Chapter 4
4
“Hurry it up, CeCe,” Magnus muttered in her earpiece. “We’re running out of time.”
This entire plan was flying right off the rails in front of her eyes, but she was going to make it off Princess Astrid’s balcony with some royal jewels. Except the pouring rain made it difficult to get a decent grip on the rope attached to her grappling hook. She looked down, but in the dark it was hard to see how far she hung above the cobblestone pavement.
Raindrops splattered her face through her ski mask, essentially waterboarding her, as she glanced up at the precarious hook. “I’m coming,” she muttered. “The power is out. No one from the building can see me.”
“For now,” Lawrence said. “The front desk is going to alert security if they haven’t already. Santiago, stand by.”
“I’m not leaving,” said their getaway driver. He was in a small motorboat this time, waiting in the river down below. “But the water is getting choppy, CeCe, step it up.”
“I’m coming,” Celeste said with more force. With the velvet jewelry box tucked under her arm, she shimmied down the rope as fast as she could without shifting the hook above her. She was getting closer to the ground but needed to move past three more balconies. In the darkness, she landed in front of one patio window just as a flash of light pierced the night. The white beam caught her off guard with its brightness, causing her to flinch. Someone with a flashlight illuminated her.
“She’s been spotted,” Magnus said.
“Hold on,” she whispered, sliding down the rope. This would have to be a sharper descent than she wanted, but it was better than getting shot by security. She blew out a shaky breath before tightening her elbows at her sides and loosening her grip.
One balcony, two...three...
“Oof!” she grunted as her feet made impact with pavement. “Fuuuuck.” Pain shot through her ankle as she sank to her knees.
“CeCe.” A new voice came over the airwaves, low and urgent. Doris. “Do you have the package?”
With her hands gripping the wet cobblestones, she breathed through the sharp pain before answering. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
“Are you okay though?” Magnus asked sharply. “That drop was too fast.”
She couldn’t respond to his panicked question because she was almost afraid to test her legs. At the very least, she sprained her ankle. Her mind scrambled as she tried to ignore the throbbing in her left foot.
“She’s fine,” Doris said. “Get up, CeCe.”
That’s all she needed to hear. She was getting out of there with the package. The team was counting on her. Doris was counting on her. Celeste carefully drew herself up from the ground. She took a hold of the rope and lassoed the hook from the balcony above. By the grace of God, its metal latch landed a couple feet from where she stood.
“For Christ’s sake, what are you doing?” Magnus asked in a frightened voice.
Celeste quickly wound the rope as she hobbled toward the embankment across the street. “I don’t want authorities to collect more evidence than they need.” Waiting eight feet below the concrete edge, she spotted Santiago and Magnus approaching her in the boat. But there was no metal ladder for her to climb down and no safe way to jump into the small inflatable vessel. “I’m going to toss you the box.”
“Wait a second,” Santiago said as he steered the boat. “I can’t drop anchor, so you need to get it right.”
“Hurry up,” she hissed. When they were close enough and she saw Magnus standing, arms outstretched, she said a little prayer and tossed a 6.7 million-dollar jewelry box in the darkness.
“Shit!” Magnus cursed.
Celeste didn’t have to guess what happened because seconds later, a soft splash could be heard over the pouring rain. Her heart dropped as time stood still.
“What’s happening?” Doris asked. Her voice sounded hushed this time as if she already knew the answer.
Blood pounded in her ears as Magnus muttered the same curse.
Desperation was the only thing that got Celeste moving. They had not come all the way to Stockholm, broken into a royal member’s condo and stolen nineteenth-century jewels to fail this hard. “I’m going in,” she said, and foolishly jumped into the river.
Cold water rushed up her body and blackness enveloped her. The last thing she heard before her earpiece died was Magnus shouting, “God, noooo!”
Celeste awoke with a violent start, grasping at air and tangled in her silk sheets. Sweat-covered and chest heaving, she looked frantically around her surroundings before willing herself to breathe slower. Slipper satin-white walls, teak dressers from Thailand, cherrywood floors and her bed. She was in her bed. Five years after the bungled heist she had the misfortune of participating in.
The morning after meeting the man who ruined that night.
Magnus Larsson hadn’t been in her dreams for years. She let out a halted breath as she ran her hands through her short curly hair but touched sharp metal and stones instead. Celeste patted around her head, realizing she’d slept in the tiara she stole last night, and let out a relieved laugh. The sound echoed in her bedroom, reminding her she was alive and had beaten Magnus.
Alcohol was the only reason she thought it was a good idea to sleep in a diamond-and-pearl tiara instead of a satin bonnet. When she and Beatrice returned to her Harlem brownstone last night, Celeste thought it prudent the young woman spend the night instead of making her way back home to Williamsburg. So they broke out the champagne to celebrate and settle their nerves. One round turned to two. Two rounds turned to two bottles.
Once Celeste’s blood pressure seemed to return to normal, she crawled out of bed and padded to her bathroom. In the large mirror, a puffy face with red eyes squinted back at her. A kid like Beatrice could probably bounce back from champagne hangovers, but not Celeste. Regardless of her rumpled appearance, the crown did look divine.
She eyed it with a grin, beating back the sadness of having to break it up. She hated the idea of destroying the platinum frame, but knew it was for the best. If her usual fencer, Dieter, couldn’t find the appropriate buyer, he would refuse to move it while still intact.
It was time to move on. That was what Doris had taught her...
Laurels are just leafy crowns; why in the hell would I want to rest on them? Girl, you better rest when you’re dead. Ain’t rest for the wicked anyhow.
Celeste couldn’t help her chuckle as she quickly brushed her teeth and washed the remainder of the makeup from her eyes. Dr. Doris Grant’s phrases often popped into her mind when she worked, constant reminders to stay vigilant. The woman had taught her for nearly twenty years to be the thief she is today. If she were still speaking to Doris, the old woman would have scolded the way she handled herself last night. Soon, she thought back to her Stockholm dream.
She had to assume seeing Magnus triggered the memories. She hadn’t had dreams of nearly drowning in at least three years. Back then, she frequently woke up breathing hard and frantic for light. The story never moved past the point of her jumping into the cold black water. She never dreamed of Magnus pulling her into the boat, waking up to his angry expression. Just when she thought she’d put him, that job and even Doris in her past, everything came rushing back into Victor Sanderson’s penthouse like cold brackish water down her throat.
Ding-dong!
The front doorbell blared through her recollections, making her flinch. Celeste hurried back into her bedroom to the monitor on her nightstand. She pressed the touch screen, revealing the surveillance image of her front stoop. A young bike messenger stood outside her door, lank brown hair hanging from his helmet and a bored expression on his face.
She pressed the speaker function. “Yes?”
“Parcel for...” He looked down at a yellow manila folder. “CeCe St. Pierre? I need a signature.”
Celeste’s heart stuttered in her chest. “Coming.”
A million clashing thoughts ran through her mind as she made her way downstairs. She met a disheveled Beatrice on the ground floor, who appeared to have found a blanket and slept on the couch instead of a guest room. “Who is that?” she grumbled from the couch.
“Bike messenger,” she called over her shoulder.
When she opened the front door, the guy looked up from his phone. “Hey,” she breathed.
He frowned as he stared at the top of her head. “Pretty fancy for the morning, huh?”
Shit.
She was still wearing the damned tiara...
Celeste let out a good-natured laugh as she took the manila envelope. “It’s never too early in the morning for a tea party with the kids! Signature?”
“Uh, yeah, right.” He produced an electric signing pad that she quickly scrawled on. “Have a good one.”
“You, too!” she said, closing the door on him.
“Whadja get?” Beatrice called out from the living room.
Celeste’s shoulders sagged as she pushed away from the door. “I don’t know. You want some coffee?”
“Yes, and a gallon of water.”
“Coming up,” she murmured, walking to the kitchen. Her hands shook as she tore open the top of the envelope. CeCe wasn’t a name respectable people called her. When attending auction appraisals, she was called Dr. St. Pierre. Celeste, if people thought they were familiar. CeCe was from another time.
She slipped a beautiful oxblood-red envelope from the package, heavy with quality cardstock and bright gold embossed script: CeCe...
Celeste didn’t want to open it, already aware of its weight. Somehow, she knew its contents would herald terrible news. But her hands moved without her brain’s permission, fingers carefully separating the folds and confronting a vellum sheath of paper. She recognized the script immediately; its dramatic loops and reckless dashes crawled along the page.
Celeste:
If you’re reading this letter, then I am quite dead, my dear.
Dead, but not resting. That was never an option.
When the dying still possess regrets, we only have one option: perform beyond the grave with elaborate machinations that delight and annoy the living. I might have regrets, my dear, but I also have surprises. And you ...have no time nor tears to waste. Come to my home, meet with Lawrence. He’ll give you the details of my delightful machinations.
Sincerely, Dr. Doris Grant
P.S. I know I’ve told a number of fanciful tales in the past, but I am really, truly and honestly quite dead.
Celeste closed her eyes and laid the letter on her granite countertop. The urge to slump over and rest her warm cheek against the cold surface was strong. Instead, a noise bubbled in her chest and escaped her throat, piercing the silence of the kitchen. The sound of laughter shocked her, but she couldn’t stop the reflex.
“Oh, God,” she whispered through giggles. “Oh, my God.”
She couldn’t trace which emotion set off the laughter. She felt anxious, profound sadness and shock, but all of it was wrapped in so much absurdity, Celeste didn’t know how else to react.
“What’s so funny?” Beatrice asked from the kitchen entrance. The young woman scratched at the scalp beneath her box braids as she yawned.
“My mentor is dead,” Celeste said, wiping tears from her eyes. Another hysterical peal of laughter escaped her as she nodded to the red letter. “She sent a letter telling me she’s dead.”
Beatrice’s face fell as she looked from the letter to Celeste. “What? Who’s your mentor? When did she die? Is there a funeral?”
Celeste shook her head while pulling a canister of coffee from the cabinet. “Highly doubtful,” she scoffed. “She’ll most likely be cremated.”
Her assistant approached her the way someone might approach a wounded animal, warily. “Are you okay?”
“Ooh, girl...okay? I don’t know about all that,” Celeste said, dumping several spoonfuls of grounds into her machine. “Between Magnus and this? Check the fridge for creamer. I haven’t been to the store in a minute. In fact, I don’t even know how old this coffee is.”
“Celeste.”
She looked up to find Beatrice standing right beside her, hands hovering as if she wasn’t sure if she should make physical contact. “What?”
“Do you want a hug? Do you need to cry?” she asked.
Celeste woodenly wrapped an arm around the girl and patted her back with an efficiency that probably shocked Beatrice. “No tears, honey.” She turned the coffeemaker on and moved away to find clean mugs. “That much was in the letter. Doris says I don’t need tears for this occasion.”