Do You Promise Not to Tell? (11 page)

“That and more!” Pat laughed, looking around the sparsely furnished room.

“Think you can help me do anything with it?”

“Absolutely. By the time we’re done,
Architectural Digest
will want to do a feature on this place.” Pat took off her coat. “You game for a little moving around right now?” she asked, rubbing her hands together.

“Sure.”

Pat directed and both women tugged and lifted and pushed Farrell’s furniture into new positions. The forest-green leather couch slid from a side wall to the spot beneath the picture window.

“There!” said Pat, with satisfaction. “Now you can sit here with your feet up, sip your morning coffee with your newspaper, and watch the world go by on the street below.”

Why didn’t I think of that
? Farrell wondered. But when the movers had carried in the sofa, they had
plopped it against the wall. There it had remained, all this time.

Farrell admired what their thirty minutes of effort had produced. The lone armchair, now angled toward the sofa, created a more inviting area for conversation. The Consignment Depot wrought-iron table was positioned next to the chair; Pat inspected Farrell’s crowded bookcase for something interesting to perch on the top. She selected a hand-painted ceramic bowl Farrell had purchased when she had gone out to New Mexico to do a story on life, or rather survival, on a Native American reservation. Farrell watched with respect as Pat grouped together some candles that lay haphazardly on the bookcase shelves and displayed them on the edge of the coffee table.

“Looks better already.” Farrell was getting a kick out of the changes.

Pat nodded with satisfaction. “Next time I come, we’ll hang and rearrange the stuff on the walls.”

“Deal,” Farrell answered enthusiastically.

Pat lifted a small brass frame from the bookcase shelf, studying the picture of Farrell and her brother.

“How’s Robbie?”

“Better, now that he’s not at Nutman Stein anymore. He couldn’t take the pressures of the brokerage firm. He’s working at KEY now, you know.”

“And that’s less pressure than Wall Street?” Pat asked skeptically.

“Where Robbie works, it is. He has a job in the film and tape library. He catalogues all the KEY News material shot around the world every day. It’s interesting, but not much stress.”

“He always was a sensitive kid,” Pat mused, staring at the picture. “I remember you watching out for him all the time, making sure that no one picked on him in the schoolyard.”

Farrell smiled poignantly. “That’s what big sisters do, isn’t it?”

Monday

With more enthusiasm than she remembered having in a long time, Farrell pushed through the heavy revolving door into the KEY News lobby on Monday morning. The weekend out in Westwood had given her just what she needed—some perspective. There was a whole world that functioned and was relatively happy and none of the people in it gave a rat’s ass about what happened at KEY News.

She stopped for coffee at the lobby kiosk.

“Two, please. Black.”

Why not be a sport and bring one for her office-mate? It would really throw Dean off to see Farrell smiling and being Lady Bountiful. He’d expect her to be depressed and dragging. Farrell was sure that Dean would know about her termination conversation with Range. Everyone on the
Headlines
staff did by now. Happy news traveled so fast.

She braced herself as she approached her office door.

“You look great for someone who just got the ax.”

B. J. was sitting in her chair. Dean was not in the office.

“Whew. That’s a relief. It’s only you. I thought I was going to have to put on a show. Coffee?”

Farrell offered a paper cup to him. He pried off the plastic lid.

“Ugh. Black.”

“Oh yeah, how could I forget? You like it light and sweet.”

“Just like my women.”

“You’re a pig.”

“That’s what you like about me.” B. J. grinned wickedly, white teeth flashing.

She admitted it to herself. She did get a charge out of the irreverent, no-holds-barred banter with B. J. It went directly against all her years of Catholic-school training.

He took a sip of the dark brew and grimaced. “So now what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe get out of this nutty business altogether.”

“I doubt that. You’re hooked.”

“I always thought I was, but now I’m not so sure.” She told him about the weekend with Pat at the Consignment Depot. “You know, B. J., there’s a big world out there. This isn’t the only way to spend your life.”

She could tell he wasn’t convinced.

“You know, I blame myself somewhat,” he said quietly.

Farrell looked at him keenly. “What do you mean?”

“I heard you on the phone with Range the day of the auction. I should have told you to ratchet up the enthusiasm.”

“For God’s sake, B. J., I’m not a cheerleader. And this isn’t high school. I shouldn’t have to pump up Range Bullock, or sweet-talk him into a story. News
judgment is news judgment. It’s pretty pathetic to think that an executive producer of a national news broadcast is swayed by the presentation.”

B. J. shrugged. “Pathetic, maybe. But you should hear the way your buddy Dean pitches a story from out in the field. When he describes it, every story he works on has the potential for a Dupont Award.”

Farrell considered B. J.’s words. She knew there was something to them.

“You’re right,” she murmured. “That Fabergé story was a strong one. I should have fought harder for it.”

“So what are you going to do now? Finish out your time here with your tail dragging between your legs?”

Farrell thought of Peter’s story of the old lady with the allegedly “real” Moon Egg.

“Actually, I do have something I’m going to work on. An exclusive. Want to work on it with me?”

“Shoot.”

Farrell filled him in on everything she knew so far. “I guess the first thing I should do is talk to Clifford Montgomery, the president of Churchill’s.” She made a note on the yellow legal pad on her desk. She looked up at B. J. “Why are you grinning that ridiculous grin?”

“Guess who I had a date with Saturday night?”

Monday morning. Pat hummed as she waited for her coffee at Choo-Choo Charlie’s.

“Nice weekend?” Charlie Ferrino asked.

“Mmmm. Really nice.”

“Do anything special?” By the sound of Pat’s “mmmm,” Charlie had the feeling he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Yes. I went to dinner in Manhattan. The restaurant was wonderful.”

“How ’bout the company? Was it a ‘date’?” Charlie busied himself fastening the top to the coffee container, trying to act as if his interest was only a friendly one, when in fact his heart was sinking.

“As a matter of fact, it was.” Pat looked like she was trying to suppress her smile.

“And?”

“Oh, Charlie, what do you mean, ‘and’? It was just a date, no big deal.” Pat laughed nervously, shaking her head.

He didn’t believe her.

Tuesday

Meryl Quan poured tea for Farrell Slater as she waited for Clifford Montgomery to arrive. So this was the woman B. J. was so keen about. Lovely.

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you. But I will have some lemon.” Farrell squeezed the juice from the yellow slice into the amber brew.

“I’m sorry that Mr. Montgomery is running a bit behind schedule,” Meryl apologized. “But he should be here momentarily.”

“No problem.” Farrell smiled. She was relieved to have a few minutes to collect herself. She was not looking forward to the conversation they were about to have.

As she waited for Montgomery to come in, Farrell wondered how the president of the auction house was going to react to the news. In her research on him, she had learned about the years he’d studied Fabergé as a young man, while working at La Russie Imperiale—probably one among a half-dozen of the finest antique shops in the world, and the main clearinghouse of the Russian enamels and jewelry in this country. Montgomery was regarded as one of the world’s top authorities on Fabergé. Farrell doubted he would be happy when confronted with the possibility
that he’d made a mistake in authenticating the Moon Egg.

A six-million-dollar mistake.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Montgomery strode across the room and offered his hand to Farrell. He was dressed impeccably in a navy chalk-striped suit. A cornflower-blue pocket handkerchief matched his knotted silk tie.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

“Well, we make time for KEY News and your phone call to Ms. Quan here, my assistant, was certainly intriguing.”

Outwardly Montgomery seemed calm and in control. Farrell wondered how he felt inside right now. Probably a bit apprehensive. In a minute he’d be choking.

“Mr. Montgomery, I’m working on a story about
Faux
bergé. You’re familiar with that, of course.”

Montgomery nodded. “Sure, I’ve come across a piece here and there myself, from time to time. Usually the sellers who brought them here for auction weren’t aware that what they owned were fakes.”

“You mean, they purchased the pieces thinking they’d bought authentic Fabergé?”

“That’s right.”

“How do they take the news when you tell them they’ve been had?”

Picking up a paperweight, Montgomery paused to consider.

“Disbelief, anger, embarrassment. There’s not really
much they can do but report the deception to the authorities and hope that the forgers are caught. That rarely happens.”

“Why is that?” Farrell asked.

“Forgeries in the art world are much more common than most people realize. Even some of the most learned experts have authenticated fakes.”

Farrell wondered if Montgomery already realized she was about to confront him with the possibility that he had authenticated a fake Moon Egg. Was he setting up an excuse for himself, that even the most esteemed in their fields make mistakes? Farrell scribbled in her reporter’s notebook.

“Mr. Montgomery,” she began. “Do you think there is any possibility that the egg auctioned here at Churchill’s last week was not a real Imperial Easter Egg?”

“Anything is possible, Ms. Slater,” he said coolly. “However, I authenticated the Moon Egg myself. I stake my reputation and the reputation of this auction house on my decision.”

He’s a smooth one
, thought Farrell.

“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question, Ms. Slater. What makes you think that the Moon Egg may be a fake?”

“A source says he knows where the real Moon Egg is.”

“A reliable source?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Have you seen this alleged Imperial Egg?”

“Not yet.”

“Nor will you. It does not exist. These are very serious accusations that you are throwing around here, Ms. Slater. I suggest that you be very careful.”

Olga sat huddled on the side of the worn sofa in her small living room, nervously fingering the pearly buttons on her gray cardigan. Her lined face was troubled as she listened to the earnest pleading of her surrogate grandson.

“Really, Olga. This will be all right. You haven’t done anything wrong. You won’t be in any trouble.”

Olga’s cloudy eyes searched Peter’s young face. What was it like to be so trusting?

“How are you sure I won’t be in trouble?” she asked. “The police are everywhere. Even when you cannot see them.” She wrapped her arms tight around her torso, trying to warm herself in the suddenly cold apartment. This American boy was so naive.

“Olga, I’m not telling you that the police are not everywhere,” Peter answered, undaunted. “It’s a good bet that they are in places and know things we can’t even imagine. I agree with you on that. But what I’m trying to say is that you haven’t done anything wrong, and you don’t have to worry. No one is going to put you in prison or send you into exile because you have the Moon Egg.”

Olga slowly lifted herself from the sofa and slowly made her way to the kitchenette. She switched on the electric burner beneath the tea kettle and opened the fridge, taking out ajar. Peter quickly came to her side.

“Mmm. The caviar! I was hoping you’d have some of this for me!”

Olga smiled as she watched Peter spread the sweet eggplant mixture thickly over slices of white toast. He could never get enough of it. Olga’s mother’s recipe from the Old Country. She loved watching him enjoy it. “I make more eggplant caviar for next time you come. You can bring to school with you.”

As Peter ate, with relish, Olga considered his arguments. Maybe it was time to come forward, she thought. Time to lift away the heavy burden that she had been carrying for as long as she could remember. What would it be like not to live in fear?