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The narrator spoke briefly of the move Victor and Valerie Penn had made some years earlier to New York City before finally settling on their hundred-acre estate in Beverly Hills. “Raymond Penn, older brother and, it is believed, second in command after Victor Penn, is refusing comment through his public relations spokesman in London.” The limousine turned into the entrance of the estate as reporters, correspondents, and television crews surrounded the car, pressing against its fenders, thrusting microphones against the bulletproof glass windows. The chauffeur pressed the buzzer that opened the huge wrought-iron gates, and in a moment the car was gliding through the short underground tunnel with the electronic monitoring system screening all entering vehicles for weapons or explosives. Then it was onto the long winding drive that led to the graceful mansion itself.
Inside the usually tranquil house was pandemonium. Gregson, the impeccable butler who ran the house and its staff of twelve, hurried down the hall toward them. “Dr. Feldman and Mr. O’Farrell are in the music room, madam,” he said to Valerie. “I do hope none of this turns out to be true.”
“Thank you, Gregson,” said Valerie. “It is untrue. All of it.”
In the music room, with its framed, autographed scores and letters signed by Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, and Chopin, a six-foot television screen displayed the mob scene outside the estate. Valerie’s doctor, Elliott Feldman, a tall, muscular, fair-skinned man in his early forties, sat in one of the lounge chairs. John O’Farrell, Victor’s attorney, was there too, in his lawyer’s uniform of dark gray suit, blue shirt with a white collar, and a red patterned tie. Kyle Jones, Valerie’s live-in piano teacher, was perched on the piano bench in front of the Steinway. The two visitors leaped to their feet as Valerie and Mary entered the room. Kyle, looking exhausted, lifted a languorous hand.
“Valerie,” said the doctor, as he took her hand and led her to an overstuffed, chintz-covered chair, “what a shock for you.”
“We’re all praying this isn’t true,” John O’Farrell added. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
“Thank you,” Valerie said in a small voice, her chin high.
“Where does everything stand?” asked Mary, casting a sympathetic glance toward Valerie.
“We don’t know any more than you do.” John O’Farrell shrugged. “The public relations departments in the various cities are dealing with the press. Raymond has called several times.”
“To talk to me?” Valerie asked with a shudder.
“No, to talk to me,” said John. “We’re to talk to nobody, and he’ll be in touch.”
“Do the children know?” Valerie asked suddenly. “Did Raymond say anything about the children?”
“Only that the children are not to be called until there’s something more definite.”
“But they’ll have heard. Why can’t I talk to my own children?”
“It’s the middle of the night in Switzerland,” the attorney said kindly. “I’d say it’s probably better to do what Mr. Raymond Penn wants, at least for the moment.”
“But … what do I do now?” Valerie asked.
“I guess what everybody else in Los Angeles is doing,” said the attorney. “We just sit here in front of the television set and see what happens.”
It was another hour before the next news update.
A disembodied voice was heard as the screen showed a blur of green. “We’ve just been able to confirm that the plane that crashed in Mexico this afternoon is the 727 belonging to Penn International. The Penn International logo is clearly visible on the side of the plane, according to the reports we are just receiving. As far as we can see, there are no signs of life.”
With a little sigh, Valerie crumpled to the floor.
Elliott Feldman was instantly at her side, leaning over to pull her up. Valerie’s eyes opened vacantly.
“We’ll get her up to bed and I’ll give her a shot,” he said. “I have the feeling it’s going to get worse.”
“You have no idea,” John O’Farrell said gloomily. “I better get on the phone to Raymond and see what he wants us to do.”
At the piano, Kyle picked out a few bars of Chopin, his long white fingers with their bitten nails as tentative on the keys as if playing for the first time.
3 (#ulink_b43a3fca-27cf-5f8b-bed5-3be303fcc436)
Valerie leaned against Mary as the two women walked slowly up the staircase, which had never seemed so long and winding.
“Just a few more steps,” Mary said, her arm around Valerie’s waist.
“I’m going to call the children anyway,” Valerie panted. “If they’ve heard anything, they’ll panic.”
“Let’s get you into bed,” Mary said, pushing open the door that led into Valerie’s suite.
The living room was large, its dimensions extended by mirrored walls at each end. Fine Louis XVI pieces, a gilt-wood table and four fauteuils upholstered in pink silk, formed a seating arrangement, while a Chinese tortoiseshell-inlaid lacquer cabinet and a Louis XV chinoiserie silk screen further ornamented the magnificent room. A huge Bonnard hung over a marble fireplace. Silk draperies of a pink so pale it was almost white covered the doorway that led to Valerie’s bedroom. On the nine-foot concert grand, the twin to the Steinway in the music room downstairs, a crystal vase displayed a vast spray of pink-throated cymbidia. In an alcove with a view of the grounds from its curving windows were a table and two chairs where Victor and Valerie had their morning orange juice and coffee following the nights Victor stayed with her.
For her bedroom, Victor had selected white carpeting, with white silk upholstered walls. The chairs and sofa in the sitting area were upholstered in pale peach moiré. On the coffee table in front of the sofa was a small sculpture by Rodin and two newly acquired Fabergé eggs. Later, they would join the main collection in the drawing room down-stairs. The bedspread was the pale peach of the upholstered furniture, and over the headboard was a large Degas painting of a ballerina tying a shoe. Victor had surprised Valerie with the painting, a gift, he said, because the dancer reminded him of her. The fireplace chimneypiece was white marble tinged with peach.
In Valerie’s bathroom next door, a room almost as big as some of the living rooms in Beverly Hills, was a sink of shimmering white marble, with a matching white marble floor. Victor and Valerie occasionally drank champagne in the big Jacuzzi, or made slow, exacting love while they watched themselves in the mirrored walls. The fluffy towels and washcloths were all white, the monograms on everything VPV.
The different cosmetics in the drawers of the makeup table, with its large mirror framed with lights, were all for Valerie’s public face. When the two of them were alone, Valerie’s face was scrubbed and clean the way Victor wanted it.
She stood in the middle of the bathroom as Mary helped her out of her dress.
“It doesn’t look good, does it, Mary?”
“You wash your face,” Mary said soothingly. “I’ll go find you a nightgown.”
“I don’t think Victor was on that plane,” Valerie continued. “I think he’s been kidnapped by some terrorist group. It happens everywhere in the world, Mary. Why not New York? There’ll be a phone call, asking for ransom. I just know it.”
“You wash your face,” Mary repeated. “I’ll be right back.”
Yes, kidnapping was a possibility, Mary thought, opening the closet in which Valerie’s nightgowns hung. Anything was a possibility when it involved somebody as rich as Victor Penn. Rich people. God, it seemed that she had spent her entire life catering to them.
First there was the count. Mary had been a showroom model in New York when fat little Enrique had come in to pick out a few things for another girl. Each of the models, herself included, was after a rich man. Mary hadn’t been able to believe her good luck when Enrique picked her out of all of them. On the second night he took her out, he gave her a diamond bracelet. He had money, and a title, too. They drove up to Connecticut and married the next weekend, which made all the papers, of course.
Mary loved what the money would buy. The trouble was that the money came attached to Enrique, who, it turned out, drank too much and who, after two months, didn’t seem to remember that he had gotten married. Mary began to play around, too. Quietly at first, and then blatantly. Enrique was enraged, but relieved that he had an excuse to divorce her. What little money she had was soon gone. She became a floating houseguest, kissing up to the lady of the house and fending off the passes made by most of the husbands. With her blond hair in a pageboy showing streaks of gray even though she was only in her mid-thirties, and a taste for simple clothes and very expensive walking shoes, Mary always looked as if she had come straight from a stroll with the queen and her corgis. And she was so helpful, arranging parties and shopping trips, dealing with difficult guests and the household details, that she never wore out her welcome. But it was a precarious life. Awful, until Victor had hired her. Now she toadied to Valerie, but at least she went home to her own apartment, to her own life.
Mary regarded Valerie as a demanding, spoiled little girl. A toy who didn’t even know she was a toy. A collectible, like Victor’s many other collectibles. She was a magnificent musician, though. She could have gone on to become a top professional. But no. As soon as Victor had appeared in her life, that, essentially, was that. True, she practiced all those hours every day, and she had her lessons with Kyle. But the music was just for Victor, who of course had to have a wife who was more than just beautiful, chic, and charming. She had to be accomplished, too.
Reaching into the closet among the flowing peignoirs in whites, ivories, lavenders, and lilacs, the nightgowns in either black, white, or ivory that Valerie wore depending on Victor’s mood, Mary picked out a white cotton nightgown, cut low, with lace at the bodice. What would happen to Valerie if Victor were dead? Mary wondered, walking back toward the bathroom. Valerie had a few shocks coming, that was for sure. More important, what would happen to her? Oh, God, she thought suddenly, let Victor be alive.
Valerie was standing in front of the sink where Mary had left her. “I’ll just be a minute,” Valerie said, taking the nightgown from Mary’s hand. “Would you mind closing the door?”
That little-girl thing, Mary thought, as she waited for Valerie to reappear. So oddly shy. In all of the years Mary had worked for Valerie, she had never seen her nude.
After changing, Valerie went to the phone beside the bed. In a moment, Mary heard her. “No, no. Daddy isn’t on the plane, Raymond. He’s been kidnapped, darling. And when they get their ransom money, they’ll let him go.”
Valerie was silent for a moment, leaning against the silken pillows. “But darling, they have to let him go. Don’t you see? If they did anything to him, it wouldn’t work the next time. Now, how’s Alexandra? Is she terribly upset? Give her a hug for me. Darling, I’ll call you as soon as I know anything more. No, there’s no reason for you to come home. Everything will be fine, just fine. Good-bye sweetheart. I love you very, very much. Good-bye, Raymond, darling.”
Dr. Feldman, carrying his bag, came through the door. Impulsively, Mary leaned over and kissed Valerie on the forehead before she left him to tend to his patient.
When Mary returned to the music room, she saw that John O’Farrell was on the phone in a corner, while Kyle had moved to the chintz-covered sofa in front of the television set. He sat smoking, nervously swinging one crossed leg.
“Anything new?” she asked.
“You mean has Victor walked out of the jungle?” said Kyle. “No, that hasn’t happened.”
“He’d better walk out of the jungle.” Mary walked over to the tea caddy and poured herself a stiff scotch and water.
“I’ll second that,” Kyle said. “I’m too old and too spoiled to go to work.”
“Perish the thought.”
“Perish is the right word.”
“Well, it’s not over until it’s over,” Mary said. “Valerie thinks he’s been kidnapped.”
“How is she?”
“Shaken, but Elliott is giving her a shot. She called the children and told them everything is going to be fine.”
“If that’s what Elliott’s shots do for you,” Kyle said, “maybe I should get one, too.”
John hung up the phone. “That was Raymond,” he said. “He’s on his way to Acapulco.”
“Better there than here,” Kyle breathed.
“What does he think?” Mary asked.
“Well, he’s taking Victor’s dental records.” John shrugged. “I’m going to stay here, at least for tonight.”
“Maybe I’d better stay too,” Mary said. “Valerie may need me. Isn’t it funny? I can’t think of one friend Valerie has to call.”
“Just us, the loyal employees,” Kyle said. “Kind of sad.”
“I’m going to send Daniel over to my place to pick up my shaving things,” John said.
“Maybe he could stop and get some things for me, too,” Mary said, reaching for her handbag to make a list.
“And a copy of the classifieds,” Kyle added. “Or maybe I should just get on the phone to a publisher with the real story of Victor Penn.”
“And what would that be?” John asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?” Kyle asked. “It’s a joke, John. Lighten up.”
Elliott popped his head in the door to say that Valerie was asleep and he would stop by again in the morning.
“What I can’t figure out is how that plane got to Mexico,” Mary said after he was gone.
“Simple,” Kyle said. “Victor knew the feds and the bank examiners and the IRS were moving in, so he picked up a billion dollars or so, threw it on the plane, and split.”
“Without Valerie?” asked Mary.
“Well, as Valerie is here, obviously without Valerie,” Kyle said. “He was on his way to Brazil—no extradition, you know—and voilà, the plane crashed. What they’re going to find when they get to that plane is a whole lot of money.”
“Going through Acapulco from New York to get to Brazil seems a little out of the way,” John said.
“Not a direct route,” Kyle agreed. “That’s to throw everybody off.”
“Maybe Valerie is right and Victor was kidnapped,” Mary said thoughtfully.
“Okay,” said Kyle. “With that scenario, the bad guys were waiting for Victor on the plane. Why not? So, what they’re going to find is Victor, the crew, the bodyguard, and some mucho dead hijackers. But let’s turn to our legal expert, Mr. John O’Farrell, to hear what he has to say.”
“I don’t know,” said John, leaning back on the sofa. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What I want to know is what you meant when you said we had no idea how much worse things were going to get,” Mary said.
“It is true, then, that the feds and everybody are sniffing around?” Kyle prompted.
“Well, there’s been some talk,” John said cautiously.
“Which would be reason enough for Victor to take the money and run,” said Kyle.
“I just don’t think he would leave Valerie,” insisted Mary.
“Maybe he was going to send for her later,” Kyle suggested.
“Maybe we should just stop all this,” John interjected. “We’re all in shock and it isn’t getting us anywhere.”
He smiled ruefully at Mary and Kyle. Everybody here was owned to some degree, he thought. And every one of them was being paid the highest price. Funny, he thought, how one changed. Managing Victor Penn’s estate certainly wasn’t the future he had seen for himself when he was editor of the Law Review at Harvard. His dream then had been to sit on the United States Supreme Court. But after he had graduated with honors, he had been courted by some of the country’s leading law firms. The Supreme Court could wait a few years, he’d decided. First, get some bucks in the bank.
He accepted an offer from the firm that handled the affairs of Penn International in New York. He was already a partner when he met Victor, who liked him at once. When Victor decided to make the Beverly Hills estate his main residence, John was reassigned to the firm’s Los Angeles office to handle Victor’s affairs. As he became more involved with them, John found that his principles were being compromised in direct proportion to his raises, bonuses, and other perks, which came often and in gratifyingly large amounts.
Thinking about his early idealism, which he described to himself as his early pomposity, made him smile these days. What counted, he often told himself in the mirror as he shaved in the bathroom of his half-million-dollar condominium in Beverly Hills, was the bucks. Oh, he was in good shape, with investments, a stock portfolio, and the condominium at Aspen. But it still wasn’t big, big money. Kyle and Mary and pretty Valerie weren’t the only ones who were praying that Victor was alive.
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Valerie awoke slowly at three o’clock that morning. Fighting her way out of her drugged sleep, she instinctively reached out for Victor. The bed beside her was empty, the Porthault sheet soft and smooth to her touch, its scent only her own perfume. She lay there for a moment and looked around the huge, silent room faintly illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Unconsciously, she ran her hands over her small, firm breasts, her flat stomach, before the horror of the day before flashed through her mind.
Oh, God, Valerie thought. My darling. My love. I’m barely alive when I’m not with you. Those had been Victor’s words to her on the phone from New York only the morning before. Dear God … I have to be strong. Victor would want me to be strong, Valerie thought, pulling herself out of bed. In the bathroom, she took a hot shower, wondering how her body could feel so bruised. Then, dressed in a caftan, she walked slowly down the winding staircase and into the music room. Two hours later, as the first rays of sun crept into the room, Mary found Valerie huddled in the corner of the sofa, an old black-and-white movie flickering on the television set.
“Mary, I didn’t know you were here,” said Valerie.
“I thought I should stay in case you needed some company,” Mary covered a yawn with her hand.
“That’s really very nice of you,” Valerie said shyly.
The words “You’d do it for me” were almost out of Mary’s mouth when she stopped herself. It wasn’t true, of course. She and Valerie weren’t friends, and Valerie wouldn’t do it for her. She was a paid employee. Staying overnight in an emergency was just the same as staying late at the office. Part of the job.
“Is there news?” Mary gestured toward the television set.
“Just what they were showing yesterday,” Valerie said, shaking her head.
“How do you feel?”
