The Necklace Read online

  She snatched her hand back, turning to lead her horse back down the hill.

  “May, come on,” he said, but didn’t follow her.

  “You’re impossible,” she called. “That was always the problem.”

  THE FOX HEADS

  Nell has only just flown back into town and drives straight to the hunt club in a stuffy rental car. Though the air outside is still chilly, it holds a warm trace of earliest spring. She fumbles with the temperature controls. She’s agreed to meet Pansy for dinner, and she’s curious as to what her cousin’s going to say.

  She’d flown home to Portland after the wake, after her meeting at the museum with Reema Patel, after Pansy had cornered her, after Louis had taken her for drinks, taken her home, and taken her apart. She’d wanted to leave the necklace in a safe-deposit box, but thought better of it. It was irrational, but she felt it might somehow be misinterpreted as Pansy’s if she did that, might cause confusion that strengthened Pansy’s claim. In the end, Nell decided that the only way to keep it safe was to wear it, especially when she traveled.

  In Portland work had descended on her like a tsunami, drowning her holidays. She managed to forget the farm, the will, Louis, the whole thing, for hours at a time, parts of whole days, until the heavy necklace brought those thoughts back.

  She’d been in her office with the door closed, head down in the new year, when the letter arrived—heavy bond paper with lengthy letterhead at the top, sent from the local office of one of the largest and most expensive law firms in the country. They wrote on behalf of Pansy with a lot of stern language about the fiduciary duties of executors and veiled queries about the legitimacy of certain provisions in the will. The letter requested Nell’s presence at a meeting to begin discussing dividing the contents of the farm.

  Directness is in Nell’s training, and so after the letter had hit her desk, she’d called Pansy.

  “Hey,” Nell had said, with no preamble. “Got your letter.”

  “Oh God, that letter,” Pansy had said, clearly flustered by Nell’s directness. “I saw it when you did. I had no idea they’d actually send it.”

  This, Nell knew, was bullshit. “You forget I’m a lawyer.”

  “Believe me, none of us forget that,” Pansy had said, and then she’d rambled on quickly to cover. “I’m not like you. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Pansy in the part of the baby bunny would have been amusing if it hadn’t been such a familiar tactic in her arsenal.

  “I need someone to look out for my interests,” she’d said. “Well, not just mine, everyone’s.” Nell didn’t mention that this is effectively her job as executor. She let Pansy talk. “To make sure it’s really fair, but now they’re firing off letters. I wanted a second set of eyes, you know? I mean, how much do we really know about Louis? I had no idea they’d be so aggressive. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to stop this.”

  But Nell didn’t buy the airhead routine. “So you didn’t tell them to write it?”

  “I don’t tell them what to do.”

  “You didn’t tell them to send it?”

  “This isn’t a deposition.”

  If only, thought Nell. Then I could compel you to give me a straight answer.

  “I had one meeting with them,” Pansy continued. “And now they’re firing off letters. Maybe it’s better if you deal with them directly.”

  So she wants to hide behind a lawyer. So fine, thought Nell.

  “But I think a meeting would be a good idea. Before this all spirals out of control. You need to be back here. Things need to be dealt with that can’t be done remotely. You can’t just walk away from this, Nell. Much as I know you’d like to.”

  Pansy’s spin on Nell’s attempt at treading lightly rankled again, as if Nell wanted to shirk her duty, the outsider always.

  A mere twenty minutes after she’d hung up, Emerson called and politely offered to deal with the contents of the farm on her behalf and at her direction. Vlad’s background and position at the Met would be an invaluable help in sorting the treasures from the trash. She shouldn’t have been surprised that the mechanics of the Quincys worked just that fast. The coolness in Emerson’s tone let her know that he’s been designated the one to deal with her, the one who can handle her. Actually, it was quite generous of Emerson to step into that mess. Both she and Pansy trust him implicitly, as does Baldwin. He had some good ideas for conducting a division, and so she’d agreed to come this weekend and start.

  Louis’s subsequent texts had only encouraged her decision for a visit. She’s enjoyed his repartee, the slow getting to know each other through email and texts over the last few months. She’s been hiding behind work, but he hasn’t forced her. That patience is appealing, sexy even. She hasn’t seen him since that night at his place.

  The first spring slush is melting in the streets when Nell pulls up at the white clapboard clubhouse of the hunt club next to the river, relatively small for the size of the membership and definitely discreet. Quincys have been members since the founding. The hunt is now a drag, and the polo is long gone, but the stables are still filled with the members’ horses.

  She opens the front door, black lacquer with a brass fox-head knocker. Inside, a huge ginger jar filled with flowering quince branches sits on an austere Federalist table. The threadbare-but-still-good rugs are supposed to make you feel like you’re visiting Grandma’s. Silver horse trophies rest next to a curated collection of magazines on the side table—the most recent Town & Country and Country Life are fanned out next to today’s Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal.

  Nell’s surprised to see Reema Patel leaning forward, in her myopic way, examining an old framed photograph of a man on horseback, who is leaning down with a fond smile to talk to a woman in a diaphanous white skirt and saddle shoes.

  “How are you?” Nell asks, extending a hand. Patel is wearing a chic navy silk dress and seems not at all surprised to be meeting here.

  Instead of shaking hands, Patel points to the caption and reads aloud, “Mr. Ambrose Quincy on the Ragman.”

  “They say he was a natural seat,” Nell says.

  “No name for her, though . . .” Patel trails off, waiting for Nell to supply detail.

  “Typical,” Nell says, hoping for some sisterhood.

  Patel straightens, her detached eye inspecting Nell as if she’s an artifact, and then her eyes get wide. “Are you actually wearing—” She stops herself.

  “I thought it was safest on me,” Nell says, and because things are getting awkward, she points to the taxidermy on either side of the fireplace—a half-dozen snarling fox heads on small plaques labeled with dates. “My mom’s actually responsible for one of these.”

  The closest head unfurls its black tongue, desiccated and turning to dust. She remembers her mother averting her eyes from them when they’d come here during summer visits. She’d told Nell that when she went on her first hunt, after the hounds caught the fox and killed it, her mother was bloodied in keeping with tradition. An oldster huntsman had wrangled the carcass from the dogs and then smeared the blood of the fox on her cheeks and forehead to signal she was part of the group now. She’d almost vomited. Nell had asked her mother which fox head it was, but her mother couldn’t bear to look at them too closely. Nell can’t imagine her mother, a fan of Greenpeace and PETA, riding out for the hunt. Though perhaps this was the catalyst for her affinity for animals. Nell has to admit she got an uneasy thrill from the sadistic glamour of the story. Her mother had been a different person at one point in her life, submitting to incongruous dark rites in the name of all things Quincy.

  Nell’s just about to tell Patel about the tradition when Pansy comes out of a recessed door set into a panel next to the chimney.

  “In here, you two,” she says cheerily, and turns around, certain Nell and Patel will follow.

  In the small paneled nook lined with dingy volumes detailing horse bloodlines, Baldwin sits at a small table set for five with a white tablecl
oth. When she sees there are no other tables in the library, Nell’s stomach sinks. With Patel following and Baldwin already here, this has the whiff of an ambush.

  Baldwin rises to hug her and usher her into the seat next to him, holding out her chair. She doesn’t want to sit next to him, but she has no choice. Patel sits and unfurls her napkin, unimpressed by the preppy surroundings.

  “Do I need counsel?” Nell asks, trying to sound light as Baldwin scoots her chair in behind her, nearly taking her out at the knees.

  “Last I checked, you are a lawyer,” Baldwin says, reseating himself.

  “A lawyer who represents herself has a fool for a client. Isn’t that the old chestnut?” she asks.

  “I believe that’s attributed to Abraham Lincoln,” says a big man straight out of a toothpaste ad. “Charles Walker. You must be Cornelia,” he says, entering the room, hand outstretched, beaming around his gleaming teeth. “Or is Nell okay? Sorry to be late. We’re merging right now, don’t know if you know.” He says this directly to Pansy, as if they all should be up on law firm happenings. “I’m wearing so many hats right now, I’m like a Jamaican.”

  Nell checks her retort while Walker shakes her uncle’s hand. Starting off by making an enemy is not the best plan.

  “Baldwin, a pleasure,” Walker is saying. Then he introduces himself to Patel with a hearty handshake and a “Nice to put a face with a voice on the phone.”

  Nell sips her sweating ice water, hoping it will calm the knot grinding in her stomach. The knot telling her that this is an inside job.

  “Such a great old club,” Walker says, sitting down heavily in the only leather armchair at the table.

  Nell feels the unseen wheels that have been turning while she’s been away.

  Pansy settles herself, looking spookily like a hip, black-clad version of Loulou—the pearls, the tasteful makeup, the hidden agenda, and the air of entitlement.

  The menus, bound in green leather, feature offerings unchanged for generations—shrimp salad in half an avocado to start, Welsh rarebit, and lobster bisque. Pansy snaps hers shut and orders sole meunière.

  There’s a pause after the waitress leaves. All eyes are on Pansy, waiting for her to speak, and it’s then Nell realizes the depth of the setup, because it’s Charles Walker, the lawyer, who goes first.

  “As you know, my client . . .” The word makes Nell sit up straighter in her chair, mentally donning her work armor. Perhaps she should have lawyered up like Pansy. How have things escalated while she wasn’t looking? “. . . has some concerns centering on the Moon of Nizam and the frankly unclear drafting of some of the will provisions.”

  Just then, a commotion in the foyer precedes Louis Morrell walking into the library—a small phalanx of waitstaff following behind him with a spare chair and menu. She’d mentioned this dinner in passing when texting with him about her trip. She didn’t expect him to show up. He’s saying “Thank you so much,” and “I’ll be fine,” and “Something simple, so I don’t hold them up.” She feels a jolt of electricity from his entrance, from his appealing smile, from the private way he looks at her as if they share a secret. Feeling his actual energy in the room after months of correspondence sends a buzz through her. Within minutes, he’s wedged himself between Nell and Baldwin as the waitress lays his place setting and efficiently takes his order. “Whatever Ms. Merrihew is having, order me that,” he says, adjusting his knife and fork. “Sorry I’m late.” Nell checks Pansy’s face, so surprised she hasn’t been able to hide it yet.

  “Louis, there’s really no need for you to be here,” Walker is saying.

  “Then you won’t mind if I sit in.” He closes both eyes at Nell with a silent nod, as if to say “I got this.”

  She’s shocked that he’s crashed the dinner. Walker is right. As estate lawyer, he’s not technically required at this meeting. She feels a little thrill curl up her spine, the thrill of having someone in her corner.

  Walker pauses, considering how far to take his objections, and whether he’s going to cause a scene, but he decides to pick up where he left off. “I think we can all agree that the testator’s intent was to leave her jewelry to Pansy here.”

  “The jewelry in the safe-deposit box, yes,” Louis says in a measured tone, jumping in right away. “Except for the one clearly enumerated and specifically bequeathed gift, which goes to Nell.”

  “Well, I think leaving an item of this importance in a whiskey bag shoved in the back of her dressing table, where anyone might find it, even nurses or maids, shows that the testator could have become reckless toward the end, even impaired, which doesn’t go against her intent to leave all jewels, both secured and unsecured, to Pansy. Certainly if she’d treat an item of this importance this cavalierly, perhaps she hadn’t all her faculties when she was changing will provisions.”

  Pansy is looking out the window, watching a horse being lunged in a nearby paddock in the twilight, her face serene, as if she has nothing to do with the scene unfolding before her.

  Reema Patel is fascinated by the melba toast on her bread plate as she breaks off a miniscule piece and thoroughly butters it.

  Baldwin stares right at Nell, gauging her reaction.

  Louis puts his elbows on the table, leaning forward.

  Nell knows this Walker lawyer is blowing smoke if he’s showing his hand so early, trying to best her easily while testing the effectiveness of his argument. He’s hoping an early agreement will avoid a lot of heavy legal lifting later.

  There’s a pause while they’re served wine. When the waiter leaves with a quiet click of the door, Walker starts up again.

  “Look, we all know there are some issues here. Sorry, Louis, but there are. And we don’t want anything dragged out. My letter was to put you on notice that we believe my client has a significant claim to that necklace,” he says, nodding toward Nell’s chest. Nell tries to tuck the Moon in her shirt, but this only draws attention.

  “A claim you intend to pursue through the courts?” Nell asks, finding her voice. This affects her most of all. She doesn’t need Louis speaking for her.

  “Well, there’s no need to start worrying about things that haven’t happened yet.”

  That’s right, Nell thinks. Back off.

  “We’re just here for a discussion,” Walker says.

  “But in talking with Pansy and Baldwin”—Nell looks at her uncle; no surprise he’s in on Pansy’s plans—“we had an idea that might sidestep all of this unpleasantness, and that’s why I’ve asked Reema to be here with us today,” he says, gesturing toward Patel, who holds up a hand while chewing. “I thought she might outline some of the benefits of collaboration with the museum.”

  “Collaboration,” a euphemism for donation, and it’s then Nell sees the play they’re making.

  “It would be significant,” Patel starts. “A piece like this would make an incredible anchor to the Southeast Asia collection. A calling-card piece, if you will. As I touched on briefly when you came to see me, it needs to be authenticated and researched, not only for verification, but for historical importance and meaning. Additionally, and I think Charles could speak more to this than I could, I believe there are beneficial tax implications for the estate.”

  “Which is also where your job as a fiduciary comes in,” Baldwin admonishes, as if Nell isn’t a lawyer, as if she hasn’t put the obvious together.

  Patel continues. “It would be in the most careful of caretaking hands. We could ensure preservation and, of course, allow it to be viewed to increase understanding of Mughal culture. A gift to scholars, to the public, really. And we would ensure that it would be on continuous display in the most sophisticated exhibit, surrounded by appropriate pieces to tell its story and give it context.”

  Nell’s silent, giving nothing away.

  “After you left, I did some preliminary research,” Patel continues. “Curiosity and the cat and all. The maharaja, the Mahj, you remember, I told you about him . . .”

  Nell does rememb
er, and she’d done a bit of her own Internet searching. The twelfth maharaja of Baroda, known to the paparazzi as the Mahj, lives in London and is fond of Eastern European models, Bugattis, and the tiki bar Prince Harry favors. Surprisingly, he also fancies himself a bit of an activist and has been known to disrupt auctions for important Indian antiquities by bidding the price sky-high and then refusing to pay.

  “I don’t get how he hasn’t been caught,” Nell says to Patel now. “That’s a binding contract the moment he becomes the high bidder.”

  “What’s this?” Baldwin asks.

  “Legally, yes. But he makes a huge stink in the press. The auction houses can try to go after him, but they won’t since it just gives his cause airtime. He gets to wax poetic about stolen culture. He’s actually a pretty good speaker. The optics on the whole thing are a nightmare. Plus they’d be getting a judgment in US court and then they’d have to enforce it in India against a popular royal. His bids are way out of whack with any rational valuation, and so they’ve quietly negotiated sales to the next highest bidder. But buyers are reluctant because they’ve been up against a shill, and the price has to be unnaturally deflated for sale. I know they’ve had to finesse those sales for a lot less than the original reserve.”

  “Would you guys please fill us in?” Pansy whines, and Patel brings the rest of the table up to speed.

  “So?” Pansy asks when she’s done.

  “So the position of the Baroda family is that the Moon of Nizam was stolen.” By Patel’s tone, it’s clear Pansy’s managed to irk her. Good, thinks Nell. “After a party in the 1920s,” Patel continues.

  “Wait. What now?” Baldwin asks.

  “Most of this information is online,” Patel says.

  “Hold on,” Baldwin says, drawing himself up straight. “Ambrose Quincy didn’t steal things. Why, there isn’t a Quincy in the world who was a thief. I can assure you.”