LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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