Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (29 page)

He turned around. His eyes widened and he let out an appreciative whistle. “You look amazing, kitten. You’ll be the most beautiful woman there tonight. Don’t tell your mother, but that dress looks like it was made just for you.”

I blushed again and kissed him. “You’re great for my ego, Harry, but I know you said the exact same thing to Mom when she tried it on for you. Didn’t you?”

He burst out laughing. “I might have. But I meant it both times.”

In the car on the way over to the Hathaways’, I told Harry that Roxanne had hired Luke and me to take photographs for the Save the Potomac Foundation. “Does she know Mom’s not coming and I’m your date instead?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter,” he said. “They’re expecting over two hundred people, so it’s going to be mobbed. Anyway, you know your mother. If I spend ten thousand dollars for a pair of tickets, they’re going to get used.”

“This is a five-thousand-dollar-a-person dinner?” I asked, stunned. “Are we eating on solid gold plates?”

“Close enough,” he said. “Grab that brochure on the backseat, will you?”

I turned around and picked up an expensive-looking gilt-edged invitation with two tickets tucked inside. On the cover was a painting of an opulent dining room of red velvet walls, gilded mirrors, and glittering crystal chandeliers with
Dîner des Trois Empereurs
and
Save the Potomac Foundation
written underneath in elegant hand-lettered calligraphy.

I opened the invitation and read out loud. “ ‘The Three Emperors Dinner, called the “dinner of the century,” was a banquet held at Café Anglais in Paris on June 7, 1867. Legendary chef Adolphe Dugléré prepared the meal at the request of Kaiser Wilhelm I of Prussia, who had come to France to visit the Exposition Universelle, Napoleon III’s impressive world’s fair showcasing exotic cultures, scientific and technical advancements, and the food and fashion of the Second Empire. While in Paris the kaiser decided to host an extravagant meal to be remembered, with no expense spared for himself and his three guests: Czar Alexander II of Russia; his son, the czarevich, who would later become Czar Alexander III; and Prince Otto von Bismarck. The cellar master was instructed to accompany the sixteen dishes served over eight hours with the greatest wines in the world.’ ” I paused and said, “We’re having sixteen courses and the meal is going to last eight hours?”

Harry shook his head. “Roxanne said if they duplicated that dinner today, it would cost twelve thousand dollars a person, mostly because of the wine. Not to mention the expense of tracking down the ingredients they used in those days. She said her chef was having a hell of a time finding songbirds to put on toast, especially since the species is now endangered.”

“Songbirds on toast?” The childhood nursery rhyme of four-and-twenty blackbirds baked into a pie and singing before a king popped into my head. “Just how authentic is this dinner going to be?”

“It’s not an eight-hour sit-down dinner, for one thing. And apparently there aren’t any photos or paintings of the room in the Café Anglais where the meal took place—Le Grand Seize, it was called, ‘The Big Sixteen’—so your mother says the décor is going to be more Moulin Rouge nightclub than Versailles palace.”

“It must be killing Mom to miss this.”

“I tied her to the bed,” he said, “and promised her we’d go to Paris once she’s feeling better.”

“Harry.” I shook my head. “You spoil her. You spoil all of us.”

“You only live once, sweetheart. You, Lexie, Tommy, and your mother are my world, you know that.”

My throat tightened and I leaned over to kiss his cheek. He patted my hand and cleared his throat.

“So,” I said, “tell me how you know the Hathaways. I didn’t know you were friends.”

“I know Roxanne better than I know the senator,” he said. “We met last year when she was looking for a weekend retreat in Middleburg. I showed her a couple of big properties that were on the market. We got to talking and I found out she’s quite an equestrian. She grew up in Switzerland and told me her father used to take her on hunting trips. Scotland, Africa—big game, not just shooting rabbits in the backyard. Anyway, I invited her to ride with the hunt anytime she wanted to.”

“Did she buy a place?” I asked.

He shook his head and put on his turn signal for the Hathaways’ street. We pulled up behind a limousine that had stopped half a block from their house. “No, she didn’t find anything that suited her . . . damn. Looks like we’re going to be stuck in a traffic jam with everyone arriving at the same time. They’re valet-parking cars at the French embassy. Roxanne worked out a deal . . . she’s buddy-buddy with the ambassador.”

Fifteen minutes later, Harry handed his keys to a man in a charcoal blazer with a logo on the pocket and we joined the queue of guests waiting at the front entrance to the Hathaway mansion.

I leaned over and said to Harry, “I don’t see anyone else in formal hunting attire, but not everyone looks like they just stepped out of La Belle Epoque France, either. I hope I’m not the only one dressed like this.”

“Kitten,” he said in my ear, “be an original, not a copy. You’ve always danced to the music of a different drummer. Don’t go changing on me now, okay?”

I slipped my arm through his and squeezed it. “I won’t, I promise. Thanks, Harry.”

The house had been transformed, and when we finally walked inside it was like passing through a magic doorway and stepping back in time. The décor was, as Harry said, more French cabaret than royal palace: swags of crystal beads, red, black, and gold fabric draped on every surface; and the flickering light of dozens of gas lamps since we had entered the age before electricity.

Roxanne Hathaway, seductive in a low-cut black velvet gown trimmed in gold, stood alone at the doorway greeting guests. She gave Harry a conspiratorial smile as she took in his contemporary scarlet hunting attire and he bent to kiss the hand she held out.

“Roxanne, my dear, you look gorgeous,” he said. “And I believe you already know my daughter, Sophie Medina? Caroline sends regrets, but she’s laid up with laryngitis and an awful head cold.”

Roxanne’s gaze shifted and I caught the tiny flicker of surprise as she recognized me and noticed my couture gown. The look vanished, replaced by the serene expression of a hostess welcoming guests, and she said, “Please wish Caroline better, Harry. We’ll miss her, but I’m glad you brought Sophie. I’m sure she’s filled you in about the details of how we know each other.” To me she added, “I didn’t realize you two were related or that you would be coming tonight when we met yesterday.”

It sounded faintly like a reproach.

“Harry married my mother when I was fourteen, which was one of the best things that ever happened to me,” I said. “And my boss asked me to change my name professionally when I first started working because another photographer on staff was also named Wyatt. Once I became established, I never changed it back. Medina is my birth father’s name. I’m surprised to be here tonight, too, Roxanne. My mother called this morning to ask if I’d be Harry’s date. Luckily we’re the same size, because I’m wearing her dress.”

Roxanne still seemed taken aback by my presence, but she said, “How very fortunate. The dress suits you perfectly. And now, both of you, please go on through to the garden and make sure you take a glass of champagne. It’s Roederer, just as they served at the dinner in Paris. You’ll find Scott out there, too.”

Harry started to thank her, but the sound of a door closing on the second-floor landing distracted him and all of us looked up. Taras Attar, in a dark suit and a white silk scarf that was very twenty-first century, ran down the wide-plank staircase and crossed the foyer to where the three of us stood.

“Roxanne, my love.” He spoke with an aristocratic British accent, and his deep voice was almost a growl. “You look exquisite, darling. I’m already regretting my decision to dine elsewhere this evening.”

He kissed her neck as she caught her breath and—there is no other word for it—devoured me with his eyes at the same time. Until this moment, I had thought of Taras Attar only in the abstract, an amalgam of all the disparate things I knew and heard about him: Scott Hathaway’s college friend and chess partner, the leader of a people who could trace their heritage and culture back to Alexander the Great, an erudite scholar and a poet, a marked man with a price on his head. What I didn’t realize until just now was the full force of his charismatic personality. Nor that he was an even more outrageous flirt than Father Pat had described.

Roxanne removed Taras’s arm, which he’d draped over her shoulder, like she was extracting herself from a bothersome seat belt and said in an equable voice, “You can still change your mind, Taras. We’ve plenty of food and you won’t find a better meal anywhere tonight, even if you’re dining at the White House. But if you stay, you’re sitting next to me so I can keep an eye on you. I can’t have you proposing marriage to every pretty woman at this party and breaking her heart when you abandon her for the next one you meet.”

Attar roared with laughter, obviously used to the banter, and said, “You can start by introducing me to this gorgeous creature.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it.

“Sophie Medina and Harry Wyatt, meet Dr. Taras Attar, brilliant author and scholar, and shameless charmer of women. Taras, Harry’s a good friend and fellow foxhunter. Sophie is his daughter and a gifted photographer. In fact, she’s doing some work for the Save the Potomac Foundation.”

“A photographer? How fascinating. I’d like to see your work sometime,” Attar said to me. “Roxy has an unerring knack for finding and working with only the most brilliantly talented people.”

The compliment was a throwaway line and nothing to be followed up on, but before I could reply, Roxanne said, “You’ve already seen her photos, Taras. The pictures from the National Gallery the other night.”

“Ah. Those pictures. So I did.” Attar’s eyes flashed and I wondered if Roxanne had meant to deliberately provoke him by indirectly bringing up Arkady Vasiliev. He turned to Harry and said, “I used to hunt when I lived in England. I miss it.”

“Join us sometime,” Harry said. “If you’re staying this evening we can talk about it.”

“I wish I could, but as Roxanne knows, I’m rather bolshie when it comes to anything honoring the Romanovs and Mother Russia, and that includes the exhibit at the National Gallery. I’d be poor company at her nice party, so it seemed a wise move to make other plans.” He said to me, “I mean no offense to you, Sophie.”

“None taken,” I said.

Roxanne flicked a glance across the room as two dark-suited men with wires in their ears who had been standing against the wall came to attention. “Your car is outside, Taras,” she said. “Enjoy your evening. We’ll see you when you get back.”

It was a polite but definite dismissal. I had missed Attar’s State Department security detail hovering in the background, they’d been so discreet, and stole a quick look across the room.

Attar made a small, respectful bow to Roxanne, but I caught the sly wink that went with it. “Thank you, darling, I shall. I’m having dinner with an old friend and she and I have a lot to catch up on. I suspect I’ll be very late, so don’t wait up. I’ll see you and Scott for breakfast.” He nodded at Harry and me. “Nice to meet you both.”

He left with his security team, and Roxanne, who looked like she’d bitten back a parting remark for Taras, turned to us. “I believe I was saying that you two should help yourselves to champagne. There is a well-stocked bar in the tent if you prefer something else, and a particularly good selection of vodkas in honor of the two Russian emperors, Taras’s remarks notwithstanding.”

Harry thanked Roxanne again and took two champagne flutes from a waiter holding a silver tray. “Interesting fellow,” he said, giving me a bland look as he handed me a glass and we walked through the house to the backyard. “Cheers, kitten.”

“Cheers,” I said. “Isn’t he?”

“Roxanne doesn’t seem too taken by him.”

“I got that vibe, too. But it looked like she already had her shots, so she’s immune to his lethal charm.”

Harry grinned and said, “Did Nick ever run into him in Abadistan?”

“I don’t know. Nick didn’t talk a lot about work.”

Harry put his arm around my shoulders. “I shouldn’t have brought him up. Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t want to upset you.”

“You’re not upsetting me, Harry. It’s okay.”

We stepped outside onto a sweeping multilevel flagstone terrace. At the bottom of the stairs, a series of formal gardens surrounded a shallow rectangular stone pool with a fountain at the center. The swimming pool was off to the right behind a high fence bordered by evergreens and rosebushes. A pretty white-columned open-air temple stood on a small hilltop to the left. The enormous glass-walled tent I’d seen the workers setting up yesterday was already filled with guests. Lit by crystal chandeliers and dozens of flickering sconces and set against the lacy silhouettes of the blue-black trees of Glover-Archbold Park, it now seemed as enchanted as a fairy tale castle.

I pulled out my phone and turned on the camera. “There’s going to be a full moon tonight. Give me a minute to take a picture of that little temple before the light changes, will you?”

Harry gave me a tolerant smile. “Go on, then. I’ll meet you inside the tent.”

Halfway down the path I stopped to photograph a wrought-iron scrollwork gate set in the high brick privacy wall, a shortcut to the driveway where cars still waited to drop off more guests. Sometimes life really does turn on a dime. Through the keyhole-shaped opening, I watched a limousine and a Lincoln Town Car pull up in the courtyard and jockey for position. Napoleon Duval unfolded himself from the front passenger seat of the limo and came around to hold the door for Taras Attar, who was still waiting on the front steps, just as Katya Gordon, in a head-turning strapless red evening gown, stepped out of the Town Car, helped by one of the valets. Thirty seconds either way and they would have missed seeing each other.

Attar spotted her first. Instead of getting into the limousine, he waved off Duval and went over to Katya. I zoomed in my camera phone and pressed the button.