Perfect (11 page)

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  O  N  E

On those quick trips to Zurich and Geneva, I hadn’t ventured outside the cities into the Swiss Alps. In fact, I’d never been in the mountains. Any mountains. So my impression of Switzerland was that it would be like its photographs and postcards. Steep and snowy in the winter and bright green in the summer, with rosy-cheeked dirndl-dressed women and lederhosen-clad men who did a silly dance where they slapped their legs and boots, and they all ate cheese fondue and milk chocolate day in and day out, sitting just beneath their cuckoo clocks while their St. Bernards slept in the sun waiting for winter, and they watched their brown dairy cows out the windows of their charming little huts where they had everything they needed to live a happy life. And everything was just as cute as a button.

As a little girl I’d sneaked into the movie
Heidi
several times. Who could forget the little girl with braids and a checkered apron tending her goats, their little bells tinkling across the steep, grassy mountainsides? Her calling out, “Grandfather! Grandfather!” Who could forget Grandfather and his hunk of cheese (Swiss) that he carved with a big knife for lunch? Who could forget how much Heidi and Grandfather loved each other and how he was forced to send her away to Zurich or Berne or wherever to care for her sweet invalid cousin, Clara, who had that hateful mother. Oh, how I sobbed when she had to tell Grandfather good-bye. And then, Poor Clara, trapped in a wheelchair with those horrible steel braces on her legs, having tantrums and hating everyone and throwing her hairbrush at them. And lovely little Heidi befriending her, giving her courage and
getting her to walk!
And then, taking Clara to the hut in the mountains, but Grandfather was dead. Oh, God.

That, to me, was the real Switzerland.

Little wonder I came to Mont-St.-Anges with an expectation of what it would look like: a charming little town, every building and chalet made of either brown wood, its eaves and porches adorned with carved filigree, or else covered with white stucco, with colorfully painted murals and borders around the windows and doors, a red tile roof, wooden shutters with heart-shaped, peephole cutouts, and flower boxes filled with pine boughs in the winter and red geraniums in the summer.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Our sleigh glided through a narrow, snow-packed street and into a small square—Place de Bonhomie—with storefronts of chic boutiques I’d never heard of, with window displays of irresistibly beautiful goods. Alma had told me the shopping was the best in the world but to protect the privacy of the place she hadn’t let any of the luxury-goods shops that would typically be found in such an upscale environment come in. Instead, the shops were all owned by the club and operated by individuals who passed the Naxos acid tests for employment. We passed a few bundled-up people who were either walking or skiing, some apparently on their way to or from lunch, judging by the racks filled with skis outside the restaurant and café. It was busy and buzzing but not crowded. Most of the people waved as we passed and my driver tipped his hat to them all, greeting most of them by name.

On we sailed into the central plaza, Place de Bonne Santé. A large snow-filled fountain sat in the middle of what I assumed were spectacular gardens in the summer. An old-fashioned bandstand was off to one side, its floor and railings buried in snow. Directly across and dominating the plaza was the Hôtel des Anges, a wonderful, welcoming, classically Swiss sight with the mountains rising behind. Three stories tall, the building had a pitched red-tiled roof and was as white as the snow, except for wide borders of flowers painted around the windows, each of which had green wooden shutters with fancy peepholes and yellow window boxes. There was a main portico as well as a ski-in entrance. Three empty sleighs were lined up like taxis, their horses bundled in loden green blankets with red trim. Other than our sleigh bells, there was little sound.

Similarly styled but smaller buildings banked the hotel. Alma had told me that the larger was the hospital and the other the spa. Place de Bonne Santé indeed. I’m sure the hospital emergency room did a thriving business resuscitating people who’d just arrived by helicopter.

Evidently, my white-faced discomfort had been radioed ahead because when I walked through the front door, I was greeted immediately with another mug of hot wine, which I accepted gratefully. I think it was the high-octane schnapps that made it so bolstering—like dipping ginger snaps into red wine, or biscotti into Vin Santo and letting them soften and crumble in your mouth. Whatever it was, it had the calming, soothing effect I needed.

The spacious lobby was warm, high ceilinged and smelled of woodsmoke and spices. Stone fireplaces burned at either end and five or six dogs were stretched out comfortably on cushions near the hearths, sound asleep. Rustic, rough-hewn, peeled-pine furniture with red-and-white checked cushions was grouped in comfortable seating arrangements. Each chair had a good reading light and long, low wooden coffee tables that invited putting your feet on them. Neat stacks of books and magazines were everywhere and there were three tables with in-the-works jigsaw puzzles. Except for two people reading quietly, and a table of four playing bridge, the room was otherwise unoccupied.

On the opposite side of the lobby, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a spectacular view of the steep, snow-covered piste upon which were dots of human beings plunging down its face on skis. I saw one skier fall, skis and poles shot like missiles in all directions. The body tumbled and bounced down the hill for several feet and then disappeared behind a large pile of snow. Other skiers stopped and headed for the accident, gathering up the loose equipment along the way. I looked at the other people in the lobby. No one seemed alarmed or even to have noticed.. A head appeared over the mound and then an entire body. The person brushed off the snow, accepted the return of his gear that had been littered along the hillside, put it all back on, and hurled himself down the slope as recklessly as before. He must have had bones made of rubber. Or a head full of sawdust.

There was no question about it: for me, skiing was out. Not that it had ever really been in, but I have to admit I’d toyed with the idea, a romantic notion that came into my head on the flight from Paris to Zurich on the private jet, when everything had been so comfortable and civilized with the fresh brioche, orange marmalade, and café au lait. The image had flown out the window on the helicopter ride when I saw how steep and jagged the Alps actually were face-to-face, but even then, I hadn’t grasped that those were the mountains people actually skied on. Skiing had passed me by—at least in this lifetime.

The snow was falling hard now, a flurry of white—it made me cold just to look at it. One of the ski runs ended right at the edge of the terrace and a gondola terminal sat about thirty feet away. Two skiers swooshed gracefully into the boarding line, making a rooster tail of snow as they turned. At the edge of the terrace, a handful of diehards had gathered around a roaring outdoor fireplace to warm their hands, their breath coming out in puffs. A waiter emerged with a tray of steaming mugs, which the rosy-cheeked guests accepted with good-natured gusto.

I watched, enchanted and fascinated. I’d never seen a place like this—it had a warm, intimate feel—almost as though I’d stepped across a threshold into the heart and home of a large happy family.

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  T  W  O

My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a tall woman of thirty-five or forty wearing a dark gray faille Armani pants suit. She had short streaked blond hair, smartly cut, and low-key makeup. “Your Highness,” she said. “I am Lisle Franklin, the club manager. Welcome to Mont-St.-Anges. How did your helicopter ride go?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ooh la la. I think I’ll take the train home.”

“I know. It can be terrifying, even under the best of circumstances, but on a day like today when a storm’s blowing in, it can frighten the wits out of you.” Her accent was unidentifiable. “Would you like for me to show you around or do you prefer to go to your room directly?”

“I’d like to get settled first, if you don’t mind.”

“Wonderful. The elevators are right this way.”

We rode to the third floor and I followed her down a short hallway to an old-fashioned wooden door with an old-fashioned drop latch. “We’ve put you in one of our ‘for-ladies-only’ suites. I think you’ll be comfortable here, but if you’re not, please let me know and we’ll find something more to your liking.”

Well, the suite was so welcoming, I could have been comfortable there for the rest of my life, if I didn’t already have a life that I’d left back there somewhere in my beautiful Provence with my husband and my dog.

It’s not that the living room was so large, it wasn’t, but it was incredibly well appointed. The ceiling sloped slightly. A fire crackled in the hearth behind a small black wrought-iron screen with a decorative silhouette of a skier. I’d been expecting classically Swiss furniture—child-sized, childlike, delicate and most decidedly not built for comfort. But, like the lobby, the chairs and sofa were large and comfortable, with deep, soft cushions covered in an almost calico-type orange-red fabric. A bookcase held an excellent selection of bestsellers and classics, along with a large flat-screen TV, a DVD and CD player, and an equally fine library of films and music.

There was a small catering kitchen with a separate entrance, and a study with a complete office setup: laptop, printer, high-speed access, and four phone lines. Next to the phone was a red leather book. The words Membership Directory were embossed in small gold letters on its cover.

The bedroom was out of a Swiss fantasy. An old-fashioned wooden bedstead painted with rows of flowers and a featherbed that looked as though it had at least three feet of eiderdown as a mattress and another three feet of eider on top, and a ladder to climb into it. Yet another cheery fireplace—this one with painted tiles—a good-sized dressing room and a gleaming white tile bathroom. The cabinets were decorated with hand-painted ribboned bouquets and the towels were embroidered to match. There were walls of mirrors, a small color TV, and so many toiletries—beautiful products in frosted glass bottles labeled with the initials SA—that I could have spent hours smelling and testing each one. Loofahs, sea sponges, mitts, slippers, robes, soaps wrapped like presents. It was the most luxurious bathroom I’d ever been in.

While Lisle and I toured the apartment, bellmen began arriving with the luggage. They were under the no-nonsense supervision of a stern-looking, formally dressed gentleman.

“Allow me to introduce you to your butler, Klaus,” Ms. Franklin said.

Klaus did a quick bow.

“I’ll leave you in his good hands. Please let me know if you need anything at all.”

“Thank you.”

“Your Highness,” Klaus said. “Mrs. Naxos didn’t say if you were bringing your maid or not.”

I shook my head.

“Then may I arrange for your unpacking?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Klaus snapped his fingers and a hefty blond in a red-and-green dirndl and lace-trimmed blue work apron appeared and instantly began opening my suitcases, putting some things away laying others aside to be taken for pressing. Everything was done within ten minutes.

“Let me show you the vault,” Klaus said when the staff had left.

In my closet sat an actual safe, not a typical small boxlike hotel-room safe but a good-sized fireproof vault, approximately two feet high by eighteen inches wide and deep. Its walls, bottom, and top were two-and-a-half-inch-thick armor. I supposed it weighed about six hundred pounds—too much for a cat burglar to cart off. The door sat open, revealing a forest green, velvet-lined interior with four velvet-covered shelves and a mesh of embedded locking bars that would slide into place once the door was closed and the electronic lock activated. This was a serious affair. The sophistication of the steel mesh and electronic lock indicated how seriously Mr. Naxos took security.

“Are you familiar with this sort of safe?” Klaus asked.

“Somewhat,” I answered. The fact was, I could break into it in about three seconds, but only because I knew what I was doing and had purchased the newest iteration of electronic digital scanners in Zurich. Otherwise, it would be impossible.

Klaus instructed me on how to enter my own code.

“Thank you so much.”

“What more can I do for you, Your Highness? May I send up a little strudel and a hot cocoa for your afternoon snack or will you be doing the après ski at the café with the others?”

I didn’t know what the après ski was and the strudel sounded extremely tempting. I checked my watch—it was already three o’clock. I’d only gotten to eat half my lunch in Zurich before Thomas had arrived and given me the jitters. But on the other hand, I needed to do a little reconnoitering before it got dark. “I think I’ll just grab something light at the café. Thank you.”

Klaus did a sharp bow. “I am at your service.” He stoked both fires and was gone.

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  T  H  R  E  E

I settled into one of the comfy armchairs and stared out the window. The crush of self-doubt brought on by my rocky arrival was long gone, replaced by a flood of well-being and confidence. I could tell I was going to be very happy here in Mont-St.-Anges for however long my assignment took—nothing but blue skies and smooth sailing. I had a feeling, if I really put my shoulder to the grindstone, I’d be in and out of town in a flash.

Robert Constantin’s concert in St. Moritz was in a little more than twenty-four hours. I wondered if Thomas would go there and just as quickly discounted the idea. Whether I was there or not, he wouldn’t blow the operation by showing up in public near his quarry. I assumed his aide-de-camp, David, was already well-embedded and had left town just long enough to meet Thomas in Zurich for lunch. Thomas hadn’t described his plan B to me, but they wouldn’t put all their eggs in one basket, even if it was mine, any more than I would leave myself with only one identity or escape route.

I poured a glass of sparkling water, added a wedge of lemon, and flipped quickly through the club activities guide. The number of ways to spend one’s day were mind-boggling: alpine skiing, defined as all downhill skiing (“Alps,” hence “alpine”) including slalom, giant slalom, downhill racing, schussing, and freestyle; Nordic (from Norse and Norway) skiing, which according to the book meant either cross-country, snow-shoeing or jumping; lugeing, bobsledding, tobogganing, overnight ski camping, ski touring (which according to the photograph and description involved putting on your skis and holding on for dear life to the reins of a galloping horse), ice-skating, ice-dancing. It was endless.

I next opened the membership directory and a low whistle escaped my lips. It was a billion-dollar roster of Who’s Who in the world of finance, industry, and the arts. Each listing had the member’s address and phone in Mont-St.-Anges as well as all their other residences and offices, faxes, and e-mails. It was extraordinary, filled with information people would literally kill to get. But that’s what private clubs are for—they’re havens of safety, anonymity, trust, and secrecy, and if a member were to abuse the privilege of possessing such personal information about another member, everyone else in the club would ostracize him. His calls would go unanswered and unreturned, forever. The members of this club could put a person out in the cold, permanently, in a heartbeat. And they wouldn’t hesitate for a heartbeat to do so, either.

On the other hand, there was so much confidential information included, I could understand how a person like Sebastian Tremaine, or any nefarious type for that matter, any fox in the henhouse, could do irreparable damage to the members’ sense of coddled safety, not only while at the club proper, but also in any of their other residences or yachts. No wonder Alma Naxos had been so distressed and receptive to quick corrective action when I told her about it.

“It’s all about privacy,” she’d said. “Members come in and out of Mont-St.-Anges whenever they want and no one keeps track. As the owners, George and I could find out who’s on the property and who isn’t, but we wouldn’t. It’s too much of an invasion, an abuse of power that would make people uncomfortable, feel as though they’re being watched by Big Brother.”

The directory also had a walking map, showing paths that wound round the valley, and identified the chalets by name. For instance, Schloss Naxos and Schloss Constantin were conveniently across the road from each other in a hillside enclave of eight residences.

It was so comfortable in my chair, I longed to spend what was left of the day luxuriating, possibly go to the spa for a steam bath, a facial, and a massage—the description of services and treatments available was completely seductive. I kept having to remind myself why I was there. I could picture an invigorating Rosemary and Sage Salt Scrub, followed by a Body Moisture Drench, and then a comforting, detoxifying nap while I experienced a Fresh Powder Wrap. I snuggled deeper into the cushions. Just imagining the treatments relaxed me.

Kick!
my conscience scolded:
Get up. Get dressed. Get to work. Now.
I did, but only after booking a cardio evaluation, a fitness physical, and a few spa appointments for the following day. I couldn’t expect myself to work every second.

One of the many credos by which I’ve lived my life is: You never get a second chance to make a first impression. It was crucial that I hit the right note for my first venture outside. So after sorting through my new alpine wardrobe, which the maid had neatly arranged by color, I decided all black was safest: the black Bogner parka with the black fox trim, black slacks, black fox hat, Prada snow boots and good-sized—four-carat—diamond stud earrings, nothing fancy but large enough to draw attention without being showy. I tucked my book in my pocket—a biography of Winston Churchill, always a good choice if you’re trying to strike up a conversation in a strange place with a proper kind of stranger—and set out, intending to have a coffee and possibly a little pastry at the café and find out what this après ski business was all about.

In direct contrast to the main plaza in front of the hotel, the little Place de Bonhomie bustled with people. Sleighs sailed around the perimeter—all kinds of sleighs, large enough for six, small enough for two. One of them was a jaunty one-person affair with its front, as well as the bridle, mane, and tail of its white horse, trimmed with bright blue-red-and-yellow ball fringe and little gold bells. I watched one man come in on skis behind his horse—ski touring—guide him to a gentle stop, step out of his skis and tie his horse at the hitching post.

“You really have to know what you’re doing to do that,” I said with admiration. “Wonderful.”

He smiled. “Believe me, it’s taken a lot of practice. For both of us.”

He pulled a handful of sliced apples out of his pocket and fed them to the beast and then kissed him on his nose and patted him on his flank, talking to him the whole time.

“Kahlua café?” The waiter asked.

I’d settled at a small table on the terrace along the rail and fairly close to the outdoor fireplace. I wanted to sit inside where it was warm and where any sensible person would sit during a snowstorm, but inside was empty and outside the tables were filling up fast with people I felt as though I almost recognized, people whose pictures appeared only slightly occasionally in major newspapers or on CNN business news or in yachting magazines. They all seemed to be drinking the same thing out of a tall glass mug with layered contents: two inches of dark brown, half an inch of lighter brown and three inches of whipped cream.

“Please,” I answered. It was cold and I was certain a cup of coffee with a little shot of liqueur would warm me up perfectly. Well, I had it backward. It was approximately six ounces of Kahlua with a two-ounce shot of espresso and a ton of sweetened thick cream—Viennese
Schlag
—and it was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. It occurred to me that everyone here looked happy because between the hot wine and the Kahlua cafés, they were all, to use the vernacular, half-bombed most of the time.

The activity and camaraderie picked up around the square as people went about what many consider humdrum, normal activities of everyday life, doing the marketing, shopping for wine, picking up prescriptions and drycleaning. This crowd, in the city or wherever they normally lived, had their maids or cooks or personal assistants run their errands. Here, they were doing it themselves with an ebullient aura of sheer enjoyment, as though it were real-life. It was charming and endearing.

By the time I finished my drink, I was inured to the cold. I signed the tab and went to join the crowd next door at Fannie’s Delicacies.

I’ve been in dozens of specialty food shops in England, France, and Italy—Fannie’s was the finest. It wasn’t so big, it just had a little, just enough, of the best of everything. It was off the charts. And, I don’t know if it was the gluhwein, the Kahlua or the overriding luxe of the place, but I felt as though I was at a cocktail party in the world’s friendliest and best-stocked larder and pantry.

“How was the skiing today?” a man with a British accent asked me as I examined the marmalades.

“I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t go,” I answered.

“Neither did I. Too cold. It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow.” He selected a jar of Marmite, the vile, vitamin-tasting, yeast-based toast spread that people either love or hate or love to hate.

I couldn’t help but make a face.

“Don’t look at me.” He laughed and moved along. “It’s for my wife. She’s a health nut.”

I put a jar of Fortnum and Mason lemon marmalade in my basket and stepped over to the caviar counter. I was trying to decide exactly how much beluga to buy for my dinner when I saw a shape out of the corner of my eye and then heard a voice.

“Oops!”

And then a slow-motion image of foamy latte flying through the air and hitting the front of my brand-new jacket, and then …

“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry.” All said in a breathless lisp.

It was a very beautiful woman in a black mink jacket, thin as a rail and with perfectly coiffed dark hair. She had velvet brown eyes as big and lashy as Bambi’s, which gaped with horror at my front—where the latte was rolling off my fancy new parka onto my fancy new boots—and a mouth that was a bright red perfect bee-sting. She pulled a lacy handkerchief from her pocket and her hand stopped midair, just inches from my chest, not sure exactly what the next step should be. Her eyes met mine. “Oh, my gracious,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”

I started to laugh—I couldn’t help it. She looked like a child who was afraid she was going to get a paddling. I looked down at myself. “Not a problem at all,” I said. “This is a parka—it’s supposed to get wet. Now it’s been christened.”

By then Fannie herself had arrived on the scene with a damp cloth for me and a mop for the floor.

“Well,” the woman said, repocketing her hankie. “This was a ridiculous way for me to introduce myself. Princess Margaret, I’m Lucy Richardson. Alma’s friend.” She offered her hand. “Welcome to Mont-St.-Anges.”

I recognized her immediately. She’d been Lucy Sherman when I’d last seen her, and before that Lucy Von Buchner, and before that Lucy Wallace and who knows what before that. She was a regular at Ballantine’s jewelry and arts and antiques auctions. One of our best customers. If she’d kept all the jewelry she and her husbands had bought from us, it would make her collection practically a rival for Queen Elizabeth’s. She was as pretty as she could be and from what I’d heard, she wasn’t particularly well liked by other women who said, among other things, she was not terribly bright, a little dingie, somewhat eccentric, a total narcissist, and completely nuts. In my opinion, judging by her parade of husbands and the stones she had on at the moment just to do her marketing, she was dumb and dingie like a fox.

“Thank you so much.” We shook hands. She had on what looked like a ten-to-twelve-carat, princess-cut diamond ring—possibly D flawless—and shiny, bright red nail polish.

“Are you free for dinner this evening?”

“I am.”

“I’m so glad. We’re having a few friends, very casual. I’d love it if you would join us. Eight o’clock.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’d love to.”

“It won’t take you more than ten minutes to get to our chalet. Just tell the driver Schloss Richardson.” Those big brown eyes squinted a little and she cocked her head and frowned, pursing her lips into the shape of a perfect little plum. Finally, I became uncomfortable.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I’m so sorry, you just look so familiar to me.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met before, but I could be wrong.”

“I know I’ve got you confused with someone or maybe I’ve just seen your picture in the papers. Oh, well. I’ll figure it out. See you at eight.”

Well, as they say in the best of circles, hell. A huge feeling of exhaustion swept over me. This was just great. Just what I needed: to make my way into the most secret place on the planet and have someone recognize me. But there was no way she could remember me—I’d only been in the background at the auctions and I was now so disguised with my dark hair and dark eyes, I scarcely recognized myself.

Back in my room, I checked the map. Schloss Richardson was up in the same enclave with Schlosses Naxos and Constantin.

Thank you, Alma.