Too Damn Rich (55 page)

Dom Perignon!" Kenzie exclaimed. "Are we
trying to make amends?"

"What's with this sudden 'we' shit? You
hanging around with nurses now? Anyway ..."

Charley went over to the gilt-framed mirror
with a cocky little strut and craned his neck, adjusting his tie
like John Gotti.

"Told you I'm not a Cold Duck kinda guy,
didn't I?"

She laughed. "Yes, you did."

"Classy," he said, brushing his lapels with
his fingernails. "Yep. That's-a me."

"All right, Narcissus. You've done enough
preening for one day. Here. Why don't you make yourself useful and
pop the cork? I'll go scare up some champagne glasses."

Kenzie felt a sudden pang of guilt. Good
Lord, she thought. I used almost the exact same phrase with Hannes
the last time I saw him!

She went into the kitchenette, rebuking
herself for feeling guilt.

It's fine for a man to see more than one
woman, she thought. That's called virility. But if a woman sees
more than one man, she's called a whore. She told herself that
worrying about this double standard was worthless. It won't get me
anywhere.

Charley, peeling the dark green foil from
around the neck of the bottle, squeezed past her to toss it into
the kitchen trash. An empty bottle of Krug sticking out of it
stopped him short.

"Whoa!" he said, reaching down and fishing it
out. "You were right."

"About what?"

"Your taste. It's definitely going upscale.
But Krug? I'd say that's a little pricey for a working girl to buy
for herself, wouldn't you?"

Kenzie turned around, a glass in each hand.
It was difficult to tell which flashed more, the cut crystal or her
eyes.

"Detective Ferraro," she demanded, "are you
on a case, or am I going to have to open that damn bottle?"

His grin was mocking her. "Touchy, touchy.
Hit a nerve, huh?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You see an engagement
ring on my finger?"

"Nope."

"All right, then. Mind your own
business."

He tossed the Krug back into the trash.
"Stuff's for a guy sorta likes a girl. Now, he's really nuts for
her? He brings her the real thing." He held up the Dom Perignon and
grinned.

"Oh, give it a break, Charley," she said
wearily.

His grin broadened as he popped the cork and
filled first one glass, and then the other. He put the bottle down.
Took one of the glasses. Clinked it against hers.

"To us," he said. " 'Cause I care enough to
give the very best."

"Charley, are you sure you're not Irish?"

"Positive. Neapolitan through and through.
Why?"

"Because, the last time I heard this much
blarney, I was dating an Irishman!"

She went out into the living room and he
followed her.

"We're still going to make your world-famous
risotto?" he asked.

"Certainly. But first I'm going to enjoy a
glass of the very best," she said, sitting down on the sofa. "Then
I'll get busy in the kitchen."

"Fair enough." He sat down beside her.

Hearing someone sticking keys in the locks,
they both turned toward the front door.

"You expecting company?" Charley asked
quietly.

"No."

"Your roomie?"

"I already told you," Kenzie whispered.
"She's not due back until tomorrow."

"Landlord? Super?"

"Neither one's got keys."

The first lock cylinder clicked.

"Somebody sure the hell does. So. If you're
not expecting anybody, and nobody's got keys to this place, and
your roommate's out of town... . Think it's a burglar?"

Kenzie smiled. "Then I'd say he's in for a
big surprise. One of the benefits of entertaining a cop."

The second cylinder clicked.

Charley put down his glass, got up, and made
his way quietly over to the door. He looked back at Kenzie and put
his finger against his lips.

Three more cylinders clicked and then the
door burst open.

Charley, service revolver out, yelled: "Hold
it right there!"

Kenzie, seeing who it was, popped up from the
couch and cried: "Zandra!"

And Zandra, tossing her overnighter inside,
slammed the door. Oblivious to them both, she fumbled to lock the
bolts and headed straight for her room, tears streaming down her
face.

"Shit!" Charley exclaimed, putting his
revolver away. He looked at Kenzie accusingly. "I thought you
said—"

"Charley! Something's very wrong. You saw the
state she's in."

"Shit," he repeated, but softly.

Kenzie headed for Zandra's door. Knocked,
opened it, and slipped inside. A minute passed. Charley gulped his
glass of champagne. Then the door opened and Kenzie came out.

"Whasamatter?" Charley asked.

"The poor thing's had a bad shock. Charley,
listen ..."

"Oh, no!" He held up both hands and shook his
head. "Unh-unh. Don't tell me. I don't want to hear it!"

"I promise I'll make it up to you," Kenzie
said, pushing him toward the front door. "She's beside herself and
needs me. Now, will you go? It's girl-talk time."

"Guess this means no risotto," he sighed.

"Afraid not." She took his coat out of the
cloak closet and shoved it at him.

"You tossing me out among the huddled
masses?" he asked.

"That's one way to look at it. Yes. But it's
really only a rain check. Now please, Charley. Will. You. Go? I
already told you I'd make it up to you."

"With risotto?"

"Yes!"

"Then hold the mushrooms. Save 'em for the
huddled masses."

"I'll make it with radicchio." She had the
front door open.

"Yeah? Taste as good as it sounds?"

"Good-bye, Charley."

She literally shoved him out the door.

"A princess, a genuine princess, you could
have been a real-life, honest-to- goodness fairy tale
princess—"

Kenzie sighed wistfully over her third vodka
on the rocks, not her beverage of choice, but all they had on hand
since polishing off the Dom Perignon.

"—just like Di or Caroline or Stephanie," she
went on dreamily. "Zandra, you do know how to hurt a girl, telling
her she almost had a princess for a best friend, you really
do."

"It would hurt tons more to find oneself
saddled," sniffed Zandra loftily, "with a certain frog for a
prince, not to mention two witches instead of fairy
godmothers."

"Yeah, I guess you've got a point there."

"Oh, Kenz! How ever could I have been such a
fool as to trust my oldest friend in the world, only to discover
that all this time she's been scheming behind my back—"

"Forget about it," Kenzie advised.

She lifted the fifth of Smirnoff and refilled
both their glasses to the rim.

"These kinds of things happen to the best of
us. To err is human, or didn't you know?"

"Yes, but I walked straight into it with both
eyes wide open—"

"Hold it, kiddo. Hold it right there."

Kenzie, like a traffic cop, held up a hand,
palm facing out.

"You can't keep hitting yourself over the
head with this. What's done is done. Take my advice. Chalk it up to
experience."

"Yes, that's all fine, well, and dandy to
say. But Becky and Dina aside, how could someone who is my very own
relation—whom I first met when I was still learning to walk, for
Christ's sake!—pounce on me just to hit the big jackpot?"

"I dunno," Kenzie sighed. "C'mon. Drink
up."

But Zandra wasn't listening.

"What really hurts," she was saying, "is that
it should be Karl-Heinz, of all people. Little as I've actually
seen him over the years, he's always been my absolute fave when it
came to relatives. Of course, that's totally changed, I can tell
you that."

"Can't say I blame you," Kenzie commiserated.
"I wouldn't have expected it of him, either. Not Prince Karl-Heinz
... so handsome ... so rich ... so ... so royal."

"Serene," Zandra corrected her. "Prince
Charles is royal. Karl-Heinz, like Rainier of Monaco, is merely
serene."

"Serene ..." Kenzie murmured dreamily. "I do
rather like the sound of that."

"You'd like it a lot less if it meant
marrying that jackal!" Zandra said darkly.

"Castles in Bavaria..." Kenzie mused.
"Hunting lodges in Schwaben ..."

"Thick dank walls and moldy fabrics ..."
Zandra gloomed. "Drafty rooms and endless halls ..."

"Titians and Tintorettos. . ." Kenzie went on
dreamily. "Banks and breweries ... that ancient lineage ... the
continuity of all that blue blood ..."

"The inbreeding. Those horrid lobeless ears
..."

"And those wonderful private jets and
helicopters and servants galore—"

"Kenz!" Zandra cried out in distress.

"Wh-what?" asked Kenzie, jerking out of her
boozy reverie.

"You're getting carried away!" Zandra
accused. "You've got to stop that! You're beginning to make him
sound attractive!"

"What? Oh, shit." Kenzie made herself frown
severely. "But don't worry. That wasn't me speaking, that was Mr.
Smirnoff. All eighty proof of him."

"Then I suggest you tell all eighty proof of
him to shut up, or else he's going to make me very, very angry, and
you don't want to see that, believe me.

"You ... angry with me?" Kenzie giggled.

"Yes, and it's no laughing matter, either.
The von Hohenburg- Willemlohe temper is legendary, and to be
avoided at all costs."

"You mean ... there's an inherited temper in
your family?" Kenzie was fascinated.

"Like Hapsburg jaws or those lobeless von und
zu Engelwiesen ears." Zandra nodded. "Yes."

"And?"

"And, I think it goes back to Albrecht von
Hohenburg-Willemlohe, who in 1680-something cut off the tip of his
nose in a conniption fit." Zandra frowned. "Or was that his
brother, Lucus? I keep getting them mixed up."

"Go-o-lly!" Kenzie, despite launching into
boozy Gomer Pyleisms, was thoroughly enchanted.

Zandra tossed back half her glass and gave a
noisy, satisfying burp.

"It really isn't easy, you know, coming from
a family with such a frightfully long and wretchedly convoluted
history. Aside from struggling to keep track of everybody, you
wouldn't believe all the hereditary traits one's susceptible to.
It's surprising one doesn't turn into the worst hypochondriac. I
mean, honestly."

Her eyes suddenly widened.

"Oh, shit!"

"What is it?"

"I just remembered! I've inherited more than
just the von Hohenburg- Willemlohe temper!"

"What?" Kenzie asked in horror.
"Hemophilia?"

"Worse," Zandra gloomed. "Hedwig of Saxony's
inability to hold liquor!"

"Don't be silly. You seem to be holding it
quite well. You're only one glass behind me, and—"

"Come to think of it," Zandra said dolefully,
"poor luckless Hedwig shares another trait with me."

"Which was—?"

"She was much too trusting as far as men
went. God, sounds just like me, doesn't it?"

"Zandra, one rotten apple doesn't mean the
whole barrel's spoiled."

"Darling, that's easy for you to say. Maybe
... " Zandra paused. "Yes! Maybe I should just accept my
shortcomings. And give up men entirely. What do you think?"

Kenzie guffawed. "I think you'd make one hell
of a lousy lesbian!"

"I wasn't thinking lesbian, Kenz," said
Zandra severely. "I was thinking more along the lines of something
. . . noble. You know. Like joining a religious order?"

"You—a nun!"

"Well, Mother Teresa could use another
devoted sister, couldn't she? Washing beggars, feeding cripples,
caring for lepers—"

"Zandra!" Kenzie cried in horror. "You
wouldn't!"

"Well, you've got to admit those white habits
with blue trim look awfully cute."

"They'd look ghastly on you! Turn you into a
walking logo."

"Logo? Logo?" Zandra frowned. "Darling, what
ever are you talking about?"

"Well, they're ... they're Pan Am
colors."

"Pan Am? What Pan Am? You mean ... the
airline?"

"The one and only. Yep."

"So?"

"So ... Pan Am went belly up."

"Oh, I remember. But how terribly boring.
Well, perhaps the Black Hole of Calcutta isn't exactly me. Now,
Kenzie. Let me try this one on you. How about one of those orders
that wear those giant, starched winged hats? You know the ones.
Very haute couture. What do you think?"

"No, Zandra, no."

Zandra sighed. "Well, maybe I won't take up
the habit then."

"Come on, drink up," Kenzie said, vastly
relieved. "The lay life isn't all that bad, once you accept its ups
and downs. And besides, despite their failings, men still are the
best thing God has come up with, at least until there's a better
alternative."

"Which there isn't."

"That's right. So look on the bright side!
Zandra, you're exceedingly attractive. Articulate. Sexy.
Young—"

"I'll be twenty-nme next month, and my
biological clock is ticking."

"So? Karl-Heinz isn't the only eligible
bachelor out there. The world is full of them."

Kenzie frowned, and her voice suddenly turned
introspective.

"Just listen to me. I'm the last person who
should talk. Who else would have two affairs going simultaneously,
and with cops who're teamed up together?"

"Bad girl!" Zandra wagged a smug finger at
her. "Shame on you!"

"It's not funny," Kenzie fretted. "Everyone
knows that cops and their partners are closer than husbands and
wives. So I ask you. How's that for emotional stability?"

"Oh, Kenz. At least you're having fun. You
are, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but what happens if Charley and Hans
exchange bedtime stories?"

"They wouldn't! Would they?"

"You never know." Kenzie drained her glass,
lifted the bottle, and morosely eyed the remaining half inch of
vodka. "Cops," she declared, pouring herself the rest, "are worse
than teenagers when it comes to locker-room stories."