Do You Promise Not to Tell? (15 page)

Better to have the enemy inside the tent, so you could see what she was doing.

Montgomery buzzed the intercom.

“Meryl, would you please call Farrell Slater over at KEY News and ask her if she’d like to be my guest
at the lecture I’m giving on art forgery at the Metropolitan?”

“Farrell Slater?” Meryl asked, surprise in her voice.

“That’s what I said,” he snapped.

If he could befriend Farrell, perhaps he could convince her that the auctioned Moon Egg was legitimate. After all, she’d said she hadn’t seen the other egg herself, practically admitting she hadn’t any proof.

It was worth a try. If he couldn’t persuade her, he’d have to deal with Farrell in another way.

Dialing the phone number of the Consignment Depot, Farrell glared at Dean Cohen’s back as he sat at the desk in front of hers. How she hated sharing an office with him.
Not for long
, she thought. That would be one good thing about leaving KEY News.

Pat picked up on the second ring. “Consignment Depot.”

“Pat, it’s me, Farrell. How’s Olga?”

“Holding on, so far,” Pat answered quietly.

“Still unconscious?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are the doctors saying?”

“Not much. Those guys play it so close to the vest. They say we’ll have to wait and see.”

Farrell heard a bell ring in the background.

“Got to go, Farrell. A customer is here. I’ll keep you posted if there is anything new on Olga’s condition.”

Next, Farrell dialed area code 201 information.

“Westwood, please. I’d like the number for the fire department.”

She had the feeling that Dean was listening to her side of the telephone calls. Busybody.

“Hello, this is Farrell Slater with KEY News in New York. I’d like to speak with the fire chief, please.”

Farrell doodled on the blotter on her desk as she waited for the chief to come to the phone.
Olga. Egg. Video. Fire.
She traced six question marks after the last word.

The chief came to the phone as quickly as he could. “KEY News” had brought him running in from outside.

“No, Ms. Slater, we don’t think there was any foul play here. We’re pretty sure the old lady’s candle started the fire. It was an accident.”

“You’re sure of it?”

“Almost a hundred percent sure.”

“ ‘Almost’?”

The chief hesitated for a moment. “Well, the only thing that’s bothering us, is that the apartment door was unlocked when we got there. Most of the old people around here keep their doors locked. Even though we like to think ours is a safe little town, we’ve done a local public-awareness campaign on the importance of home security. And the old lady’s landlord told us she was fanatical about making sure her door was locked.”

Tuesday

Victor had found it years ago, when he was just a little kid, though his mother did not know it.

He checked the hidden drawer in the walnut secretary every so often to see if there was anything new inside. Over the years, the drawer had yielded lots of interesting things, bits of information that helped him to figure out his mother, Nadine. The prima ballerina. The legend.

The love letters had always been his favorite secret. The letters to “Nadjia”—a nickname, he assumed, for his mother. Nadjia, Nadine. Close enough.

But who was “V.”? Who was the man who signed the heartsick love notes? It wasn’t his dead father. His name had been Michael. His mother must have had a clandestine affair with someone. Someone who meant a great deal to her, or she wouldn’t have saved the letters, incriminating as they were.

It had always intrigued Victor to think of his mother sneaking around, involved with a man other than his father. She must have met him during her stint as a diplomat’s wife in Russia. The letters revealed how lonely her lover was without her in St. Petersburg. Had she been lonely as her husband worked long hours in the American embassy during
the Cold War? Was that what drove her to taking a chance like that?

The “V.” bothered him, though. Not many names began with that letter. The fact that Mother had named her only son Victor, made him wonder. He’d never asked her about it, though. That would signal to her that he knew about her hiding place.

Victor hadn’t checked the drawer in a while. There hadn’t been anything new in there for a long time. Not too much happened in his mother’s quiet, insulated life anymore. But he was bored today, and it was worth a shot. Nadine was upstairs having a massage that would keep her occupied for at least the next hour.

His thick frame looked out of place in the finely detailed office. Peasant stock. That’s what he’d heard a maid whisper about him years ago. He tried to make the most of the attributes he did possess. Physical strength was his long suit and he worked hard to maximize his power. Lifting weights and working out were part of his daily routine. The gym was his passion.

The gym and—lately—Stacey Spinner. She made him feel so good. She complimented him all the time on his physique. Told him how handsome he was. No one, except his mother, had ever done that. And somehow his mother didn’t count. Mothers had to praise their sons.

Being with Stacey made Victor feel good in a whole variety of ways, and he wanted to make sure she stayed in his life.

Victor took a seat at the walnut desk, his thick muscles straining against the seams of his trousers. Opening the paneled doors at the top, he felt beneath the shelf for the button. Open sesame.

Farrell watched Walter Cronkat and his pal Jane Pawley nibble indifferently at their dinners while she dwelled nervously on her conversation with the West-wood fire chief. The fact that Olga’s door had been unlocked bothered her. Though she prayed otherwise, Farrell felt increasingly certain that the fire had been no accident. And most unsettling was the idea that Olga lay near death in Pascack Valley Hospital merely because she possessed the Moon Egg. The Moon Egg that Farrell had insisted she reveal.

The television producer paced her apartment, straightening the crooked bulletin board and plumping the kilim pillows she had purchased in Pat’s shop, another tiny attempt to spruce up the tired sofa. She thought of Peter, earnest and so young, telling her Olga’s story, trusting Farrell to know what to do. She had let the kid down, letting her own hunger for a good story, a redeeming story for herself, get in the way of being responsible. Hell, she had reassured Peter that Olga wouldn’t be in any trouble without knowing for sure what the legal repercussions would be for the old woman with the smuggled egg. And now the fire.

She pulled her thick white velour robe tighter around her and made up her mind.

She didn’t really want to do it, but she had to. She had to call Jack McCord at the FBI and tell him about her fears. Before someone else got hurt.

Wednesday

Farrell stood at the base of the grand steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue. A bright blue sky framed the massive granite structure, with dun-colored Central Park on both sides. Long, luminously colored banners flapped noisily in the late-winter wind, announcing the special exhibits on display inside. One, in vivid purple, proclaimed, Russia’s Royal Romanovs. Farrell made a mental note to take a peek at the exhibit after Clifford Montgomery’s lecture.

New York was such a magical place sometimes
, she thought. So alive, so intense. Could she ever really go back to a small-town kind of life?

She climbed the stairs with a bounce in her step, eager to get inside.

The main foyer bustled with museum patrons, checking their coats, conferring with the volunteers at the information desk, studying their programs and deciding what beauties to behold first. There was a palpable energy in the air, the excitement of being able to get close enough to touch some of the most fabulous and famous art in the world.

A gray-haired man at the round information desk directed Farrell to the lecture auditorium. She checked her trench coat and walked through a long hallway
full of Greek and Roman statues, past a small gift stand, and down some stairs to the lecture hall. The room was almost full and Clifford Montgomery was already speaking.

“Art forgery has gone on throughout the five thousand years of mankind’s creative history. Not a month goes by in the art world without another tale of some new, fabulous fake being unmasked, or someone being royally ripped off by acquiring an expensive, well-executed imitation, but an imitation nonetheless.”

Montgomery continued, smoothly and interestingly. Using slides, he showed the audience examples of famous forgeries through the ages. Portions of the Bible were faked. In the fourteenth century, a known forger confessed to having faked the Shroud of Turin, yet it wasn’t until the 1990s that this fraud was laid to rest. Renoir was known to have copied some of his better work, selling them as “original” when he needed to keep food on the table. The list went on and on.

“And so, ladies and gentlemen,” Montgomery concluded, “I leave you with the words of Horace, who had the whole thing nailed down so long ago when he said, ‘He who knows a thousand works of art, knows a thousand frauds.’ “

The audience applauded enthusiastically and Montgomery reveled in the praise.

“Are there any questions?” he called to the audience.

“Can you comment on the rise of Fabergé forgery?”

Farrell, standing at the back of the auditorium,
knew Montgomery didn’t like her question, but she had to admire the showman in him. He took a drink of water and smiled amiably.

“Of course. That’s a very good question, especially in light of the increased interest in Fabergé caused by the recent auction of the legendary Moon Egg for six million dollars at Churchill’s, and the Fabergé featured in the popular Romanov exhibit that’s going on here at the Metropolitan. Fabergé has been copied and imitated for years, the forgers using the photographs in art books as models for their purpose. But serious collectors could usually spot the fakes. The work just wasn’t as fine and, since Fabergé’s works were usually one of a kind, duplicates must be forgeries.

“Now, with the recent record prices being paid for Fabergé, and the discovery of the actual Fabergé design book, forgers have come out of the woodwork. Current fakes, made in St. Petersburg and New York, are quite ambitious and exceedingly well executed. Many unsuspecting buyers, even some museum curators, have been duped. Forging Fabergé has become a major source of income for criminals.”

Was Montgomery taunting her? Farrell wondered. Or, by inviting her to hear his lecture, was he trying to reassure her that he had nothing to hide?

With no appointments pending all afternoon at Spun Gold Interiors, Stacey clicked the television remote control in the office, eager to watch Joan Rivers on QVC. She wished Rivers’ show was on more often. She loved Joan’s jewelry.

Of course, it was only costume, but the designs were clever and the workmanship was quite good. Stacey had ordered things from the show, though she really didn’t like to admit to anyone that she even watched QVC.

She especially liked the pieces based on Fabergé designs. Joan was a Fabergé aficionado. Her husband Edgar had given her a Fabergé necklace years before, which had once belonged to Empress Marie of Romania. Joan’s jewelers had copied it so that Jane Q. Public could have her own version of the tiny, enameled-egg charms in various shades and designs that hung from a gold-plated chain.

Stacey had always wished she could afford the real thing. She resented being a pretender. She was meant to have precious jewelry, not costume. When she’d taken Churchill’s fine-jewelry course, she had fantasized about owning and wearing the glittering gems set in gold and platinum.

Like Nadine Paradise’s crescent brooch. How royal she’d feel wearing that beautiful pin! But she consoled
herself with the thought that if she played her cards right, if she could keep things going with Victor, she would have plenty of her own authentic Fabergé someday. Nadine’s Fabergé.

The sound of the front door opening prompted Stacey to snap off the television. She smoothed her hair as she moved from her office to the showroom.

Stacey could see past the woman who stood framed in the large picture window. A silver Mercedes sports coupe was parked out front. Stacey put on her brightest smile.

“Can I help you?”

As the woman explained that she was new to town and had just purchased a colonial on Winters Way, dollar signs danced in Stacey’s head. Checking their respective diaries, they made an appointment for Stacey to take a look at the woman’s new house.

“Let me ask you something,” the new client said, as she stopped at the shop door on her way out. “I’ve lived in Manhattan all my life—doesn’t it get a little scary out here? Everything seems so secluded. So isolated.” The woman appeared to shiver.

“No,” said Stacey, shaking her head from side to side. “The police are wonderful and patrol like mad and just about everyone I know has an alarm system.” Stacey lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “But I’ll tell you a little secret,” she said conspiratorially, wanting the woman to like her.