Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (22 page)

I turned off New Hampshire Avenue onto the seventeen hundred block of S Street, Northwest, the pretty tree-lined street of Federal and Victorian row houses where India Ferrer lived. Wrought-iron fences enclosed postage-stamp-size front yards filled with bright splotches of pansies, geraniums, impatiens, and crape myrtle mixed in with the mottled greens of ferns, hostas, and lavender. The trees on either side of the street towered above the houses and grew toward each other in a graceful shade-dappled canopy. India’s homes, identical romantic-looking Queen Anne gingerbreads, had stained-glass bay windows, balconies, loads of embellished brickwork, and towers with a witch’s hat pointed roof.

My home in London had once been the gardener’s cottage of the aptly named Marlborough Gardens, a private gated community of stately mansions lining a circular drive on the edge of Hampstead Heath. The houses surrounded a pretty green of gnarled trees, a gravel path lined with weathered benches, and beds of endless varieties of flowering plants. Something bloomed whatever the season in an exuberant but organized splendor that was quintessentially English; the green itself was never anything but emerald colored and lush as a golf course. I had taken hundreds of photos of that garden over the years, turning my pictures into a coffee table book for the local horticulture society to sell as a fund-raiser. I did not expect to find anything like my beloved English home with its idyllic setting here in Washington, but the peaceful serenity of this street reminded me of London and suddenly I desperately hoped India Ferrer would find me a suitable tenant.

I knocked using a lion’s head door knocker and a moment later there were footsteps like a child lightly running. A petite, elfish woman with unnaturally red hair opened the door. India Ferrer wore a flowing amethyst caftan, silver and turquoise jewelry that looked Native American, and the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5. She could have been sixty-five or eighty-five. She looked me over with the practiced eye of a livestock judge at the county fair and invited me in.

I had pictured rooms stuffed with furniture; tables and shelves filled with bric-a-brac in keeping with the fussiness and ornamentation of the Queen Anne exterior. But other than the dark, elaborately detailed woodwork, India’s book-and art-filled home with its walls painted warm, sunny colors was simply furnished and elegant. She led me into a celadon-and-saffron living room dominated by a painting of a nude hanging above a fireplace. Lighted votive candles sat on a stack of logs on the hearth and Celtic music played through iPod speakers on top of a bookcase.

We sat in her sunny bay window in toile-covered chairs pulled up around a table set for tea for two.

“Would you care for some tea, dear?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes, thank you. Is that you in the painting?”

India flashed a roguish smile. “Why, yes, it is. It was my birthday present to my husband when we lived in Casablanca many years ago.”

India Ferrer seemed like someone I would have liked to be friends with if I’d known her in Morocco. “What a fantastic gift.”

“My husband thought so, too.” She laughed as she passed me a cup and saucer.

English bone china so delicate I could see through it. I sipped the tea. “Jasmine. It’s lovely.”

India sat back and touched a finger to her lips. “I think you’ll do nicely,” she said after a moment. “The apartment’s yours if you want it.”

“Just like that?” I set down my teacup.

“I’ve always made decisions based on first impressions and instinct, and usually I never regret them,” she said. “I believe Grace told you I was looking for someone who would love the place as much as Max and I do. You seem to be a person who cares about her home; I saw how you noticed my music, my books, the jasmine tea. And the painting, of course.” She walked across the room and picked up a book on the coffee table.

“And you did this.” She passed it to me. “It’s stunning.”

The Beauty of Marlborough Gardens
by Sophie Medina. I stared at the dust jacket, a favorite photo of blooming wisteria winding through a pergola, and said in amazement, “Where on earth did you get it?”

“A British friend found it in a bookshop near Sloane Square during the Chelsea Flower Show.” She took a silver filigree pen out of a small vase stuffed with pens, paintbrushes, and a peacock feather. “Would you sign it?”

“Of course,” I said. “And I accept your offer.”

“Without even seeing the apartment?”

“I make a lot of decisions based on first impressions and instinct, too.”

India smiled. “In that case, how about a tour of your new home?”

She took a set of keys from a red-and-white Chinese ginger jar in the foyer and we went next door. Inside the front door was a small black-and-white-tiled vestibule with two entrances. My door was on the right. We climbed a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. Maximillian Katzer, the antiques dealer, had the ground floor and the first floor, which included the original living room, dining room, and lower-level kitchen. The enclosed Japanese garden at the back of the house was also his.

My apartment, on the second and third floors, had been remodeled to add a modern galley kitchen with a walk-in pantry and a small laundry area. I also had the library, an enormous sunny space with a reading alcove, carved millwork bookcases, and a working fireplace. Best of all, I had the third floor tower, which I knew would be my bedroom, and a large south-facing balcony that ran along the back of the house.

“It comes furnished, as you know.” India opened the sliding door and we stepped onto the balcony. “Grace mentioned that would suit you.”

“It does,” I said. “I didn’t ship much furniture back from England.”

“If there’s anything you don’t want, I can have Max move it to the carriage house.” She pointed to a small dull-red dollhouse of a building across the alley.

“That’s yours?” I said.

She nodded. “Max rents half of it. He keeps furniture that needs repairing there until it’s ready to be moved to his Georgetown gallery. The other half belongs to Niles.”

“Someone else lives here, too?”

India laughed. “Niles is my car. Or rather, he was my husband’s car. Do you drive, Sophie?”

“Yes,” I said. “For now, just a Vespa.”

“You’re welcome to use Niles anytime you like,” she said. “If he doesn’t get driven regularly, I’m afraid his oil will thicken and his valves won’t work properly. Max used to take him out before he started traveling all the time.”

“Are you sure you want to loan me your car?”

“You would be doing me a favor,” she said. “We’ll stop by Max’s and get the keys. Surely you weren’t planning to use a Vespa to move your things here? You can try him out.”

We went downstairs to the little vestibule and India said, “Max leaves an extra key above his front door. I wish he wouldn’t, but he insists it’s perfectly safe. Could you reach it?”

I found the key where India said it would be and she unlocked the door to Max’s apartment. The car key was in a bowl on an altar table next to a set of antique brass wind chimes. A current of air set the chimes off and the sound made me think of mist-covered mountains and Buddhist monks filing silently into a temple.

“Here.” India put a silver key chain into my hand. “The key to the carriage house and Niles’s key. Keep them. Now, why don’t we sign some papers and you’ll be all set?”

“All set as in, I can move in?”

“Whenever you like.”

“Would today be all right?”

She nodded. “Of course. As I said, use Niles.”

“What kind of car is Niles? I mean, I can drive stick, if it . . . if he’s not automatic.”

Her smile was teasing. “What were you expecting?”

Either Niles was a baby blue convertible ocean liner with fins that belonged in a 1950s drive-in or something Henry Ford would recognize.

I decided to play it safe. “A Cadillac? A Mercedes?”

“A 2003 Jaguar S-type sport sedan with a 4.2-liter V-8 engine. British Racing Green.” She laughed as my mouth dropped open. “You two will have such fun.”

*

I left India after signing the lease and promising I’d return for Niles when I finished work for the day. Then I took the Vespa through Rock Creek Park to Hillwood, eventually turning onto a potholey street that led to a gated entrance. A security guard with a Russian accent gave me directions to the Visitor Center parking lot, where fluttering banners proclaimed
HILLWOOD, WHERE FABULOUS LIVES
. I parked next to Luke’s Jeep, got my backpack, and went inside. A woman at the front desk gave me a bright blue “Fabulous” pin to clip to my blouse while I was on the grounds and told me the fastest way to the mansion was the spiral staircase or the elevator to the second floor, which would lead me to an outdoor upper-level terrace. The house was just across the Motor Court.

A collection of black-and-white photographs documenting Hillwood’s history lined the wall by the staircase and I stopped to take a look. Sure enough, next to a
Life
magazine photo taken by Alfred Eisenstaedt of one of Marjorie Merriweather Post’s many garden parties on the sweeping crescent-shaped front lawn she called the Lunar Lawn, was a picture taken by my grandfather. Marjorie sat at her opulent dining room table, radiant and laughing, surrounded by tuxedoed men and women in evening gowns, as candlelight and the light from two crystal chandeliers sparkled on her collection of Sèvres china and her gilded lifestyle.

I blew Granddaddy’s photo a kiss and ran up the steps to the terrace, where red and white impatiens burst out of hanging baskets and overflowed the border gardens. Across the courtyard was the circular Motor Court, where limousines once pulled up to drop off the rich and famous in front of a large redbrick mansion. A guard in a navy blue uniform opened one of the front doors and told me the lecture would take place in the first-floor pavilion. Entering the two-story entrance hall, I felt as if I’d stepped into old Russia. A massive portrait of Catherine the Great dominated the room above a sweeping staircase and, wherever I looked, portraits of Russia’s czars and czarinas covered the walls. Straight ahead was the dining room where my grandfather had not only taken the photo I saw in the Visitor Center but also dined as a guest and friend.

Another guard told me I’d find the pavilion at the end of a corridor off the Russian Porcelain Room, which was easy to find because of the intricate Romanov double-headed eagle inlaid in the floor.

I stopped to study the eagle and Luke’s voice said, “Sophie?”

He was in the next room standing in front of a glass case that sat on a malachite table. The sign by the doorway said
ICON ROOM
. Even in the dim light I could see that he was puffy eyed and hungover. I joined him and he gave me a weak smile.

The case contained Marjorie Merriweather Post’s two Fabergé imperial eggs: the midnight blue Twelve Monograms egg and the pink and white Catherine the Great egg, gifts from Nicholas II to his mother.

“Rough night last night?” I said. “How are you doing?”

Luke gave me a weary look. “The inside of my head is an awful place to be right now.”

“Poor you. Have you tried drinking lots of water? It’ll help.”

“Believe me, I’ve drunk enough to float whatever’s left of my liver. Did we have a phone conversation in a bar last night, except we were in different bars?”

“We did.”

“Could you refresh my memory of what we talked about?”

Thank God he didn’t remember. “Why don’t we have that discussion later? We probably should head down to the pavilion and get set up before Katya Gordon arrives,” I said. “She ought to be here any minute.”

He picked up his backpack. “I’ve already checked everything out. There’s a second-floor balcony at the back of the pavilion. I’ll hang out there for overhead photos; you stay downstairs for close-ups. Anyway, we’ll get most of our shots at the luncheon and in the gardens afterward.”

The balcony, where he could lay low and nurse his hangover. “Don’t fall asleep up there,” I said.

“Very funny,” he said. “I need to hit the head—again—and then I’m going upstairs. See you in the garden when it’s over.”

I took a quick look at the Fabergé eggs. The Twelve Monograms egg had been the first Easter egg Maria Feodorovna received from her son, in 1895, after the death of Alexander III. He gave her the Catherine the Great egg in 1914, four years before he was assassinated in Yekaterinburg. As Seth MacDonald had said, each of the imperial eggs had its own story of glory and tragedy.

The blue corridor that led to the pavilion was lined with displays of jade figurines. The pavilion itself had been added on to Hillwood because Marjorie Merriweather Post loved a good party and wanted a dedicated room for after-dinner entertaining. Decorated in shades of eggplant, mauve, and silver, it could be turned into a small movie theater but also transformed into a dance floor for her beloved square dances. Two enormous oil paintings—a boyar wedding and a graceful-looking Russian countess—dominated the two long walls. Photographs of Nicholas and Alexandra and their children sat on a grand piano in front of a bay window that looked out on the garden. Luke’s balcony at the far end of the room was where the staff discreetly watched the first-run films Marjorie enjoyed showing. I looked up and saw him moving around. He caught sight of me and waved.

Today the room was set up for Katya Gordon’s talk: rows of chairs upholstered in mauve velvet that were beginning to fill up and a podium placed in front of the piano. I found a stout white-haired woman dressed in a bright yellow pantsuit who appeared to be in charge and asked her if the balloon shades could be lowered so Katya Gordon wouldn’t be backlit by harsh noonday light.

She said her name was Elizabeth Quick and left to take care of my request. Behind me a cool voice said, “Good morning, Ms. Medina.”

Katya Gordon stood there, wearing a sleeveless teal dress with a heavily beaded neckline, her ash-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her lipstick was a slash of bright red and her eye makeup matched her dress. I hadn’t heard her come in, nor did I expect her to remember my name.

“Good morning, Dr. Gordon.”