Brilliant (29 page)

A  C  K  N  O  W  L  E  D  G  E  M  E  N  T  S

Every time I sit down to write a book or tell a story, I’m reminded that I’m the luckiest person in the world, getting to do what I love best. In the case of
Brilliant
, not only was I surrounded and supported by my family and friends, but I got to write about jewelry, fraud, theft, good food, and fine wines—what a delicious combination. It was heaven.

My thanks for guidance in the beautiful world of gems, jewelry, and jewelry-making go first and foremost to Bob Gibson at Raymond C. Yard, Inc., in New York, and Brien Foster, Foster & Son, Denver. Both gentlemen were extremely generous with their time, knowledge, and expertise, and any mistakes that have been made are mine. Thank you also to master jeweler Salvador Vargas, who taught me the basics of making fine jewelry; Henry Baker of Oscar Heyman, Inc., New York; and Lana Lee of Neiman-Marcus Precious Jewels, Denver, who gave me a professional jeweler’s loupe, which I treasure. I also appreciated the courtesy with which I was greeted and given behind- the-scenes tours at Van Cleef & Arpels, Place Vendôme, Paris, and Harry Winston, Beverly Hills.

Thank you to Jacqueline Fay and the Sotheby’s jewelry department for the opportunity to observe an auction of important jewelry from the inside. Kick Keswick’s skill at stealing jewelry from Ballantine & Company Auctioneers is fictitious and has absolutely nothing to do with Sotheby’s or anything I learned or observed at Sotheby’s.

When it came to selecting the wines for the meals in
Brilliant
, Dorothy Gaiter and John Brecher, who write the
Wine Journal
for the Friday edition of the
Wall Street Journal
and are the authors of
Love by the Glass
, made exquisite choices. I’m indebted to them for sharing their time and vast knowledge.

There are not enough words of thanks for my agent, Robert Gottlieb, president and CEO of Trident Media Group; Kimberly Whalen, director of Foreign Rights; and former Foreign Rights director Maya Perez, for guiding and representing me so well and landing me at St. Martin’s Press. Sally Richardson, publisher, St. Martin’s Press, and Matthew Shear, senior vice president and publisher of St. Martin’s Paperbacks, are outstanding to work with and I am very grateful for their enthusiasm about my work. My editor, Jennifer Enderlin, associate publisher and executive editor, is a total visionary and genius. Working on a regular basis with her and her assistant, Kimberly Cardascia, has been one of my most delightful experiences, ever.

What would I do without our friends? Mary and Richard, who read early manuscripts and have bottomless bottles of rum and scotch; and Marcy and Bruce, who not only have thrown spectacular launch parties at the Denver Public Library, but also provided research materials and access essential to the completion of this book. Delores and Stephen, for introducing us to Provence. Thanks also to Pam and Bill, Mary Lou and Randy, Judith, Mita, and the Norfolk book ladies.

My family is so great—they are all fun and funny and they amaze me: my parents with their strength, courage, and steadfast observation of the five-o’clock cocktail hour no matter the obstacles; my brother John, with his encyclopedic knowledge; my brother Drew, with his business expertise and culinary nerve; Hunter, Courtney, Duncan, and Delaney, for their energy and beauty and for making the tremendous sacrifices required to be in the Marine Corps; Pete and Bede, for their independence, talent, good humor, and creativity; our wire fox terrier, Kick, for keeping our world in a constant chaotic roil, and, of course, my husband, Peter, who, like line wine, just gets better and better and better—cowboy boots and all.

Marne Davis Kellogg

Denver, Colorado

2003

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marne Davis Kellogg is the international, best-selling author of 11 mysteries, including the highly popular series of capers featuring Kick Keswick, the world’s greatest jewel thief. In addition to her writing life, she is Executive Vice President of The Kellogg Organization, Inc. Marne and her husband, Peter, live in Denver and on their Colorado ranch in the summertime where she attempts to cook the decadent meals found in her books.

www.marnedaviskellogg.com

Please enjoy the opening chapters from the second book in the Kick Keswick series, PRICELESS, where Kick Keswick, one of the most charming, enchanting, and best-dressed heroines of fiction, discovers that a life of crime can be impossible to leave behind . .
.

Kick Keswick has lived an extraordinary life. For twenty-five years she was the power behind the throne at a venerable London auction house and a master jewel thief. (Stealing only from those who deserved it, of course.) That changed when she fell in love with Commander Thomas Curtis of Scotland Yard and retired to Provence to live respectably, surrounded by beautiful food, wine and picnics in lavender-filled fields. But now, someone is stealing irreplaceable jewels from Paris to Portofino—and using Kick’s signature techniques. To make matters worse, Thomas has disappeared with her secret cache of precious stones. It looks like someone is trying to lure Kick out of retirement, and perhaps Thomas is involved. With Marne Davis Kellogg’s trademark descriptions of fabulous places, wonderful food, and the ultimate in luxurious living, PRICELESS is a deliciously indulgent treat, told with style and wit.

P  R  O  L  O  G  U  E

The St. Honoré Room at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, one of the most elegant private dining rooms in the world, thundered with applause as Cécile Everett rose to accept the Legion d’Honneur honoring her late husband, industrialist Cameron Everett. Soft light from the crystal chandeliers and the candles on the tables and torchères in the garden bathed the darkened room, while on the podium, Mrs. Everett stood still—the spotlight sparkling off her jewelry and honey-colored hair—and prepared to receive the ribboned sash from the president of France. Once the black-tie crowd of international industrialists and celebrities quieted, the president spoke.

“Your husband was a visionary,” he said. “His talents helped fashion ’the future of French industry”

Mrs. Everett kept her smile firmly in place, posture perfect, hands at her sides. She had a lot of experience at this sort of thing, standing by Cameron when he was being presented with honors and, now, standing alone to receive his posthumous recognition. She knew the president would go on for several more minutes and then she would receive the sash and say a few words. Finally, she would be able to return to her suite and call it a day.

She was a very beautiful, very well-kept woman. How old? Maybe sixty, or seventy, or eighty. Cameron had taken such poor care of himself that by the time he fell dead in midsentence at a board meeting at age eighty-two, he looked every year of it. But with Mrs. Everett, it was hard to tell, her plastic surgeons had been so skillful, and the investment in the care of her skin and body over the years had been so huge. She had magnificent skin on her face-pale, translucent, pampered. Her midnight-blue satin gown was long-sleeved, high-necked, covering up telltale spots and sags on her arms and décolletage that might give better clues as to her actual age. The skin on her hands was white and spotless. Her oval nails short and bright red.

In spite of Cécile Everett’s beauty, what really drew the eye was her jewelry. To be sure, her pink diamond and pearl drop earrings, and the stones in her rings and bracelet, were extraordinary, but they all paled in comparison to the brooch pendant attached to her necklace—the Pink Elephants. It was a large piece of three elephants walking in a row, Papa, Mama, and Baby—with Mama and Baby following tail to trunk. They were solid pink diamonds, set invisibly in platinum with sapphire eyes and smiling ruby mouths. On the lead elephant’s head was a crown of rubies with a diadem: the fabulous Pink Elephant Diamond. The largest, most perfect pink diamond on earth, twenty-seven brilliant-cut carats of sparkling cotton candy. Cartier had designed and fabricated the piece for Mr. Everett as a twenty-fifth anniversary gift for Cécile—he had given it to her long ago in a tent at Tarangire National Park in Tanzania where they were on safari, surrounded by real elephants and spear-toting Maasai warriors. They’d toasted each other with shots of gin out of stainless steel coffee cups.

Cécile smiled at the memory as she turned to face President Gérard.

“It is my honor to present this award to you on behalf of the French people.” The president draped the blue-white-and-red sash over her head where it made a striking contrast against her gown, as she knew it would. He kissed her elaborately on both cheeks.

“Thank you, Mr. President. Cameron always had deep affection for the people of France and this award would have meant more to him than any other. I’m sorry he isn’t here to accept it in person. I am proud to accept on his behalf.” Mrs. Everett turned to face the room and smiled as the heartfelt applause from her husband’s friends and colleagues buffeted her. Then, President Gérard helped her down from the podium and escorted her back to her table. He offered his apologies about having to proceed to his next official engagement and made a quick exit via a side door.

“Excuse me,“ Mrs. Everett whispered to her seatmate. “You’ve been so helpful to me all evening, may I ask one more favor?”

“Of course.”

“Do you mind walking me back to my room? I’m feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“Not at all. It would be my pleasure.”

It took several more minutes to make her way through the crowd of well-wishers and into the cool, uncrowded lobby.

“You’re so kind to do this,” Cécile said. ’’I’m sorry to take you away from the party.”

“Please, Mrs. Everett,” her escort replied, holding her steady by the arm, and guiding her into the opulent, old-fashioned elevator cage. “I’m happy to see you safely upstairs. That was a beautiful tribute to your husband.”

Cécile nodded. Her eyes were slightly glazed. “I suppose. These evenings just seem to go on for hours. I imagine he’s glad he’s dead and doesn’t have to attend.”

They both laughed as the ancient contraption jerked its way to the eighth floor, and the equally ancient operator slid open the door.

“I had almost nothing to drink but it just seemed to hit me. I think I need a good night’s sleep.” She wobbled slightly as they made their way down the corridor. The companion held her more securely and slid the key into the lock.

“Here we are.” The door swung open easily to the exquisite Suite Panoramique with its antiques-filled living room, wood-burning fireplace, sumptuous bedrooms, huge white marble bathrooms and private fitness studio. Outside, the lights of the Tour Eiffel and the Sacre-Coeur twinkled across the rooftops of Paris. Below, the traffic on the Faubourg St. Honoré passed in a silent stream.

Dim lights burned on the desk and beyond in the master bedroom.

“Do you need anything? Would you like a nightcap?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Cécile answered. “A little scotch, please. Lots of ice.”

Ice cubes tinkled in crystal tumblers and single-malt splashed on top. “Is that enough?”

“Perfect, thank you.
Salud
.” She held up her glass and they clinked.

“
Salud
, Mrs. Everett.”

They stood comfortably, side by side, admiring the view of Paris as they sipped their drinks.

“I’m so glad the evening’s over,” Cécile said. Her words came out in a slur. “Oh, dear, that’s a sign it’s time for me to go to bed.” She swayed as she placed her drink on a side table.

“Are you all right? Can I help you?”

“I’m fine. Just so, so tired. Thank you again.” She turned and headed toward the bedroom. “Good night, dear. Lovely to see you.”

“Good night, Mrs. Everett. Sweet dreams.”

Cécile Everett was so concentrated on trying to make it to her bed, she didn’t notice that her escort was still on the premises and had casually taken both of the cocktail glasses into the kitchen and was washing them out, drying them carefully to remove all fingerprints, and returning them to the bar. Cécile’s head spun, as though she were very, very drunk. She pulled off the jewelry while she walked—earrings, bracelets, rings, necklace—and dropped it all with a clatter onto the glass-topped table in her dressing room. She reached behind her head and unzipped her dress, stepping out of it on her way to the king-sized canopy bed that beckoned like a soft puffy boat.

The companion gave her two more minutes before entering the bedroom and tucking her in under the covers. Cécile was unconscious. She never made a sound or opened her eyes. The rest went like clockwork. It really was ridiculous how easy this was, how trusting these women were, these widows and divorcees. And how helpful that little extra something in her drink was. As usual, it worked like a charm and had the added benefit of being an amnesiac: Mrs. Everett would not be able to remember anything past leaving the party. Furthermore, she would be too embarrassed, too prideful—too frightened of what had become more and more frequent lapses of memory—to admit she’d lost track of the Pink Elephant Diamond.

The array of pink stones lay like a pile of make-believe, dress-up jewelry on the dressing table. Each piece extremely valuable in its own right. But this was a big-game hunt. Any hack could steal jewelry from an incapacitated widow, but for this thief, only the finest trophy, a priceless piece, would do. The Pink Elephant brooch was easily unhooked from its diamond riviere necklace. It went into one pocket and out of another came a small, slightly battered bouquet of shamrocks tied with a satin ribbon. And a note:

The Shamrock Burglar

The thief left the suite—cautioning the maid in the hall with a finger to the lips that Madame was sleeping—returned to the party, and danced until two.