‘The Christmas Mystery’ Chapters 35-37, Epilogue

“Monsieur Rosenthal regrets that he is not here to assist the both of you, but your phone call came only this morning, Monsieur Moncrief, and Monsieur Rosenthal had already left for his home in Morocco. He likes to escape Paris during the Christmas season.”

A maid enters. She is dressed in full maid regalia—starched white cap, black dress, starched white apron with ruffle.

She asks if we would like tea or coffee or wine. We decline.

“Perhaps some champagne,” says Richard.

We decline again.

We follow Richard a few steps into what looks like the parlor of a small elegant apartment on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. A two-seat sofa in gray. A few mid-century wooden chairs with darker gray seats. A very bright crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling. The only thing that distinguishes the room from a private residence are the four glass jewelry showcases.

Katherine Burke runs her hands along the glass enclosures. I watch her closely. We both seem to be nearly overwhelmed by the beauty of the jewels. Not merely the size of the diamonds but the unusual designs of the bracelets and earrings and necklaces and rings.

“I know very little about jewelry, and it has been a few years since I have visited here, but these stones all seem to be enormous,” I say.

“Joel...er, Monsieur Rosenthal, likes to work on a large canvas. You see, even when he uses small stones, as in a pavé setting, he sets them so close to one another that they look like a wall of diamonds.”

He points, as an example, to a ring with something called an “apricot” diamond at its center. The tiny diamonds around it look like a starry night.

Richard Ranftle shows us something called a “thread ring.” If there were a piece of sewing thread composed of tiny diamonds, then flung into the air, then eventually landing in a messy heap, it would be this enormous ring. For good luck, Rosenthal seems to have decided that a very large amethyst should sit on top of this pile of extraordinary thread.

“Mademoiselle seems most interested in the rings, eh?” says Richard.

I note with amusement that Richard has perfected an amazing style. He is helpful without being condescending. He is courteous without being obnoxious. We are three people having fun. Million-dollar fun, but fun nonetheless.

Burke is slightly stoned, I think, on the jewelry on display. “Look at that,” she says, and she points to an enormous round green stone.

Richard immediately goes to work.

“It is a twelve-carat emerald. Monsieur Rosenthal was inspired to set the stone upside down. Then he surrounded it with a platinum and garnet rope. It is beyond nontraditional. He says it looks like ‘a turtle from paradise.’”

Richard removes the ring from the glass case. He places it on a dark-purple velvet tray.

“Let me slip it onto your middle finger,” says Richard. Then he pauses and says, “Unless you would care to do so, Monsieur Moncrief.”

“No, no. Go right ahead,” I say.

“My God,” says Burke. “This is about the same size as my Toyota Camry.”

“If you like, then, you can drive it out of the showroom,” says Richard. We all smile.

She looks at the ring. She holds up her hand.

“I wish you’d told me we were coming here, Moncrief. I would have given myself a manicure.”

The ring looks spectacular, huge and spectacular, beautiful and spectacular. I tell Burke to take it. She says, “Oh, no.” I insist. She insists no. I say that it’s a Christmas gift. She says this is ridiculous. I tell her that she promised I would be allowed to give her “just one gift.” Then as an extra argument I say something that is probably not even true: “Look, Detective, how expensive can it be? It’s only an emerald, not even a diamond.”

For about three minutes the room remains completely silent. I do not know what is going through her head, of course. But when she finally speaks, she says, “Okay.”

I smile. She smiles. Richard smiles. Richard hands me a small blue paper on which is written: “540,000 EU.” I slip the paper into the wet pocket of my coat, and I continue to smile.

And that is how Detective Katherine Burke came to own the ring that came to be called “The Emerald Turtle.”

 

Chapter 37

CHRISTMAS DAY IN PARIS is for family. Grand-père carving the goose. Grand-mère snoring from too much Rémy Martin. It is a day for children and chocolate.

I will not violate the spirit of the feast. Indeed, Reynaud, my late father’s exceptional chef, will roast the tenderloin of venison. I have invited Babette and Julien and Julien’s girlfriend, Anne. (Who knew Julien had a girlfriend? Who knew Julien had a life apart from Valex?)

So that will be Christmas Day. For Christmas Eve, however, I have made a special plan. Burke and I will have a night of fine dining.

“It will be a night perfect for wearing ‘The Emerald Turtle,’ ” I say.

“I’m so nervous wearing it,” says Burke. “If I lose it...if...”

“If you lose it, there are plenty more emeralds in the world,” I say. “And if I sound like a spoiled rich kid, so be it. I am. At least for Christmas.”

“I’m still nervous.”

But, of course, she wears it.

The evening begins with—what else?—chilled Dom Pérignon in the warm and cozy backseat of the limo.

“Our first stop will be Les Ambassadeurs inside the Hôtel de Crillon,” I tell K. Burke.

“Our first stop?” says Burke.

“Oui. The first course of seven courses,” I say. “A different course at a different restaurant. I can imagine no finer way to welcome Christmas. This took much planning on my part.”

We arrive at the Place de la Concorde. Five minutes later we are tasting artichoke soup with black truffle shavings. Exceptional.

Fifteen minutes later we are back in the car and headed for le poisson, the fish course. At L’Arpège my friend, Alain Passard, has prepared his three-hour turbot with green apples.

Just when we think nothing can surpass the turbot we move on to Lasserre. Here the magical dish is a delicate pigeon with a warm fig and hazelnut compote.

The maître d’ at George V’s Le Cinq describes a dish that both Burke and I think is ridiculous—a seaweed consommé with bits of turnip, parsnip, and golden beets floating on top. It is, of course, magnificent.

When we return to the car Burke announces, “I don’t know how to say this properly. But I am full without really being full.”

“You are satisfied,” I say. “Small portions of exquisite food. The French never fill themselves. They eat. They think. They enjoy.”

“Sure. That’s it exactly,” says K. Burke. Then, with a giggle in her voice, she says, “A bit more champagne, please.”

The first four restaurants we have visited are classic Parisian restaurants. They have been filling famous bellies for many years—royalty and food writers and a few pretentious snobs. But always the food has remained magnificent.

“Now we are going to have something completely modern,” I tell my dining companion. “We are going to one of the famous new places that I call ‘mish-mash-mosh’ restaurants. You don’t know whether you are eating Indian or French or Hungarian or Cambodian food. The classical chefs turn in their graves, but it is the future, and we must try one of them.”

So Burke and I, a little tipsy from champagne and wine, sit at Le Chateaubriand, a fancy French name for a restaurant that looks like a 1950s American diner. The duck breast we are served is covered with fennel seeds and bits of...“What is this?” I ask the captain. He replies, “Tiny pieces of orange candy.” This fabulous concoction sits next to a purée of strawberries that tastes a little bit of maple syrup, a little bit of tangerine.

K. Burke describes it perfectly: “It tastes like something wonderful, like something you’d get at a carnival in heaven.”

“You have the vocabulary of a restaurant critic, K. Burke,” I say.

We leave the heavenly carnival, and a short time later we are at Le Jules Verne, the foolishly named restaurant on top of the beloved tour Eiffel.

The alcohol is making me too happy, too giddy, and surely too talkative. “This is a restaurant that has maintained its integrity, even though it is in the very tourist heart of Paris,” I say.

“I’m not ashamed to be a tourist,” says Burke.

“Nor am I,” I say. Then we sit down and look out at the marvel of Paris at night while we eat an impeccable piece of filet mignon—big beefy flavor in every meltingly tender bite.

“And now. On to dessert,” I say.

“I should say ‘I couldn’t.’ But the truth is...I could,” Burke says. “We will finish at my favorite place in all of Paris,” I say. Soon our car is making its way through the narrow streets of the Marais.

All the chic little shops are closed. A small kosher restaurant is shutting down for the evening. “The best hummus in Europe,” I say.

A few students are singing Christmas songs. They swig from open bottles of wine. Lights twinkle from many windows.

The car stops at a tiny corner shop on rue Vieille du Temple, very near the rue de Rivoli.

Burke reads the sign on the shop aloud, “Amorino.” Then she says, “Whatever it is, it looks closed.”

“Un moment,” I say, and I hit a few numbers on my phone. “Nous sommes ici.” We are here. A young woman appears at the shop door. She is smiling. She gestures to us. We go inside.

“It’s an ice cream parlor,” Burke says.

“Yes and no. It is a gelato shop. When I lived in Paris—before moving to New York—no evening was complete unless we had a two-scoop chocolate and amaretto cone at Amorino. What flavors do you like? The pistachio is magnificent.”

She looks away from me. When she faces me again she is blinking her eyes.

“Would you think I’m rude if I skip the gelato?” she says. “But you would love it,” I say.

“It’s been a great evening. I appreciate it. I really do,” she says. “But I’ve had enough.”

Then it hits my thoughtless French brain. Suddenly, as if a big rock fell on my stupid little head.

“Oh, K. Burke. I am sorry. I am awful and stupid. I am sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” she says. “It was a wonderful night. It is a beautiful ring. This is the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had.”

Then I find the courage to say what I should say.

“Forgive me, Katherine. I gave you a night of glamour without the romance that should accompany it. Forgive me.” She smiles at me.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Moncrief. You’re terrific. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

 

Epilogue

NEW YEAR’S EVE

NEW YORK CITY

IF I REALLY wanted to stretch the truth, I could say that my partner K. Burke and I are spending New Year’s Eve at the Plaza Hotel. But as I say, that would be stretching the truth. A lot.

The fact is, the two of us are spending New Year’s Eve in the underground loading alley under the kitchens of the Plaza Hotel.

It seems that our boss, Inspector Nick Elliott, wanted to bring us back to reality after our time in Paris. So Burke and I are on a drug stakeout in the repugnant, disgusting garbage zone beneath the fancy hotel. We are waiting for a potential “chalk drop.” That’s cop-talk for a major delivery of methamphetamine, a fairly wicked drug for some of the New Year’s Eve revelers.

The smell of garbage, the whip of the winter wind, and the knowledge that most of New York is dancing the night away does nothing to relieve our boredom. And as with most stakeouts, the boredom is excruciating.

“So this is how it goes, right, Moncrief?” Burke says. “A week ago we were on top of the Eiffel Tower. Tonight we’re in a hole under the Plaza.”

I laugh and say, “That’s life. Even for a rich kid.” I pause for a moment as I watch a rat scurry past us. Then I say, “You know, K. Burke, the truth is, I am enjoying this surveillance routine almost as much as—but not quite as much as—our Christmas Eve in Paris. Simply put, I love doing detective work. Can you believe that?”

She does not hesitate. She says, “Yes, Moncrief. I can believe that.”

Before I can even smile there is a great eruption of firecrackers and noisemakers and the noise of people shouting with joy.

“Listen closely, Moncrief. You can hear the music,” Burke says.

She is right. From somewhere inside the hotel the orchestra is playing “Auld Lang Syne.”

I lean in and kiss her on her cheek.

“Happy New Year, K. Burke,” I say.

She leans in and kisses me on my cheek. She speaks.

“Happy New Year, my friend.”