The Knotty Bride (24 page)

“A yellow Ferrari?” Carla looks puzzled.

“She means Signor Fritz. He works here, too,” Elenora interjects.

Signor Fritz? Another Signore to keep track of? Who is also probably sleeping with the interior decorator or something.

“Yes, he takes care of the egg,” Carla states as if that were the most normal thing in the world to say.

“The egg?”

“Yes, he takes care of the egg. He is not a guest. He is retained part time. He comes and goes.”

“You mean the Fabergé egg?” I ask. Mercy, the guy who takes care of the egg drives a Ferrari? I am in the wrong business.

“What does he do with it?” I ask intrigued.

Carla gives a laugh. “Why he cleans it of course, and keeps it in tip top shape. And evaluates its price. I believe Signore Fritz is the world’s leading expert on Fabergé eggs.”

“They bring somebody in just to clean and evaluate the egg?”

“Why, yes.” Carla replies. “That egg is the second most expensive thing in the house—second only to the Pollock over the fireplace in the main salon.”

This makes me bite down so hard that I completely miss my cookie and stab my tongue. “Olie smokes, tha paining is authenic?” I manage with my injured tongue.

Carla totters excitedly in her seat, and Elenora responds “of course.” And I just sit and try to take it all in: multi-million dollar house, Fabergé egg, Jackson Pollock painting, and a garden that looks like the world’s largest pig sty. That all makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?

Of course not. It makes no sense. But the clock strikes twelve and I realize there are a million things I need to get done before I leave work today. I stand up, brush off the crumbs, thank the ladies for their hospitality and head back to work, right after I stop off to check the signature on the painting over the fireplace—you know, just to be sure.