Do You Promise Not to Tell? (7 page)

The Fabergé. Pat had gotten seven thousand dollars for the brooch. That should hold for a while. It had to. With the crescent brooch gone, there was only one piece of Fabergé left.

Potted red begonias lined the windowsill, and Olga decided they needed to be watered. She went to the kitchenette sink, filled a glass with water, and shuffled slowly to the flowers. Olga tended her plants lovingly and she had gotten years of enjoyment from these particular begonias. Especially in the winter, in the
gray, dark months, the flowers cheered her.

Olga lived carefully, frugally, and that was fine by her. It was all she had ever known, really. Life was hard, Olga knew that. But she was one of the lucky ones. America was her country. In Russia, she was scared all the time. In America she was free and she didn’t live in fear.

Except about the Fabergé.

Grateful for the increased physical strength she’d developed since she’d been working out, Pat easily moved a walnut writing desk to a spot where it would be shown to greater advantage in the Consignment Depot living room, when a sudden blast of winter air from the opened front door signaled the arrival of Stacey Spinner. Stacey, the owner of Spun Gold Interiors, stopped at the Depot at least once a week, always on the prowl for anything new that came into the shop.

Pat knew that Stacey’s interior design business was thriving. Saddle River was only a few miles but a world apart from Westwood and the Consignment Depot. Spun Gold Interiors by Stacey Spinner catered to people who had too much money and too little time. Her clients often lacked the inclination or the confidence to decorate their multimillion-dollar homes. Stacey possessed both qualities in abundance. Pat knew that Stacey bought things at the Consignment Depot and then turned around and sold them to her wealthy clients for many times what she had paid. The clients oohed and aahed about Stacey’s “wonderful finds.” Pat supposed that Stacey’s business was a case study of capitalism in action. Hey, everyone has to make a living.

As usual, Stacey looked terrific. Though not really
a pretty woman, she was ever so highly maintained. Her ash-blond hair was expensively cut and blown dry, her makeup expertly applied, her nails freshly manicured. (Pat had always suspected reconstructive surgery.) Her snug-fitting jeans were carefully ironed and creased precisely down the front. She wore ostrich-skin cowboy boots and a sheepskin jacket the same oatmeal color as her boots.

Pat smoothed back her own hair, and tucked in the back of her dark blue turtleneck, which had come loose from her khakis as she’d moved the desk.

“Hello, Stacey. How are you?” Pat asked politely.

“Can’t complain, Pat. My business is amazing. How are things for you?”

“Well, spring fever and the urge to either clean up or perk up the home hasn’t begun yet, so it’s just a little slow. But we did get in a few interesting things this week. Take a look around.”

Pat watched as Stacey’s radar zeroed in immediately on the large china pot that had come in two days ago. Decorated with showy peonies in graduated shades from palest to brightest pinks, the pot was a Chinese export and dated from the late 1800s.

“Where did this come from?” Stacey asked, as if she had only a mild interest. But Pat knew from experience that the feigned lack of enthusiasm really meant Stacey would be taking out her Gucci-covered checkbook.

“A local family was cleaning out the estate of an elderly aunt.”

Stacey checked the price tag.

“Four hundred? Isn’t that a little steep?”

“It’s worth it, Stacey.”

The decorator moved on through the shop without committing to the Chinese pot, but once the front door opened again and another customer arrived, Stacey made a beeline back to her treasure.

“I’ll take it.”

As Stacey made out her check to the Consignment Depot, she told Pat, “Don’t forget to give me a call if anything else good comes in from that estate.”

The new BMW sedan pulled into the circular drive in front of the stately Tudor mansion. As the driver switched off the ignition, she made the wish she made each and every time she arrived at Nadine Paradise’s home.
God, I wish this house was mine
. But unlike so many wishes that people make, Stacey Spinner knew her wish had a very good chance of coming true.

After her trip to the Consignment Depot she had gone home to change, and then headed right to the beautiful old home.

Stacey swung her jodhpur-clad legs out of the car, her shiny leather riding boots sinking into the crushed-stone covered driveway. Those legs had never known actual contact with a horse, but the equestrian look was meant to look elegantly casual. Everything Stacey did was painstakingly calculated.

Carefully she lifted the large Chinese porcelain pot from the backseat and, holding it close, made her way up the wide fieldstone steps that led to the heavy double doors. Nadine Paradise herself answered the bell.

“Mrs. Paradise! As always, so good to see you. You’re looking so well!” Stacey eyed the brooch anchored to Nadine’s charcoal-gray cashmere dress. “What a beautiful pin!”

Nadine’s thin arms reached up and her fingers delicately
rubbed the brooch. The crescent of enamel and sapphires preened upon the dark soft wool.

“Thank you, Stacey. Won’t you come in?”

Stacey entered the spacious entry hall, careful to appear nonchalant in the elegant surroundings. Her boots clicked on the marble floor as she caught a look at herself in the enormous, ornate gilded mirror that hung from the mahogany wall. Briefly she imagined herself to be the lady of the house, home from a day of antiquing.

“I’ve been looking forward to seeing this,” Nadine said eagerly, reaching for the porcelain pot in Stacey’s arms. “Even though I really shouldn’t be buying anything,” she added.

“It’s very heavy, Mrs. Paradise. Let me put it down on the table in the conservatory so you can have a good look at it. The colors are just perfect for the room. I thought it might look wonderful with your orchids growing from it.”

As the two women walked across the fine old Oriental rugs on their way to the conservatory, Nadine complimented her interior decorator.

“Stacey, I know why you are so successful. You make your clients feel that you love and care about their homes as much as they do.”

Not
their
homes, Mrs. Paradise. It’s just
your
home I really love
.

Jackie Kennedy boosted Sotheby’s, Princess Diana advanced Christie’s, and now, thank God, the romance and history of Fabergé was helping Churchill’s
, Clifford Montgomery thought to himself, with a mixture of pleasure and relief. He checked the New York Stock Exchange listings in the
Wall Street Journal
. Churchill’s stock had gained three points since the announcement of the sale.

In the president’s office, Clifford sat back in his red leather chair, momentarily relishing the knowledge that he held options for more than one hundred thousand shares of the auction house’s stock. For him, every quarter-point equaled twenty-five thousand dollars—every point rise, another one hundred thousand dollars. If the stock jumped ten points, Clifford would be one million dollars richer—at least on paper.

All the publicity surrounding the sale of the Moon Egg had been a fantastic perk-up for business. Though the Wall Street professionals thought that the price-earnings ratio was too high, the public didn’t seem to share their concerns. The market was always susceptible to emotions, and the history of the Moon Egg had captured the imaginations of investors. If the stock sustained its current rise, Clifford stood to become a very wealthy man.

Clifford shuddered slightly, remembering how upset
Churchill’s board of directors had been when Caroline and John ultimately had chosen Sotheby’s for the sale of their mother’s possessions. But that upset had turned to rage when that sale turned into the media event of the decade, with resulting sales of over thirty-four million dollars—so much more than Sotheby’s highest estimates.

The next year, Princess Diana had selected Christie’s to sell seventy-nine of her dresses because she wanted to raise money for cancer and AIDS research. Three-and-a-quarter million in sales, and priceless goodwill and publicity for Christie’s.

Clifford stroked his dark, bearded chin, remembering that miserable time. To add insult to injury, Churchill’s had experienced a severe downturn in business after each of those sales. Those with estates to dispose of, or treasures they wanted to sell, chose Sotheby’s or Christie’s, not Churchill’s. They liked thinking their things were being sold by the same people who were good enough for England’s princess and America’s queen.

It was a vicious circle. The choicest merchandise was consistently consigned to the competition, and that merchandise drew better crowds of bidders, which drew higher prices and more publicity. Churchill’s was drowning. Clifford sensed that he was very close to losing his job. As the only African-American to rise to the presidency of a major auction house, he knew that his every move was under the microscope. He didn’t want to fail.

Then, a lifeline—Churchill’s chance to auction the fabled Moon Egg. Clifford had seized the opportunity
hungrily, and capitalized on it by scheduling the auction at the same time the long-anticipated “Riches of Russia’s Romanovs” exhibit was being featured at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After viewing the Russian treasures at the Met, those with the means and inclination could buy their own souvenir of Russian history and culture around the corner at Churchill’s. To keep the excitement going, Churchill’s would be featuring auctions with Russian themes all month.

A knock at the office door interrupted Clifford’s reverie. Meryl Quan entered, carrying her ever-present clipboard. Now only twenty-four, Meryl had graduated from Vanderbilt University with a fine-arts degree, then packed herself off to London to enroll in Sotheby’s Works of Art course. For the next nine months, she’d immersed herself in the study of paintings and decorative art. When she’d moved to New York, she’d found her first paying job as a floater at Churchill’s.

Meryl tackled the entry-level job enthusiastically, working the floor, answering telephones, doing whatever anyone asked of her. With her keen mind and positive attitude, she impressed everyone she worked for. When it came time to choose another assistant, there had been general agreement that Meryl Quan, though young, should get the position.

Clifford regarded the woman. Her shiny black hair glowed in the sunlight that streamed through the office window overlooking Madison Avenue. Her dark eyes peered from almond-shaped openings. Clear, smooth skin; straight nose; even, white teeth behind a delicately shaped mouth. All that and brains, too.

God, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had my job one day
.

“Nadine Paradise called. She wants to know more about the brooch she bought at the Fabergé auction.”

Meryl Quan was eager to go over details of the sale with Clifford Montgomery. Clifford half listened, a smile of satisfaction on his face as he perused the rest of the
Journal
.

“That was the enamel-and-sapphire crescent pin, wasn’t it?”

Meryl nodded. She admired Clifford’s file-cabinet mind. It amazed her how well he could recall the buyers and sellers of so many of the items auctioned off at Churchill’s. But then again, Nadine Paradise was a very good customer. Not only had she bought often over the years, the legendary prima ballerina also had name recognition. Churchill’s liked having a star-studded salesroom.

“What does she want to know?” he sighed, reluctantly folding up the newspaper.

Meryl had been observing Clifford closely over the last months and wondered if her boss would be happier working on Wall Street than he was managing a major auction house. Clifford was constantly reading the
Times
’ business section,
Baron
’
s
, and the
Wall Street Journal
, and watching CNBC on the small television set in his office. She’d never seen Clifford excited until the day a CNBC reporter came to interview him for a piece on the competition among Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and Churchill’s.

“She wants to know who consigned the brooch.”

“Pat Devereaux brought that piece in to us, didn’t she?”

Again Meryl marveled at Clifford’s sharp memory. Wanting to be prepared, Meryl had looked up the sales record on the crescent pin before meeting with Clifford.

“Yes,” she answered. “But apparently Ms. Devereaux was acting as an agent for someone else who wished to remain anonymous.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Paradise that?”

Meryl shook her head. “I thought you’d want to explain it to her yourself, especially with her own auction coming up in three weeks.”

“You’re absolutely right, Meryl. Mrs. Paradise should feel that she is of utmost importance to us. I will call her myself.”

Misha was gone. And just like in the best crimeland movies, it wasn’t pretty. Blood covered almost every surface of the small apartment. Special Agent Jack McCord surveyed the mess.

Now it was too late. The crime-lab guys could dust all they wanted, but Jack knew they weren’t going to come up with anything. Now he could show that idiot Quick exactly why he should have okayed the round-the-clock surveillance team. It would be fun to rub it in.