Do You Promise Not to Tell? (23 page)

You thought I didn’t know, but I did,
reflected Nadine.
I know you wanted to be Victor’s wife.
She looked up at the taller woman and smiled weakly but gratefully. She was grateful, too, for the few others who showed up. It was very kind of them. Patricia Devereaux and Farrell Slater and a man she did not recognize. He must have been a friend of Victor’s. Beautiful, blue, penetrating eyes.

Farrell and Jack drove back into Manhattan together after the funeral. Farrell was anxious to get back to the office. With just two days until air, she had to work on her script for the Churchill’s “KEYhole” piece. She was grateful, with Passover beginning at sundown, that Dean had already explained he would be heading home early.

As they crossed the George Washington Bridge, Farrell gazed over the Hudson River, drinking in the majesty of the New York City skyline. She felt sorry for Nadine Paradise. What a cruel fate, loving and raising a child who turned out to be a cold-blooded murderer. There was no consolation for that.

Farrell was glad, though, that Nadine could have Olga now, for however long they both had. At least in the immediate future, neither woman would be alone. Farrell made a vow to herself to make sure to keep in touch with the old ladies. Perhaps, later on, she and Pat could be there to help the remaining sister when the other one passed on.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Jack fished.

“Oh, I was just thinking about Nadine and Olga. Just when they have a chance to finally know each other, Nadine has to go through the heartache of losing her only child. Life. . ..” Her voice trailed off.

As the car made the turn south onto the Henry Hudson
Parkway, Farrell cracked open her window to let in the spring breeze. How cool and wonderful it felt on her face. Spring. A new beginning.

Jack took her hand and held it firmly on the seat between them. Farrell appreciated the gesture, but she could not really enjoy it. Her mind had shifted into another gear as it faced what had to be done. How was she going to construct the “KEYhole” piece without the Moon Egg as concrete evidence?

She had to call Tim Kavanagh again.

Holy Thursday
Passover
April Fool’s Day

The KEY News producer’s arguments made sense, thought Clifford Montgomery, as he hung up the phone. As much as he detested the idea of it, and after worrying about little else all week, he knew it was right to agree to have Farrell Slater come over to interview him about all that had been going on at Churchill’s.

“Okay, come over and I’ll talk with you. But no camera. I’ll give you my statement.”

Not talking would look like he had something to hide. He knew that members of Churchill’s board of directors, along with millions of other Americans, would be watching Farrell’s story. It would look bad to them if the president of the auction house had nothing to say.

So he had agreed to an interview.

“Farrell Slater from KEY News is going to be here within the hour. Her piece is almost finished and she insists it is to my advantage to comment,” Clifford told the visitor who sat relaxed in the leather chair on the other side of the president’s desk.

“What does it matter, now that we have the real Moon Egg?”

On the way out the door, Farrell decided to give Tim Kavanagh one more call. After getting his answering machine so many times, she was surprised to hear the professor himself answer.

“Oh, hi, Farrell. I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten back to you,” Tim apologized, “but these last days before spring break are so hectic. I just haven’t had a chance to call you back.”

I’ve left you at least half a dozen messages,
Farrell thought.
Wouldn’t it just be common courtesy to take a few minutes from your busy schedule and call me back?
She tried not to sound exasperated as she explained why she was calling.

There was silence on the telephone line, and for a moment Farrell thought it might have gone dead. But then Tim spoke.

“Look, Farrell, I’m going to level with you. I did find the Moon Egg in Olga’s caviar.”

Eureka! With just twenty-four hours until her “KEYhole” piece, the Moon Egg had turned up! The proof she needed to tell the story of the scandal of the six-million-dollar forgery! She and B. J. could ride out to New Jersey right away and shoot some video of it. She was saved!

“I’m coming right out there,” she told Tim excitedly. She would reschedule her interview with Clifford
Montgomery for later in the afternoon, after she had her proof in her hot little hands.

“Farrell, I don’t have the egg anymore.”

“What?” she gasped in disbelief.

“I don’t have it anymore.”

“Where is it?” she demanded.

“I turned it in.”

‘Turned it in to
whom
?”

“Clifford Montgomery at Churchill’s. Pat and I decided that it was the best thing to do.”

Pat? Why hadn’t Pat told her? Farrell immediately wondered. But of course Pat didn’t know Farrell was working on the Moon Egg story. Farrell cursed that damned promise she’d made to Peter.

She ended her conversation with Tim and immediately called the FBI. Jack was not in the office.

Again!

“Could you please tell him Farrell called? Tell him I’ve found what we’ve been looking for, and I’m on my way over to Churchill’s.”

Security called Montgomery’s office to announce that Farrell Slater from KEY News was in the lobby.

“Send her up.”

“Whatever that nosey Farrell Slater comes up with, you can handle her,” the visitor assured Clifford. “You don’t know anything about the murders here at Churchill’s, other than what the police have told you.”

“And if she brings up her suspicions about the egg again?”

“Just deny, deny, deny. She has no proof, remember?”

The visitor slipped into Clifford’s dressing room and pulled the door most of the way closed.

Clifford opened his office door as Farrell entered the assistant’s area outside—Meryl’s old spot.

“Come in, Ms. Slater. Come in.”

B. J. sat in a crew car parked on Madison Avenue. There was no need for the car’s “NYP” tags, the license plates of the New York press corps that offered a greater selection of places to park than was available to the average citizen. With its being both Holy Thursday
and
Passover, alternate-side-of-the-street parking regulations were definitely suspended in all five boroughs of the city.

He stared at Churchill’s across the street and he felt his chest tighten. Meryl.

When Farrell had asked him to come with her, B. J. had agreed, only because it was Farrell. He really didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to go inside where Meryl had spent so much time—the place he had last seen her.

But Farrell needed him to be close by in case Montgomery changed his mind and would talk before the KEY News camera. If she could convince the auction-house president, Farrell would call B. J. on his car phone. He could be upstairs in minutes, ready to set up and shoot.

He wanted Farrell to get what she needed for her story, but he would not be disappointed if she did not call him from the president’s office. He would just as soon never go into Churchill’s again.

“Mr. Montgomery, I know you are a very busy man, so I won’t waste your time beating around the bush,” Farrell began. “The part of the story I’m most interested in here, is the auctioning of the fake egg.”

“I thought you wanted to talk about the deaths of Meryl Quan and Victor Paradise.”

“Well, we can talk about them first, if you like. What do you know about them?”

“Only what the police tell me.”

“Okay, now we’ve covered that,” said Farrell, eager to move on. “I know what the police tell me about the murders, too. But the police don’t tell me what I need to know about this remarkable case of Fabergé forgery. The KEY News audience would only have a passing interest in the murders of two people they really don’t know. They’d be fascinated, however, by the sale of a six-million-dollar forgery, perpetrated at one of the most famous auction houses in the world. What, Mr. Montgomery, do you know about the Moon Egg?”

“Ms. Slater, we’ve been through all this before,” Montgomery sighed, with exasperation.

“Yes, but that was before I knew that the real Fabergé Moon Egg had been handed over to you.”

Clifford stared at his accuser as the door of the dressing room opened silently behind Farrell.

Should I go up?
B. J. wondered. He sat with the car running, debating whether he should wait for her call.

She’d been inside for almost twenty minutes now. Knowing Farrell, that would certainly be enough time for her to wear Montgomery down, get him to agree to be interviewed on camera. If B. J. went up now, maybe he could help clinch the deal.
Please, Mr. Montgomery. You really should take this opportunity to speak for Churchill’s, Mr. Montgomery. We can do this very quickly, sir.

But he didn’t want to go inside.

B. J. checked his watch. He’d give Farrell a few more minutes.

Farrell felt something cold and hard press against the back of her head. She could feel her pulse pounding in her neck.

Clifford looked, horrified, at the two women before him. “Are you insane, Stacey?” he hissed through his clenched teeth.

“I haven’t come this far to have anyone ruin it for me,” Stacey snarled.

Clifford rose from his chair behind his desk and walked toward them. “It’s too late, Stacey. KEY News is ready to go with the story.”

“They only have the murders. Only Miss Big-Shot Producer here is trying to connect it to the Moon Egg forgery.”

“You can’t get away with another murder,” Clifford declared desperately.

Stacey smiled maliciously. “What do you mean, ‘another murder’? I haven’t murdered
anybody
.

“So far. Victor Paradise killed Meryl Quan. And the jeweler, too. It was Victor who tried to kill the old lady, setting her pathetic little apartment on fire. If only he had done a cleaner job. Now, when his mother dies, she’ll leave her estate to Olga. And any chance I had of coming into Nadine’s fortune, such as it was, is over. Thank God I had my alternate plan. My exquisite, brilliant plan. Who would have had the
courage to pull off a hoax of this magnitude? I must say I’m proud of myself.”

“Stop it, Stacey, stop it. Don’t say another word,” Clifford demanded. “It’s over.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Clifford. I’m not your eager student anymore.
I’m
calling the shots now.”

Stacey poked the gun harder into Farrell’s skull. “You, miss, are not going to ruin it for me.”

B. J. watched a blue Crown Victoria pull up. Fed car. Law enforcement types like those big boats. Guess they think that size is intimidating.

Jack McCord got out of the dark blue boat.

“Hey, Jack!” B. J. called from his opened window.

The FBI agent strode over to the car, his raincoat blowing open behind him.

“Where’s Farrell?” he demanded.

“Upstairs with Clifford Montgomery.” B. J. motioned upward with his thumb.

“How long have they been up there?”

“Just short of half an hour,” B. J. answered, checking his watch.

“Come on!” Jack shouted, as he sprinted to Churchill’s heavy front doors.

B. J. grabbed his camera and followed.

Farrell tried to keep herself from shaking in terror.
Keep calm,
she told herself.
Keep calm. Look for your opportunity
.

“Stacey, now I can make it right,” Clifford pleaded soothingly. “I can make a swap. The real egg for the fake egg. Nobody will be the wiser.”

“And just how do you think you will be able to do that?” Stacey demanded angrily.

“Stacey, you forget. The egg hasn’t been paid for yet. If you don’t pay, you don’t get. The buyer doesn’t have the egg yet. It’s still here. Look, I’ll show you.”

Clifford went over to the wall and slid back an oil painting, exposing a safe. Quickly he spun the combination and the metal door opened, revealing the two breathtakingly beautiful Moon Eggs. They were identical.

Farrell sensed that Stacy Spinner was momentarily distracted as she viewed the treasures side-by-side. Now was the time! Now!

Farrell twisted around and grabbed the gun Stacey had at her head. She caught hold of Stacey’s wrist, preventing the desperate woman from aiming. Using her head as a ramming post, Farrell butted into Stacey’s chest, pushing her backward. Stacey fell back against the wall, but managed to get off a shot.

Jack and B. J. heard a booming shot as they rounded the corner of the hallway outside Clifford Montgomery’s office. Jack pulled his gun and motioned for B. J. to stay back. He positioned himself in front of the president’s door, raised his right leg, and kicked with all his might. The wooden panel exploded away from the jamb, and Jack entered as another shot rang out.