Perfect (16 page)

T  H  I  R  T  Y  -  T  H  R  E  E

“Powder room?” Oscar looked blank. Evidently they don’t have powder rooms in the Congo.

“Ladies’ room. Toilet.”

He nodded. “Come. I take you.” He helped me down from the stool and while there was some pain in my ankle, there wasn’t nearly as much as I pretended to have. He took one of my arms and put the other around my waist and guided me out into a wide, dark hallway as hulking and overbearing as Oscar himself. It was positively epic, operatic, nothing even remotely Swiss in sight.

The walls were paneled in rich, well-oiled black walnut. Persian rugs covered the hardwood floors and a wide staircase with newel posts as big as tree trunks ascended on the right. The posts were topped with carved walnut pineapples the size of basketballs. A black, wrought-iron chandelier, so tortured and ornate and dripping with candle wax it could have come from Zefferelli’s opulent version of
La Traviata,
hung from a thick black chain in the stairwell. A stained-glass window, maybe eight feet wide and twelve feet tall, dominated the first landing. It appeared to be a portrayal of Robert Constantin as Radames in
Aida
standing on the banks of the Nile. He was dressed in an Egyptian officer’s uniform, his sword at the ready in his hand, the river flowing just behind him, and a virtual Noah’s Ark of animals spread out on the plains beyond.

“Women toilet here,” Oscar announced when we reached a door set into the space beneath the stairs. He’d obviously brought his tribal view, his low opinion of the weaker sex, with him.

The dreary little powder room’s walls were filled with framed covers of Playbills from around the world, proclaiming Constantin in concert or in one opera or another. A picture of Robert Constantin smiled from above the sink, straight down into your eyes while you did your business. It was most disconcerting.

When I emerged, Oscar was at the far end of the hall on the phone, so I hopped to the bottom of the stairs and sat on the second step and leaned against the post and rubbed my ankle and gave a little look-round. There was a miniature, high-performance security camera, not much bigger than a black cigarette butt up in the corner. Before leaving the ladies’ room, I’d pulled the protective backing off the adhesive strip on another miniature transmitter, and as I stood up, I stuck it on the bottom of the banister, where it and the newel post joined.

“Your sled is here.” Oscar came to get me. “Come.”

We’d just reached the end of the hall when a voice echoed down the stairs. “Oscar!”

I recognized it immediately as Robert Constantin.

“Wait here,” he told me, and planted my shoulder against the doorjamb as securely as I’d stuck the microstrip to the bottom of the banister. He went to the steps. “Sir?”

“What are you doing?”

“A woman hurt herself snowshoeing in front of our house and I am helping her to her sled.”

“What do you mean, ‘hurt herself? Where?”

“At the mailbox. On the road.”

“On the road or on my property?”

“Road, sir.”

“Do you have it on film?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re in the clear? Not on my property?”

“No, boss.”

“All right, then. When you’ve finished, please come up. I want to leave at four-thirty.”

“I’ll be there directly.”

I was a little surprised. Didn’t Constantin want to know if I was all right? What if I’d broken my leg? Or my neck? All he wanted to know was if I was going to sue him.

“Who was that?” I asked as Oscar hustled me through the kitchen. Evidently he’d decided my ankle was well enough that I didn’t need the elevator. He didn’t exactly drag me to my waiting sleigh, but there wasn’t any dilly-dallying on the way, either. He also didn’t answer my question.

“Thank you for the cappuccino,” I called to the maid, who was back at her silver-polishing duties as we sped past.

A kitchen door I hadn’t noticed flew open and another maid rushed out, almost running into us. “Oh!” She curtsied. “Pardon me.”

Oscar frowned at her. Before she closed the door, I saw that it led to an upstairs staircase. Oscar bustled me down a separate long flight of stairs to the service door where we’d initially entered.

Barnhardt had my snowshoes and poles in the sleigh. “Are you all right, Your Highness?” he said with concern as he helped me aboard.

“Perfectly fine,” I said, and pulled the fur rug over me for the 30-second ride home. I was better than all right. Robert Constantin was in the house. And the house had a full backstage operation—cooks, maids and service stairs. Oscar was his bodyguard and evidently performed personal, valet-type duties as well because Constantin had asked him to come upstairs. The place was under constant, extensive surveillance and I wondered where the security room was, how many people were in it, and if the same level of coverage included the upstairs. I was sure it didn’t. I was sure the upper floor had nothing more than a couple of panic buttons.

“Thank you for rescuing me, Oscar,” I said as we pulled away.

Oscar frowned and raised his hand in a little half wave before slamming the door closed behind him.

“Do you still want to go to town?” Barnhardt pulled Black Diamond to a gentle stop at my front door. He stepped down and helped me to the ground.

“I do. I’ll be ready in about ten minutes.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital to have that examined?”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll be fine.” I hobbled through the door, thinking how damning it was to stage a fall, pretend to be sick, or lie about any illness. There was never a happy ending when you did.

T  H  I  R  T  Y  -  F  O  U  R

When Barnhardt and I left for the village, the afternoon shadows were already long and dark across the valley—it was just a little after four. I’d only taken the time to repair my hair and makeup. I kept my snow-shoeing outfit on because I felt I’d earned the right to go to the square in outdoor athletic gear, like everyone else. And if someone asked me what I’d done today, I could say with all honesty, Oh, just a little snow-shoeing. I leaned on a smart-looking black cane I’d found sitting at the front door because the Advil hadn’t had any effect yet and my ankle was throbbing.

“Do you mind if I sit by you, Barnhardt?” I said. “I’d like you to teach me to drive.”

“By all means. It will be my pleasure.”

I began to climb up to the driver’s seat, but he stopped me. “First you must become acquainted with your horse. Come up and say hello.” He placed three sugar cubes in my hand. “Princess Margaret, this is Black Diamond. Black Diamond, this is Princess Margaret. She loves sugar. See, like this.” He held his hand flat with his fingers straight, cubes resting in the center of his palm, and she moved her lips over them and then I heard the little dice-sized cubes crunching between her teeth.

I took off my gloves and stroked her glossy jaw and held my other hand flat while she gobbled up the sugar with her furry pink lips. I was amazed an animal so huge could be so delicate. Her teeth looked as big as piano keys and were slightly discolored. Her eyes shone into mine with what looked like humor and intelligence. Up close, she was absolutely huge—the biggest living thing I’d ever seen, actually. I would say she was approximately the size of an elephant. I stroked her neck. She was beautiful. She and I were going to get to be good friends because I’ll tell you one thing, when it came time for me to leave this valley, I didn’t know what my mode of transportation was going to be—snowshoes, train, sleigh, or horseback—but I knew what it wasn’t going to be: helicopter.

“Now you are properly introduced.” Barnhardt smiled. “We can mount to the bench.”

I climbed up the opposite side.

“You hold the reins like so.” He showed me how to wrap the thick, well-worn straps through my fingers. “And now give them a little shake.”

I did and Black Diamond started us up the hill at a quick clip.

We crested the top of the drive and started down the road and she was picking up speed, going at what felt to me like an all-out racing trot. Our sleigh bells were out of control and I was afraid I was going to be catapulted right off the driver’s box into the snow.

“Barnhardt!” I said as a panicky feeling began to burble up inside me and I grabbed the tiny rail along the edge of the bench with my right hand. “Help!”

He laughed and took the reins and talked to Black Diamond, reining her in gently until she’d reached a more suitable pace. “She’s young and has a lot of energy. She needs a firm hand.”

“I think I’ll let you drive the rest of the way.” I laughed. My heart was pounding a million beats a second.

“Don’t worry. You’ll learn—it takes practice.”

The Place de Bonhomie was already filled with people and their horses and dogs. The sunlight had grown dim, the gas lamps were lit and warm light filled all the windows and doors of the establishments. Barnhardt dropped me at the café.

“I’ll watch for you from over by Banc Naxos.” He indicated the opposite side of the square where the bank and the real-estate office were located and where it was less congested.

I was lucky to get my same table outside by the railing. I put my injured foot up on a chair—there were a number of wounded warriors in the café, balming their sports injuries with strong spirits—ordered a Kahlua café, took out my book and waited.

It wasn’t long before a beautiful restored antique Russian sleigh skidded around the corner into the square with Robert Constantin standing in command of a thundering troika of matching chestnuts. He wore a Cossack’s bushy black bear hat and a full-length brown sable coat. Oscar sat implacably on the seat behind him, hands stretched to either side for balance, looking for all the world like a real Russian bear, angry and suspicious. Everyone turned to watch and smiled and some even clapped their hands together at Constantin’s grand entrance. It seemed he lived his real life with all the drama of his pretend one.

Where was Sebastian Tremaine? Why wasn’t he in the sleigh?

After letting the horses display lots of showy snorting and stamping and jumping around, Constantin reined them in and the doorman took hold of the bridle of the animal closest to him. The tenor stepped to the ground and greeted the fellow warmly, slapping him on the shoulder and exchanging pleasantries. Then, he strode into the café, leaving Oscar to sulk at the entrance.

Moments later he reappeared through the patio door and joined a noisy, crowded table of friends, a few tables away from mine. They were obviously ecstatic to see him, as though he’d been gone for a hundred years. His arrival juiced the entire place up a few notches, as if someone had plugged in an amplifier.

Even at midsixty-something, Robert Constantin looked the way he looked in all his pictures and performances, and I could see why he commanded the floor and made women scream. Even I, who was well inured to the charms of big shots, had a time of it not to gape. He was larger than life. He was about six four and his black hair waved back from his famous face, which exuded rugged, clean-edged masculinity, thanks no doubt to frequent tweaks and touch-ups. His tan made his dark eyes seem black and his teeth whiter than white. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a twinkle come from one of them. You could tell just by looking at him that he was a man of enormous appetites and passions. He squeezed himself in between a woman in a white fox hat and a slight, wiry man with gray, brush-cut hair. Although he looked completely different from the pictures Thomas had shown me, I realized the man was Sebastian Tremaine.

My eyes dropped immediately to the base of their table and searched for the briefcase among the ski boots and furry mukluks. It was nowhere to be seen, which meant he’d stashed it—or at least its contents—in a safe, either at the chalet or the bank. I wasn’t surprised. Now that he was home, there would be no reason for him to keep the case and its contents in sight at all times if he could be assured the goods were well secured.

I had a good view of both of them. Tremaine’s face was tanned and square jawed, very masculine and handsome. He had a closely cropped beard and mustache and wore wire-rimmed glasses. A red handkerchief was tied around his neck. He had an easy, genuine-seeming smile and gleaming white teeth that must have been replacements for the originals—no Englishman had ever had such beautiful teeth. He was obviously with what he considered to be friends because he appeared relaxed and an integral part of the group. But of course, that’s one of the dangers and pitfalls of being the friend of the star, whether it’s the star in show business, business business, or your own little bailiwick. You’re part of the in crowd because you have the ear of the celebrity. Once the ear is gone, so are you. But after tending to the queen for decades, Tremaine was well accustomed to being second fiddle. And, from a strictly professional point of view, I’m certain that it would have been just as acceptable to him not to be the center of attention.

In short, he was exhibiting some of the signs of an accomplished criminal—the innate talent of dissembling, the smooth ability to fit in wherever you are, the easy lie or compliment always ready on the lips, the insinuation into the process.

I studied him as closely as I dared without attracting his, or Oscar’s, attention. I wanted to hear his voice but there was too much noise. I knew that in spite of the joviality he was always thinking, always watching for the next opportunity.

I called for my check and while I was talking to the waiter, I felt his eyes take me in in less than a blink, scanning my onyx-and-topaz earrings and my twelve-carat emerald-cut diamond ring. His glance was quick and his assessment smooth and thorough. I knew the look, I knew the scan, and it gave me goose bumps to be on the receiving end. I looked up and found myself looking straight into his eyes. He smiled at me, and then he winked!

It completely disarmed me, and as I finished my café and signed my tab, I felt the color flood into my face. What wonderful nerve. No wonder he’d been the queen’s favorite and had won Constantin’s heart. He was irrepressible, like a bad puppy.

On my way out, I gave the quickest glance at Oscar, who had not left his perch on the troika. His eyes stayed straight ahead and he pretended not to notice me. But I know he did because I could feel his eyes follow me all the way into Fannie’s. I bought a wedge of soft Brie de Meaux and a thick slice of country pâté, a baguette, two dozen chocolate truffles of varying flavors, and all the ingredients necessary to bake and ice a devil’s food cake: six ounces of unsweetened chocolate (of course I bought twelve), whole milk, light brown sugar, eggs, butter, cake flour, baking soda, regular sugar, and vanilla. Finally, I headed for the seafood counter with the idea that I’d have a few oysters for dinner as well, but thank God, I spotted Lucy Richardson having a conversation with the fishmonger before she saw me. I could do without oysters. I paid quickly and went to the wine and spirits shop next door and picked up a bottle of Glenmorangie single-malt scotch and two bottles of simply divine Romanée-Conti 2001 Echezeaux. Then I went home.

I sat in the back and let Barnhardt drive.

I was completely exhausted and starving to death, but I couldn’t get Tremaine’s face out of my mind. There was something very magnetic about him. Even from a distance, I could sense he had an enormous amount of charisma.

It was too late in the day to start working. I fixed myself a snack of cheese and pâté and a double scotch on the rocks and had a good soak in the tub.

Afterward, I was too drained to go out or cook—I didn’t need any dinner. The pâté had been plenty. I just washed my face and went straight to bed. I was glad to be so tired. I was homesick. I missed Thomas and Bijou terribly and I didn’t want to think about them. I turned off the light and was asleep immediately I don’t think I moved until morning.