# Elements of Chance

Barbara Wilkins

A woman of desire, a legacy of deceit, a fortune worth killing for. An opulent intricate, sizzling novel, Elements of Chance fulfils ever woman’s fantasy.Hauntingly beautiful, talented pianist Valerie Penn is one of the world’s wealthiest women, the pampered wife of banker Victor Penn, and the mother of their two children. Her life is a whirl of private jets; charity balls; mansions in London, New York, Paris and Beverly Hills; priceless antiques; endless passionate love; and gifts beyond imagining … a stunning diamond necklace “just because it’s Tuesday and I love you.”But the mystery of her past continues to haunt Valerie. who is she and who are her real parents? A shy, silver-haired child, she was lovingly raised by a couple in Hollywood. But her real mother, the beautiful starlet, remains a mystery. Why did she leave Valerie, and is she still alive?Anything Valerie wants is hers for the asking until Victor disappears in a mysterious plane crash. Suddenly torn from her privileged world, Valerie faces the hostility of the Penn family and finds herself caught in a web of rivalries, betrayal and murder. Alone for the first time, she brilliantly creates her own business and, once again, is part of the glittering world of the influential and famous, this time on her own terms … through her own effort. Finally believing Victor to be dead, Valerie is about to remarry when her fiancé is murdered and her son is kidnapped, driving her to find the answers to the mysteries still clouding her life.As she unravels the intrigues of the powerful Penn family, Valerie’s search brings her to the steaming jungles of South America, where she faces her past and opens the door to a new future.

ELEMENTSof CHANCE

A Novel by Barbara Wilkins


Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © 1989 by Barbara Wilkins.

First published by Contemporary Books, Inc. 1989

Published simultaneously in Canada by Beaverbooks, Ltd.

Barbara Wilkins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006472773

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2017 ISBN: 9780008258030

Version: 2017-04-19

Dedication

For David Marriott,

with my love and gratitude

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

About the Publisher

[1]

The traffic on the San Diego Freeway was backed up as far as Valerie could see in the rearview mirror of her red Ferrari. Five miles ahead, maybe more, the private planes landed at the southernmost part of Los Angeles International Airport. She turned up the classical music station. Vladimir Horowitz was playing Rachmaninoff.

Sitting, stalled in traffic, she watched the temperature gauge on the dashboard quiver upward. Her gauzy white dress clung to the leather of the seat. The engine was making strange popping noises, as if it were about to die.

Valerie glanced at the dashboard clock and checked it against her Piaget watch. The timepiece, with its loose, wide band and tiny diamonds at each number, had been a present from Victor when he returned from Paris several weeks ago. It was nearly three o’clock now, and the company’s 727 jet would be landing. Valerie felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of being late. She was never late when it came to Victor. She was always there, waiting.

“I’m flattered,” she remembered Victor saying on the phone that morning when Valerie insisted on picking him up. “How long have I been gone? Two days? It must be love.”

“It is love,” she whispered, holding the receiver close to her lips as she pictured the living room of their penthouse in New York City. She visualized the signed antiques, the magnificent Sarouk carpet, the new Renoir already in its ornately carved gilt frame over the mantelpiece, the view of Central Park below. “I start to miss you when I even think you’re going to be out of my sight.”

“After twelve years of marriage?” he gently mocked in his soft, English-accented voice. “That’s quite a testimonial from a former child bride. I miss you, too. So much, darling.”

“We have that benefit tonight at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.”

“I know, I know,” he laughed. “We always have a benefit at the Beverly Wilshire. What’s the disease of the evening?”

“Cystic fibrosis,” she said, “and I have a new dress.”

“I can’t wait to see you in it. I can’t wait to touch you. What time is this thing?”

“The usual. Seven o’clock for cocktails.”

“That will give us a few hours alone, darling. I can’t wait to have you in my arms, to be inside you. I’m barely alive when I’m not with you, Valerie. You know that. I love you.”

A thrill went through her the way it always did when Victor, so proper, so formal, talked about making love to her. Even over the phone he could make her nipples harden, make her ready for him. Newspapers and magazines called theirs a great love affair; they were the perfect couple. Both were tall and slim; elegant and proud. Their colorings complemented each other perfectly. Victor’s hair was dark brown with just a bit of gray at the temples, his eyes a pale blue. Valerie’s hair was so blond it was almost white, cut to perfection like a cap on her small, well-shaped head. Her long, dark lashes framed large eyes that changed from hazel to green, following her moods or the clothes she wore.

When they were sensuously, erotically together, Valerie became so lost in Victor’s pleasure that she felt herself disappear into him. When he was finally spent, lying across her, it was always with a tiny shock that she found herself once again to be a separate body and mind. At those moments, Valerie would stroke his thick, dark hair, run her tongue along the nape of his neck, and think that never could there be another love so perfect, that no woman could feel as tender, trusting toward any man.

Well, Victor would love the way she would look tonight in her new gown, Valerie thought with a smile, remembering her reflection in the huge mirrored dressing room off her bedroom. The gown was glorious, in black silk chiffon with spaghetti straps that showed off her white shoulders, the white swell of her breasts. Below the waist, slight flares flowed in two tiers to the floor.

“It’s perfect,” Mary di Stefano, Valerie’s personal shopper, had breathed. “I knew it would be.”

“I love it,” said Valerie, spinning around. “Victor will love it. Nobody has taste like yours, Mary.”

“I think the emerald earrings surrounded with the diamonds,” Mary suggested. “Maybe nothing around the neck.”

“I thought the pear-shaped diamond drop earrings and the diamond necklace,” Valerie said.

“Which one?”

“The one that hits just below the collarbone, the ten-carat pear-shaped diamond.”

“Oh, right. The one Victor gave you one week ‘just because it was Tuesday.’”

“That one.”

“Your basic black and white?” said Mary doubtfully. “Well, maybe. But I still like the emeralds.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Valerie smiled. “They’re all paste anyway.”

“But great paste,” Mary grinned.

Valerie was still smiling at the thought of the conversation when the Horowitz piece ended and the cultured voice on the radio announced the news.

“A jet has crashed in Mexico in the last half hour,” the newscaster said. “From eyewitness reports, it is believed to have gone down approximately a hundred miles northeast of Acapulco.” Now, as Valerie cut across the lanes of the free-way, the speedometer climbing to sixty-five, seventy, the palms of her hands on the leather steering wheel were damp and her mouth was dry. But it was Acapulco, she told herself firmly, and it couldn’t be Victor.

The roar of a silver jet overhead cut off the newscaster’s words. That would be Victor’s plane, Valerie thought, relieved. She jammed the gears back into second and heard the tires squeal as she hit the off ramp. How she loved to drive. In the cossetted world that Victor had created for her, driving the Ferrari was about the only thing she did in which there was any element of chance.

“None of the airlines with regularly scheduled routes in the Acapulco area is missing an aircraft,” the newscaster continued. “Early reports indicate that the plane may have been illegally transporting drugs from South America.” Drug smugglers, Valerie thought, as the car crept up to the gates of the private section of the airport. Well, you could feel only so sorry for drug smugglers.

As she parked, all she could see were a few corporate Learjets off to the left of the terminal that serviced private planes. On the ground in the distance was a shimmer of silver as Victor’s plane made its final turn to taxi up to the entrance. Members of the ground crew, in orange overalls, waited beside the aluminum stairs. On the field, two chauffeurs in black stood chatting between two white stretch limousines.

Valerie expertly applied a pink lipstick as she studied her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her face was flushed, she saw, which gave her a healthy glow. She looked close enough to the image of the elegant international beauty, Mrs. Victor Penn, to bring that look of pride and even lust to his face. As the jet cut its engines and the ground crew wheeled the aluminum stairs into place, Valerie could almost feel Victor’s arms around her, his cheek pressed against her own.

It took her an instant to comprehend that the plane that had just landed was a DC-9, and that the legend painted on its side read Air Am rather than the familiar Penn International.

So Victor’s plane was a little late, Valerie thought with disappointment as she pushed open the door of the terminal building. Behind a long counter, two men huddled together over the screen of a computer.

“Is anybody home?” Valerie asked brightly, leaning against the counter.

The two men turned.

“Hi, Mrs. Penn,” said the shorter, stocky man.

“Hi, Mike, Kevin. I see Mr. Penn’s plane is late. How soon will it be here?”

“We don’t really know,” Mike said. “There’s some kind of mix-up. We’re working it out with the control tower. The computers have been down and we don’t know where we’re at.” He ran one of his big hands through his hair. “Look, why don’t you come around the counter and sit down. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

Valerie felt her stomach muscles tighten, her mouth go dry again. Her dress suddenly felt wet against her body. “Mike, what seems to be going on?”

Mike was at her side, his hand on her arm, as he led her around the counter and guided her into a chair.

“Maybe you’d better call somebody to come be with you, Mrs. Penn. A relative. Maybe your mother. Is your whole family in England?”

“I’m American,” Valerie said, hearing her voice rise. “I don’t have any family. Just Victor. Mr. Penn, that is. He’s my family. He’s my life.”

“Maybe a friend. Your doctor,” Mike said, pouring her a cup of coffee from an automatic coffee maker. “Surely your doctor would come.”

“Has Victor’s plane crashed?” she asked. “Is that it?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know what to tell you.”

“Well, what do you know? Tell me what you know.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “Everything was just the same as always. A flight plan was filed this morning by the pilot. La Guardia to LAX. The plane took off. And that was that. It just vanished. We haven’t heard from it since. And we’re not talking a Piper Cub here. It’s pretty hard to lose a 727.”

“Could they have been hijacked?” Valerie asked, panicking.

“You know how it is when they board at La Guardia. You do it all the time. The limousine pulls up right next to the plane. The ground crew didn’t notice anything unusual. It was the pilot, the copilot, the flight engineer, the stewardess, Mr. Penn, and that guy he always travels with. The bodyguard, I guess. It was the same as always. Of course, there could have been somebody hiding on the plane, but there’s always a guard posted at the Penn International plane when it’s on the ground.”

“Sometimes the plane stops to pick someone up in Chicago,” Valerie said.

“We’d know about that,” Mike said. “The plane didn’t land in Chicago. It didn’t land anywhere.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “Look, Mrs. Penn. I really think you should call someone. What about one of your girlfriends?”

“There has to be some explanation,” Valerie insisted.

Mike shook his head.

“Call someone, Mrs. Penn. Please. We’ve got a jet that just went down in Mexico, and we’ve got the only plane missing in the world. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe it isn’t.”

Someone had switched on the radio to the news. “Sources have confirmed that a 727 belonging to Penn International, the conglomerate that includes banks and real estate holdings in Europe, South America, and the United States, has not been heard from since it left La Guardia Airport in New York City at ten o’clock this morning after filing a flight plan for Los Angeles. It is believed that Victor Penn, the chairman of the board and chief executive officer of the conglomerate, was on the plane, as well as a four-person crew and a man thought to be Penn’s bodyguard. Authorities at this point refuse to conjecture whether there is any connection between the missing Penn International jet and the plane that crashed within the last hour northeast of Acapulco in Mexico.”

With shaking hands, Valerie picked up the phone on the desk in front of her and sat for a moment, wondering whom to call. The obvious person was Victor’s brother, Raymond. Calling Raymond wouldn’t do her any good right now, she realized. He was in London. It wouldn’t get her home where she could wait for Victor to turn up to straighten out all this nonsense. A friend? She had no friends. There was only Victor, and the people they paid to attend to their needs.

Finally, Valerie called Mary di Stefano at her apartment in Beverly Hills. She felt weak with relief when Mary answered on the fourth ring.

“Mary,” she whispered.

“Oh, God, sweetie. I’ve been hearing it on the news. Where are you?”

“I’m at the airport. I brought the Ferrari, and I don’t think I can make it home.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Maybe it would be a good idea to call Daniel and have him pick you up in the Rolls,” suggested Valerie. “I hope this isn’t too inconvenient, Mary. I really don’t know who else to call.”

“You try to stay calm, and we’ll be there in around a half hour.”

“Thank you, Mary.” It was all a tempest in a teapot, she thought calmly as she replaced the receiver, then leaned forward to let the blood rush to her head. It was just a computer error of some kind. Sitting up, Valerie looked through the window into the bright, sunny sky, willing the speck of silver on the horizon to be Victor’s plane.

Instead, the speck turned into a bulging 747 beginning its descent into LAX, two miles to the north.

[2]

The Rolls was a ten-year-old custom-made maroon limousine that Victor liked because it gave him room to stretch his long legs. A nineteen-inch color television set had been built into the back of the front seat. The fully equipped bar was for the convenience of guests rather than for Victor and Valerie, who drank only wine or champagne.

Valerie sat stiffly behind Daniel, the chauffeur, her hands folded in her lap, her legs crossed demurely at the ankles. The images on the television screen floated in front of her eyes as if underwater. Regular programming had been interrupted to concentrate on the Victor Penn story. It was as if a president had been assassinated. Valerie felt embarrassed at the thought.

“I’m going to fix us a drink,” Mary said. Without makeup, her hair in a ponytail, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Mary looked more Valerie’s age than her own. Tentatively, she put one tanned hand on Valerie’s arm. It was rigid. She’s like a block of stone, Mary thought.

“I don’t drink.”

“Well, you’re going to make an exception this time, sweetie.” Mary pressed the button that opened the bar and fixed two scotch and waters, heavy on the scotch.

Valerie took the glass from Mary’s hand and made a face as she sipped. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said graciously. “I forgot to thank you.”

Shock, thought Mary, mentally giving herself a pat on the back for calling Valerie’s doctor to meet them at the estate. He could give Valerie a shot and put her out of all of this until tomorrow.

On the television screen, the anchorman discussed the Victor Penn story with the station’s financial analyst.

“What do you think all of this is going to mean to the financial community, Jim? Where does Victor Penn stand?”

“Well, some say he’s one of the two or three richest men in the world,” said the financial analyst. “The Penn operation is international, with banks in London, Paris, New York, the Bahamas, Luxembourg. They’ve diversified into mining in South Africa, cattle ranches in Argentina, fish canneries in Alaska, all sorts of things. Since it’s a privately held company, there’s no way to know for certain.”

“But he’s certainly very much on the scene here in Los Angeles, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, yes. Victor Penn is a prominent philanthropist. He supports a dozen charities, and it’s said that he’s even more active anonymously, behind the scenes.”

“So if it’s true that Victor Penn has been killed in a plane crash, it would be a real loss.”

“Well,” the analyst said, hesitating, “there have been some ugly rumors in recent months about Penn International. There’s been talk in the financial community that federal bank examiners are about to step in to take a look at the whole operation. It’s also said that they are asking foreign governments to cooperate.”

“What sort of rumors?” the anchorman prompted.

“The talk is that the Penn International banks have been lending vast sums to its other companies, sums that run as much as a thousand percent more than their assets, for example,” he replied. “Once this sort of thing starts, there’s a snowball effect. For instance, some of the uglier rumors are that the Penn bank in the Bahamas has been used not only to launder drug money, but also to launder money paid as ransom in terrorist kidnappings all over the world.”

“The disappearance of the plane carrying Victor Penn sounds like more than a coincidence then, wouldn’t you say?” asked the anchorman.

“It certainly seems suspicious.”

“Just who is Victor Penn? We’ll be right back after these messages.”

“How dare they talk about Victor like that,” Valerie said in a low voice, her eyes blazing. “Victor is the sweetest, dearest, most open man in the world. His integrity is more important to him than anything else. They’re a bunch of hyenas.”

“It happens every time, sweetie,” said Mary, between sips of her drink. She wondered if this meant the end of her hefty yearly salary, the end of all those delicious kickbacks from the stores where she shopped to dress the wife of Victor Penn. “They’ll always get you when you’re down. Nobody knows that better than I do.”

“Victor’s lawyers are going to have a field day with the slander suits,” said Valerie, her jaw tight.

“Did you know about this? That the government is sending the bank examiners in?”

“It’s a lie,” Valerie said firmly. “Victor is above reproach.”

On the screen, the visuals profiling Victor Penn began with file footage of Victor and Valerie at various charity events. Valerie in a white, beaded Givenchy, her diamonds glittering at her throat, with a tall, handsome Victor, his hand possessively on her arm, bending down to whisper in her ear. Valerie in a flame red Galanos, with Victor smiling dazzlingly into the camera and running a hand through his hair. Valerie, draped in full-length Russian sables, reaching up to kiss Victor on the cheek, his expression both proud and embarrassed. Then came the earlier films, of the brief time they had lived in their New York penthouse, of the many years in London. Victor and Valerie, each holding one of their newborn twins, beaming as they stepped off the aluminum stairs leading down from the Penn International jet. Valerie as a bride in a white gown with a cathedral-length train, a white veil covering her pale hair. She and Victor were on the steps of Saint-Ange in Paris, the first couple to be married there since well before the French Revolution. It had been Victor’s decision, of course. Victor had always wanted to be married at Saint-Ange.

The commentator resumed his voice-over. “Ever since Victor Penn appeared on the banking scene in the mid-fifties, he has been a man of mystery in international financial circles. Starting in London, Penn gained an impressive reputation in the community, entertaining lavishly at his Regent’s Park estate, or at his country estate in Sussex where the cream of London society often enjoyed hunt weekends, and where musical evenings featured such stars as Maria Callas, Arthur Rubinstein, and Jascha Heifetz among others. In 1973, Victor Penn married eighteen-year-old Valerie Hemion, a music student and the American-born niece of Lady Anne Hallowell, in a sumptuous, internationally celebrated ceremony at Saint-Ange in Paris. The couple has nine-year-old twins, a boy and a girl.”

On the television screen, the glorious teenage bride gazed into the face of her handsome husband, her eyes dazed with love. Victor was leaning down, gently kissing Valerie’s lips, touching her cheek with his.

“Great wedding gown,” Mary murmured. “Nobody can touch Givenchy.”

“Victor loves Givenchy,” Valerie replied automatically, remembering as if it were a moment ago the touch of Victor’s lips on her own.

“Still,” the narrator continued, “as visible as Victor Penn has always been, his origins remain unknown. Although it is thought that he is English, there is no record that he ever attended any public school or university in England. His acceptance into the banking and social circles of London seems to have been on the basis of his own personal charm and lavish entertaining. Once he had established his contacts, Victor Penn moved quickly to consolidate his position in the banking world.”

“This is absurd,” Valerie said indignantly. “Of course Victor is English. He was educated in Switzerland, just like the children.”

“Oh, they’ll probably figure that out by tomorrow,” said Mary, hoping that would turn out to be the least of their worries.

“Penn International, the umbrella for the vast international Penn empire, has never released a biography of its dashing chairman of the board, who also holds the title of chief executive officer. Nor has Penn ever agreed to be interviewed unless it has been in connection with one of the charities he supports. In short, Victor Penn has pulled off the impossible: simultaneously becoming the most visible of men and, at the same time, shielding himself in secrecy much like the late Howard Hughes.”

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]

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.

[4]

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?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess.”

“Is anybody up yet? Do you think we could get some coffee?”

“Nobody’s up, but we can make some coffee. I just didn’t think about it.”

“Do you think we can find the kitchen?” Mary asked.

“Well, I saw it once,” Valerie smiled. “I think it’s somewhere around the dining room.”

“John stayed too,” Mary said. “He’s upstairs in one of the guest rooms. He’s in the command post. Raymond’s orders.”

“Raymond,” said Valerie, her voice filled with contempt and fear. “I suppose he’s on his way.”

“He’s going right to Acapulco.”

“I don’t see why. Victor wasn’t on the plane.”

“Valerie, you’d better be prepared,” Mary said as they walked through the dining room and pushed open the swinging door leading into the hotel-sized kitchen. “Even if you’re right and Victor was kidnapped, he still could have been on the plane.”

“He can’t be dead, Mary. He’s my life.”

“I don’t think that comes into it,” Mary said gently.

The two women were on their second pot of coffee when John, wearing a pair of chinos and a blue polo shirt, came into the room.

“How do you feel?” he asked Valerie, then nodded to Mary.

“Better. It was just the initial shock.”

“Has there been anything yet?” he asked, thinking how pretty she was, how natural and young she looked without makeup, like a girl.

“Not yet.”

An hour passed before there was a news brief at five minutes to nine. “Ladies and gentlemen,” began the anchorman, “there have been sensational developments in the ongoing Victor Penn story. Five badly burned bodies, one a woman’s, are just being removed from the plane belonging to Penn International which crashed yesterday in the rugged jungle a hundred miles northeast of Acapulco. The rear door of the 727 was open, with the stairs extended, according to reports from the scene. Although six people were assumed to have boarded the aircraft at its point of origin, five bodies—I repeat, five bodies—were found. Raymond Penn, the brother of Victor Penn, chairman of the board and chief executive officer of the corporation, has just arrived by chartered jet at the Acapulco airport. He declined to be interviewed before being driven away, with his aides, to meet with authorities.”

“Holy Jesus,” somebody whispered.

Everybody in the room turned to look at Gregson.

[5]

Mary and John, just off the tennis court, sat at a table under a yellow and white striped umbrella sipping iced tea from frosted glasses. It was a sunny morning and the clear blue sky was punctuated only by one of the television station’s helicopters hovering overhead.

“You play well,” John said, wiping the sweat from his tanned face with a towel.

“Just another social skill,” Mary smiled. “It’s just like making polite chitchat at a dinner party, or holding your own at backgammon.”

“Yeah, engaging the attention of the rich. I guess we all do it in our own way.”

“Your way is more profitable,” Mary laughed.

“What about your way?”

“Well, it’s a good living. I’m sure you have some idea of what Victor pays me.”

“And I’m sure you receive finder’s fees, shall we say, from the stores and the jewelers.”

“That’s unkind,” she protested, running her hand through her blond hair.

“But true?”

“Of course,” she said. “Every single time anybody who works for Victor buys anything from anybody, there’s a finder’s fee.”

“What’s the justification?”

“We’re agents.” Mary shrugged. “We’re hired because we’re the best at what we do.”

“What’s your bottom line?” he asked between sips of his iced tea.

“What’s yours?” she asked.

“Well, money,” he admitted. “I’m sure you can imagine what having control of this account does for me. No matter what happens in this situation, though, I’m fine. Just fine.”

“I can’t say the same,” Mary said. “When I started all this,

I knew what I wanted. The contacts. Another rich man. Getting married again. Security.”

“Well, why not?” he asked, looking at her critically. “You’re one of the most elegant women in this town, or any other, I would think. I’m sure you’ve met everybody there is to meet.”

“Yes, but now I really wonder if marrying rich is what it’s about. Look at little Valerie. She works for Victor twenty-four hours a day. That’s quite a price, even for all of this.”

“But Valerie is in love with Victor.”

“Maybe she is,” Mary conceded.

“She really thinks he’s all right,” John mused. “Incredible.”

“What do you think?”

“I sure can’t see Victor parachuting from a 727,” John laughed.

“Are things bad enough that Victor would go on the run?” Mary asked casually.

“No you don’t,” John said, his voice lazy. “I’m a lawyer, remember? I keep my own counsel.”

“And you cover your own ass.”

“That too,” he agreed, thinking that she was really attractive in an understated way.

Across the lawn, Valerie came toward them, followed by her personal trainer. Both of them wore workout sweats. Strange, Mary thought, all of them pretending that it was all business as usual.

As Valerie approached them, Mary realized she looked strained. “I wish that thing would go away,” Valerie said, gesturing toward the helicopter. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”

“How was your workout?” Mary asked.

“Oh, it’s better to be doing something than just sitting and wringing my hands,” she said. “Didn’t you say that Elliott was going to come by?”

“What do you want Elliott for?” John asked. “Do you feel all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m just exhausted, that’s all.”

The intercom on the telephone sitting on the table buzzed insistently, and John reached over to answer it.

“It’s Kyle,” he said. “There’s going to be some news in five minutes.”

Quickly, they walked to the mansion’s music room, where Valerie had spent many hours, either practicing or taking lessons from Kyle. The room’s focal point was the magnificent nine-foot concert grand Steinway piano. The yellows, greens and reds of the sofa and chairs picked up the colors in the priceless Aubusson carpet, which covered most of the floor. The marble fireplace was deep enough to roast a boar. Even the sunlight usually caught the room in a way that made it warm, welcoming. On the screen, a network correspondent stood in front of a government building in Acapulco. “The five bodies recovered this morning from the Penn International jet have all been identified through dental records flown to the scene, although those names will not be released pending notification of next of kin. To repeat, four of the bodies, including that of the woman on the plane, died as a result of bullet wounds to the head. Tentatively, the fifth body is believed to have succumbed from smoke inhalation.”

“What did he say?” Valerie asked incredulously.

“They were shot,” Kyle said. “All but one man.”

The ringing of the phone cut through the shocked silence. Five times, six. Seven times. Finally, John picked up.

“Valerie,” he called from across the room. “It’s for you. It’s Raymond.”

She crossed the room and took the receiver from John’s hands. “Yes, Raymond?” she said stiffly.

“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “The dental records have confirmed that Victor is dead.”

“He can’t be,” Valerie whispered.

“Stop being a fool for once,” he said icily. “I’m not here to play your little games with you.”

For a moment, Valerie held the phone, unable to collect herself to speak.

“You did this,” she hissed into the receiver. “I don’t know why, or how. But you did this. I know you did.”

“I’ve decided that the funeral will be in London,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’ve already spoken to Miss Furst, and she’s starting to make the arrangements.” He paused for a moment, and then he said, “It seems to me that if you plan to arrive in London two days hence, it should be soon enough.”

“Why can’t it be here?” she wailed. “I want Victor to be buried here.” The words seemed absurd, even as she spoke them. She didn’t want Victor buried anywhere, didn’t want Victor dead at all. He couldn’t be dead.

“This is a difficult situation,” Raymond said. “If you manage to pull yourself together, it will be somewhat less difficult. Now, let me talk to Mr. O’Farrell.”

“What about my children?”

“Miss Furst is arranging for them to fly to London immediately. The staff at the Regent’s Park house has been informed to expect all of you.”

“This isn’t what I want, Raymond.”

“Nobody cares what you want,” he said savagely. “I’m trying to be civil.”

“You don’t know what civil is,” she whispered before handing the phone to John.

“Victor is dead,” she said aloud to those in the room, “and it was Raymond who did it.” Her voice rose to a scream. “I know it was Raymond!”

“Valerie, dear,” Mary said, rushing to her side. “Come and sit down.” Putting her arms around the younger woman, she helped her to a chair where Valerie collapsed, sobbing, her face in her hands.

In a minute, John hung up the phone.

“Valerie,” he said tentatively.

She looked up at him, her eyes red, her cheeks wet with tears.

“Now, I want you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

She nodded slowly.

“I don’t know if this is going to be harder on you. Maybe it will be easier. Victor wasn’t shot. He was the one who died of smoke inhalation.”

She nodded again.

“Now, as soon as the identification is released, the bank examiners and the IRS will be moving into the banks and all the companies. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” she said in a tremulous voice.

“And I’m afraid the marshals will be moving in here.”

“But this is our home,” she protested.

“Well, yes and no,” John said. “The house is actually in the name of Penn International. So is everything in it. To the feds, all of this is just another asset of the corporation.”

“Do you mean I own nothing?”

“It’ll all have to be straightened out. It could take a long, long time. Years, even.”

“Is this what you meant when you said that things were going to get worse?” asked Mary.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her. “This is it.”

“And how bad are things?”

“Pretty bad.”

The jewelry, Mary thought, locked away in that safe-deposit box in a bank in Beverly Hills in Valerie’s name and her own, so that either of them could get to it if Valerie wanted to wear the real thing. Quickly, Mary ran a mental tape of what was there. Ten million dollars, easy, she calculated. And the jewelry, at least, was not a corporate asset. She realized she wasn’t going to mention the jewelry to John. She looked up at him. He was so handsome in his tennis whites, with his dark, curly hair, his well-muscled arms, his long, tanned legs. Still, Mary knew that John would go where the money was. To Raymond, not Valerie.

“None of this adds up,” Kyle said suddenly, as if he had been thinking about it for a long time. “Maybe Raymond engineered it, or maybe it was Victor. Or maybe it was both of them, and Raymond double-crossed Victor. But whatever, I’ve got to tell you, I agree with Valerie. Victor is alive.”

“What about the dental records?” John reminded him.

“With Raymond’s money and power, you think he couldn’t come up with some phony dental records?” Kyle asked incredulously.

“Oh, look,” John said. “Victor has been going to the same dentist in London for years. His dental chart checked out. What do you think happened, Kyle? Do you think Raymond got down to Acapulco and bribed somebody in the coroner’s office?”

“Come on,” said Kyle. “Raymond and Victor are two of a kind when it comes to money and power. Both of them know it can buy anything and anyone.”

Except for me, Valerie thought, feeling battered and miserable as she sat huddled in her chair. I’m the one who’s here for love.

Valerie was grateful when Dr. Feldman stopped by that evening to give her a shot. She lay in her bed in the silent room, her thoughts jumbled, as the doctor’s face loomed above her. She felt the almost imperceptible sting of a needle in her arm. Elliott’s face gradually drifted away, and she heard the soft click of her bedroom door as he closed it behind him.

How strange life is, Valerie thought, feeling herself slipping into a drugged sleep. Penn International is in ruins, and marshals will be in this house. And where will I be? How will I take care of myself? How will I take care of my children? Why has Raymond done this? It had always seemed impossible to her that Raymond could be Victor’s brother. Suddenly, everything seemed impossible, even her relationship with Victor. How could a seventeen-year-old music student from Los Angeles ever have met and married one of the world’s richest, most attractive men?


An image of herself at fourteen flickered through Valerie’s fogged mind. It was the summer of 1968, and she was an usher at the Hollywood Bowl. She stood in the aisles handing out programs while in the boxes, picnic baskets were opened and bottles of wine and champagne were pulled from ice coolers. Concertgoers draped white tablecloths over folding tables, and candles burned steadily in the still night. She glanced at the stage, where the orchestra was already tuning up for that night’s program of Debussy, Chopin and Rachmaninoff. Zubin Mehta was conducting, and the guest artist was Maria Obolensko, the pianist, making her first appearance in southern California.

Valerie, working at the Bowl for the second summer season in a row, handed programs to a couple hurrying to their seats, and to the tall man who sauntered along after them.

“Thank you,” he said, his English perfect but still with something faintly European in his voice. “You’re a very pretty girl. Your hair is extraordinary.”

Valerie felt the blood rush to her face, and she averted her eyes. A line, Valerie thought, handing programs to the next couple. She felt she was too skinny, with barely formed breasts. But she had always been secretly vain about her hazel eyes, sometimes green with flecks of yellow. She liked her shiny blond hair that was almost white, pulled back-tonight in a ponytail.

“I understand all the ushers are music students,” the man said.

“Yes, most of us, anyway,” she replied, looking up at him. His intent brown eyes scrutinized her almost as if he recognized her from somewhere. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the couple he had come with waiting impatiently for him. The Talbots. They were a handsome middle-aged pair, very social and very rich, whose pictures were always in the society pages.

“What do you play?” he asked.

“The piano.”

“Like Maria Obolensko?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Well, no,” Valerie said, unconsciously taking a step back. “Not yet.”

“I can introduce you to her,” the man said. “I’m Claude Vilgran, and I’ve known her for years. Perhaps you can play for her, my dear.”

“Claude, come along,” the woman called.

“What is your name?” said the man called Claude, his voice low, insinuating, as he leaned toward her.

“I don’t know you,” Valerie replied, as she felt her heart beating faster, her face flushing.

“You think about it,” he said, giving her shoulder a little pat as he turned to join his friends. Valerie looked after his well-tailored back as he strolled away, wondering why she felt so confused, so frightened. After all, he was a friend of the Talbots. Everybody knew them. But she had the oddest feeling that he had recognized her. Did she remind him of somebody else?

She put it out of her mind at the scattered applause that swelled in volume as Zubin Mehta, dark and handsome, dressed in white tie and tails, strode to the podium. Turning, he made a deep bow to the audience, his black curls cascading dramatically over his forehead. Straightening, he shot out a hand, smiling broadly. Maria Obolensko appeared out of the wings, wearing a low-cut red gown that was like a blaze of fire against her pale skin. Her black hair was pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and her mouth was a bright slash of scarlet. Diamonds glittered in her ears, at her throat.

Valerie caught her breath. Someday, she thought, her eyes sparkling. Someday I’ll be standing there.

The crowd was quiet as the maestro raised his baton, and Maria Obolensko bent over the keys of the Steinway. Usually, Valerie would close her eyes and let the music sweep over her. Tonight, though, she found herself surreptitiously searching the boxes for Claude Vilgran.

As the lights came up for intermission, Valerie felt her body tense. Any minute now, she thought, there would be a tap on her shoulder, a card slipped into her hand. Claude Vilgran. It took her a few minutes to spot him in the crowd drifting toward the bar. He was deep in conversation with one of the other ushers, a tall girl of sixteen or so with flowing curly dark hair. Even from the distance that separated them, Valerie saw the same insinuating stance, the intimacy with which he leaned toward her.

Just some lecher with a taste for young girls, she thought, feeling like a fool. How did anybody ever learn what was real and what wasn’t?

The concert was a triumph for Maria Obolensko. A standing ovation, the beautiful sheaf of long-stemmed roses cradled in her arms. Two encores, and then, impossibly, a third. When the applause subsided, and Valerie was making her way up the aisle, she saw Claude Vilgran again. He was standing with the older couple in their box. Their eyes met as Valerie was caught up in the milling crowd.

She joined the passengers pushing onto one of the buses waiting in front of the Hollywood Bowl, keenly aware of her disappointment. It would have been wonderful to play for Maria Obolensko, really wonderful to meet such a great artist. It had only been a line, she reminded herself. Next time she would recognize a line for what it was.

At Sunset Boulevard, she transferred onto another bus, that took her west to Crescent Heights, in the middle of the Sunset Strip. Looming over the strip as far as her eye could see were huge painted billboards advertising Smirnoff vodka, Marlboros, movies. A new Beatles album. The Rolling Stones.

As Valerie stepped into the crosswalk, a boy sitting on the back of a convertible, his hair to his shoulders, his fingers spread in the sign of peace shouted, “Make love, not war.” Umm, he’s cute, she thought, smiling.

I wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have my music? I’d probably be marching against the war in Vietnam, listening to the Beatles and the Stones, going out on dates. But there’s no time for that. She sighed as she walked past Schwab’s Drugstore. There isn’t time for anything, really, except my lessons, my practicing, getting ready for competitions.

Valerie saw that the lights in her family’s apartment were still burning. Even before she put her key in the door, Valerie could hear Muffin, her mother’s miniature apricot French poodle, panting and scratching on the other side.

Valerie scooped the little dog into her arms as it licked her face, wild with joy. On the flowered couch, her mother lay asleep, her bleached blond hair in blue rollers and her coarse face lathered with the latest rejuvenating night cream. Her voluptuous body was wrapped in a tired yellow terrycloth robe.

With the little dog cradled in her arms, Valerie crept across the room to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes as she turned on the light. Her twin bed was covered by a white chenille bedspread. A nightstand with a reading lamp stood in the corner, next to the desk where she did her homework. The shelves were filled with Story Book dolls dressed in costumes from different countries.

Her father wouldn’t be home for a few hours. He was working as a bartender at a restaurant with a piano bar a couple of blocks away, he said, from the place where Nat King Cole had been discovered in the forties. He knew all about things like that. Al Hemion usually worked as an agent, booking dates in clubs and at piano bars. His clients were either the ones who tried for the big time and should have made it, or the ones who had just been kidding themselves from the beginning. When things were slow in the business, it was back to bartending. At least it paid the bills—or some of them, anyway. But sometimes, Valerie would lie in her bed, the pillow over her head, trying not to hear the ugly fights her parents had about money.

The big issue of the moment was the Cadillac El Dorado that Al had just bought. It was red, with a real leather interior that smelled wonderful.

“How are we going to pay for it, Al?” Vicki said the day he drove it home. “It’ll be repossessed like the last one. Isn’t it bad enough we have every bill collector in town after us?”

“You gotta keep up appearances in this town. You know that,” Al shouted.

“God, I never should have married you,” Vicki went on. “You’ve never been anything. You never will be.”

“You dumb cunt!” he finally yelled, storming out of the apartment. Valerie and Vicki sat there, looking at each other for a moment. Then, with a little sigh, Vicki turned on the television set and went into the tiny kitchen to get herself a beer.

At one time Valerie’s mother had been a contract player for Twentieth Century–Fox. When one of her old movies came on television, she would scream for Valerie to come and watch it with her. Vicki Drew was the gum-chewing waitress, the girl behind the counter in a department store, the moll sitting beside the gangster who was just about to be blown away. In those faded movies of the early fifties, Vicki was blond and luscious, with her big sensuous mouth that always looked as if she had just run her tongue over it.

“Sorry about that scene, baby,” Vicki sighed, sipping her beer. “God, he never learns. Marry a rich guy, baby, so you’ll have beautiful things.”

“Mom, I don’t even have time to date. I love my music. That’s enough for me.”

“You’re fourteen,” Vicki replied, patting Valerie’s arm. “Wait a few years.”

Some evenings when Al was working, she and Valerie would go through Vicki’s old scrapbooks. Vicki would cry at the sight of herself in a black-and-white publicity still, fair and pouting, looking over her bare shoulder to seduce the camera’s eye. Or, she would be in a two-piece bathing suit, her shoulders thrown back, her big breasts thrust forward, her long, pretty legs demurely crossed at the ankles, as she leaned against a palm tree. And there were snapshots of Vicki holding Valerie in her arms, her brassy blondness overwhelming the tiny, pale infant who looked at the camera with pleading eyes.

These days, Vicki worked as an extra, or as a manicurist at a beauty salon on the Sunset Strip.

Valerie remembered how frightening her parents had seemed to her when she was a baby. Their largeness, their loudness, had seemed to take up all the space available. When Valerie was a young child she pretended she was really a princess who had been kidnapped from the castle and her real parents, the king and queen, would find her one day. The fantasy made her feel guilty until a couple of her girlfriends happened to say that they had the same fantasy.

Valerie had been picking out little tunes on Al’s upright piano since she was old enough to scramble onto the bench. One of Al’s clients convinced Al and Vicki that Valerie should have lessons from a qualified teacher. Valerie remembered the tears of frustration as she spent hours practicing basic exercises and hating her demanding teacher, Nancy Carroll. By the time she was five, though, all of the hard work had started to pay off. She was playing Bach, Chopin, and Mozart with a technique that was precise and elegant.

That year, she was one of the children selected to perform for the Southwestern Musical Society. She stood in the wings, waiting her turn, wearing a white organdy dress embroidered with yellow daisies, and a yellow bow in her pale hair. There were butterflies in her stomach as she heard, for the first time, her name announced by the mistress of ceremonies and hesitantly walked onto the stage to polite applause. As she made a little bow to the audience, she heard the cheering from the middle of the second row, and smiled gratefully as she saw Al and Vicki, beaming with pride. After that, it was easy.

[6]

Max Perlstein, the brilliant composer and studio musician, occasionally took on a promising piano student, and when Valerie was ten, Nancy Carroll arranged for her to audition for him. Valerie had been terrified, not knowing what to expect. He was very nice, though. He was very casual. Tall and thin, he had long blond hair down to his shoulders. He wore jeans, a shirt, and loafers with no socks.

His house in Bel-Air sat on a half acre of land. It was low and rambling, vaguely Spanish, with light hardwood floors and very little furniture in the living room. Sofas flanked the stone fireplace, and a chunk of glass on a base served as a coffee table. The Steinway, of course. Several good oriental rugs. A few large expressionist paintings. Hundreds of books. Two German shepherds.

Valerie sat stiffly on the edge of one of the sofas as Max and Nancy bantered and laughed about mutual friends. Looking around the huge room, she realized the only times she had ever seen a house like this was in movies or in magazines.

She performed what she had rehearsed for months with Nancy, remembering her teacher’s words. “Feel the music.” She played a Beethoven sonata, part of a Mozart concerto, and finally a Bach fugue. Finishing, she turned toward Max. He was leaning forward, the expression on his face interested.

“Your technique’s pretty good,” he said, smiling. “Let’s try it out for a couple of weeks to see how we work together.”

“You did it,” said Nancy as they left, hugging her. “You’re on your way now.”

Valerie soon learned the routine of the house. A maid came in twice a week, and occasionally one of Max’s girlfriends would sun herself by the pool while Valerie had her lesson. Max pushed her into the master’s program at UCLA, and she played for Zubin Mehta, for Georg Solti, and for other conductors and musicians passing through Los Angeles. She even played for Vladimir Horowitz one heady afternoon, and dreamed for days of his kind words for her performance.

At fourteen, Valerie looked like a twelve-year-old. When she made any kind of public appearance, Max had her dress in little Peter Pan collars and pleated skirts, her shining blond hair in a ponytail.

“Musicians, mathematicians, and poets all hit when they’re young, kiddo,” Max told her. He prepared her for the Young Musicians Foundation competition, in which two hundred contestants from all over the country competed for the prize of fifteen hundred dollars and a concert tour with guaranteed publicity.

Valerie played her way through the series of eliminations at UCLA’s Royce Hall. Her interpretation of Beethoven’s Appassionata in the finals brought her a standing ovation and first place.

The concert tour included appearances throughout California. “Fire … poetry of sound … vibrant,” said the Los Angeles Times, who called Max to arrange an interview with her. There was another interview with the Herald-Examiner, and others with the classical music stations.

“Great news, kiddo,” said Max, waving a piece of paper at Valerie as she arrived for her lesson. “You’ve been offered a scholarship to the London Conservatory of Music. A grant’s been established by Penn International. They’re a world-wide banking outfit. It’s recognition, Valerie. It’s the next step. You win every competition, you got some press when you won the Young Musicians Foundation award, the concert tour got you some more. It’s all building. It’s the next step.”

“I can’t do it, Max,” she said. “I’m not ready to leave you.”

“Don’t count on me, kiddo. I’ve always been straight with you about why I took you on. Somebody did it for me when I was at that point in my own career, and it’s my way of paying my dues. We couldn’t have gone on forever. You’re going to need a manager soon, and I can’t do it. I have my own life, and my own career. Now that I’m scoring films, I don’t have a lot of teaching time.”

“But my mom and dad, they’d never let me go.”

“Get serious,” Max chided. “You’ll be staying with a woman named Anne Hallowell. She’s a lady, with a capital L. A big patron of the arts, and mucho bucks.”

“A Lady,” Valerie breathed, and the fantasies she’d had of herself as a kidnapped princess flooded her mind. Lady Anne Hallowell. She savored the titled name in her mind.

By the time Valerie walked the three blocks to Sunset Boulevard to catch the bus home, her mind was buzzing. London. Lady Anne Hallowell. Maybe there was even a castle. Oh, she could hardly wait to get home to tell her parents.

Vicki was strangely subdued. “That’s wonderful, baby,” she said. “It’s a great opportunity for you. You’ll need some clothes, I guess. I suppose Max can take you shopping. He’ll know what you need. God knows where we’ll get the money, though.”

“Don’t you want me to go?” Valerie knew from the tone in Vicki’s voice that something was wrong.

Al, when he got home, barely acknowledged her news. The next day was no better. Valerie felt as if she had done something vaguely shameful.

“Max is going to take me down to get my passport tomorrow,” Valerie said as she arrived home one evening. She saw what seemed to be fear in Vicki’s eyes. “Mom, is there something wrong?”

“No, no. Nothing,” said Vicki, sipping her beer.

“Anyway, we have to go to the Federal Building down on Wilshire. There’s a place across the street where Max says I can get my picture taken. I’ll need my birth certificate.”

“Oh, God,” Vicki sighed.

“What’s the matter, Mom? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Vicki said sadly.

“You haven’t lost my birth certificate, have you? Is that it?”

“No, it isn’t that,” Vicki said, pulling herself to her feet. “You sit down. I’ll get it.”

A wave of panic washed over Valerie as she watched her mother walk down the hall on her way to the bedroom. In a moment, she returned with a manila envelope. Her face was white.

“I’ve been thinking and thinking about this, baby, and I don’t think there’s any easy way to do it. It’s been driving Al and me nuts, I’ll tell you that. Believe me, I never wanted this day to come.”

Valerie took the manila envelope from Vicki’s outstretched hand and removed the document inside.

A female infant had been born on January 21, 1954, at 7:20 in the morning. The weight was seven pounds, eight ounces, the length twenty inches. Under “Name of mother” was Cynthia Schuyler. The father was unknown. The infant was named Valerie Jane Schuyler. The hospital was Saint John’s in Portland, Oregon, and not in Santa Monica, where Valerie had always been told she was born.

“What is this?” Valerie asked, her voice shaking.

“It’s your birth certificate, baby,” Vicki sighed.

“It can’t be,” Valerie said, bewildered.

“It’s why Al and I have been so upset about you going to England. Because we knew you’d have to get a passport, and you’d have to see your birth certificate.”

“I’m adopted,” Valerie said, wondering why her voice sounded so strange. Adopted. Impossible. She felt suddenly lost.

“Well, not really,” said Vicki. “We’ve never really adopted you. Cini would call, but we never had a number where we could reach her. She never even told us what name she was using, so we couldn’t find her to sign the papers. Then we were afraid the records could be traced. So we just let it go. Of course, we knew all along it couldn’t be kept a secret forever.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean you were afraid the records could be traced?”

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” Vicki said, shaking her head. “Cini was a good friend of mine, a real party girl. She was hanging around with a guy from out of town, a very dangerous guy. She got pregnant, and when she finally told him, he said she was blackmailing him and he was going to kill her. By that time it was way too late for an abortion, so she split. She thought nobody would ever find her in Portland. I went up to be with her for a few months until you were born. When I brought you back, Al and I played it like you were our own. The only time we had to show your birth certificate was when you started kindergarten. We said we were in the process of adopting you, and we were filing papers. We just stalled and stalled. Finally, they got a new secretary at the school, and it just never came up again.”

“Where is she? What happened to her? Who was my father?”

“Cini stayed in Portland for a couple of months. She’d call. But that was just for those two months. She called me once from Dallas, about six years ago, but she didn’t call me anymore after that. Maybe the guy found her after all. He was very powerful, nobody to fool with. She miscalculated, that was all. She was in over her head.”

“Who was he?”

“She never told me,” Vicki sighed. “She said it would be better if I didn’t know. I always thought he was from Las Vegas. Maybe with the mob. Cini liked those guys … the more dangerous, the more exciting. That was how she looked at things. This guy, well, he gave her some beautiful jewelry, and one of those little red Thunderbirds. And money, of course. What we cared about then was having a good time, guys, and what we could get from them. Or where we had been the night before, and clothes …” Her voice trailed off as she remembered.

“She was a prostitute,” Valerie said slowly.

“Well, not exactly. Cini was from a good family back East somewhere. She just liked to have a good time. She was gorgeous, baby, a showstopper. All delicate and fragile. But the way she walked … the way she looked at a guy. They couldn’t keep away from her. And fun. God, Cini was more fun than anyone.” Vicki paused, and the expression on her face was compassionate and loving.

“Are you okay, baby?” She touched Valerie’s hand.

“I’m fine,” she whispered numbly. “I’m just, well, surprised is all.”

“I’ve got some pictures of her. Do you want to see them?”

“No,” Valerie cried, wanting to run out of the apartment, run and run, until all this went away.

“I’ll get them,” Vicki said, jumping up, seemingly energized by relief. In a moment she returned with a bulging brown envelope.

“Here, come on. Sit with me on the couch.” Vicki pulled Valerie next to her and scattered dozens of snapshots over the magazines, newspapers, and ashtrays on the coffee table.

Gingerly, Valerie picked up a large black-and-white head shot of a face that could be her own in a few years’ time. Her hair was as fair as Valerie’s, her eyes pale, her cheekbones high. My mother, Valerie thought, with a thrill of recognition that took her breath away. The next snapshot, out of focus, showed Vicki, Al, her mother, and another man, all smiling for a nightclub photographer. There were drinks on the table in front of them, ashtrays, a little lamp with a metal shade.

“That was just after Al and I started going together,” Vicki said. “And Cini. Isn’t she gorgeous? I can’t remember who that guy was.”

Vicki picked up another picture and handed it to Valerie. It was a long shot in color of her mother sitting on the fender of a red Thunderbird, one of the little ones from the fifties that Valerie still saw driving around town.

“That was the car,” Vicki said. “Look at that dress. Her clothes were great.”

Photograph followed photograph. Cini, tall and slender, wearing a one-piece bathing suit on a beach, the ocean and blue sky behind her. Her legs were spread, her hands on her hips, and the look on her face seemed to dare the world to show her how good it was. “That was the weekend a couple of guys flew us down to Rosarito Beach in their private plane,” Vicki said. “We landed right in front of the hotel on the landing strip there, and went in for lunch. Everybody used to do that. And this is at a Jimmy Durante show in Las Vegas. What was that hotel?” Vicki paused to sip her beer. “Well, I can’t remember, but we had a ball. Here we were at Romanoff’s. Everybody used to go there. Bogart. Bacall. This is at the Coconut Grove. That’s in the Ambassador Hotel, down on Wilshire. We used to go there to see Lena Horne, Harry Belafonte. And here …”


Later that night, as she lay in bed, too exhausted to sleep, Valerie felt that nothing would ever be right again.