Perfect

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

  Once we all had cocktails and a maid passed a silver tray that had exactly enough caviar canapés that we could each have one—George and I caught each other’s eye and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: thank God for the cake—Alma led the way into the card room, a wonderful chamber with painted mural walls, Dresden chandeliers, and a Dresden hearth crackling with a cheery fire. Four card tables with green felt cloths decorated on their corners with colorful appliquéd-felt playing cards were lined up approximately ten feet from each other down the center of the room. Each table had a library lamp with a green glass shade, putting it in its own little pool of light like an island; two chairs; two new packs of cards; a score pad with a pencil; a bowl of cashews; and a little library-type bell. If I hadn’t known we were to play cards, I might have thought we were there to take a final examination.

  We gathered around while George read the teams aloud—again, there were no surprises: Lucy and Al; Robert and me; Sebastian and Allegra; George and Alma. He indicated where the ladies should sit and Cookson held our chairs. And then, with great flourish, he took a folded sheet of paper out of his breast pocket.

  “The rules,” George announced importantly. “Please pay attention. We will be playing regular gin rummy—Hollywood rules—before and after dinner. We play for forty francs a point, all tonight’s winnings will be donated to the hospital’s Albert Richardson Fund for Heart Disease Research. This will not be in lieu of anyone’s current pledges or annual gift.” He gave Al a hard look.

  Everyone, especially Al Richardson, laughed, and I surmised he had endowed the fund—it was named for him, after all—by making a major financial commitment. Forty francs a point was a lot of money, the equivalent of ten euros. This was a high-stakes party.

  “And the losers must match the winnings.”

  No one batted an eye.

  George continued. “The ladies will remain seated on the far side of the tables and the gentlemen will exchange places after each game. As I have already mentioned, we are using Hollywood rules: Each game has three bouts and each bout is to one hundred twenty-five points.”

  I did some quick math. If the losers matched the winners, that meant each game would render a minimum of 7,500 euros, times three (there were four couples but partners wouldn’t play against each other) equaled 22,500 euros, and if we played before and after dinner, that meant a net of 45,000 euros or 11,250 euros per couple. That was pocket change to this group.

  Alma indicated to me that she had something to say. I leaned down. “Don’t worry, Margaret,” she whispered. “We’ll pick up your share.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered back. “I was getting nervous.”

  “No whispering!” George barked, and everyone laughed. “Now, if I have your attention.” He rattled his paper. “At the end of each hand, you will count up and record your points and then ring your bell and Cookson will confirm the scores. This is a new rule because, as we all know based on our last party, counting and addition are not Robert’s strong points.” Everyone clapped. “This is for your protection, Robert. And ours.”

  My first match was against George. We both played quickly and efficiently and he won, but not by much. We were the only ones to finish our bowl of cashews.

  “How are you doing, Robert?” I called down the way. He was a very slow player—I could tell he studied every single card and move endlessly, and even then, still had no idea what to do. He was playing against Lucy, who was looking frustrated. She was drumming her fingernails on the table.

  “Robert.” She tapped his arm with her folded-up hand. “Please. You know you’re going to lose anyway. Just put down a card.”

  “All right. All right.” He discarded.

  She picked it up. “Gin! Finally, this game is over.”

  Next, I played against Al, but there was really no match there. He completely walloped me. And the whole time we played, I felt the burn of Lucy’s anger on me.

  “Wow,” I said. “I didn’t get a single point.”

  Al beamed. “I ‘Schneidered’ you, which means”—he picked up his pencil and drew long Xes through my sections—“you get zero and I get double points.” He blew me a kiss.

  I caught Lucy’s eye. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.

  The fact that I didn’t get any more cashews made it worse.

  Next, I played against Sebastian. The skin on his hands looked soft and pampered. His nails were short and well manicured. He was slightly prissy and effeminate in his movements but I felt it was an act, except he did have on a little mascara.

  “I’m the best gin rummy player in this room,” he declared as he dealt our first hand. “And I’m going to clobber you.”

  “Really.” I arranged my cards.

  “Really,” he replied, and after only two draws, he said, “Gin!”

  “Now,” he said, once he’d shuffled and dealt our next hand and we’d exchanged a couple of cards, “tell me everything about yourself.”

  I was trying to figure out what to do in my next play.

  “You’re far too beautiful to actually be from Romania—I mean the young girls there are very, very pretty but when they get to be our age— look out. They lose their waistlines and the hair on their heads moves to their faces! Oh, my God. They look like trolls. And their shoes. The worst.”

  “Sebastian.” I laughed. “I’m trying to think.”

  “I think it’s a lack of vitamins and proper skin care. Don’t you just want to go to Bucharest and give everyone a facial? And a good waxing? I’ll tell you, Jimmy Choo could make a killing there.”

  “Sebastian. Shut up.” I finally discarded.

  He picked it up. “Gin!”

  “You’re going to be sorry for that.”

  He won the first bout and it looked as though he were on his way to winning the second.

  I picked up my cards and sorted through them.

  “Let’s move along,” Sebastian said. “We haven’t got all night.”

  “Hmmm,” I said as I casually discarded. “How’s this for a move: What were you doing in my house last night?”

  His eyes widened and stared into mine. “What do you mean?” He drew a card and his hand trembled slightly. He put the card on the discard pile without really looking at it.

  “I mean”—I picked it up—“what were you doing in my house last night sorting through my things and trying to pick the lock on my closet while I was at the disco with Robert?” And discarded.

  He licked his lips and then pursed them together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He drew. He discarded.

  I picked it up. “Would you like to see the video?” I discarded.

  I could tell his mouth had gone dry. He drew. He discarded.

  I picked it up and sorted languidly through my hand. “I said, would you like to see the video, Sebastian?”

  His eyes met mine. “Yes, actually I would.”

  I leaned toward him. “Gin.”

  I snapped my cards down on the table and he laid his down carefully. He looked as if he were about to throw up.

  “Let me see.” I began to count. “I get twenty-five, plus . . . “ I sorted through his cards. “Oh, my, Sebastian, you didn’t really have anything at all, did you?”

  Cookson came over and verified the score. I picked up the deck and shuffled. I placed the cards in front of him to cut. I began to deal.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “More to the point, Sebastian, is who are you? Does Robert know you’re a thief? Does Alma?”

  I saw a tinge of fear in his eyes. He stared straight at me.

  I met his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to be the one to tell them. As to me? I am who I say I am—Margaret of Romania—and I am an extremely cautious person. Stay out of my house and we’ll do just fine.”

  “I was never in your house. I swear it.”

  I glanced down at Lucy. Had it been her after all? “Well, then, who was?”

  “I truly have no
idea.”

  Unfortunately, the more I thought about it, the more I believed him. I was, it seemed, in a war with two fronts.

  “I believe it’s your discard,” I heard him say.

  F O R T Y - S I X

  By the time we went in to dinner, Robert and I were trailing significantly, in spite of my decimation—my “Schneidering” in two out of three bouts—of Sebastian and the resulting point count. I wasn’t a pro at this game, but at least I knew how to play, had some card sense. Robert was hopeless. Sebastian was a superb player, but I was glad to note he had come slightly unhinged, a complete no-no in a profession—stealing jewelry—where nerves of steel were the first order of business. Would he take the time or make the effort to try and see if there was a connection between my ramped-up security system and the fact that his secret life could be exposed? No. He’d become too sure of himself in his new life and was beginning to commit the sin of pride. And that would, somehow or other, be his downfall. His ego was such that I was sure he would completely recover his composure by the end of the meal.

  When we got to the dining room, I saw with chagrin that I was seated between Al and George—more grist for Lucy’s mill. Well, that was her problem. She was seated directly opposite me on George’s left side, next to Sebastian.

  In spite of Lucy’s growing bile, I could tell it was going to be one of the most delightful, hysterical dinners I’d ever been to. All the people, except for me, and to some extent Sebastian, were very close, longtime friends but they made me feel completely part of the crowd. I’d never had friends in my earlier life. I couldn’t afford to. Now I had Thomas, who was surely somewhere in the vicinity by now, and my little Bijou. And our friends, the Balfours, in Les Baux. It was a start.

  “I’m starving to death, aren’t you?” George said to me under his breath.

  I nodded, praying there would be a proper meal served, not those scanty tidbits Alma had served in Paris.

  “I’m so hungry I could eat a bear,” Robert announced, shaking out his napkin and spreading it across his lap.

  Sebastian and Al nodded in agreement.

  When the appetizer, slices of rare tuna and a little dab of wasabi, served with an exquisite Chasselas appeared, I glanced at George. We had, it seemed, little hope. But I was wrong. The moment the first-course plates were cleared away, the kitchen door swung open and in came a footman carrying a large silver tray with a boned roast of braised beef surrounded by parsley and what looked like cherries, a dish I’d read about for years but never tasted and certainly never prepared. It required a minimum of a week’s marinating of the roast.

  “Aargauer Suure Mocke,” he beamed.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” Robert cried.

  It was, indeed, a rare treat.

  We all fixed our eyes on the parade of assistants that had followed the footman with domed silver bowls of side dishes, which they arranged on the long sideboard.

  The head footman picked up his razor-sharp, bone-handled carving knife and fork and began to carve. The heady scent of the cherries and peppery denseness of the roasted meat wafted over us. He layered three slices of perfectly cooked roast onto the antique ecru plates bordered with wide green-and-gold rims, as carefully as he would place a filament of gold leaf over a cake, and then with the sharp point of the knife and one prong of the fork, picked up a bouquet of six or seven roasted cherries—tied together with a cherry stem—and tucked the bow just beneath the serving of beef. It was beautiful to watch him. An assistant then settled a heaping spoonful of a creamy purée of potato, celeriac, and turnip and julienned strips of braised carrots and parsnips around the roast. Another footman served the plate while a fourth followed him with a boat of a dense savory sauce, surely the result of a week’s worth of marinating and final deglazing. The plate wasn’t a precious work of art, the way some grand cuisine dishes are—arranged so artistically it almost seems a crime to touch them—but it was a beautiful, colorful, fragrant creation that beckoned you to begin. The aroma of each element was distinct and complementary. It was hard to wait, but we all persevered until the entire table had been served.

  In the meantime, Cookson had wasted not a second in getting to the wine. He wheeled in a cart with a half-dozen bottles of uncorked 1975 Château Mouton-Rothschild Pauillac. He held up one of the bottles for George to examine, and once George tasted and approved, Cookson nodded to his assistant, who moved quickly to fill the glasses. The party was on.

  George raised his glass. “To friendship,” he said.

  “To friendship,” we agreed, and clinked all round.

  The cherries with the braised beef gave a wonderful sweet contrast to the tangy sauce, and the purée with its combination of root vegetables was positively decadent. The carrots and parsnips were carrots and parsnips. There’s just so much one can do with them.

  Alma didn’t scold George a single time—I’m sure it was because she was at the far end of the table and too well mannered to shout at him. She did shoot him a few looks that he ignored, but they were nothing compared to the ones I was getting from Lucy. Hers were positively lethal, as though she were planning some way to get even with me. The people who knew her were right: she was nuts.

  Dessert was white chocolate mousse, butter almond cookies, and demitasses of dark Colombian coffee.

  By the end of dinner, in spite of the strong coffee, everyone was stifling yawns.

  “Shall we postpone the retribution round until next time?” Alma asked.

  We all began to nod assent.

  “Absolutely not!” Robert declared. “Margaret and I demand a chance to redeem ourselves.”

  I looked at him as though he’d lost his mind.

  “Don’t we?” He challenged.

  “Absolutely,” I said, and nodded adamantly. “We demand a rematch.”

  Sebastian and I played each other first. He had himself completely under control—his eyes hid his thoughts—and his mouth went non-stop about absolutely nothing the whole time we played, which amused me.

  “Sebastian,” I said. “Please be quiet just for two seconds.”

  He leaned toward me. “No. And I want you to know, I was never in your house. I would never do anything so reckless.”

  Was that a confession of his skill as a thief? I looked in his eyes. They were open and honest, completely without guile. He was calling my bluff. At that moment, I knew he was the Palace Thief, and I also knew he had not been in my house the night before.

  At one o’clock in the morning, we all stumbled home, completely sated with beautiful food, wine, friendship, and gin rummy. All of us except Lucy, who took the opportunity to whisper to me as she was kissing my cheek.

  “I thought I told you to stay away from my husband.”

  And then she walked out the door.

  For the first time in my life, I went to sleep with a gun under my pillow, the big handgun I’d bought in Zurich. The dealer said it could stop an elephant. He’d given me a course on how to use it and let me fire off a couple of shots in the basement range. The recoil was so strong, it almost knocked me down.

  “Take charge!” he’d ordered. “Lean into it.”

  I did and the next two were better.

  I don’t know if I actually could or would use it to shoot anyone, but having it close by gave me a certain peace of mind.

  F O R T Y - S E V E N

  The booming echoes of crews dynamiting avalanches up and down the valley started with the first hint of gray morning light. The sky was low and more snow was in the forecast. I was getting awfully tired of this weather. I ate my breakfast and then, comfortably decked out in citrine chiffon pajamas, coppery kid sling-backed pumps and a torsade of topaz beads, I settled in to my workbench to wrap up the little that remained of my projects.

  The countdown was on.

  Thomas was on my mind. I expected that the next time the phone or doorbell rang it would be him.

  Sebastian had had the night to think about our conversation. It was possible, but
extremely unlikely, that he would take his booty and run before I could make my own well-plotted attempt to discover where it was and steal it. I also couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in peril, that I was walking close to the edge of a sheer dropoff, that Lucy was going to do something crazy. She was as unpredictable as nitro and to someone as meticulous as I, unpredictability was one thing I loathed. I also appreciated that she was an element I couldn’t control. However, there were certain other elements that I could manipulate. I picked up the phone.

  “Schloss Constantin,” a woman answered.

  “Good morning, is Mr. Constantin in? It’s Margaret Romaniei calling.”

  “One moment.”

  “Good morning, Margaret,” he said seconds later, his voice robust and enthusiastic. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well, thank you. And you?”

  “Always. I think it must be the brandy and fresh air—lots of each.”

  “I’m calling to see if you and Sebastian can come to dinner tonight. I know you’re getting ready for your dinner dance tomorrow, so thought maybe you’d enjoy a quiet evening.”

  “We would love to. What time?”

  “Seven-thirty. Just a casual supper. I thought we could play whist or canasta. Or Parcheesi—do you play Parcheesi?”

  “It is my most favorite game—I always win. Sometimes even without cheating. We’ll see you at seven-thirty. May I bring the wine?”

  “Just yourselves.”

  I disassembled my studio, packing everything—everything but my unused easel and paints and draped canvas—neatly back into the boxes they came in, sealed them up, and called the shipping company to come pick them up. I shredded all my work documents—close-up photographs, descriptions of the pieces, receipts for the supplies and shipping information—and stowed my personal documents such as passports and identifications and personal jewelry (except for what I planned to wear for the next few days) into the false bottoms of my Hermès travel satchels, which I placed in my clothes closet with the rest of my things.