Vigil

by Robert Masello

  “You mind if I put the music back on? It helps me concentrate.”

  “Go ahead,” Carter said. At least if the boombox was blaring, he figured, Mitchell wouldn’t keep trying to talk to him.

  At the Raleigh Gallery on East Fifty-seventh Street, the buyers—a smattering of Europeans (two of them titled), a couple of Asian tycoons, and a handful of assorted plutocrats—were milling around the main salon. But the one that Beth kept her eye on wasn’t rich at all in his own right. He was the curator from the Getty Museum in L.A. The others could certainly decide to buy something, you never could tell, but the Getty representative, with a hefty annual budget, was pretty much obliged to spend some of it—and the works on sale at the Raleigh were just the sort of thing that the Getty generally liked to acquire. Although there were a few good oils—a Salvator Rosa, in particular—most of the items were Old Master drawings, including several Titians, and it took a real connoisseur to understand just how exquisite and valuable they were.

  “So, what’s the deal with this one?” said a youngish guy, nodding toward one of the Titian studies depicting a man’s head with eyes closed, shrouded as if for burial. Beth turned to him—he had a full face, innocent of wisdom, and a blond buzz cut. This had to be one of those guys who’d escaped from Silicon Valley with his fortune intact. There still were some around.

  “It’s a late Titian—”

  “He’s an Italian, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She could see his eyes glint with pride. “From the region around Venice.”

  “Is the guy in the picture dead?”

  “No, he’s in prayer. It’s the Emperor Charles V, who commissioned a painting from Titian of the Last Judgment. On his own initiative, Titian included the emperor and his family in the painting. This is a study he did for it.”

  “It’s nice,” the buzz cut pronounced. “What’s the price for it?”

  Although she knew without looking, Beth opened her leather-bound brochure and pretended to look it up. She could feel his eyes looking her over as she ran her finger down the exhibition list. “The asking price is $250,000.”

  The buzz cut didn’t blink.

  “The Last Judgment,” she continued, “is one of Titian’s most famous and moving works. If you would like, I can ask the owner of the gallery to come over and speak to you about it, and about this drawing in particular.”

  “No,” he said, looking back at her. “I’d rather talk to you.”

  What a surprise.

  “My name’s Bradley Hoyt,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Beth Cox,” she said, taking it.

  “I like it a lot, Beth, but I’d never buy anything without having my own people take a look at it first.”

  “I understand completely,” she said, retrieving her hand. “We can set up a private showing anytime. Or, if you’d prefer, we can arrange to have the piece transported to your own experts.”

  “Nah, that’s okay, I can have them come to you. You here all the time?”

  She smiled. “Most of it, I’m afraid.”

  “Where are you when you’re not here?”

  Now was the time to nip this in the bud. “Home. With my husband.”

  “Yeah, I saw the ring. But if you have to see a client about a purchase this big, you can get away for a few hours, to consult—right?”

  “We can open the gallery anytime.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of lunch at the Stanhope. Or dinner.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not comfortable taking a piece this valuable out of the gallery on my own.”

  “You don’t need to—I’ve already seen the piece.”

  Beth closed her leather book. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Hoyt. It’s been very nice meeting you, but I’m afraid there’s someone else who’s also expressed interest in the drawing.”

  She turned around and went over to the Getty curator, who looked at her over his half-glasses and said, in a low voice, “You can’t sell the Judgment study to that cretin—it would be a crime.”

  Beth suppressed a laugh.

  “You haven’t done that, have you?” he asked.

  “No, not yet. Can I sell it to the Getty, instead?”

  He took off his glasses and slipped them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Let’s talk.”

  “Yes,” she said, with relief, “let’s do that—for just as long as you can stand it.”

  FOUR

  The first thing Kimberly thought when she awoke the next morning was that it had been a success. The dinner party for the mayor had been a big success.

  The second thought she had was, Ezra. He’d come back from Israel, he’d moved his stuff into the rooms he’d grown up in, and now she had no idea how long he planned to stay there. The shorter his stay, the better, but she couldn’t afford to be too obvious about her feelings. Even though Ezra’s relationship with his dad was strained, and as far as she could tell it had been that way for years, he was his only son, and blood was thicker than water. She’d have to tread carefully.

  Sam came out of his closet, tightening the knot on his tie—the yellow silk Sulka she’d bought him last week—and, for Sam, he looked good. Bespoke blue suit, gleaming burgundy shoes, neatly folded pocket square to match the tie. She’d done everything she could do with him, but there was still only so far her talents could take him; he was still short, bald, and nearly thirty years older than she was. Every time he touched her, she was reminded that his fingers were short and stubby, too.

  “Ezra up yet?” he asked.

  “How would I know? I’m not up myself.” It came out sharper than she meant it to.

  “I’m just asking a question.”

  Temper, she thought to herself, temper. She smiled and threw back the Egyptian cotton sheet. “Don’t worry about Ezra. I’ll make sure he has everything he needs.”

  “Whatever that is.” Sam stood beside the bed, looking down at her, as she knew he would. Her hair, which Franck kept a perfect auburn color, was spread out on the pillows, and her breasts were barely concealed by the lacy black teddy she slept in.

  “What are you doing today?” he asked.

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.” Though she had. “Maybe I’ll have lunch with Janine.” They had a twelve-thirty reservation at Le Cirque.

  Sam snorted; he didn’t like Janine. But then, he didn’t like any of her friends that he’d met so far. Lord knows what he’d say, she thought, if he met some of the ones she’d been keeping under wraps. It was time to change the tenor of this exchange. With one hand, she languidly touched the front of his trousers.

  “Do you have to leave right this minute?” she purred.

  “I’ve got a site inspection in the Village in forty-five minutes.”

  But she could tell, just from his tone of voice, that she’d already won. “You’re the boss. They can wait.”

  He stood there as she rolled onto her side and began to unzip him. Her fingers were as adept as a lacemaker’s. When she noticed him rock back slightly onto his heels and audibly inhale, she knew she had him—and if she were lucky, she’d be done with the whole ordeal in three minutes flat.

  After Sam left, Kimberly called Janine to confirm lunch—Sam was right about one thing, Janine was scatterbrained—then flicked on the TV set in her dressing area and listened to one of the morning news shows while she bathed and put herself together. With Sam gone for the day, she had only Ezra, still in the house, to deal with, somehow. As she sat in her robe doing her makeup, she wondered exactly what the young scion—it was a word she’d just learned and she liked to say it in company, with a kind of knowing wink—was doing back in New York. The whole thing had been shrouded in some mystery—one minute he was safely out of the picture, working at some institute in Israel where his father had pull (where didn’t he?), and the next he was bailing out of the Middle East altogether and returning on the next plane. She’d overheard Sam shouting at his secretary on the phone, telling her to get t
he ambassador on the phone and to book Ezra on the next flight out of Tel Aviv, wherever the hell it was going. He shouted a lot, but not usually at his secretary.

  And Kimberly had had such great plans for those two rooms Ezra was once again occupying. They’d have made the perfect nursery suite.

  Well, nothing was set in stone, she told herself again. Things could still go her way.

  After putting the finishing touches on her face, she picked an outfit from her well-stocked closet—a cream-colored blouse and bone-gray pencil skirt, both from Jean Paul Gaultier—tucked her feet into some modestly high heels (she was already taller than Sam, so she tried to keep her footwear within reason), and left the master suite.

  There was no sign of Ezra in the living room, the salon, the library, the den, or even in the dining room, where Gertrude, the elderly housekeeper, was putting the silver candelabra back in its usual spot on the table.

  “Have you seen Ezra?” Kimberly asked.

  “He’s having breakfast. He’s lost weight.”

  Kimberly hadn’t ever seen enough of him to say, but she couldn’t have cared less, either way. “Thanks.” She started to leave the room, then stopped just long enough to say, “Maybe that silver should be polished again before it’s put back.”

  Gertrude paused—for a second, Kimberly thought she was about to say something—then silently took the candelabra back off the table and left the room with it.

  That makes two people, Kimberly thought, that I’d like to get out of here.

  She found Ezra in the breakfast nook, huddled over a bagel and cream cheese, juice, and coffee. It was a sunny day, and the view of the East River, far below, and Queens beyond that, went on forever. It never failed to cross Kimberly’s mind that from here she could actually look out and over the tenement she’d first lived in when she came to New York, with her Miss Milwaukee crown still in her duffel bag.

  “Morning, Ezra,” she said, brightly. “Sleep well?”

  “Yes, very well.”

  He didn’t look it. He hadn’t shaved, there were bags under his eyes, and for a guy who’d been in the Middle East for years—wasn’t it hot and sunny there?—his skin had an unhealthy pallor. To Kimberly, he looked like he’d been living under a rock.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” he said, but his expression indicated otherwise.

  Not that Kimberly wanted to go through this exercise, either. But if she was going to make friends with this . . . scion, and find out just what was going on, this was as good a time as any.

  “Did you see your father this morning before he left?”

  “For a few minutes. He said we’d talk tonight.”

  Kimberly sat down at the little glass table, and when Gertrude came back in, she asked her where the cook was.

  “The party went so late last night, I told her she could come in at noon.”

  “Oh, then I guess I’ll have to ask you to make me my usual—a small bowl of granola, with fresh fruit, plain yogurt, and black coffee.”

  “You want something more, Ezra?” Gertrude asked, pointedly. “Maybe some eggs, the way you used to like them, with matzoh crumbled in?”

  Kimberly wasn’t stupid—she knew this delay was a subtle act of defiance—but she also knew enough to keep her mouth shut for the moment.

  “Thanks, Gertrude, but I’m fine,” Ezra said, and Gertrude finally turned, her long black skirt swirling around her fat ankles, and went into the adjoining kitchen. Kimberly could still hear her bustling around in there, and even that annoyed her.

  “I’m so glad you were able to say hello to the mayor last night. He’s such a funny man, when he’s able to just relax with friends. But we’ll have other dinner parties, and you’ll get to know him.”

  Ezra nodded, noncommittally, and sipped his coffee.

  “So,” Kimberly said, looking for a way in, “with everyone here last night, we really didn’t get a chance to visit. What made you decide to come back to New York now?”

  Ezra’s eyes shifted toward the window, and for a few seconds he said nothing at all. “My work was done in Israel.”

  Since Kimberly had no firm idea what that work was, and wasn’t really interested anyway, she let that slide. “Are you planning to stay here—I mean, New York—for good now?

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “You know you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you want to,” she said. “Your father, I know, is very happy to have you back.”

  Gertrude came in with a lacquered tray on which she’d arranged Kimberly’s breakfast. She placed the tray on the table and turned to go back toward the kitchen, but Kimberly stopped her.

  “Oh, I don’t think we eat off trays in this house,” she said. “Could you just put the things on the table, please?”

  Gertrude turned around again and took the granola bowl, the yogurt, and the coffee off the tray and set them down on the table. Looking past Kimberly and at Ezra, the old woman said, “I’m going to do some marketing later. Do you still like those Little Schoolboy cookies? I can get some.”

  “Sure,” Ezra said. “I haven’t had those in ages.”

  How long, Kimberly wondered, would she have to put up with these little stunts? She’d made over Sam as best she could, but his household was another thing; all these old family servants—Gertrude, the cook Trina, that chauffeur Uncle Maury—it was like living in some village out of one of those old Frankenstein movies. When she went to her friends’ houses—her new friends, that was—they had servants who wore proper uniforms, and knew how to serve, and how to behave. She was not only uncomfortable around this staff, but also, she had to admit, a little bit afraid of them. When they spoke Yiddish, or whatever it was, while she was right there in the room with them, she knew darn well they were talking about her.

  Time, she thought, to cut to the chase. “Ezra,” she said, smoothing her napkin over her taut lap, “have you ever considered working for your dad?” It was her private nightmare. “Would you like me to talk to him about it for you?” She suspected it was Ezra’s worst nightmare, too.

  Ezra looked at her, and she knew he could see right through her. But that didn’t bother her all that much—their cards had pretty much been on the table from the start. Even as the first Mrs. Metzger was going downhill at Sloan-Kettering, Kimberly had been seeing Sam, and Ezra had found out about it. She could explain a lot of it, how she’d tried to get Sam to wait, how she’d never felt right about it, how the whole thing had just sort of happened (well, maybe she did give it a push now and then, like that time she’d pretended that her boss at the ad agency had demanded that Sam himself okay some layouts, which had allowed her to stop by his apartment, on a night when she just happened to be dressed to kill), but what good would that do now? It was ancient history. And frankly, none of it was any of Ezra’s damn business, anyway. It was time he got over it and grew up.

  “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” Ezra said, and she wondered if he meant working for his dad, or letting her feel out the situation for him. “I’ve never been very interested in real estate.”

  “So, what are you interested in, then? What do you want to do now that you’re back in America?”

  “Continue with my work.”

  That again. “And what is that, exactly?”

  “Research.”

  “And you can do that research here? You don’t need to go back to Israel, or someplace?”

  “No.”

  Kimberly’s heart sank. This kid—the exact same age as her brother Wayne, though Wayne could cream him with a single punch—might be planning to hang around the house indefinitely. And that was going to put more than a crimp in her style; if she wasn’t careful, it was going to put a major dent.

  “Oh, wow,” she said, “that’s some news.”

  Ezra gave her a wry smile, and said, “I bet it is.”

  FIVE

  This afternoon, the atmosphere in the lab was more to Carter’s likin
g. No Bill Mitchell, no Eminem on the boombox, no one else hogging the electron microscope. Carter was seldom happier than when he had something new to study, to analyze and classify and figure out what it was. Even when he was a kid, he’d been that way. The day he knew his calling in life was the day his parents built a family room onto the back of the house, and the bulldozer, which had just dug a deep trench as part of the foundation, scooped up a rusty spoon and some bone shards from the earth. You’d have thought it had come up with rubies and pearls. Carter, ten years old at the time, raced to school the next morning to show the specimens to the science teacher, who had been singularly unimpressed. But his classmates had shared in his enthusiasm—especially when he suggested to them that the bones were old enough to be a dinosaur’s (never mind where the spoon came from)—and from that day forward, he’d had the nickname “Bones.” That’s what his friends had started to call him, and he’d actually kind of liked it; even now he knew that his students sometimes referred to him among themselves as Professor Bones.

  The specimens that had been sent to him for identification were a hodgepodge—no wonder the university wanted some help—and whoever had donated the collection must have assembled them in a variety of ways. One was indeed a fossilized fragment of jawbone from a Smilodon—the aptly named saber-toothed cat of the Ice Age—and most of the others were fragments of saurian tibia and tarsal. Not badly preserved as fossils go, but also nothing to write home about. Another hour or two and Carter could finish the job, complete his report, and move on to more challenging work.

  As long as the phone stopped ringing.

  It had rung earlier, and kept ringing, but Carter hadn’t stopped working to answer it. The only person who knew he was there was the department secretary, and she’d just take a message for him and leave it in his in-box—along with the mail that he just remembered he hadn’t picked up for three days.

  Now it was ringing again, and although he wanted to let it go—it was probably just Bill Mitchell, checking to see if anyone else was in the lab, moving ahead of him on the tenure track—he knew it would only ring again, ten minutes later, and break his concentration all over again. He got up from the stool, stretched, and walked across the room to the wall phone. He got it on the fifth or sixth ring.