The room was filled with the heady scent of roses past
their prime. Pink petals fell from swollen hl0ssoms in a
Chinese bowl onto the polished surface 6f an ormolu
escritoire. Although it was day, rose-shaded lamps were
lit, and curtains of the same hue, drawn for the mght
in voluminous folds, remained closed. The bed had been
rested upon, but not slept in, its rose-colored linens still pris-
tine and uncreased. A vermeil clock, unwound too long, had
ceased to tick; a radio, left on too long, had lost its tonal
focus.
Lying on the floor, face down on the rose border of an
Aubusson rug, was a golden-haired woman in a satin-and-lace
nightgown. She was dead. More than a day dead. Perhaps
even two.
Had she been alive, she would have told you, whether you
asked her or not, that the Chinese bowl had once belonged
to Magda Lupescu; that the escritoire had once belonged to
Marie Antoinette; that the vermeil clock had been given to
the Empress Elizabeth of Austria by the~fi~ad King Ludwig of
Bavaria; that the Aubusson rug was a gift of the Belgian court
to the Empress Carlotta of Mexico. That they were ill-fated
women was of less consequence to the deceased than the sense
of luster she acquired when repeating the history of her pos-
sessions.
The dead woman s name was Ann Grenville. Leaning
against a wall of her bedroom was the infamous portrait by
Salvador Dali that had so deeply offended her on its comple-
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