“You were right. Well?”
Tony sprang from his chair and wrapped his arms around me. “You know why, Vicky. Damn it, you’ve been putting me off for years. I thought if you thought—”
“A little reverse psychology?”
“Right. Vicky, I’m crazy about you. You know that. I always will be. Won’t you—”
“No. I’m sorry, Tony.”
I didn’t try to free myself. After a moment, his arms relaxed their hold. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“He,” I said, without thinking.
“Dammit, don’t criticize my grammar when I’m baring my soul to you,” Tony shouted. “And don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at
“Are you in love with him?”
“Oh, sure. Not that that has anything to do with it.”
Tony flapped his arms. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t try. It doesn’t even make sense to me. Let’s get going. We’ll have a nice, friendly, belated Christmas Eve tonight, before you leave for Turin in the morning. I hope and trust that by this time the police have removed Freddy; his presence might cast a certain pall over the celebration. We’ll stop by Carl’s and pick up Caesar and introduce him to…What’s taking Schmidt so long?”
“‘Peace! Break thee off,’” said Tony; “‘look where it comes again!’”
He had recovered sufficiently to smile and to quote Shakespeare, so I decided my refusal hadn’t broken his heart after all. “‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” I agreed. “What happened to you, Schmidt?’”
As Schmidt pointed out, at some length, the answer was self-evident. He had Clara clamped under one arm, and his other hand held her jaws closed. Both hands were crisscrossed by bleeding scratches. Clara’s blazing eyes and muffled growls indicated that though temporarily overpowered, she was not subdued. She didn’t scratch me or Tony. She bit Tony, and she squirmed and howled when I tried to free her from the red ribbon tied around her neck. The bow was under her chin, and so lacerated I had to cut the ribbon off. It took all three of us to cram her in the carrier I had bought that morning.
“Cats hate bows,” I explained to Schmidt, who was sucking his wounds. “It was a pretty thought, Schmidt, but—”
“Do you think I would be so stupid?” Schmidt demanded. “I did not put the ribbon on her. I thought you had. She was in the wardrobe; that is why it took me so long to find her, and when I did, she—”
“I see what she did.” I turned the ribbon over in my hands. A small package had been tied firmly to the bow. Clara’s teeth had penetrated, but not destroyed it. I ripped it open under the curious eyes of Tony and Schmidt.
Inside was a small golden rose, enameled in scarlet and crimson, with green leaves. An attached ring enabled it to be worn as a charm on a bracelet or as a pendant. It wasn’t the sort of thing one could pick up at a local shop; the exquisite workmanship and soft colors showed the hand of a master goldsmith, probably a long-dead master, for it was old—Persian work, at a guess.
“How romantic,” said Schmidt.
“Isn’t it?” I agreed. Actually, I found the paper wrapped around the trinket even more romantic—it was a receipt from a famous antiquarian jeweler’s in Manhattan, and it was marked “Paid.” Nice to get a present I would not have to return to its rightful owner…. But I think the thing that touched me most was my hero’s gallantry in taking on Clara singlehanded.
I tucked the packet into my pocket. “Let’s go.”
Schmidt seemed to feel that some further ceremony was called for. He couldn’t decide in which direction to face, to address the absent and admired one; after spinning around a few times, he settled on the window. Raising one hand in solemn respect, he declaimed, “
“You sound like a funeral sermon, Schmidt,” I said.
Tony was still in a Shakespearean mood. “How about ‘When shall we three meet again?’” he suggested sarcastically.
I don’t think Schmidt recognized the source. “Yes, yes,” he exclaimed. “Very appropriate. How does it go on?”
He and Tony went out together, Tony reciting “‘In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won…’”
They had left me to handle the carrier. I picked it up and followed them. The quotation was more appropriate than Schmidt or Tony knew. I had won this battle, and John had lost something more important to him than Trojan gold. Served him right…. I wondered how the next round would turn out.
About the Author
Elizabeth Peters was named Grandmaster by the Mystery Writers of America in 1998. She earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago’s famed Oriental Institute. In addition to the Vicky Bliss mysteries, Elizabeth Peters is the author of the bestselling Amelia Peabody mysteries.
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THE APE WHO GUARDS THE BALANCE
SEEING A LARGE CAT · THE HIPPOPOTAMUS POOL
NIGHT TRAIN TO MEMPHIS
THE SNAKE, THE CROCODILE AND THE DOG
THE LAST CAMEL DIED AT NOON · NAKED ONCE MORE
THE DEEDS OF THE DISTURBER · TROJAN GOLD
LION IN THE VALLEY · LORD OF THE SILENT
THE MUMMY CASE · DIE FOR LOVE
SILHOUETTE IN SCARLET · THE COPENHAGEN CONNECTION
THE CURSE OF THE PHARAOHS · THE LOVE TALKER
SUMMER OF THE DRAGON · STREET OF THE FIVE MOONS
DEVIL MAY CARE · LEGEND IN GREEN VELVET
CROCODILE ON THE SANDBANK · THE MURDERS OF RICHARD III
BORROWER OF THE NIGHT · THE SEVENTH SINNER
THE NIGHT OF FOUR HUNDRED RABBITS
THE DEAD SEA CIPHER · THE CAMELOT CAPER
THE JACKAL’S HEAD · THE FALCON AT THE PORTAL
