Queen of Hearts (Royal Spyness Mysteries) (16 page)

Cy shrugged. “Suit yourself, but she’s not going to like it.”

“Do I care?” Stella muttered as she turned away. “I could always bunk in the Hacienda with the boys. I bet they’d find a way to keep me happy.” And she shot him a challenging look as she walked past him up the steps and into the main house.

Mr. Goldman cleared his throat. “Alfredo will drive you down to your cottage, Claire,” he said. “When you’ve settled in, come up to the house and I’ll give you the grand tour. Drinks will be waiting beside the pool. Bring your costumes if you want to swim. Don’t worry about the breeze. The pool is heated.”

A young and ruggedly handsome man started loading our luggage aboard a little motorized cart. It crossed my mind that he might be one of Mr. Goldman’s discoveries who hadn’t measured up and been discarded like Juan. We climbed aboard and crunched across the gravel forecourt, along a flagstone path, finally stopping outside a cottage that looked as if it had been taken, brick by brick, from a quaint English village. Honeysuckle climbed over the porch. Inside was furnished to complete the illusion, with a tall Welsh dresser full of blue and white china, copper pots, low ceilings and wood beams. As we entered it even smelled old. The furniture was definitely antique—the sort of tables, sideboard, writing desk and high-backed armchairs you’d find in any English country house. Mummy was still grinning. “I wonder if he bought the whole thing and had it shipped across from England,” she said. “How horribly quaint. I’d rather have had the Spanish-style bungalow where the men are staying. At least that’s close to the house. But I suppose he wants us to feel at home in a replica of Merrie Olde England.”

“At least it’s a trifle better than that other cottage beyond this.” I pointed out of the window to where a replica of a cottage that might have housed Hansel and Gretel’s witch stood nestled among tall oak trees. It had tiny paned windows, a ridiculously pointed roof and weathered shutters.

“No accounting for taste.” Mummy shivered.

Claudette unpacked for Mummy and I hung up my own things. I couldn’t help imagining what Queenie’s reaction to this place would have been and how she made me laugh as well as exasperating me. I wondered if I’d ever be able to afford another maid. I swallowed back the lump in my throat. When Mummy had changed into more casual wide-bottom slacks and blouse, tied her hair back with a red scarf and repaired her makeup, we followed the path back up the hill to the house. Of course we were one of the last. Mummy never dresses in a hurry.

“I don’t think I like the thought of walking up this path,” she said. “Where is the young man with his little cart when we need him? Did you notice a telephone in the cottage?”

“It’s not too far and it’s a nice evening,” I said.

Mummy looked around. “I certainly don’t intend to walk down it alone at night. What about the wild animals? I shall keep thinking we’re being stalked by lions and tigers.” She latched on to my arm. “I’m not even keen to meet a zebra face-to-face. I hear they’ve got nasty tempers.”

“I think wild animals are usually shy and avoid humans,” I said, staring up at the castle that loomed above us, gleaming in the setting sun. “But isn’t this place extraordinary? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s certainly over the top, and completely tasteless,” Mummy said. “He must have an awful lot of money to waste. I thought Max was rich, but at least he’s sensible. I must write and tell him about this.”

“Your German must have improved,” I said.

She glared at me. “He has a secretary to translate.” She looked around again. “Drinks by the pool, didn’t he say? I didn’t bring my costume, did you?”

“No,” I said. There was no way I’d have wanted to reveal my body to a group that included Craig and Stella.

“It’s a little nippy for a swim,” Mummy said, “and I don’t look my best with goose bumps.”

As we approached the pool we could see Cy Goldman and several other people already assembled amid the archways and palm trees. Stella was in a bright green, formfitting bathing suit, sitting with her feet in the clear blue water, holding a martini in her hand. She was looking up at someone, laughing, and I couldn’t tell if she was flirting with Juan or Darcy or both. Mr. Goldman beckoned us over and told us to order cocktails from the barman.

“Enjoy yourselves while you can before my wife gets here,” he said. Then he looked up and swore under his breath. Another motorcar was coming up the canyon. “Too late,” Cy said.

The motor came to a halt. A chauffeur opened the back door and a large woman in black stepped out. She was dressed for New York not California in a two-piece suit with a diamond brooch on her lapel. Her hair was marcel waved into tight curls and her face was a mask of bright makeup. She looked around with disapproval then stalked over toward us. “There you are, Cyrus,” she said. “I was expecting you’d have had the courtesy to wait until I arrived. But no, you can’t even be bothered to greet your wife when you haven’t seen her in ages. I only saw you for a couple of seconds when you were in New York.”

“Nice to see you too, Helen,” Cy replied dryly. “It wasn’t my fault that you had your museum auxiliary meeting when I came to the apartment. Anyway, you’re here now. Come and have a drink and meet everyone.”

She looked at us with disapproval. “You’ve brought a whole slew of people here? How thoughtless. Didn’t it occur to you that I’d want us to spend some time together?”

“You never did before,” Cy said. “Anyway, we need to keep working on the picture we’re shooting. It’s just cast members and a few friends.”

“Well, I’ve brought some friends too,” she said. “I ran into Barbara at the Beverly Hills Hotel and she was delighted to keep me company on the drive. So was dear Charlie. I gather you’d invited him and he was planning to drive up later, but then he decided to hitch a ride with us.”

I watched as Barbara Kindell and Charlie Chaplin emerged from the car.

“Charlie’s okay, but what did you want to bring her for?” Cy hissed. “You know that anything that happens here will be in the New York newspapers tomorrow.”

“Don’t be so stuffy, Cy. She’s an old friend. A good friend. A loyal friend, which is more than I can say for some people.” She reached out for Barbara Kindell and hooked her arm through Barbara’s. Barbara gave us a small triumphant smile. Charlie Chaplin had headed straight for the bar, took a cocktail and then turned toward my mother and me, raising his glass to his lips.

“Ah, the flower of English womanhood,” he said.

He was about to come over to us when he noticed Craig and Darcy. “Don’t tell me I have competition this weekend,” he said. “I’m not exactly worried about my boy Craig, but who are these other fellows?”

“My new stars, Charlie.” Cy Goldman moved across to put an arm around his shoulder. “Juan is a Spanish matador and this guy O’Mara is a true-blue English lord. I’m going to make him the next Fairbanks. And Juan the next Valentino.”

“Good luck.” Charlie looked amused. “So long as neither is a comic. But then they don’t look very comical.”

Cy was looking past him, frowning. “Did you bring someone else, Helen? Is that your new maid?”

Mrs. Goldman turned around. “No, Cy. This is a charming young lady I met on the train. She was so helpful to me when I couldn’t get my bag down from the rack. And when she told me she was an up-and-coming costume designer and she was actually on her way out to see you, I insisted that she come along. What’s more she’s a real blue-blooded descendent of the Tudor family and I heard it just happens you’re making a movie about the Tudors. So I thought she might be quite a help in designing your costumes for you.”

I was staring in amazement. Of all the surreal things I had seen today this was the most unbelievable.

“Belinda,” I exclaimed.

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Belinda dropped her train case and rushed toward me, flinging out her arms. “Georgie, darling. What a lovely, lovely surprise. Fancy meeting you of all people here.”

She looked back at Mrs. Goldman as she kissed my cheeks. “This is my oldest and dearest friend in the world. Lady Georgiana, you know. Cousin to His Majesty the king. I’d heard that you were in Los Angeles but I had no idea . . .” She looked around the group, beaming. “And your dear mama, and good heavens—there’s Darcy too. It’s like a family reunion.”

Mr. Goldman was looking bemused and for once speechless. “Let me get this straight. This kid is another Tudor relation? Did they breed like rabbits?”

“The British aristocratic families are all related to each other in some way,” I said, although I was fairly sure that Belinda was in no way linked to the Tudors. I was giving her full marks for her acting ability. She knew very well that we were with Mr. Goldman and that the film was about the Tudors. “This is Miss Warburton-Stoke. Belinda and I were at school together.”

Belinda turned the full force of her charm on Cy Goldman. “How do you do,” she said, “and how kind of you to include me at this lovely, lovely place.”

Of course then he could hardly say that he didn’t want to include her. He scratched his head. “Where are we going to put these people, Ronnie?” he asked.

“We can put Mr. Chaplin in the other poolside suite, if Miss Brightwell’s not using it,” Ronnie said. “And we can have Maria open up Trianon for Miss Kindell and the young English lady. Unless you’d like your new protégé to sleep in the big house, Mrs. Goldman?”

“Barbara can sleep in the big house with us,” Mrs. Goldman said firmly. “I want to have her close by, just in case I need her.”

“I have an extra bed in my room. Belinda can share with me,” I said, smiling sweetly at her. “It will be just like old times at school.” Belinda opened her mouth to protest but then decided not to. “Thanks, Georgie,” she said.

“Well, that’s settled then,” Cy said. “You’d all better have a drink. And to what do I owe this honor, Helen?”

“I need permission to come to my own house now, do I?” She faced him defiantly.

“No, but since you haven’t been here in years I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I heard you bought a chapel from a Spanish convent and you’re having it shipped over here, brick by brick,” she said. “I wanted to see for myself.”

“It’s not here yet,” he said.

“So where are you going to put it?”

“It’s going to be my new bathhouse for the pool. Imagine taking a shower with all those saints looking down from stained glass windows.”

I caught Charlie Chaplin’s eye and he winked. I was beginning to like him in spite of the rumors. Belinda had returned to the group with her cocktail. She looked around. I saw her appraising Juan, then her gaze fixed on Craig.

“My goodness. That can’t be Craig Hart, can it?” she said breathlessly and she made a beeline for him. “I’d recognize you anywhere, Mr. Hart. I’m such a big fan. I loved you as a pirate in your last film.”

“Well, thank you very much, little lady,” Craig said. “What was your name again?”

“Belinda,” she said, gazing up at him adoringly. It was lucky that I really had no interest in being Craig Hart’s next conquest. I moved over to Darcy.

“Well, that’s a turnup for the books. What’s she doing here?” he whispered. “Did you invite her?”

“Of course not. I wrote to her from New York and told her about Mr. Goldman and the film. She must have taken the next boat. You know Belinda. She never misses a good opportunity. Perhaps she now wants to be a costume designer for the movies. She’d be good, I think.”

“I think she’d rather catch a rich film star,” Darcy muttered behind his cocktail glass. “Look at her turning on the charm.”

The fog was now rolling in from the ocean and with it a chill breeze. Stella shivered and hauled herself out of the pool. “I’m cold, Cy. Let’s go inside.” She put on a toweling robe and slippers.

I didn’t miss the daggers look that shot from Mrs. Goldman. So she was all too aware of Stella Brightwell’s role in his life. I wondered what she must think about having his mistress with him so openly.

“That’s right,” Cy said. “I promised these people a tour of the house. Then these young British aristocrats can tell me if it’s better than their stately homes. It damned well better be, the money I’ve spent on it.” He clapped his hands. “Come on, then. Follow me. House tour coming up.”

He led us up the long flight of marble steps and opened a massive studded oak front door. We stepped into the cool darkness of an entrance hall two stories high. Weapons decorated the walls and the vaulted ceiling was hung with ancient banners. The whole effect reminded me sharply of Castle Rannoch.

“Follow me,” Cy said. Our footsteps echoed from the high ceiling as we crossed that foyer. On either side there were alcoves, decorated with classical statues that really didn’t go with the weapons hanging above them. Then Cy pushed open a door and we entered a sitting room, rather like the one I had left at Kingsdowne Place, with a great marble fireplace at its center.

“Recognize this?” Cy said with a triumphant grin. “It came from one of your British houses. Lord something or other. You should have seen the job they had getting it up the hill. Took a team of oxen to pull it.”

One magnificent room after another followed. There were paintings on oak-paneled walls, statues in corners, suits of armor, archways, beamed ceilings. . . . And the interesting thing was that none of it really belonged together, almost like items laid out ready for an auction. It was as Mummy had said, a Gothic fantasy. Cy was beaming like a proud child. “Designed the whole thing myself,” he said. “Not bad for a boy who came to the States with nothing. Who was glad to get a job selling newspapers.”

“Cyrus,” Mrs. Goldman said in her strident voice. “So what about those other things that you told me you’d found in Spain? Didn’t I hear you’d bought candlesticks? And an El Greco?”

“So you’re suddenly interested in antiques? Or did you hear how much they’re worth?” He looked back at her, almost gloating in his expression. “I got them for a steal, if you’re worried about how much I paid—this convent had no idea what they were. That El Greco was hanging behind a side altar in their chapel. Their roof was leaking and their plumbing wasn’t working and they were happy to get those things fixed. But you wait until you see them, Helen. Exquisite.”

He quickened his pace, led us into a narrow side hall. I gasped as I saw a figure looming over me with an ax raised. Then I realized it was only another suit of armor. “Watch out for that guy,” Cy called jovially. “He’s my guard. He dispatches people I don’t like.” He went ahead and opened a door at the end. “My prize possession,” he said. “My library.”

“Prize possession. That’s rich. You don’t even like reading,” Mrs. Goldman said.

“I like books. I like the look and smell of old books,” he said. “Do you know who owned this library before me? Another English lord. Probably one of your relations.” (He looked at me, then Darcy.) “He was having financial troubles, so I bought the whole thing, lock, stock and barrel. Had the shelves shipped over here and reassembled just as it was. I even found windows from an old country house in England.”

I noticed then that the windows had been set into alcoves, to give the impression of thick castle walls, I supposed. Each of the alcoves was hung with heavy red drapes. The windows were clearly very old, maybe even Tudor—small panes of imperfect glass between heavy oak frames.

“There. That’s the El Greco,” Cy said, drawing our attention away from the windows and the stunning view beyond. He went over to a small painting now propped up against one of the shelves. It was a Madonna and child with the painter’s characteristic long faces and elongated hands. It was done in muted reds and blues and the woman looked incredibly sad, but it was lovely in its own way.

“Looks rather dreary to me,” Mrs. Goldman said. “Couldn’t you have found something more cheerful?”

“You wait until you find out what it’s worth, honey. Then you’ll suddenly decide it’s lovely and you have to have it in your living room in New York to show to the Hadassah ladies.”

“I don’t think they’d take kindly to a Madonna and child,” she said. “Even if they are by El Greco.”

Cy put down the painting then moved over to the polished library table. “I thought I might put the candlesticks in here on the table so I can enjoy them when I’m working,” Mr. Goldman said. A plain wooden case now lay on it. He opened this and took out a candlestick. There was a gasp from the group. It was amazing—a little too ornate for my taste but brilliant nonetheless. It was about eighteen inches high, and around its base was a complete country scene all in gold, with young girls dancing among trees. Curled garlands of golden flowers rose up its sides. And dotted everywhere were precious stones—ruby and emerald centers for the flowers, diamonds, sapphires, topaz, and lapis adorned the girls and the trees, all sparkling in the light of the chandelier that hung from the ceiling.

“Pretty, huh?” He held it up to us.

“I hope you’ve got it properly insured,” Helen Goldman said. “That thing’s worth a fortune.”

“There’s a pair of them, Helen. But don’t worry. I’ll get them insured. Besides, who can break into this place?” Cy said. “I’ll have the fence electrified if you’re worried.” He put the candlestick back in its case and closed the lid. “Now let’s go and see where we’re going to hang the El Greco. If I put it next to the Goya it will be overshadowed. It needs just the right lighting.”

We followed him out of the library. “You’re like a little boy.” Helen drew level with him now. “Can’t get enough new toys, can you? Well, don’t forget that it’s my money too that you’re wasting like this.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he said, “and if you don’t like the way I live you can always divorce me, you know.”

“You don’t want a divorce,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to pay all that alimony and you know I’d drag all the sordid details of you and your mistresses through the courts. Believe me.”

“Oh, I do believe you. You always did have a vindictive streak,” he said.

“I’m sure the newspapers would love to read about you and dear Stella—or are you looking to move on to someone a little younger, perhaps? You’re not wearing well around the edges, Stella honey. I’d say this is your last hurrah as a movie star.”

“You’re a bitch, Helen, did anyone tell you that?” Stella said.

“Frequently. And I enjoy it. It’s one of my few pleasures since my husband abandoned me.”

“I abandoned you?” Cy demanded. “I like that. Who wanted her own bedroom from day one? And kept the door locked?”

“You always were too demanding. You should have given me more time. Like a great ape, you were.”

The rest of us were trapped in the corridor with them, absolutely squirming with embarrassment. In England such a scene would never have happened. Fighting in public was just not done among our sort of people. It was Charlie Chaplin who took control. “I think we’ll go change for dinner and leave you to it, Cy,” he said. “I enjoy a prizefight as much as anyone, but I hate seeing good antiques get smashed. Come on, gang.”

We followed him back down the hallway and out into the mist that had risen from the Pacific Ocean to take over the landscape. Trees were now blurred and indistinct shapes.

“Where on earth are we going?” Belinda asked.

“We have one of the guest cottages,” I said. “Look. Down there in the trees.”

“We have to walk back here in the dark?” Belinda said.

“I agree,” Mummy said, “and with the wild animals too.”

“Wild animals. That’s funny.” Belinda laughed.

“You didn’t see any on your way up here?” Mummy said. “Those woods are teeming with giraffes and zebras and God knows what.”

Belinda peered into the trees, still not sure if we were pulling her leg. “And there may be lions. We haven’t seen them yet,” I added, still feeling rather cross with her. “What are you doing here, Belinda? You really have a nerve.”

“Darling, I got sacked from Harrods when this obnoxious Frenchwoman told my boss that I wasn’t really French. And your postcard arrived the same day. I said to myself it must be fate, so I used my last paycheck to buy a ticket. And another piece of absolute luck—I met Mrs. Goldman on the train. Helped her with her case, actually. I had no idea who she was until she told me. So it really had to be fate, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but what do you want to do here?”

“I told Mrs. Goldman I was a costume designer. Well, I could be, easily. You have to admit I have a flair.”

“Yes, you do.”

She glanced around, then pulled me closer to her. “But now I’m thinking I might have found my sugar daddy instead. Isn’t Craig Hart divine? Did you see how attentive he was to me? Is he married?”