There was hot water, I was glad to find. I felt somewhat less sticky and a little more awake after I’d washed my hands and face. The wakefulness came with a measure of uneasiness. Outside, who knew how many vampires there were. And inside? What kind of danger might I be in?
Tony was waiting in the hall, head bent as a familiar figure in a black dress grinned up at him, her prosthetic eye staring beyond him into space. “I shall see to supper myself. Good boy, you brought us one of your Paris surprises!”
“I know how you like your Paris desserts, Nonni.”
Madam Coriesçu cackled, rubbed her hands, and wandered off, ducking around guys standing in groups, some armed.
“This is a headquarters,” I said.
Tony grinned.
“A military headquarters.”
“Think of it as a field camp, if that helps.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters are what kind of games you’re playing.”
“Games?”
I was feeling that stomach-sinking sense of uh-oh.
Tony gave me a pained glance. “Our problems with the mining consortium have not conveniently gone away because we’re having a spot of trouble with vampires and mystery conspiracies. In fact, the consortiums’ continued interest in Dobrenica’s mines and minerals in the face of Alec’s truly heroic negotiations, as well as our gently diminished quotas, is disturbing. Do they see through Alec’s policy of starving their profits? Or do they see something else they want here? But we are not going to solve that now.”
The mines—I’d forgotten the mines. Yet these were a huge part of Dobrenica’s economy. But as he said, that problem was for later. “I can’t help it,” I began, “if every new surprise brings my mind right back to the conspiracy. By which I mean your conspiracy.”
Tony’s pained glance this time was far less humorous. “You really think I’d whack my own cousin?”
I was ready to retort I think you’d whack your grandmother to gain power, except I knew it wasn’t true. Not quite.
Then he said with the old derision, “Perhaps I should rephrase. You really think if I were to whack Cousin Honoré, I’d be that incompetent?”
“I thought that fire at his home was pretty efficient.”
“It was efficient at destroying the house. Unless someone wanted Honoré only to suffer, then it was terribly inefficient. I think he was supposed to die, and the fire was to destroy the evidence. Only he wasn’t hit hard enough.”
“So you thought it was me,” I said indignantly. “Well, since I thought it was you, I guess we’re even on that one.”
He laughed as a bell clanged somewhere, echoing slightly. A genial roar of men’s voices preceded a stampede.
“This way.” Tony opened a tall door carved with wheat sheaves around its edges, and turned an old-fashioned electrical knob on a nearby wall.
Light revealed a small room that I recognized immediately. As my gaze traveled over the darkened windows, the conservatory-grown flowers in pretty vases against walls of pale eggshell blue, and the painted pattern of rowan, holly, and hawthorn a foot or two under the ceiling, I was thrown back to the emotions of summer. How isolated I had felt—an emotion that has its comforts, for there is no responsibility with isolation. Now, as I approached one of the pretty little cabriole-legged chairs and sat down to place my hands on the cozy round table set for two, I felt the weight of my chosen obligations. And loyalties.
And dangers.
“This is the royal breakfast room,” I said inanely.
Tony sat across from me. “You and I will get a better dinner than the others. We’re to have New Year’s leftovers, more than half of our guests having not been able to get to us on New Year’s Day.”
Nonni herself appeared, wearing an apron of white linen aged to a shade of ivory, the edging a pattern of lace not seen in over a century. With a twitch of shoulder and extra tweaks and pats, she set out dishes of gilt porcelain, edged with deep blues and greens and crimson, the central figures mythological in the neoclassic mode.
She was obviously very proud of these dishes; she’d even decanted the wine into a beautiful porcelain pot and poured it as a last gesture.
In my exhausted, bemused state her hand blurred, and I gazed at another hand, belonging to a much younger arm, charming in its shape. The shade of skin the warm brown associated with the equatorial regions of most of the world. I caught a brief glimpse of a young woman, then I blinked, and there was Nonni putting the decanter on the tray.
“Bon appetit,” she said, and left.
Tony lifted his goblet in toast, to which I responded. I took the tiniest sip, but even that much alcohol on top of an empty stomach was a mistake, or maybe I was going to see the ghosts anyway, because this time the vision was longer.
They were about my age: the woman with long-lashed, slanting black eyes and a rakish smile dimpled on one side; the man blond and handsome, his eyes honey-brown. They wore robes of silk and lace, their manner intimate, as morning sunlight streamed from the windows onto the very same set of dishes.
The golden light rippled . . .
A hand gripped my shoulder.
I jumped, and discovered I’d nearly fallen off my chair. I closed my eyes against the sickening swim-jolt of dizziness until it faded, then I cautiously opened my eyes.
Tony moved back to his chair. “I thought you were going to pass out.” He frowned into his wine glass. “If it’s been doctored, the poison or drug is odorless.”
“I think it’s just me. Maybe I’d better eat,” I said, and to forestall questions, added, “Tell me about these dishes. I know it’s an old set.”
“It’s actually a breakfast service. That decanter is the coffee urn. It was sent by some queen or other, when a mutual ancestor of ours married the crown prince, right after the Dobreni brush with Napoleon. I wonder why Nonni dug it out? I’ve only seen this particular set once, when I was scouting out something else.”
Nonni reappeared, wheeling an elegant cart. With a flourish she uncovered dishes and set them out, then she left.
The dizziness had abated enough to let me help myself to langoustines wrapped in phyllo with mousseline and caviar—a fancy dish I recognized because I’d had it once. “This is delicious,” I said grateful both for the food and for an easy subject. “But where did your cook possibly get lobster?”
“My chef?” Tony’s lips parted, then he gave a slight shrug. “She brought baskets and boxes of fresh ingredients from Paris. Oversaw the unloading herself, and then put her own locks on the pantry doors.” He took another bite. “Though I’ve had this dish three times since New Year’s, it’s still good, which is why I brought the last of it up here in the hamper. Anyway, my mother hid all the good porcelain after she asked for this house as a wedding gift. Jakov told me once that Mother was afraid that Milo would remember these old plates and demand their return, as they were a Dsaret heirloom.”
“You told me once that this is her lair. When was she here last?”
He grinned conspiratorially. “Maybe five years ago. But she does think of it as hers.”
So yeah, he hadn’t quite lied. He’d just left crucial information out—as usual. I made a private bet that Alec still thought the duchess came up here to visit “her” vacation house, and that he had no idea that Tony used it as a military outpost.
Or maybe he knew.
I considered that, as we worked through the amazing food. Reblochon cheese, risotto with épeautre accompanied by girolles mushrooms, and to remind us that we were not in a five star restaurant, it was all sopped up with plain bread rolls, but they were hot and fresh.
There was little conversation. I was too tired, and too wary of vampires and ghosts and Tony. Too worried about what was happening with Alec, and with Riev, once the sun had set.
“What are you thinking about so solemnly?” Tony asked, raising his wine goblet.
It caught the light, a ruby gleam, and there was the couple again. Ghosts or a g
limpse of the past? This time they were silvery, hand in hand. It was the first time I’d ever seen two ghosts together like that. They were not looking at me, but gazing through the south window.
I shut my eyes, determined not to see them. When I opened my eyes, they were gone.
“I’m thinking about how delicious the dinner is,” I said, retreating to the safety of food. “I owe it to your chef to savor each bite.”
He gave me an odd smile, leaned toward me—then sat back as Nonni came in with the dessert borne triumphantly in a beautiful soup tureen that didn’t quite match the breakfast service but had to be two hundred years old—and carried on a heavy-looking solid silver tray, engraved with falcons and other martial symbols of the baroque period.
With the air of a magician she served out Poires Belle-Hélène.
The first bite was heavenly. Nonni beamed as I exclaimed, “Delicious!”
Cackling, she bore off the dinner dishes. “Coffee soon,” she said. “Coffee soon.”
I scarcely heard her. I was too engrossed with the pear dish. Flavor rolled across my tongue to the edges as I savored the undertones of lemon zest and vanilla bean, with which the pears had been poached. The chocolate sauce—the thin almond slivers—the crème Chantilly all brought me back to our battered kitchen table in Santa Monica.
I took another bite. Oh yes. I knew every ingredient. In fact, I could name them, and how much, and the order in which they were added.
I laid my spoon down with absorbing care, as if the slightest motion would cause it to explode. Or the plate. Or me.
This was not weird times, or ghost-vision. This was reality, and all my old anger flared up, hot and bright.
Tony watched me over his wine glass.
“A funny thing,” I said. “Though I grew up in a dinky house, and carried my lunch to school in a Disney lunch pail like all the other girls, all my life I’ve had blue ribbon desserts.”
Tony set down the glass.
“After I turned nine, the food I carried was usually five-star French cuisine. Because my mom was sent to Cordon Bleu training by her hotshot Hollywood catering service so she could work on other things besides desserts. She fed us her homework. Dishes like that dinner. Which I’ve had once. But chefs have signature dishes. It’s why people would travel eighty miles to eat Crème brûlée at a hole-in-the-wall that wasn’t that great otherwise. My mother, you probably know, is a blue ribbon pastry chef, though she calls herself a cake-decorator. That’s because she loves doing wedding cakes, but Poires Belle-Hélène is her specialty. Tony, if you kidnapped my mother, I am going to . . .”
“Going to what?”
“Get revenge in the nastiest, most painful, most humiliating way possible.”
There was a long, agonizing pause while he looked out the dark window. I don’t know what he saw. “I should have thought of that. Kim, I was going to tell you, but when we returned to Riev. Yes, I see that’s making it worse. Before you ruin this superlative food with your righteousness, consider this: what if your mother wanted to come to Dobrenica?”
“Oh, right.”
“Do you really believe I would be able to force my way into Milo’s house to pinch your mother without any cooperation from her?”
“I think if you thought it would hurt Milo and Alec enough, you would do exactly that. Or any other sucktastic thing to win the ‘game.’ I cannot believe my mother put on a Lucille Ball wig and came along in secret to Dobrenica to cook for your horrible family.”
“No, she dyed her hair before we left Paris. The plan was actually your father’s suggestion—you know I’ve been running my own investigation.”
“Against Alec.”
“To find out the truth,” he retorted. “Alec was the chief suspect, but he was so chief it was too easy.”
That gave me pause.
Tony went on. “Your mother was worried about you after some phone call. Your father suggested she volunteer as a chef, since I was trying unsuccessfully to find an Interpol agent who was Cordon Bleu trained, and who was willing to come to Dobrenica. See it from our perspective.” Tony jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Alec has the resources. And the loyalty to him personally. That’s why I called Gilles. I knew he had a friend who worked out of the Interpol offices in Lyon. He refused the first time I asked, but the night Honoré’s house burned down, I called Gilles again when the entire family was at the Ridotskis’. I will say this for him, he was here that night—paid for a private plane, brought his mate, cover story in hand—punk filmmakers by day and dressed innocuously when investigating. Nobody pegged ’em, but they’ve lagged a step behind events ever since.”
“And Milo? What did you tell him?”
“That I was after the truth. He said he would help me any way he could.”
“So he sent my mother? Your Interpol guys can’t find out who’s behind the poisoning? It’s got to be my mom?”
“Anyone I put in my home had to be someone I could trust, after what happened to Honoré and his dog. Milo agreed with your father’s suggestion—”
“If Gilles’s punk guys really are Interpol, what have they been doing, besides asking the wrong people nosy questions?”
“I told you, they’ve been a step behind, between watching Alec and investigating and keeping up with the various murder attempts.”
“Various? Other than that crossbow the other night—oh, yes, and the iced driveway at Ridotski House—isn’t that pretty much confined to Honoré?”
Tony held up a hand and counted fingers. “Honoré three times. The Ridotski family once, on the same night as yours and Robert’s crossbow incident at the opera gala. Alec once. And me twice.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“WHAT? SOMEONE TRIED TO KILL ALEC?”
“Gilles told me right before I picked you up at the inn.”
“What happened?”
“Someone tried to poison him.” Tony finished off his wine. “Luckily, Alec wasn’t around.”
It was probably when he was with me, pretending to be a messenger.
“Madam Emilio was out on errands and returned to find things subtly shifted about in the kitchen. She summoned Kilber, and he recognized the bitter almond smell of cyanide. On his orders they threw everything out.” Tony grinned. “You should enjoy this. They found your scarf in the garden. The one everyone had been seeing you wearing for a week.”
“It was a setup!”
“Of course it was. Gilles thinks the scarf was supposed to caused rumors, but whoever did it counted without Kilber’s way of shutting down rumor.”
“And someone tried to kill you, too?” I asked.
“Twice. But as Uncle Robert was once heard to lament, I am very hard to kill. And the attempts seem to be getting steadily more wild. We don’t know if those attempts are part of the same conspiracy or a separate one. There are also stray facts, like the test results that came yesterday about my mother’s anti-depressants, which were given her by her doctor after the news about Ruli. She acts doped until she crashes. So one of my errands in Paris was to have them analyzed. Someone substituted her pills for morphine.”
“So back to my mom.”
“She put together her disguise herself. You are the first one to find out who she is, aside from Gilles.”
“Who’s protecting her while you’re here with me?”
“Percy is staying there with my mother and uncle. He hasn’t much training, but he’s as strong as a horse, and he can be persistent. Between Percy and Uncle Jerzy, your mother and everyone else at the house should survive until my return.”
“Has Mom discovered anything?”
“She’s only been here five or six days, but I can tell you this, she terrorized the entire household into obedience. It helps that the food is superb. And no food comes in or goes out without ‘Madame Tullée’ personally overseeing it. When Luc serves it, she goes along with him.”
“‘Tullée!’ I bet she picked that name for the nasty tule fog that appears on Highway
5. Just her kind of joke.”
“Nothing foggy about her. When I left, she was standing over my mother, supervising every bite. I have to say, watching those two is better than television.”
“It might be horrible if they figure out who she is.”
Tony lifted a shrug. “I’m beginning to think your mother will carry it off. She loves Paris—they’ll have that in common. Talked about it most of the flight to Riev. She’d picked up a lot during her October visit. I filled her in on other details my mother would know about current life there. No one has questioned her credibility.”
I couldn’t get over the idea that Mom was actually in Riev playing sleuth, but I’d just finished the last bite of her signature dessert, and my palate knew that her hands had created it.
“What about my dad, Gran, and Milo? What’s up with them?”
“No clue. Finished? Misha promised to give a concert this evening.”
“A concert?” In the middle of a war, I was going to say, but I bit it back. We were locked safely inside the lit building, where vampires could not enter. And apparently this was Yet Another Day at the secret military field outpost.
We walked upstairs. In the distance, four men’s voices rose and fell in a Russian folk melody, then ended in laughter and a scattering of applause. Tony opened the door onto a warm, lit room, painted in pale yellow, with white scrollwork in arabesques around the ceiling and pilasters. On the side walls were enlightenment-era paintings, and opposite the windows enormous oval mirrors framed with golden scrollwork.
“Misha likes an audience when he practices,” Tony said.
The kid had obviously been waiting. He beamed at me, polished his clarinet on his patch-kneed trousers with an absent gesture that seemed more habitual than purposeful, then he raised the clarinet and began to play.
It was like a concert except the listeners sat on the floor, wearing hunting boots and knives at their belts. Niklos lounged in the second window seat as he took apart and cleaned a rifle. The boy began Maurice Ravel’s Pavanne—and the room began to fill with people.
I was seated on a velvet-covered hassock tucked up against a pilaster. From this vantage it was easier to watch Misha in one of the mirrors. It was amazing that this boy’s red, puffed cheeks and stubby fingers were able to produce such heart-rending music. Was there magic in his magic? So intent was my tired focus, I paid no attention to the gathering crowd except to appreciate how quiet they were . . .