Brilliant (10 page)

N  I  N  E  T  E  E  N

Monday morning rain streamed down the windowpanes when the alarm went off at six o’clock. It was dark outside. Eaton Square was foggy and quiet. I love rain. Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved Lon- don so much—we never got any rain to speak of in Oklahoma, and England’s droopy weather makes me feel secure, deeply rooted in a long history of stiff-upper-lip endurance. I snuggled under the covers and listened to the news of the day on BBC, gave some serious thought to calling to say I wouldn’t be in, but instead got myself together.

I had breakfast on the bus, same thing every day: a hot, sugary, glazed cruller from our little Cliveden Place French bakery, Oriel. I sat in my regular seat, with all the regular people around me, all of us eating our biscuits or croissants and reading our papers, while we splashed down the street. How much would I miss this when I made my final departure for France? Not enough to keep me from going. Whenever that turned out to be.

I’m usually the first one at the office, and this morning was no exception. The ancient porter, Alcott, and I always try to see who can beat the other, but it’s a moot game, fixed like games children play with their grandparents, letting their seniors win just so their feelings don’t get hurt. He’s old and creaky, and even if he gets there before I do, I can always beat him up the stairs, but I don’t. This morning, however, there was no sign of him. It was already seven-thirty. Small, candlelike lights burned in the first- and second-floor windows. I pushed open the heavy wrought-iron gate, went up the steps, and let myself in.

“Good morning, Roger,” I greeted the senior guard, who sat behind a tall, bulletproof divider, overseeing a bank of airport-type security screening lanes. “Good weekend?”

“There was a lot going on in the paintings and furniture departments—all the experts buzzing about the Carstairs estate, working overtime.”

“I’ll bet. See you later.”

“Have a good day, Miss Kick.”

I laid my purse on the X-ray conveyor and passed through the metal detector, greeted the guard—the harebrained, night-shift girl who followed Roger around like a trained dog—and entered the comfortable, serene, mysterious, and magical world of Ballantine & Company Auctioneers.

The huge house was silent. Peaceful. The air redolent of our private brand of cedar-scented furniture wax. Not a sound came from the auction and showrooms off to either side, nor from above, where the second- and third-floor balconies circled the spacious first-floor atrium. I ascended the grand stair to the second floor, where the executive offices were located, and turned on the light on my desk, which sat at the top of those stairs. It was a forbidding battleship of a desk, befitting what could appear to be a forbidding battleship of a woman, and whence I could peer down, with my adopted air of noblesse oblige, on any peon who dared ascend. This was my house.

The front door opened below me and Alcott crept in.

“Good morning, Alcott,” I called as I pulled off my gloves and switched on my computer.

“Good morning, Miss Kick.” He waved cheerily.

I turned on more lights, and they warmed the reception area, put- ting a rich glow on the cherry paneling and bringing out the contrasting tones in the antique Persian rug. Little picture lights came on, as well, showing off a set of Picasso drawings on the far wall and a particularly lovely Constable that was hung directly opposite the top of the stairs—neither of these works had met their guarantees at auction and both were now owned by the firm. We had a lot of these sorts of things hanging around at the moment, left over from the last contemporary masterpieces and eighteenth-century English paintings auctions for which Bertram and Owen had made outrageous promises to sellers in the hopes of attracting better works. Well, we obtained a few of the available noteworthy pictures to sell, but fewer buyers than anticipated (or required, in case anyone was keeping track of how business was doing), and ended up owning them ourselves. They’d thrown us deeper into debt. But, costly as they were, as far as I was concerned they were a vast visual relief from the tired old hunting prints that Benjamin had favored.

“Good morning . . . what?” I heard a man bark, and turned to see Bertram pass through security.

The girl gawked at him.

“ ‘Good morning, Mr. Taylor,’ ” he scolded. “That’s what you say. And get to your feet when I come in and get your hair out of your face.”

By the time she’d unhooked her feet from her stool and stood up he was already halfway up the stairs. He looked at me and shook his head. “Where do we find these people?”

Every morning it was the same thing, and every morning it made me laugh. “How did the weekend sales go?” I asked, taking his coat.

“Very satisfactory.”

“No really, tell me.”

“We exceeded the estimates by twenty percent.”

“It’s starting to happen, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but we aren’t going backwards at least. You’re looking very fit today. Good weekend?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“I’ll be on the phone with Marchese Cortini for the next hour—no interruptions. Tea. Milk. Two sugars. If you will.” He went into his office and closed the door.

I hung my coat, stashed my briefcase, and put on the water for Bertram’s morning tea while my e-mail downloaded with the results of the Friday and Saturday sales at our New York branch. Would you believe that pre-Brace, we didn’t have e-mail or the Internet at Ballantine? It’s pretty incredible. The weekend sales had produced better than expected. I printed out the reports for Owen, who I knew had already checked them himself, then I unlocked the door to his office and flipped on the lights. Something was wrong, disordered. Smelled bad. Smelled horrible, actually. Gaseous and stuffy, as though the heat had been left on over the weekend. I put my hand over my mouth and looked around. Across the room, Tina was stretched out on the couch, one of her long legs on the sofa and the other stretched to the floor. Above her, soft light illuminating a van Gogh (didn’t meet its guarantee) glittered off her sparkly cocktail dress and bronzy, high-heeled sandals.

Owen wasn’t going to like this.

“Good morning, Miss Romero,” I said brightly. “Time to get up. May I bring you a cup of tea or coffee?”

Tina didn’t answer. She didn’t move. I went closer. “Miss Romero? It’s Monday morning.” I clapped my hands. She didn’t budge. I switched on the side table lamp at the end of the sofa, and it was then I noticed the syringe on the floor, and little flecks of dried blood on her foot, between her toes. Her face was turned toward the sofa back, and when I peered more closely, I saw that her eyes were open, but they looked sort of dried-out. And she was a sickening grayish white color. And the sweetish stuffy smell was coming from her.

“Oh, Jesus,” I gagged and gasped for air. “ALCOTT!” I screamed, and ran for the door. “ALCOTT! ROGER! GET UP HERE!” I picked up the phone and dialed the police.

“What it is, Miss?” Alcott, bless his little old heart, puffed up the stairs as fast as he could, while Roger raced past him like a rabbit, his weapon drawn, and charged into Owen’s office.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “You won’t believe it. Tina’s in there. She’s dead.” The emergency operator answered, and I gave her the particulars.

“What do you mean, ‘dead’?” Alcott shuffled toward the open door.

“Don’t go in there. Go back down and get the door for the police. They’ll be here any second.”

“Very well, Miss Kick. I thought you wanted me up here.” He turned in place, so stiff with old age his body moved as a piece, like a marble statue swiveling on a pedestal, and shuffled back to the stairway. His bony little birdlike hand clutched the handrail. He was about halfway down when the bell started ringing and pounding began on the front door. “Just a moment,” he called in his sweet, pale voice. “I’m coming.”

God forbid the girl at the X-ray machine could get off her big derrière and go open the door herself.

T  W  E  N  T  Y

Alcott had scarcely turned the knob before the door blasted open, practically tossing him to the ground like a little doll. Two muscled firemen, carrying suitcases, dashed past, followed by two uniformed officers. “Where?”

Alcott indicated the stairs, and they flew up, reaching me in record time—they really were in lovely shape, these young men—and raced into Owen’s office. There was a momentary flurry of activity until they all realized there wasn’t going to be any dramatic rescue of the famous movie star lying on the sofa in the sequined cocktail dress with the needle marks between her puffy, pedicured toes.

A few minutes later, two detectives in wet raincoats followed, taking the stairs one at a time, the junior of the two speaking on his radio, instructing, I assumed, officers outside to close off the area. The older fellow had a slight limp.

I went into the kitchen, started a pot of coffee, returned to my desk, and watched the hullabaloo. The amount of activity was amazing, more and more people arriving every second, the new ones wearing disposable, white, papery overalls—I knew they were paper and disposable from television mystery shows—carrying more and more equipment. Each person was on a cell phone talking to someone else.

“Excuse me.” The seniormost detective emerged from Owen’s office. “I’m Commander Curtis. And you are?” He looked at me expectantly, pen in hand.

“Kathleen Keswick. Senior executive assistant.” I stared at him, he looked so familiar. “Do you know . . .”

“Let me help you: I am not John Thaw resurrected, and I am not Inspector Morse—although I look like him, or them, whichever you prefer. I am, however, a fan of Colin Dexter.”

“I just think he’s marvelous.”

“As do I. But now let’s turn our attention to the affairs of the moment, shall we. You are the one who discovered the body?”

“I am.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“Yes. She’s Tina Romero. Mr. Brace’s wife.”

“Tina Romero, the actress?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Brace is?”

“He owns Ballantine & Company.”

“Do you know where we might find Mr. Brace?”

“He’s living at the Dukes Hotel on St. James’s Place.” I picked up the phone. “I’ll get him for you.”

The detective removed the receiver from my hand. “No, thank you, Mrs. Keswick . . .”

He really was most attractive—not in a movie-star, matinee-idol way—his appearance never would stop traffic the way Owen’s could. No, I guess maybe it was his demeanor. He seemed serene and reflective, and the way he removed the phone from my hand was gentle, with a firm, authoritative touch. His face was weather-beaten, an old scar curved along his cheek. He had silvery hair and sad, sky-blue eyes that seemed to offer more wisdom than any eyes I’d ever seen. It occurred to me that it must be terrible to be a homicide detective, making your living looking at the raw data of unimaginable gruesomeness and atrocities. His expression was so remorseful, I felt the urge to comfort him.

“. . . that won’t be necessary.” He replaced the receiver in its cradle. “We’ll take care of it.” He spoke quickly into his cell phone, relaying Owen’s name and location. “What time did you find her?”

He turned the eyes back on me. I could tell he found me as interesting and attractive as I found him. Kick Keswick. What on earth are you saying? You’re starting to sound like you’re turning into some sort of sex nut. Of course he finds you interesting—you’re a suspect. He’s supposed to study people closely. That’s his job. And he’s not that attractive. He’s actually fairly rumpled. And, he looks as though he’s waiting for you to say something.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Time. What time did you find her?”

“A little after seven-thirty. I was turning on the lights, and there she was.”

“Was anyone else in the building?”

“Yes, Roger. Our security guard. And the night-shift scanner girl—she won’t know anything, she’s dumb as a post. And the early-shift crew in the security headquarters. But I don’t think anyone else was here. I was the first one. Alcott arrived a couple of minutes later.”

“Alcott?”

“The porter. And then Mr. Taylor came in.”

“And Mr. Taylor is?”

“President and chief auctioneer. That’s his office.” I indicated the closed door. “But he’s on an important call, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t interrupt him unless it’s vital.”

“I see. Did you notice anything unusual when you got here?”

“No. Nothing. It was all normal.” My intercom line rang. “Excuse me a moment. Yes?” I answered.

“What’s all the commotion out there?” It was Bertram. “Can you appreciate how complicated this negotiation is?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor. But Miss Romero is dead. It’s the police.”

“Ask them to keep it quiet. You’re making it impossible for me to concentrate. And where’s my tea?”

“Coming, sir. I’ll tell them. Sorry.” I hung up. “Mr. Taylor,” I explained needlessly. “Excuse me one second, if you will.” I motioned to Alcott, who’d taken up his regular position at the top of the stairs, ready to leap into action in any direction. “Mr. Taylor’s tea, please, Alcott. If you will.”

“Was the office door locked or unlocked?” Commander Curtis continued.

“Locked.”

“Is that normal procedure”

“Yes. I’m always the last to leave, and I lock it myself.”

“What about the cleaning crew?”

“They start at five-thirty and they always do Mr. Brace’s office first so I can be sure it’s properly done before I go home.”

“And you leave . . . ?”

“Usually about six. And that’s when I left on Friday. I went to the market.”

His eyes darted up to mine, paused for a moment, then back to his pad. “I see.”

Why did I say that? So what if I went to the market.

He nodded and shrugged out of his coat, revealing a slightly rounded, well-used, comfortable-looking body. The pockets on his sport coat were sprung, his tie was stained, and his gray flannel slacks were baggy. But his shoes were shined. Rainwater beaded on the glossy cordovan brogans. “Tell me, Mrs. Keswick, do you happen to have a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

“Both. Which would you prefer?” I popped open the closet door and hung his coat.

“Coffee would be fine. Black. Two sugars.”

“Coming right up. And it’s Miss Keswick.” He followed me into the kitchen. “How long do you think Miss Romero has been there?”

“Hard to say without the medical examiner, but I’d say a good couple of days.”

“Ick.”

“Well put.” His eyes twinkled and we both laughed shyly.