Perfect

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

  Oscar joined him in a few halfhearted steps in pursuit, but of course we got away.

  As we turned onto the road, and began to pick up speed, Thomas struggled to his feet and leaned over the driver’s brace. He put his face close to mine. “Who are you?” he called into the wind.

  “Sit down and be quiet and hold on.” I pushed him back with my elbow. “This is dangerous.”

  To my surprise the team was a dream to drive, easy and responsive, and we quickly disappeared into the blizzard. I guided them down the hill and out onto the main road, but I turned right instead of left, which would lead us back to town. Minutes later we flew across the train tracks and veered onto the service road and headed into the woods to freedom.

  “You have to turn around,” Thomas shouted, when the gate loomed into sight. “The road’s blocked.”

  I pulled the scanner out of my pocket and seconds later the heavy metal barrier lifted and we tore through. As the gate came down behind us, I pulled my gun out of my other pocket and fired two shots into the air. Thank God, it didn’t faze the horses a bit and they continued at their fast pace. After a couple of minutes, I let them slow and we could hear the sounds of avalanches thundering down and closing the road behind us. The woods on the outside of the gate looked exactly the same as those in Mont-St.-Anges, and I had no idea where we were or how long we’d need to keep going. Fifteen minutes later we crested a ridge and there was a small town, twinkling through the snow.

  “Excuse me,” Thomas said, and started to get to his feet.

  “Please just be quiet. I’m trying to think.”

  He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  I stopped at a small farm on the edge of the village and climbed down from the driver’s box.

  “A gentleman, a rather large, black gentleman, will be coming to collect the horses and sleigh,” I explained to the perplexed farmer, as I handed him several hundred francs. “Their coats are in the trunk. Will you care for them until he arrives?” He nodded. “Is there a train station?”

  He pointed.

  Thank God.

  “Wait here,” I said to Thomas when we got inside the small depot. “I’ll get our tickets. Order us something warm to drink.”

  When I got to the small café-bar, Thomas was sitting at a table with two steaming mugs of gluhwein. I sat down with a whoosh. My legs had almost turned to jelly from the drive. It had taken an incredible amount of balance, strength, and concentration to drive that team.

  Thomas slid a mug across the table to me. “Thank you for the rescue, Margaret. Whoever you are.”

  I stared at him blankly. I’d forgotten I still had on my mink hat and ski goggles. “Thomas,” I said, and pulled them off and removed the dark contacts from my eyes. “It’s me.”

  It took a couple of seconds for him to realize it was true.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You did it to me again.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “What about the jewelry?”

  I patted my bosom. “Safe and sound.”

  Thomas leaned across the table and kissed me. “You are one in a million, Kick Keswick. And I adore you.”

  “I adore you, too. Thomas. Let’s go home.”

  E P I L O G U E

  Thomas came into the kitchen late one afternoon with the mail. We’d been home from Switzerland for two weeks, and life, as it was, had resumed its normal, unruffled pace. Bijou was asleep on her cushion next to the stove, and I was making a ginger cake that would go perfectly with the Kahlua café we’d taken to drinking for our afternoon tea. The cafés weren’t completely the same of course. The Swiss have a knack for that sweet whipped cream, the Schlag, some secret ingredient or technique that I think you need to grow up with. But my effort was perfectly acceptable.

  Among the various flyers and bills Thomas carried in was a large ecru envelope with the words Buckingham Palace engraved in the upper corner.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  “Open it up.” The cream cheese icing had reached just the right consistency and I started to frost the first layer, the most crucial point in cake making, the point of no return when you cannot stop.

  He took a paring knife from my rack to use as a letter opener, something that drives me right out of my mind, and slit the top of the envelope and pulled out a letter written on a heavy sheet embossed with the royal crest. He read it. He scratched his head. “Huh.” He read it again and his cheeks began to color. “Amazing.”

  “What is it, Thomas?” I spun the cake stand and laid the shiny icing down like creamy satin.

  He shook his head. “Well. I can’t quite believe my eyes.”

  “Thomas.”

  “It’s from Her Majesty. She’s going to make me a knight.”

  I dropped the spatula. “No!”

  He nodded.

  “What does it say? Read it to me.” I wiped my hands on a damp tea towel.

  Dear Inspector Emeritus Curtis,

  With profound gratitude for your years of service to the Crown and to Her Majesty, personally and in recognition of your recent selfless, daring, secret service to the Crown, Her Majesty requests the pleasure of your, and Mrs. Curtis’s, company to join her on Wednesday, 20 March, at six-thirty in the evening, for a private ceremony at Buckingham Palace, whereupon she will declare you a Knight of the Realm and invest you with the Order of the Garter. Immediately following the ceremony, there will be a small dinner dance with select guests and members of the royal family.

  Yours very truly,

  Bosworth Christiansen

  Secretary

  “Oh, Thomas.” I threw my arms around him. “I am so proud of you.”

  “I don’t deserve it,” he said humbly. “I couldn’t have done it without you. You did almost the whole thing.”

  Why quibble? I did the whole thing.

  “I’m thrilled for you to get all the credit,” I said. “Let’s celebrate.”

  Thomas opened a special bottle of Dom Perignon 1993 while I finished frosting the cake. Then we went into the living room and sat in front of the fire and wholly consumed the cake, the Champagne, and each other.

  Two weeks later, on March 20, the first day of spring, we left Claridge’s in a black sedan sent by the palace, and drove the along the park, around Hyde Park Corner and through the private gates on Constitution Hill where we were subjected to a thorough, unsmiling, but very polite security search. I hadn’t been in London since my escape to Provence almost two years ago and I was unprepared for how much I would feel its tug. It had been my home for over thirty years and the cool, misty evening, the daffodils blanketing the park, the bustle of the traffic, caused a slight pang.

  And of course there was the extraordinary irony that I, the most notorious jewel thief in the history of London, was going for a private dinner with the queen of England to celebrate the knighting of my husband. According to the briefing we’d received that afternoon, unlike typical investitures, when as many as one hundred individuals were awarded in one large ceremony, this was to be a private investiture since Thomas’s services had been top secret and personal. Tonight, there would be no other honorees and no outside witnesses.

  We went up the grand staircase and entered the same small reception room that had been in the documentary about the queen’s dinner party, the one where all the ladies wore their Family Orders, medals, and best jewelry. New Family Orders are established at the start of each reign and the list of who the monarch gives them to is never published. The Orders themselves—small, jewel-framed pictures attached to wide bands of fringed gros-grain ribbons—are seldom seen by outsiders. A number of family members were there and greeted us as though we were one of them. I tried not to stare at who had on which Family Orders, who was a Court favorite.

  A very distinguished man in black knee pants, black silk stockings, a short black jacket, and white ruffled blouse appeared at Thomas’s side. “Sir,” he said. “If I may escort you and Mrs. Curtis.”

>   He took my arm and we went through a pair of doors into an extremely ornate gold-and-white room. There was a long red runner and at the end of it, in front of two gold-and-red thrones, stood the queen, in a white satin ball gown. She wore the entire Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure, including the tiara. I thought I would faint with joy.

  It was quite a sight to see my beloved Thomas—so handsome in his white tie and tails—on the kneeler before the queen, her sword lying gently on his shoulders, investing him with the Order of the Garter, the oldest and most prestigious order, given only for the highest levels of service and to immediate members of the royal family.

  When he rose to his feet, they shared some private words before he escorted her over to join me, where I curtsied deeply.

  “You have a very special husband, Mrs. Curtis. I hope you don’t mind my asking him to come out of retirement occasionally. No one could have ever figured out how to find and rescue my jewels but him.”

  “I don’t mind a bit, Your Majesty.”

  “I still don’t know how you did it or where you found them,” she said to Thomas. “And I don’t want any details, it’s better that I not know. But I was hugely relieved when you said Bradford wasn’t involved. He seemed far too loyal and kind to do such a thing.”

  “I don’t believe we’ll ever know who the real thief was unless you ask Scotland Yard to take it up officially.”

  She shook her head. “I’m glad to leave it where it is.”

  “I hope you’ve improved and tightened your procedures, Your Majesty,” Thomas said.

  “Indeed we have. No thief on the earth could make his way through our new maze of signatures and seals.”

  I kept the smile on my face and my thoughts to myself but felt the sidelong don’t-even-think-about-it glance from Thomas. As though I’d try to rob Buckingham Palace. Really.

  Once Thomas had seen Mont-St.-Anges and met the Naxoses, he appreciated the complete futility of trying to bring the case to any sort of closure as far as justice was concerned. While the long arm of the law could reach into Mont-St.-Anges, no one would welcome the media circus, starting with the queen. Better to leave it alone. He and I both knew that Sebastian was no longer a threat to Her Majesty’s possessions. I was also confident that George Naxos had no idea of the games his wife paid Sebastian to play, nor that any of the queen’s jewels had ever been involved in any aspect of his life. But then, no one knew everything that had gone on: not Thomas, not Alma, not Robert, not Sebastian. They all knew a little. I was the only one who knew the whole story.

  She removed the tiara and handed it to her aide, presumably a more trustworthy fellow than Sebastian had turned out to be. “We have quite an interesting group this evening—more business oriented than usual. Very international.”

  We went into another reception room, also gold and white, where about thirty guests awaited the monarch’s arrival. It was an incredible thrill to enter a room in the queen’s entourage, to follow her and look at the expressions on people’s faces when they saw her. A mix of awe and excitement. Except for on one person’s face, where there was sheer bewilderment.

  I almost burst out laughing when I saw Alma Naxos’s perplexed expression when she saw that the queen had on the Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure. I didn’t know what was going on in that muddled, medicated brain but I’m sure it ran along the lines of Where did those come from? They’re in my safe at home.

  She was, however, wearing my large pink diamond pendant (fake), and I recalled what Sebastian had said about George and Alma: “If she’s happy, he’s happy.” I wonder where she told him she’d gotten it, or if he’d even asked.

  The Richardsons were there, as well.

  After the queen had greeted each of her guests, Thomas introduced me to George and Alma. I could tell they had no idea we’d met. George introduced us to Lucy and Al.

  “Oh,” said Lucy, “I’m just sure we’ve met before. You look so familiar to me.”

  “I can’t imagine where we would have met,” I answered.

  A maid with a tray of beluga canapés materialized next to me, as did George Naxos.

  “Ignore her, Mrs. Curtis,” George said. “She says that to everyone.” He and I each took one of the tidbits.

  “It was the strangest thing, Chief Inspector,” I heard Alma saying to Thomas. “You know the woman who was trying to break in to Robert Constantin’s safe? The phony Romanian princess?”

  “Yes,” Thomas nodded.

  “I told you there was something funny about her, Alma,” Lucy said. “Actually”—she turned to me—“if you had short black hair, you would look just like her.”

  “Really?”

  George rolled his eyes at me and we laughed and then we each helped ourselves to another hors d’oeuvre.

  “In any event, if you don’t mind, George,” Alma scolded, “I’m trying to tell Chief Inspector Curtis the end of the story.”

  “You have my full attention, Mrs. Naxos,” Thomas said. He gave me a look.

  “Well, she had rented Tinka Alexander’s house and told everyone she was a painter—landscapes, I think. She actually had the temerity to tell me she was an undercover police officer.”

  Thomas frowned. “You’re not serious.”

  Alma shook her head. “She was nothing but a con artist and a thief. But, the most amazing thing, when our police chief went into Schloss Alexander to see if the woman was by any chance hiding there, all was comme il faut. Except for one thing.”

  “What?” we all said.

  “There was a painting—just a single one. And it was quite good, actually. It was a bouquet of shamrocks tied with an ivory ribbon. And, written across the bottom it said:

  With my compliments,

  the Shamrock Burglar

  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 M E N T S

  There is something about writing the adventures of Kick Keswick that transports me—and more importantly, my readers—into believing we’ve become Superwomen, Wonder Women, super-rich, super-action heroines, so it’s always startling to me, when I’ve finished writing for the day, or finished a book altogether, to realize that I don’t actually have secret caches of diamonds, or unlimited amounts of euros in various Swiss banks, or a farm in Provence. But I do have other, equally fine, compensations.

  All this luscious knowledge of la dolce vita requires serious and meticulous research and I’m grateful mostly to Peter, who takes us regularly to Kick Keswick’s favorite haunts. I thank also Bob Gibson at Raymond C. Yard, Inc., in New York; Brien Foster at Foster & Son in Denver; and Cartier and Van Cleef & Arpels in Paris, for their ongoing assistance and expertise in the world of magnificent gems and jewelry. I’m also grateful to Leslie Field for her extraordinary book, The Queen’s Jewels, which has been an important resource in the writing of this novel.

  The food in Perfect runs the gamut from lamb ragout to chocolate soufflé to devil’s food cake, which Susan Coe made sure was workable. I thank my dearest darling for our twenty-fifth anniversary trip to London and Paris and the dinners at Carré de Feuillants, Chez George, and most particularly, our anniversary celebration at L’Espadon, where the table was covered with rose petals. I have no idea what we ate, but I do remember that it was the best, most memorable, and most romantic dinner I’ve ever had.

  Blair and Suzanne Taylor at the Barolo Grill in Denver helped with the wines, and some are even affordable! If you can find them. Kick Keswick has a very refined, sophisticated palate.

  Thanks also to Leslie Carlson, general manager of the Garden of the Gods Club. Leslie and her staff took beautiful care of me and the dog during my writi
ng sojourn there.

  As always, any mistakes are mine.

  The more I write, the more I appreciate what it takes to make a book succeed at every level—the actual storytelling and writing are just the first steps. I am extremely blessed to have such a superb team of professionals dedicated to the same goal: making each novel the best it possibly can be. In particular, I thank Sally Richardson, publisher, St. Martin’s Press, and Jennifer Enderlin, associate publisher and executive editor. Working with Jennifer is rich and rewarding—her vision, creative input, and knowledge are amazing and energizing. In fact, sometimes I think she actually is Kick Keswick. I also thank her assistant Kimberly Cardascia, who is surrounded by artistes but remains responsive, organized, and unflappable; John Karle, publicist extraordinaire, for his energy and innovation; and finally, copy editor Deborah Miller, whose knowledge and attention to detail not only almost gave me a nervous breakdown, but also brought me to a whole new level of appreciation and gratitude for the profession of copyediting.

  My agent Robert Gottlieb, president and CEO, Trident Media Group, and Kimberly Whalen, vice president and managing director of foreign rights, are always available, interested, and thinking. I am very, very fortunate to be represented by such an outstanding, committed team.

  I thank God every day for my family and friends—for their loyalty, steadfastness, and enthusiasm for my writing. My love and undying thanks to: Mary and Richard, who invite me over and take my calls even when they might just like to catch up with each other—they are also my opera experts; Mary Lou and Randy, who had a little bit too exciting of a year, and we thank God that you are still with us M.L., and appreciate that you continue, so selflessly, to do all that grueling shopping and restaurant research in Paris; Marcy and Bruce seem to know everyone and I am very grateful that they do, because they have opened many, many doors for me, in addition to throwing another beautiful launch party; Pam and Bill offer us wonderful, solid friendship that we treasure, particularly during this period while Hunter is in Iraq; Margaret and Mike for a perfect party in their garden; Mita Vail and the Norfolk Book Ladies, who are always available to toss a champagne-driven literary fête; my next-door neighbor Judith; Susan and Doug; my architect cousin, Bridget; the ladies of the Denver Debutante Ball, and the awesome cowgirls of the National Western.