Do You Promise Not to Tell? (18 page)

Balancing the telephone receiver on her shoulder, Meryl checked her Day Timer. A half-hour of her day was well spent on someone who could help Churchill’s. Being polite and accommodating was good for future business at the auction house.

“Of course, I’d be happy to show you around. When would be a good time for you?” Meryl asked.

“I know it’s short notice, but you wouldn’t happen to have some time tomorrow, would you?”

Meryl scanned her calender. “As a matter of fact, I do have some time open tomorrow afternoon. How would three o’clock be?”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you then.”

Meryl penciled in the appointment.

Still, she breathed. In and out. In and out. The clear plastic oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth.

It was surprising that such an ancient, wizened old thing could hang on so tenaciously. You had to give the old girl that much. She didn’t want to die.

But there was consolation in the fact that the nurses looked so glum when they came in to check on her, the rueful, understanding smiles they gave to the regular visitor who kept watch so patiently.

“So many of our elderly patients have no visitors. It’s nice to see someone on in years get so much company,” the blond night nurse said.

Olga, Olga, Olga. Why don’t you let go, sweet-heart, make the decision to move on yourself?
It would be better that way. Go willingly rather than be forced.

Tuesday

Farrell was more than a little anxious about Jack McCord coming over to KEY News to take a look at the Moon Egg video. She’d taken care putting on her makeup and dressing this morning, choosing her charcoal-colored Calvin Klein suit, sheer black hose, and stack-heeled pumps.

“What’s the occasion?” B. J. asked when he saw Farrell in the hallway.

“Can’t I dress up a little without it being an occasion?”

“No.”

She waved him off and continued on her way. Then she stopped and turned back in B. J’s direction.

“Hey, hot shot,” she called. “Thanks for giving me my message.”

B. J looked puzzled.

“The message from the FBI agent,” she prompted.

“Since when do I take messages for you?”

“You didn’t take a message for me from Jack McCord at the FBI?”

“Not me, kiddo. Must have been someone else.”

Holding open Churchill’s door, Tony greeted the visitor by name.

The coat checked, the visitor was announced by the Churchill’s security staffer at the front desk in the lobby.

“Ms. Quan will be right down,” he said.

“Thank you.”

The visitor paced back and forth. Waiting.

Meryl Quan descended the stairs, her hand extended. “How good to see you again. I thought we’d start upstairs with the various offices, Business Department, Trusts and Estates, et cetera. Then we’ll work our way down to the jewelry gallery and the board of directors’ conference room. We’ll finish up by going backstage, where the storage rooms are. That’s where the items that are going to be auctioned are kept. Our security department is also situated back there.”

“Great.”

Meryl guided the visitor, floor by floor, through the labyrinth of Churchill’s offices, explaining the function of each.

“Fascinating,” the visitor said, eyes observing the security cameras positioned in the halls and doorways.

“This is my favorite part of the tour,” said Meryl. “Backstage where the work is done to ready the items
for auction.” Meryl led the way through a maze of storerooms where shelves held auction items according to category. Furniture, bronzes, silver and glass, rugs. . .. Each room had cameras peeking from various points in the ceiling. The visitor’s heart was sinking.

“My Lord, what’s all that?” An opened door revealed an organized jumble of what looked like space suits.

“Those are items for the Russian Space History Sale. It’s rather sad, really—they’re selling off their history just to survive financially. . .. And here is our security area,” said Meryl as they moved on. A guard sat at the console, watching three dozen television screens that covered the wall in front of him. “As you can see, we are very careful here.”

The visitor nodded. “Impressive.”

“That about wraps up our tour. Is there anything else I can show you?” Meryl offered.

“No, I think I’ve seen all I was interested in seeing.”

“Then let me walk you out.” Meryl escorted the visitor from the security room and down the hallway toward the public area. They stopped momentarily, blocked by two moving-men who were unloading a heavy, tiger-oak dining table from an oversized freight elevator.

The freight elevator. It had no camera!

When Farrell went to greet Jack in the Broadcast Center lobby, she noticed with satisfaction that he thirstily drank in her appearance. Farrell was glad that she’d made the extra effort as Jack shook her hand firmly and his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to share your information with us, Farrell.”

So now it was Farrell instead of Ms. Slater. Good sign.

“Well, the fire at Olga’s really changed things from my perspective. I’m afraid someone is playing for keeps here, and I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Let’s stop in my office. I’ll get the videotape from my desk and I have a viewing room reserved for us.”

“I’m surprised big-shot network news producers have to share offices,” said Jack, gesturing toward Dean Cohen’s empty desk.

“Yeah. I’m not only surprised, but unhappy, too. It’s not that I have a need to work alone—most of my work is out in the field anyway. There’s just not enough space in the Center for all the broadcasts that are being worked on here. KEY News has expanded a lot since the time we moved into this building.”

Farrell unlocked her desk drawer and reached for the videotape B. J. had shot. At first puzzled, and then frantic, she emptied the drawer searching for the tape.

“Don’t tell me,” Jack said cynically. “It’s not there.”

“It’s got to be here. Maybe I put it in another drawer.”

Soon the entire contents of Farrell’s desk were strewn out on the top. No videotape. Where was it? She was embarrassed in front of the no-nonsense FBI agent.

Jack, though, didn’t seem overly concerned. “Hopefully it’ll turn up. Why don’t you just tell me exactly what Olga showed you?”

Farrell described for him the yellow velvet carrying case, inscribed with the Cyrillic letters, enough of which she could recognize as spelling Fabergé. She told of Olga’s opening the case and taking from it the milk-colored, enamel-and-gold egg that rested on a cloud of midnight-blue stone.

“Lapis lazuli?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s what I think it’s called. I was at the Moon Egg auction, Jack. Olga’s egg looks just like the egg at Churchill’s. Except for one thing. Olga’s had the surprise still intact inside the egg. The auctioned one, as you know, did not.”

“What was the surprise?”

“A spray of diamonds. Brilliant diamonds. Olga called them a comet. I admit that I’m no expert, but I’d bet the farm those diamonds were real.”

Jack made some notations in his notebook.

Farrell folded her arms across her chest. “Well, what do you think?”

“I’ve seen the design plans for the Fabergé Moon Egg, Farrell. The surprise called for a comet of diamond
stars, signifying Halley’s Comet, which appeared in the early part of the century. From what you are describing to me, my gut tells me that you’ve seen the real Moon Egg.”

“Now what?”

“Now I think you should leave this case to the professionals. Obviously you are treading dangerous waters here.”

Farrell smiled. “Know what I think?”

“I know you are going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”

“You’re right. I think two heads are better than one, and that if we work together, we can solve this thing. You’d get kudos at the FBI, and I would score big around here. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“If you really want to know the truth, Farrell, I’d be a lot more interested in having dinner with you than in working with you on a case.”

“That’s what you think now, Jack. You might find out, though, that both scenarios will be mutually satisfying.”

Wednesday

The Nadine Paradise auction was worth a pitch. Viewers were interested in celebrity auctions, loved the vicarious thrill of peeking into famous people’s personal lives. Farrell herself remembered going to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor auction preview at Sotheby’s and being mesmerized at finding the Elizabeth Arden recipe for the duchess’s black hair dye, the hundreds of gloves the duchess wore because she was self-conscious about her large hands, and a box with a piece of the couple’s 1937 wedding cake.

Farrell was certain that she could do a fascinating piece on the Paradise collection. She could shoot the most interesting items for sale at the preview over the coming days, and Friday she could cover the auction itself. The piece would air on
Evening Headlines
on Friday night.

As she tapped out her note to Range on her computer, Farrell was grateful for e-mail. It gave her a chance to compose and express her thoughts without having the uncomfortable pressure of having to pass her idea by Range face-to-face.

Go for it,
came the executive producer’s e-mailed reply.

Yes!
thought Farrell. The Paradise auction was a cool story, but even more important to her, it was another opportunity to get over to Churchill’s.

Thursday

The elegant woman, cloaked in a jacket of brown broadtail fur with braid edging, carried a small matching muff as she alighted from the black Mercedes sedan in front of Churchill’s. Though passersby did not immediately identify her, they instinctively sensed that the woman was “somebody.”

“I’ll park the car, Mother, and I’ll meet you inside.”

“Thank you, Victor dear.”

The Churchill’s doorman, a welcoming smile on his face, held the door open wide for Nadine Paradise, who stopped for a moment to talk with him.

“How have you been, Tony?”

“Just fine, Mrs. Paradise.”

“Holding up with all the Russian festivities?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nadine eyed the cossack costume and an idea struck her. “You know, Tony, I think I’d like to see you inside during my auction tomorrow. Do you think you could come inside and stand in your uniform next to the auction platform? I think that would be a nice touch.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Paradise. Whatever you and Mr. Montgomery want.”

Nadine pressed a crisp bill into the doorman’s hand.

“Good to see you, Tony.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Paradise.”

Clifford Montgomery and Meryl Quan were waiting inside for Nadine, and welcomed her warmly.

“I hope you will be quite pleased with our display of your wonderful things, Mrs. Paradise,” Clifford said solicitously. “We are so happy to have the opportunity to showcase these treasures.”

The threesome entered the busy auction gallery, alive with the energy of the interested public inspecting—and television crews filming—the relics of Nadine’s ballet career. Mural-sized blowups of decades-old pictures of Nadine dancing
The Firebird, Scheherazade,
and
The Rite of Spring
hung on the gallery walls, serving as a backdrop for the carefully arranged items that would soon be auctioned. Spotlights illuminated framed water-colored costume sketches and set-design plans that were works of art in themselves. The jeweled and feathered headpieces that had once crowned Nadine’s head as she pirouetted on the stages of the world, now hung on Churchill’s walls, waiting to be taken home by the highest bidder.

“Clifford, you’ve done a beautiful job here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Paradise.”

Nadine continued her tour, satisfied with the decision to divest herself of all these things. It would be that much less for Victor to do after she was gone.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Paradise?”

“Miss Slater! It’s so nice to see you here.”

“Thank you for remembering me. I’m here covering the auction for KEY News. I was wondering if
you’d be willing to be interviewed briefly.”

“Certainly, dear.”

Clifford Montgomery was clearly annoyed. Meryl tried to hide her pleasure at seeing B. J. approach with his camera, while Victor Paradise arrived at his mother’s side.

Farrell started with some questions about Nadine’s dance career, asking her if there were any auction items that were of particular significance. Nadine answered eloquently, her French accent giving her responses an almost melodious quality. Farrell knew that, back in the editing room, she would have good material to work with.

“Why now, Mrs. Paradise? Why did you decide to auction these things off now?” Farrell asked.

Nadine smiled. “As one gets older, one wants to simplify one’s life. This just felt like the right time to let go of a few things and move on.” She failed to mention that the money would be welcome income after living so many years in retirement.