A Beautiful Heist (7 page)

After a long, restless night filled with dreams about Fabergé Eggs and prison bars and—inexplicably—figure drawing classes, I still wasn’t sure what to do. In bed, I cracked my eyes open and glanced at my alarm clock. Highly inconveniently, it read 10:12 a.m. I sat bolt upright.

Crap, crap, crap.
My mother was going to kill me. I should have been up an hour ago. I was supposed to be going to a baby shower with her this morning. I flew out of bed and started tearing clothes out of my closet.

It’s not that I was keen to attend. On my list of things I’d like to be doing that day, a baby shower in the suburbs fell somewhere between swimsuit shopping (I’ve long suspected they use fun-house mirrors in those changing rooms) and having my car serviced (curse those mechanics and all the damn extra repairs they “strongly recommend” knowing perfectly well I have no idea what they’re talking about).

The trouble was, my mother lived for these social graces. She also possessed an athletic talent for administering guilt trips. I’m convinced mothers learn this skill in Lamaze classes. You know:
This is how to breathe in the second stage of labor, this is how to change a diaper, this is how to deliver an effective guilt trip. . . .

So it was fine. I would just make a brief appearance, make my mother happy, then get out of there.

I got dressed for the shower in a whirlwind. I bolted through the rain, threw everything in my black Mini Cooper—including my pitiful potluck contribution of a bag of frozen edamame chipped away from the back of my freezer, and my makeup bag—and leaped behind the wheel. I had luck on the freeway and made pretty good time. I even managed a half-decent job at applying my makeup as I went. The concrete and glass of the city quickly changed into leafy streets and houses of the suburbs. I careened off the 520 to Kirkland, and drove on autopilot. My mind roamed away. Thoughts of Sandor, and his offer, bubbled like soup in my brain.

Mostly, I wanted to take the job. For practical reasons: I needed the money. Badly. And for less practical reasons, too. The thrill, the challenge, and—no matter what my friends said—the irresistible possibility that this job could be
the one.

But I knew it could be a big career error. It could ruin my future. Of course, being behind bars for tax evasion tended to ruin one’s future, also.

Yesterday, I’d called Templeton and demanded, “Did you know that AB&T files corporate tax returns? And that I’m listed as an employee?”

“Of course, Cat. The company is not about to get caught for tax evasion, now are they? That’s very unfashionable.”

“Shit, Templeton. I haven’t filed tax returns.”

“For how long?” His voice was quiet and apprehensive.

“Like, forever.”

There was a long pause. “Oh. That’s not good.”

I chewed my lip and asked, “Are there any big jobs coming up? Anything that could make me a lot of money in the next thirty days?”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I don’t know of anything that major right now. But I’ll see what I can dig up.”

I arrived at my parents’ house and walked straight to the kitchen, which carried lingering smells of breakfast sausage and dish soap. No sign of my mother. I frowned, wondering what that meant, when I heard,
“Pssst.”

I turned. It was my dad, poking his head around the back door. “Cat,” he whispered, “is your mother nearby?” My dad’s sixtieth birthday had been that year. He was bald on top, with gray hair fringing around the sides and back. His eyes were smiling at me—they were always smiling, with permanent crinkles at the sides. His nose was slightly pointed, like an elf’s. To me, he looked anything but old.

“I haven’t seen her yet,” I said.

“Perfect.” He stepped into the kitchen.

“What are you doing, skulking around?”

“I’ve got
this.”
He showed me the corner of a large package tucked under his arm. I knew right away it was a folded sail. Probably a new spinnaker for his sailboat. This was strictly contraband. It enraged my mother when he “wasted money” on his Leif Eriksson fantasies.

My dad and I loved to sail. When I was growing up he’d take me to the yacht club every chance he got. These days we met there once a week. My mother, on the other hand, despised sailing—she suffered terrible seasickness. “Mom will kill you,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I need you to help me get it upstairs. Be my lookout?”

I grinned and helped him sneak it up, keeping guard while he went up first. We climbed into the attic, ducking through soft streaks of filtered light, breathing musty, mothball-scented air.

I unfolded the spinnaker a little to admire it. The sailcloth was first rate. “It’s beautiful, Dad. Good choice.” We hauled open a trunk, and my dad placed the sail inside. “Good. Your mother never needs to know.” We closed the lid and latched it with a soft
click.
He winked at me. “My little partner in crime.”

I was stunned for a second, until I realized he was only talking about the sail. I laughed—a brittle laugh.

I could never tell my father the truth about what I do. My dad might sneak a sail or two into the house, but he would never do anything truly wrong or illegal. He wouldn’t dream of it. His income tax forms were honest to the penny. Even in a snowstorm, he waited for the crosswalk light to turn.

“Hey, do you remember the time we had to sneak in that enormous new boom and hide it in the garage?” He grinned.

I laughed again. “Yeah, that wasn’t easy.”

I glanced around the attic. My eyes were drawn to my dad’s model boats, beautifully constructed, intricate works of art. He’d always had craftsman’s hands. Something I’d inherited, I figured.

I stared at my hands. Craftsman’s hands that I applied to an altogether different purpose.

“What is it?” asked my dad, yanking me from my trance. “Everything okay, Kit Kat?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said quickly, snapping on a smile. “It’s nothing.”

I could never tell him the truth. Could I?

I gazed around the attic again, the dusty space inhabited by remnants and relics of our family’s history. A large trunk rested under a dormer window, labeled
Penny.

An emptiness opened before me. I glanced at my dad, but he was looking elsewhere, moving boxes in a corner. I’d never been able to bring myself to tell him that it was all my fault that Penny died. Although my dad and I had always been like partners, like two peas in a pod, Penny had been his baby. He had never recovered from losing her. His hopes for both his daughters had been high; he was always our biggest fan. And now, all those hopes were pinned on his one remaining daughter.

No. Telling him the truth about me would crush him.

We descended from the attic and returned to the kitchen. My mother was there, waiting.

“Oh, there you are, darling. Chop, chop, we’re going to be late.” My mother had frosted gray-blond hair, cut precisely in a sharp bob. She swathed herself with pashminas and shawls at all times. She was short, yet carried herself with the posture of a marching band leader, so you didn’t notice her true height as much.

“Have fun, you two,” said my dad, slipping away to the living room.

My mom turned to me. “All right, plans have changed. We’re not going to the baby shower.”

“We’re not?”

“We’re going to Barnes and Noble.” She narrowed her eyes at my choice of footwear and then ran her gaze over my outfit. “You’re going to need a sweater—it’s chilly out there.” She shuffled me out the door, grabbing a pashmina for me on her way.

“Um, why are we going to a bookstore, exactly?” I asked.

“Research,” she said plainly. She all but pushed me into the passenger seat of her Volvo, then went around to the driver’s side. She reversed the car out of the driveway, checking her lipstick in the mirror as she did so, and said, “Oh, I almost forgot, Catherine. You have an appointment with Templeton next week to discuss your commission.”

For years I had successfully concealed my true job from my mother. This was no easy task. My mother had a black belt in prying and a PhD in meddling. But several months ago, I couldn’t take all the nagging (“you need a career, darling”) and all the pestering (“do something meaningful and make something of yourself for goodness’s sake, or no man will ever be interested in you”). I told her exactly what I did for a living, and exactly how good I was at it. At first she was—as I expected—shocked. Traumatized, even. But over a period of months, that twisted mind started manipulating things around. Pretty soon, not only was she okay with the whole thing, you could actually say she was on board.

“Mom, I’ve told you before, I don’t want you contacting Templeton,” I said through my teeth.

“Now don’t go getting all miserable,” she said, fussing with the car stereo as she sailed through an intersection. “I’m only trying to help you.”

“I don’t need your help. This is
my
career. Mine.”

“Yes, and I’m not certain you’re handling it all that well, from what I can see.” I rolled my eyes. She saw nothing of my career. But this was not a new conversation. “Are they paying you enough? It’s dangerous work you’re doing, do they realize that? They’re probably not even paying for your disability insurance, are they? You
do
have disability insurance, don’t you?”

“Mom, please,” I said witheringly. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I do.”

Memo to self: Look into disability insurance policies first thing next week.

“Anyway, I took the liberty of scheduling this meeting with Templeton,” she continued, accelerating through a left turn and cranking the wheel.

I gripped onto the handle above my window. “Okay, first: how did you get a hold of Templeton? Second: why are you meddling about in this?”

“We’ve discussed this. I’m your business manager, darling.”

“My
what?
We have most definitely not discussed this.”

“Really, Catherine,” she said, glancing sideways at me. “You need someone to keep things organized. Let’s face it, dear, orderliness is not exactly your strong suit. That’s why I’ve appointed myself to guide your career.”

This had taken things to a whole new level. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. My mother had always been overly involved in her kids’ lives—and of course it became much worse after Penny died. She explained to me once that her own mother was essentially absent. My grandmother was depressed, miserable, and hardly ever there for her kids. My mother swore she would be different.

“One other thing,” she continued before I could formulate a cohesive argument to the business manager issue. “You’re going speed dating. Next Tuesday.”

I closed my eyes and took a calming breath. “Excuse me?”

“Now don’t give me a hard time on this, Catherine. You know as well as I do that a stable, committed relationship would help with your cover.” She pressed hard on the brakes to come to a sudden stop at a red light. My seat belt locked. “A married woman is far less suspicious.” Sitting at the light, she turned her scrutinizing gaze on my hair and reached up to fuss with the pieces closest to my face. I removed her hand.

“Possibly,” I said. “But—just so you know—I don’t need to do anything so desperate as
speed dating
to get a boyfriend, Mom.”

Her eyes sprang wide with surprise and delight. “Are you telling me you
have
a boyfriend?” She gasped. “Wait—has Jack taken you back, darling? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

“No,” I said firmly. “Jack has not ‘taken me back,’ as you so charmingly put it. And no, I’m not dating anyone.”

She scowled, disappointment at our breakup renewed. I could see the blame in her eyes. After our relationship ended, my mother questioned me incessantly about it, trying to deduce what I’d done wrong, how I’d ruined things. It wasn’t novel behavior—with every boyfriend I’d ever had, she’d done the same thing.

Jack, however, was going to be a particularly tough act to follow, in her eyes. And in mine, too, I supposed.

My mother pulled the car into the Barnes and Noble parking lot. With a great deal of relief I unbuckled myself and climbed out. “So why are we here, anyway?” I asked.

She smiled gleefully. “They’re having a book signing. It’s very important for your career.”

“Okaaayyy,” I said doubtfully, and awaited the explanation that was sure to follow.

“A reformed thief has written a juicy expose,” she said. “A tell-all. It’ll be good research.”

“Mom, that’s not research,” I said flatly. “You know what else isn’t research?
Ocean’s Eleven.”

My mother seemed to think I needed to be watching heist movies like
The Pink Panther
and
The Italian Job
to stay brushed up on my industry. Reminding her these were works of fiction never seemed to make any impact.

She flung her shawl about her shoulders and strode toward the bookstore. I must admit my curiosity was piqued. I wondered who the thief-turned-author was. Still, I wasn’t about to give my mother any satisfaction. I emitted an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” I grabbed my pashmina and followed her.

The moment we entered Barnes and Noble I was enveloped with that wonderful bookstore smell that’s part roasting coffee, part book paper. People were just beginning to gather for the reading and find seats.

We were still early, as it turned out, which gave me a chance to browse the bookstore briefly. I found myself drawn to the Art section . . . Decorative Arts . . . Antiques and Collectibles . . .
aha.
A book on Fabergé Eggs.

I picked it up, flipped through some pages. I was dazzled by full-color photographs of the exquisite jeweled eggs. All familiar images—like old friends. My mind spiraled away, tracing around the decision I had to make by that night, revolving around the same issues, no closer to a resolution.