and a major real-estate deal for her partners, and her back is absolutely killing her, she has business problems on her mind, and she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep without a sleeping pill in a month because of hot flashes or chills or because of his snoring. And now while she’s trying to lift the roast out of the oven, here he comes across the kitchen, all juiced up on sexual-aid pills wanting to play goddamn kissy face. It really is a miracle more older men haven’t been found murdered on their kitchen floors, dead of carving-knife wounds.
I read an article not long ago about an elderly man, ninety years old, who was tossed out of his retirement home because he was taking Viagra and mauling all the ladies. What was he thinking?
What was Robert Constantin thinking? Where was his finesse? Where was his refinement? What had happened to the concept of just getting to know each other a little? Roles had completely reversed. Men of a certain age had started using Viagra instead of their brains. And the women had started using their brains instead of their bodies. Where would it all lead?
Well, I knew what he was thinking, but more to the point was what was I going to do about it?
“Robert.” I pushed him away and sat down on the edge of the sofa. “You have to stop.”
He looked completely floored. “Why?”
I put my hand on my chest. “Because I have a serious heart condition. I can’t take this sort of excitement.”
That worked.
“Oh, my God, forgive me.” He fell to his knees. And then his eyes sear
ched mine. No matter how great an actor he was and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hide his confusion. “Are you sure?” he said. “The way we were dancing …”
“That was exercise. Sexual excitement is something very, very different, very stressful and I’ve already suffered one major heart attack.” I had a terrible time keeping a straight face. “That’s why I’ve come here, actually—to have a very quiet, safe, secure place close to the finest medical care in the world while I finish my collection.”
“Oh, my God. How frightening. I’m so, so sorry I had no idea.”
“It’s all right. I should have told you sooner.”
“But”—he frowned—“you were drinking tonight. Should you be drinking? Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Only wine and Champagne. My doctor categorizes wine as food, not alcohol.”
He nodded. “Very progressive. I agree.” He struggled to his feet. “Please forgive my behavior. I am so ashamed. Oh, Madonna.”
“Robert, no one knows about this. Not even George and Alma.”
He shook his head vehemently and crossed himself extravagantly. “Never a word from me.”
“Thank you. Well, it’s late. I need to go to bed.”
“Yes. Yes. Let me help you up.” He took my hand and very gently helped me to me feet. “You’ll be at the gin rummy party won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Shall we pick you up?”
“I’ll take my own sleigh. I’ll probably come home earlier than the rest of you.”
He kissed my cheeks. “Bonne nuit, ma belle princesse. Sweet dreams.”
“Bonne nuit, Robert. A domain.”
When the door was closed I put my hands over my face and started laughing. Now Robert could go get all Viagra-ed up with whoever he wanted but at least I was out of the running.
I poured myself a double scotch and went to bed.
F O R T Y - T H R E E
I slept until almost noon, an act I consider dissipated beyond all redemption, and worked for just a couple of hours. But my brain wasn’t fully engaged. The events of the day before impinged on my concentration, most especially the barmy scene with Robert. Robert was a big baby. He was not a buffoon and he was not to be taken lightly, but he was an artist—full of love and passion, bluff and bravado, and as easily swatted down and crushed as a fly. I’d seen through him, seen what a child he was. He lived completely in his own made-up fantasy world. Robert was insecure, harmless, and probably very kind.
Sebastian was an entirely different animal. He seemed genuinely kind and sensitive and irresistible on one hand, but on the other, if he was in fact the thief I suspected him to be, was he also the sort of person who could be comfortable in a knife fight? Would the tactics that successfully foiled his attempted theft at my house stop him? I didn’t know. I know if it were me—and since no earplugs on the planet can block the sound of that alarm—I’d find someone else to rob. Had Robert known what Sebastian was up to? I didn’t think so. I didn’t think Robert ever knew what anybody was up to, including himself, unless he was onstage and pretending to be someone else. He needed direction.
Lucy continued to nettle and unsettle me. I tried to put aside the fact that I simply didn’t like her and focus on her behavior and what she said: “I think you’re up to something … and I’m going to find out what it is.” She’d thrown a monkey wrench into my strategy—nothing I couldn’t handle, but still. Personality-wise, I had her pegged—mostly. But there was something darker there, a need to manipulate. A need to know everything. Was she Alma’s eyes and ears? Was that her particular power and currency? From my point of view, she was an uncontrollable wild card, and short of shooting her, there was nothing I could do to take her out of the mix. The more I thought about it, the more I believed she was the one who had broken in to my house.
Thomas’s abandonment continued to annoy me, although he hadn’t appeared on the noon news, so who knew where he was now. Aside from my own insecurities—oh how I hated to admit that I actually had any, but the fact is I’m so inexperienced and suspicious when it comes to love, I’m always ready to jump ship, get there before the other person, beat him to the punch, hurt him before he hurts me—I knew deep down that Thomas wouldn’t ditch me unless there were good reason. He was a man of his word. What was up? Where was he now? What had happened that he would need to go meet with the queen?
And what about George Naxos? Hard to believe, to say I was sorry for the richest man in the world, but I was. In spite of my initial impression of his dedication to Alma when I’d been in their apartment in Paris, yesterday at the café I’d seen something else. She wasn’t nice to him. Was he blind with love for her? She exuded an undeniable influence that her beauty only intensified. Was he under her spell? Or was she an aspect of his life, a responsibility he simply assumed along with all the others? Perhaps he had her in complete perspective and allotted her the same amount of time and attention he gave to his other projects. Or was it because she was his wife and he had promised to care for her no matter what?
I also couldn’t help but think about how much fun the disco had been. What a treat it would be to go someplace like that with Thomas. Robert was a fabulous dancer. I tried to recall if Thomas and I had ever danced together. Come to think of it, I don’t believe we had. Oh, well, there was that one time in Portofino at the gala, but that was just for a couple of seconds and I’d been so angry with him I’d stepped on his shoes on purpose to scuff up the shine he was always so overweeningly proud of.
At about three o’clock in the afternoon, I gave up trying to work—I was just going through the motions. The snow was falling so hard it looked like a Christmas card blizzard. The world outside my windows no longer existed—everything was white. It was time to make the cake.
“Barnhardt,” I said over the intercom. The smoke from his chimney was blowing sideways.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“I don’t think we’ll go to the square today, it’s too cold.”
I sensed his relief. “Very good.”
“And Barnhardt.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to a party at the Naxoses’ tonight. Do you think—if it’s not snowing this hard—I’m ready to take Black Diamond by myself? It’s not far.”
“Yes,” he answered. “I think that would be a good first solo to stay here in the neighborhood. But if the weather is like this, I will insist on driving you myself.”
“Agreed.”
“Would you like me to come over and stoke the fires?”
“Please.”
In minutes, Barnhardt had the fires in the kitchen, living room, and master bedroom roaring. I handed him a covered mug of hot chocolate on his way out the door. “Mit Schlag,” I said.
“Danke.” He tipped his hat and shouldered his way into the storm. I knew he was grateful for an afternoon off.
I draped a white chef’s apron over my head and tied it around my waist, then flipped through Tinka’s CDs and found a copy of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty and put it on full blast. Did the sleeping princess like devil’s food cake? I’m sure she would have if it had been invented at that time. The music was romantic and beautiful. I sang along.
I turned the oven to 350 and measured and arranged all the ingredients on the counter; buttered and floured three eight-inch pans, which as usual I put into the freezer until it was time to put them in the oven. Many cooks don’t take this step but in my opinion, when the frozen, batter-filled tin hits the hot oven, it seals a wonderful smooth crust onto the cake.
While the dark chocolate melted in a double boiler, I sifted cake flour, baking powder and a pinch of salt, creamed butter and sugar, added an egg, a teaspoon of vanilla, then starting with the flour mixture, I alternated it with the liquefied chocolate and beat the batter until there was not a hint of a granule of sugar or a dot of unblended flour to be seen. I filled the pans evenly, lifted them carefully into the oven, and set the timer for
thirty minutes.
I washed and dried the dishes and laid out the ingredients for the icing on the counter—four more ounces of unsweetened chocolate, a cup of sugar, two cups of water, and vanilla. I wouldn’t begin to prepare the icing until the cakes were out of the oven. That way there was no danger of frosting them while they were still warm and sacrificing the whole project for the sake of the gratification of needing to taste the cake right now, a common pitfall. Successful cake making requires equal parts self-control and talent.
Icing a cake properly is terribly complicated, as well. To some, it comes as easily and naturally as breathing, but for me, it is more challenging than making a soufflé, which I can practically do blindfolded. Proper utensils are essential. Of course, Tinka had every utensil ever invented to make every dessert under the sun.
I boiled the sugar and water until it reached the proper temperature on the candy thermometer and also dripped heavily enough from the spoon to leave a filament that broke and curled back up on itself. I whipped two egg whites until they were frothy and added them, and then, with the motor running the whole time, poured in the melted chocolate and vanilla and kept beating until the frosting reached the perfect consistency—it resembled dark, dark brown satin.
It was close to four-thirty when I placed the first layer on the revolving stand and scooped out a good big spoonful of icing and plopped it into the center of the cake. I heard the lasers up at the gate beep but by the time I got to my monitor, whoever it was, was already well down the drive to my house.
Moments later there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I called. “It’s open.”
“Margaret?” he called back.
“Yes?” I stuck my head around the kitchen door. It was George Naxos. “Oh, George. Come in. I’m just icing a cake and can’t stop!”
He left his snow-covered hat, parka, and boots in the entry hall and entered the kitchen in an endearing sort of way. Ice was frozen to his mustache, and the warm air made his glasses fog. “Sorry to disturb you.”
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