To celebrate New Year’s Day, Madam planned a cozy, low-key luncheon for her and Ryder in her studio, which is, in fact, the most charming little one-bedroom stone cottage I have ever seen outside of the Cotswolds, which I admit I have never visited, but I’ve seen just as many pictures as anyone. Besides, as an Englishman, I have an innate understanding of such details, even if I am from Birmingham. It had taken me days to pull the luncheon together. Once Effie finished scrubbing and dusting, I set up a table for two in front of the fireplace and laid it with the dearest, antique Madeira cloth I’d ever seen. I had laundered and ironed it myself and the linen was so crisp, you could almost cut your fingers on the edges.
One thing you can count on about married men who are having affairs, especially ones who live in terror of losing their wives: They are desperately guilty about almost everything, so the extremes and excesses they go to to make themselves feel better are extraordinary, even if they’re using their sick, wheel-chair-bound wife’s dough. For example, Ryder had sent Madam approximately five hundred red roses—isn’t it interesting he hadn’t figured out yet that all she really likes are gardenias? The place was wall-to-wall in perfect blossoms, which, thankfully, had zero fragrance, otherwise, I could not have considered entering the premises. I’m becoming horribly sensitive to a great many scents. Thankfully gardenia isn’t among them.
Interestingly, Armand had sent her a single, small bouquet of lilies of the valley which she had put on her bed table in the main house. “Ma Jacqueline,” his note had read. “I have suffered a coup de foudre at your hands. May the new year bring us closer in every way. Je t’aime, Armand.”
I wedged the cocktail tray into the roses at the edge of Madam’s desk and quickly checked myself in the mirror. My brownish hair was well-parted and carefully slicked into place, my face was cleanly shaven, and my bright brown eyes clear and shining. My mum would be so proud of me. Out of nowhere, a wave of emotion engulfed me so totally I lost complete control of myself, and for a minute I was afraid I would drown. The tears would not stop. I sat on the sofa and sobbed into my handkerchief. It had been almost fifteen years. When would the pain of losing her heal? The last she knew of me was the shame of my prison sentence. Oh, Lord, how I wish she could see me now.
“Nigel, you are a magician.” Madam put her hand on my shoulder, her touch as gentle as a whisper. She had on a plain jersey sheath in a buttery, tawny brown. It was grim and rainy outside, and with the silver and crystal glittering in the firelight, and the gardenias resting in her hair like white velvet birds, she reminded me of an exotic wild cat, ready to pounce on her prey, which, as we know, was due to arrive any minute.
She prowled among the roses without seeming to notice their presence. “Thank you for listening to me last night.”
“No thanks are necessary.”
“It really helped me see things more clearly, and I’ve decided I’m going to do it.”
“Madam?”
“I’m going to give Ryder an ultimatum, get the year off to a really good, brand new start. He’s got to decide. Her or me. I’m not going to live like this anymore, it’s wrecking my life.”
I kept my mouth firmly shut and tossed a handful of sweet balsam chips on the fire—lovely scent and very good for the sinuses.
“You’re right about Armand. Maybe I should give him a chance. He said such nice things to me at Lynette’s party, about how I should have a man who appreciates me, who would be proud to be seen with me in public, and I’ve been thinking about it, and he’s right. Not to mention the small deaths I die when I think about Mary Anne. First my mother, now me. I can’t even imagine how much she must hate me, and she’s such a nice person. And she’s in a wheel-chair for God’s sake. If I were her, I’d kill me. Then I’d kill Ryder. He is a complete bastard, isn’t he? He’s got it made, and I’m sick of it. I mean, look at this.” She jabbed her finger at her wristwatch. “The one day he promises to be on time and he’s late. What in the hell am I doing with this loser?”
“Would you like a Bloody Mary, Madam?”
“Good idea.”
Two strong cocktails and ten cigarettes later, when the thunderclouds over her head had built to monumental proportions, Ryder galloped up to the door, leapt off the chestnut, and swept Madam into his arms. She pushed him away.
“I know you’re mad,” he said. “But I have a good excuse.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him, unable to conceal her hurt and relief. “What?”
“May I at least come in? It’s cold out here.”
She stood aside to let him pass and followed him across the oak transom, which he had to stoop slightly to cross without cracking his head.
“Bloody Mary, sir?” I asked.
“Please. That is, if Madam doesn’t mind.” He placed his riding hat on the chair by the door and shrugged out of his rain gear. Underneath, he was suited up in skin-tight fawn jodhpurs, gleaming black and cordovan boots, a perfectly fitted black jacket—its lapel decked with a tiny French Legion d’Honneur rosette which he had stolen from someone else’s coat room at some long-gone dinner party—white shirt, and a yellow tie covered with red horses. He did look smashing.
“Be my guest.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.
“Little chilly in here,” Ryder said wryly and looked to me for support.
“Let me add a log, sir.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He positioned himself in front of the blaze and rubbed his hands together nervously.
Jackie’s portrait of her mother hung over the mantel. It was one of Madam’s best works. Today, Constanza seemed particularly full of loathing. I used to think that Madam kept her mother’s portrait out of some sense of familial duty; it was, after all, her mother. But today, it occurred to me that Madam had hung it where she could see it regularly to keep herself strong and focused. Or maybe she just didn’t see it at all anymore.
“I was going to give you this over lunch, but I can see I’d better give it to you now.” Ryder retrieved a black velvet box with a red satin ribbon from his raincoat pocket.
“Jacqueline di Fidelio, will you marry me?”
Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Get the bucket. If Madam falls for that old ploy—the common move of a desperate, married man who knows he’s on thin ice—she deserves whatever she gets.
She let the ribbon drift to the floor and snapped open the box. A dome-shaped ring with a huge, round, central diamond surrounded by several circles of diamonds in diminishing size sparkled from the velvet cushion. It was impressive, but from my point of view there were a few serious problems with this gift. First of all, Ryder was still married. And secondly, this ring, no matter how magnificent, was no engagement ring. It was a dinner ring.
He slipped it onto her finger.
“Oh, Ryder,” she cried, and threw her arms around him, all backbone out the window. “I love you so much.”
“There’s my girl.” He smoothed her hair, looked at me with his good eye, and winked. It was a paternal, there-there, wink. I wanted to punch him. One of these days, I would.
“So you talked to Mary Anne,” Madam said, over the Lobster Thermidor and a crisp Sancerre 1997. “What did she say?”
Ryder swiped his lips with the linen square. “I told her that you are absolutely critical to my life. That I could not live without you. She said she understood.”
“Did you ask her for a divorce?”
Ryder held up his hands. “Not so fast, sweetheart. Not so fast. I need to go slowly, but it’s not going to be a problem. You just have to trust me and be patient for a little longer. You know, she can’t take too many big hits at one time. I mean, I just want a divorce, I don’t want to kill her.” He laughed and took a manly quaff of wine. “Although I wouldn’t especially mind if she died. It certainly would uncomplicate things.”
“Don’t say that. Not even as a joke.” Jackie looked at the ring. “Do you think we could get married next Christmas? In Paris?”
“I don’t see why not.”
I could see a hundred reasons why not. Did Madam really believe that Mary Anne Schlumbacher McCormick was just going to hand over her husband without a fight? And just what, I ask, did Madam think they were going to live on? These were two people with serious overhead. Most of her painting fees were earmarked for the Internal Revenue Service. Ryder’s money was not his, it was all his wife’s. Had anyone ever heard of the McCormick fortune? Of course not. It was the Schlumbacher fortune.
I began to clear the table and accidentally dropped Ryder’s cutlery into his lap, staining his jodhpurs with lobster sauce, which made his temper flare, but he kept it under control, evidently sensing that he was on less-than-solid footing and that a fit of pique might push her over the edge, in the wrong direction.
“I’m so terribly sorry, sir,” I lied. “Would you like me to douse it with club soda?”
“So when are you going to ask her for the divorce?” Madam asked as I placed a chocolate truffle cake on the side table, filled their champagne flutes with pale pink Cristal, and listened expectantly. This was going to be a whopper.
“Well, she’s got a series of treatments coming up at the end of the month and they usually knock her out for a few days, so I’d say I’ll probably tell her in mid- to late February. Certainly before the MOMA show. How’s that?”
I cut into the cake, slicing two wedges with a razor-sharp knife, and served them up.
“Good,” said Madam. “That’ll be perfect.”
I detected a new tone in her voice, a courteous, distant steeliness, and the possibility that she meant what she said this time about his making a choice occurred to me. Go, Madam. She devoured her cake in three fast bites.
“Did I tell you I’m gone from mid-January through February?” she continued lightly.
“No,” Ryder responded irritably. He had lost control of the conversation and it aggravated him. “Where will you be?”
“New York.”
“Oh? Doing who?”
“You know I never tell you who I’m working on until I’m done. But now, at least you’ve given me one thing to look forward to about the MOMA show. I’ve been dreading it, but with this,” she cast a look at the ring, “everything will be different.”
“Oh?” Ryder held his lighter to her cigarette and then his. “How so?”
“We’ll be engaged,” she laughed. “We’ll have gone public.”
“Right.”
“I’m going to hold you to this, Ryder.”
“Do you want me to swear on a Bible?”
Jackie smiled. “Yes.”
Ryder smiled back, wrinkling the scars around his bad eye. The firelight caught it, turning it slightly milky.
The next day, the federal agents returned. We had just finished breakfast and I was leaving to take the dogs on a long walk when the gray sedan materialized out of the morning fog shortly after eight. I showed them into the sunroom as before but made no offer of coffee or rolls. Madam joined them a few minutes later.
“We understand you made contact with Mr. Weil,” Agent Romero said without preamble.
“Yes. I did.”
“Did you learn anything about the Vermeer?”
“Yes. I learned he doesn’t have it,” Madam answered firmly. She seemed resigned to her role as informant. “But I told him I’d be willing to offer a five million dollar reward.”
“Where were you planning to get five million dollars?” Agent Collier asked. Her hands were red and coarse, as if she’d been doing too many Christmas dishes. She was impossibly rude.
“I’m sure the insurance company would be happy to pay for the information.” The claws began to come out.
Romero stepped in. “Do you have any idea who would have wanted to blow up Mrs. Payne’s yacht?”
Madam shook her head. “Not a clue. Don’t you have any leads yet?”
Neither agent replied.
“We have a tip that Mr. Weil has the Vermeer in a vault at his house in Aspen. He’s giving a party there in March. Get yourself invited.”
“Excuse me? How do you propose I do that?”
“You’ll think of something.” He opened his briefcase, withdrew a large manila envelope, and laid it on the table. “We happened to come across the builder’s plans for the place showing the location of the vault and the security system. You’ll find them useful in conducting your search. I convinced the director to give you an extension to the end of the quarter, although the penalties and interest will continue to accrue.”
“Accrue?”
“Naturally. Don’t you open your mail? You get a monthly statement. Your tax bill now totals seven hundred and eighty-three thousand dollars, but I got you ninety days.”
Naturally, Madam didn’t mention the missing Renoir to the agents. And to tell you the truth, as the whole incident began to fade into the mist, I realized maybe I’d been imagining things. I hadn’t actually stopped to make sure the Renoir wasn’t there as I’d passed through the saloon, it was just an impression I’d gotten that it was missing. The whole thing was becoming surreal.