Do You Promise Not to Tell? (2 page)

Luminous dark eyes peered out from her magnolia-skinned face. The woman’s raven hair could not be untinted, but Pat suspected that years ago the shiny black had been its natural color. In her time, she must have been a real beauty, Pat decided.

But now the former beauty would be wearing Olga’s brooch. Pat felt a tug of sadness. Dear Olga. How many times had the tiny Russian woman lovingly attached that pin to the collar of her carefully starched linen blouses? Olga had cherished the white enamel crescent studded with tiny sapphires—a gift from her father who had once worked in the studios of the famed jeweler Carl Fabergé. If an old woman
was to wear this unique pin, Pat preferred that it be Olga.

Fabergé. The Imperial jeweler to the last Romanov czars.

Pat and her nineteen-year-old son Peter watched the distinguished-looking auctioneer standing at the raised walnut platform stationed in front of the large room. Well-dressed men and women spoke softly into the telephones at desks banking either side of the auctioneer’s podium. Their job was to efficiently express bids made by potential buyers not on the floor of the salesroom.

The auctioneer expertly moved through the numbered items in the Churchill’s catalogue. A small copper ashtray embossed with the Russian Imperial Eagles went for fourteen hundred dollars. A pair of silver Fabergé asparagus tongs earned over its estimate of two thousand. A silver table lighter in the form of a crouching monkey went for twenty-five thousand. The monkey’s expressive face and lined forehead had clearly charmed its new owner.

“What do we have for the gold cigarette case?”

Pat studied the picture of the cigarette case featured in her program. The fourteen-karat golden cover was monogrammed and featured a diamond-set Imperial Eagle. When pressed, the sapphire thumbpiece opened the elegant container. Beautiful.

“Four thousand once.

“Four thousand twice.

“Sold! Four thousand dollars to number one-ninety-six.”

Pat recognized the buyer. It was the same man who
had purchased Olga’s silver cigarette case at last year’s auction. The tall, pleasant-looking man was wearing a tweed sports jacket. She guessed him to be about forty-five, maybe older. As she studied him, he looked in her direction and smiled.

Did he remember her from last year?

“That’s Professor Kavanagh! My Russian Studies prof.” Peter was out of his seat and headed for the cigarette-case buyer. The men shook hands and Pat watched as Peter gestured toward her and she could see his lips form the words,
That’s my mother
. Pat thought the professor looked surprised, maybe even pleased, to hear the information.

Pat was used to it. People often commented that it had to be impossible for her to be the mother of a nineteen-year-old. But she’d been Peter’s age when her only child was born.

As Pat looked on, she was surprised herself. Seton Hall University must be paying good salaries. Fabergé cigarette cases didn’t come cheap. The men shook hands again and Peter came back to join his mother. His face was flushed with pleasure.

“This is great, Mom,” he whispered. “Meeting my favorite professor at a Churchill’s auction—I think he was surprised to see one of his students at something like this.”

Pat enjoyed her son’s enthusiasm. Peter was such an earnest kid. She often found herself hoping he wouldn’t get hurt.

“I told him about your shop, Mom. He said he’d like to stop in sometime.”

“Great, sweetheart,” she whispered back; but she
was more interested in what was happening at the front of the room.

The numbered treasures continued to fetch small fortunes and Pat felt the electricity building in the crowd as the star attraction slowly made its way closer to the auction block. Then, it rolled into view. The audience sat up straighter in their chairs and a low, reverential roar swept over the tension-charged room. The television news crews stationed throughout the gallery rolled their video cameras.

Pat shivered at the auctioneer’s announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Moon Egg.”

Safe from the curious stares of the eyes below in the auction gallery, there was privacy in the Churchill’s skybox. In the skybox, one could see out, but no one could see in.

The bidding on the Moon Egg was heated. From the floor, on the phones, the price went higher and higher.

The auctioneer entered the bids as he received them, and the price rose higher still.

Whatever it took, the skybox bidder was determined to have the egg. It was meant to be.

“What else should we shoot, boss?”

Tall and lanky, B. J. D’Elia stood poised with his video camera, ready for Farrell’s cue.

“Hold on a minute, Beej, I’m thinking.”

Farrell stood at the side of the crowded gallery and debated with herself. This was a better story than she had originally anticipated. Should she snag Churchill’s president, Clifford Montgomery, for a unilateral interview? What was the point? Range was never going to buy a full piece on the sale of the Moon Egg. He wasn’t going to give one minute and thirty seconds of his valuable
Evening Headlines
airtime to this story. Farrell had known this the minute he’d assigned the piece to her.

A voice-over, at best. Anchor Eliza Blake would narrate fifteen or twenty seconds of video of the Fabergé egg and the auction scene, telling the audience that the egg had sold for a record six million dollars.

But it was a far more compelling story than Farrell had first thought. Frustrated, Farrell was certain she could construct a more interesting piece. She’d get some file video from the film and tape library. She remembered some old black-and-white newsreel stuff KEY News had obtained of the Romanovs at play on their royal yacht, the
Standart
. Shortly thereafter, Czar Nicholas II and his family had been forced from
the Alexander palace and sent into exile, only to be executed a few months later by the ruthless Bolsheviks. Their royal bodies had been doused with acid and buried in a pit in the darkness of the Russian woods.

She could ask Robbie to pull it for her.

The story of the long-lost Moon Egg and how it had been discovered decades after its creation as an Easter gift for Czarina Alexandra from her devoted husband, was a producer’s dream. It had all the elements: romance, wealth, betrayal, tragedy.
I can’t miss with this story
, thought Farrell.
It’s great TV
.

Farrell pulled out her cell phone and stabbed the numbers that would connect her with the Fishbowl, the
Evening Headlines
command center. Dean Cohen picked up.

“Cohen,” he answered crisply.

Swell. The fair-haired boy busy kissing up to Master Bullock. Dean was forever trawling around the Fishbowl. He thrived on hanging out in the executive producer’s glass-enclosed office.

“Dean, it’s Farrell.”

“How’d the auction go?”

“Great. Can I talk to Range?”

“He’s on another line.”

“I’ll hold.”

Farrell held on, her eyes scanning the auction gallery. She saw a tall, pretty woman gathering up her things and rising from her seat. An even taller teenaged boy got up along with her. There was something familiar about her.

Pat! She looked almost the same as she had the last
time Farrell had seen her. How long ago was that? Farrell’s mind searched. Could it be almost twenty years? And that must be Peter—he had been just a baby when last she’d seen him!
My God
.

“Bullock here,” snapped the voice in the earpiece. Bullock’s abrupt, clipped manner always caught Farrell off guard.

“Range, it’s Farrell.”

“I know who it is.”

Of course he knew who it was. How stupid of her to identify herself again. When would she learn that, with Bullock, she should dispense with the niceties? He just wanted her to get to the point.

Farrell hated herself as she heard herself stammer, “Well, the Moon Egg just went for six million.”

“And?”

“Well, I think we could do a good story on it.”

“Why?”

“The whole history of the thing is fascinating.”

“Who bought it?”

“A telephone bidder who wants to remain anonymous.”

There was a short pause on the line. Farrell pictured Bullock checking his computer screen.

“We’re heavy tonight. Best we can do is give it a twenty-second v/o.”

The connection was broken.

“The Bowl doesn’t want it,” Farrell announced, shrugging. “Do you mind, Beej? I’m going to take a cab back to the Broadcast Center now.”

“Damn, I love the shot I got of that doorman in the Russian cossack getup out front. Cool costume. Oh well, you go ahead, Farrell. I’ll see you back there.”

B. J. D’Elia continued to pack up his video gear as he watched Farrell walk away, her shoulders slumped. It would only take about ten minutes to break down and stow away the tripod, lights, and wires and load them into the crew car parked outside Churchill’s on Madison Avenue. Farrell knew that. And with no story to produce for tonight’s broadcast, there was certainly no big rush to get back to KEY. She must want to be on her own, not in the mood for company or conversation. Who could blame her? Farrell couldn’t get herself arrested on
Evening Headlines
.

Twenty-eight years old, Bartolomeo Joseph D’Elia loved working in television news. Forty hours a week, plus all the overtime he could get, he was paid for his passion. Going out to cover whatever assignment blew his way, B. J. lived by his wits, his skills, and the seat of his pants.

Was he lucky, or what! He thought of that all the time. Most poor stiffs hated to get up in the morning, dragged themselves to their boring jobs, counting the
hours until it was time to go home. Then they ate some dinner, watched a lot of television, and went to bed, only to get up and do it all over again. When he thought about what life must be like for those guys, he shuddered. B. J. knew he was one of the fortunate few who actually looked forward to work each day.

Farrell, on the other hand, was struggling, and everyone at KEY knew it. Gossip was elevated to an art form. Who was in favor, who was screwing up, who was on the rise, who had already seen his or her best days. Career bumps and rough patches sustained the voracious appetites of the newshounds. They watched with the same fascination of rubberneckers on the highway who slow down to see if the passengers in a car wreck are going to come out alive—mesmerized and grateful (perhaps “happy” would be the right word) that they were safe, at least for today.

KEY News was no longer the cradle-to-grave operation it had once proudly been in years gone by. In the past, when a longtime employee had served the company well, the news division would keep him on staff when his most productive days were behind him.
You took care of us, now we’ll take care of you
. Not anymore.

Corporate loyalty cut both ways. Employees sensed the company wasn’t committed to the workers the way it had been once. Many employees didn’t give as much as a result. Why bust your hump for the company when it wasn’t going to be there for you?

That’s why B. J. was a standout. He always went the extra mile, treating every story he worked on like it had Emmy Award-nomination potential. He paid
attention to the details, put thought and energy into each camera shot. Producers loved to work with him. When B. J. had done the camera work in the field, they knew that there would be great material to work with in the editing room. Producers always asked to have him assigned to their stories.

He was also a lot of fun. Quick-witted, well-read, and street-smart, he was able to size up a situation and, when it got tense, diffuse it with humor. In a world where everyone took themselves very seriously, B. J. could be counted on to put things in perspective with some comic relief. But today his attempts at humor had failed with Farrell. She hadn’t even smiled at any of his wisecracks.

He finished winding up the last bit of black rubber-coated electrical wire and stowed it in the camera gear case. He forgot Farrell as once more he looked to the front of the auction gallery.

That young Asian woman staffing the telephone bank was a babe. He wondered for about five seconds if he should go for it.

The auction over, Pat and Peter went downstairs to the Churchill’s checkroom to collect their coats. Professor Kavanagh joined them on line. He extended his hand to Pat.

“Let me introduce myself, Mrs. Devereaux. I’m Tim Kavanagh, Peter’s Russian Studies prof.”

Pat shook his hand, smiling warmly. He had a good, firm handshake. Pat liked that.

“So very nice to meet you. Peter’s always talking about your class. It’s his favorite.”

“Your son has a real enthusiasm for Russian history. It’s uncommon for someone his age, especially since I would have to guess he doesn’t have much Russian blood in him.”

“You’d be guessing right. Peter comes from a long line of Irish men and women. But he’s never taken much of an interest in that part of his heritage.”

Peter corrected his mother.

“Mom, I’m an American. I know about American history.”