"Less," Fairey was forced to admit, but quickly assured her: "I'll see to it that their boss is informed. That should shake them up."
"I'm afraid talking about it won't be enough. It's action that counts, Sheldon. Action! I suggest you fire the entire lot and hire new ones."
"Fire the—" he stammered, looking stricken.
"The entire lot." Dina was unrelenting.
"Very well," he sighed.
Dina turned around to Gaby, who was standing right behind her. "You are making a note of that, Gaby?"
"Sure am!" Gaby assured her, not quite able to hide her smirk.
It was all Sheldon D. Fairey could do to grit his teeth and bear it. From his expression, it was clear he'd rather be anywhere but here. In Timbuktu—or, better yet, lost on an ice floe somewhere. Anywhere would have been preferable, so long as thousands of miles separated him from Dina Goldsmith.
In Burghley's Basement, the low-ceilinged, downstairs arcade where a gamut of items ranging from silver to paintings to furnishings were auctioned off every Sunday for customers requiring quick cash, Dina's head swiveled slowly in all directions.
"Sheldon, dear? Don't you agree that the lighting down here is ... well ... a bit too garish? I mean, how on earth can we expect people to place respectable bids on items when every chip and crack practically screams at them? Just look at this piece of Export porcelain!"
She glared at the offending item.
"It looks like junk under these lights! Would you want to buy it?" And before he could utter a reply, she turned to her secretary. "Are you getting it down, Gaby?"
"Word for word!" came the cheerful reply.
As they continued their tour, Dina didn't let up for an instant. She was making up for every slight she had ever suffered from Sheldon D. Fairey—and then some.
At the sales counter upstairs, where books and catalogues from each of the various Burghley's branches were on sale, Dina said, "Sheldon? Are three girls behind that one small counter really necessary? I'd prune them down to two at the most! Staff is our biggest overhead, and cost effectiveness means extra profits, you know. And while you're at it, you might see to it that the staff smiles and welcomes potential customers. If you ask me, those young ladies are altogether too snooty and arrogant. Burghley's must be made to seem less imposing and intimidating—and that starts with the staff!"
"I'm getting it down," came Gaby's voice from behind.
In the soaring auditorium that was the main auction gallery proper, Dina's fluid sweep of a hand encompassed the rows of chairs lined up to either side of the wide center aisle.
"Me ... tal folding chairs?" she intoned, a mere arching of an eyebrow emphasizing her distaste. "Really, Sheldon. It's obvious you've never had to sit on one of those for two or three hours. Believe me, I have. Clients who sit here for the privilege of bidding thousands, even millions,of dollars on furniture and works of art deserve chairs more appropriate to their station." She gave him a saccharine smile. "You do agree, don't you?"
"We haven't had any complaints thus far," Fairey ventured stiffly.
"Be that as it may," she said airily, "the more comfortable the seat, the longer a client is apt to stay. And the longer he or she stays, the more likely they are to bid on items they hadn't even considered!"
Dina turned to Gaby, who, suppressing a snide grin, was scratching away in her notepad.
Next, Sheldon D. Fairey escorted Dina to the conference room, which was sheathed in seventeenth-century, Louis XIV boiserie. Surely, he thought, this was the one place where she couldn't find fault with anything.
How wrong he was.
Dina, after doing an eyesweep of the room in general, advanced on the nearest of the twenty-four identical giltwood armchairs which surrounded the twenty-foot-long conference table, and inspected the chair closely. It was splendidly symmetrical and voluptuously wide and deep, with a cartouche-formed backrest, serpentine-fronted seat, and ancient, rust-colored velvet upholstery.
"Why, my goodness!" she gasped. "Unless my eyes deceive me, and I don't believe they do, I could swear these are all authentic Chippendale!"
"Actually, they're not," sniffed Sheldon D. Fairey, immensely pleased to be able to show off his superior knowledge. "They are George III, circa ... oh, 1770 or thereabouts."
"Hmm. George III ..." Dina ran an admiring hand along one of the smooth, richly carved backs. "That should make them exceedingly valuable."
"Oh, I'd appraise their market value at somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five and thirty-five thousand dollars per pair," he said offhandedly. "You must agree they really are quite, quite exceptional. Museum quality, to say the least."
Dina did some instant mental computations and gasped. "Why, that means the entire set is worth anywhere between six hundred to eight hundred and forty thousand dollars!"
Fairey nodded. "Somewhere in that vicinity, yes," he murmured.
Knitting her brows together, she cocked her head sideways and frowned. "Are they here on consignment?"
"Consignment!" He allowed himself a soft chuckle. "Good heavens, no! As a matter of public trust and honor, consigned items are never lent, borrowed, or in any way used while in our temporary custody. No, Burghley's happens to own these outright. Has, for well over a century, I believe."
A cloud flitted across Dina's picture-perfect features. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Sheldon, but what you're telling me is that they're a corporate asset. No?"
"Oh, indeed they are!"
Her features hardened. "Well, not anymore, they aren't, at least not if I have any say in the matter. I suggest they're sold and replaced with copies at once! Really! Employees have absolutely no business sitting on such priceless treasures!"
"B-but they've been in Burghley's possession since eighteen—"
"So?" Dina widened her aquamarine eyes. "They also happen to be among Burghley's assets, and as such are, in your very own words, very, very valuable. Too valuable, I should think, to just sit here gathering dust. I see that I shall have to bring this matter up with Mr. Goldsmith at once."
Fairey, his face reddening and puffing, looked as though he was on the verge of spontaneous human combustion.
"Gaby?"
"It's down," cackled Gaby, happily scribbling away.
Fairey eyed the twenty-four precious chairs morosely; then, since Dina had him over a barrel, he expelled a noisy breath. "They'll be in the next Fine English Furniture auction," he decreed.
Dina smiled brilliantly and hooked a chumlike arm through his.
"I knew you'd see it my way, Sheldon, dear!" she cooed. "Didn't I tell you we'd get along famously? It's so simple. I tell you what to do, you agree with me, and there's no problem. Right?"
And turning, she winked at Gaby, whose face wore a malicious crocodilelike smile.
Finally, back out on the sidewalk beside her waiting limousine, Dina turned to Fairey and said, "Oh, and one more thing, Sheldon, dear." She wasn't about to ride off into the exhaust fumes without giving his balls one final, departing squeeze.
"You do remember my Toulouse-Lautrec? The very one you sold me right here at Burghley's, and whose authenticity you afterward questioned at my home?"
Sheldon D. Fairey went red as a beet. Swallowing miserably, he cursed himself for ever having opened his mouth.
"Well, to ensure that nothing like that every occurs again—at least not here at Burghley's—I want you to consider the matter of vetting every single item this establishment sells. You will bring that to the attention of the executive staff. Won't you?"
He murmured that he would.
"You do that," she said. And giving him a long, hard look, she started to duck into the white stretch limo before changing her mind, stepping back out, and turning to him once again. "Oh, and one last thing," she said in treacly tones, as though it had just occurred to her.
He raised his eyebrows dutifully. "Yes, Mrs. Goldsmith?"
"Doesn't Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen sit on Burghley's advi
sory board?"
"Actually, he is on the board of directors."
"Which one? Burghley's North America? Or Burghley's Holdings?"
"Burghley's Holdings," he replied, referring to the auction house's worldwide operations.
Looking thoughtful, she tapped her lips and said, "I see. I shall want to meet him sometime."
"I shall pass along the message," Fairey promised her. "In fact, I'll do so at his birthday party this very evening."
Dina felt her stomach contract. The Sheldon D. Fairey's had been invited to the prince's birthday party! And Robert and I haven't? She decided to remedy this oversight at once. She was, after all, the new Queen of Manhattan. As such, it was time to wield her power and make her presence felt.
"Sheldon, dear," she said in a voice as smooth as velvet, "the moment you get back to your office, I just know you'll pick up the telephone, talk to Prince Karl-Heinz, and secure an invitation for Robert and myself. Isn't that right?"
He looked positively apoplectic. "I ... er ... I'll see what I can do," he murmured, fidgeting uncomfortably with his collar, which suddenly felt exceedingly tight.
She smiled sweetly. "Oh, I know you will, Sheldon! I just know you will! I'll expect invitations for Robert and myself to be messengered to our apartment within the—no. On second thought ..." Once again, she tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail against her perfectly glowing lips. "We have a houseguest, so you'd better make that an invitation for three ... no, four; since our guest is a lady who will require an escort."
"I ... I'll get on it right away," he sputtered.
"Of course you will, sweetie!" And with that, she threw him a kiss before ducking into her limousine, secure in the knowledge that he would move heaven and earth to accommodate her.
Taking a cue from her boss, Gaby eyeballed him with a long hard look of her own before piling in after her.
"Home," Dina gaily instructed her chauffeur, and within moments the limousine eased smoothly away from the curb and merged into the dense uptown traffic.
Chapter 6
Lunch was Mr. Spotts's treat. He insisted upon La Caravelle.
"My last cholesterol splurge," he sighed sadly as the captain led them past the murals and seated them at a red velvet banquette along the wall of mirrors. "Today, I say the hell with those doctors! I am going to have my usual terrine de foie gras followed by poularde rotie a l'ail doux, and top it all off with a frozen cassis mousse in a ring of apple slivers, not to mention a nice vintage bottle of Chateau Margaux. If my heart gives out from all that pleasure, then so be it. At least I shall have had the satisfaction of dying quite contentedly."
When the appetizers came, Kenzie pushed her chair de crabe Caravelle desultorily around on her plate. That the mass of fresh crab meat with cognac dressing, caviar, and lobster roe was a symphony for the taste buds made absolutely no difference to her. She had simply lost her appetite at the news of Mr. Spotts's forced retirement—all the more so, since on the way over to the restaurant, he had dropped the bombshell that today would be his very last day at Burghley's.
She was still in a state of shock.
Mr. Spotts frowned at Arnold Li, who was picking at his truffle- studded foie gras with an equal lack of enthusiasm.
"Young man, the way you are eating that is really quite, quite unforgivable," said Mr. Spotts with a gesture of his fork. "Unless, of course, it is inedible, in which case I shall have to summon the waiter and register a complaint."
Arnold shook his head. "You know that's not it," he said tightly, putting down his fork, the tines resting, inverted, on the edge of his plate. He leaned across the table. "It's just that we can't imagine the department getting along without you!"
"Well, you two had better get along without me, Mr. Li." Mr. Spotts paused, smiling acidly, and righteously lifted a stern, crooked pinkie finger in that learned way of his. "Otherwise, that blonde nincompoop named for a Disney cartoon will see to it that our department's most precious asset, its reputation—in short, everything—will go right down the drain."
Kenzie took a sip of her Margaux. "What I want to know," she asked listlessly, setting down the wineglass and running her moist finger around its rim, but too lethargically to make it chime even feebly, "is now that you can't work, what are you going to do?"
"Do?" Mr. Spotts looked slightly taken aback. "Why, I'm not supposed to do anything!" He sighed deeply. "Unless you call retiring to the Sunshine State doing something?"
His perfectionist eyes consulted theirs and saw no reaction. He smiled grimly.
"My widowed sister, Cosima ..." he murmured, "has ... umn ... what I believe in Fort Lauderdale is referred to as an ... umn ... 'Waterfront French Renaissance Estate' ... if you can imagine such a contradiction in terms?" One eyebrow, the precise color of silverplate, rose in distaste and he tutted his tongue.
"An abomination. Spun-sugar Tara meets Beaux Arts on the Intra- coastal, as only a native Floridian could design. But such is life. It could be worse, you know. I have a generous pension and my not inconsiderable collection of Old Masters, which, though second rate, are nonetheless still quite superb. So you see, at least I'm not destitute." His lips broadened into a smile. "However, enough of this depressing subject! The reason I invited you both to lunch is not to talk about me, but to discuss your futures."
"Our futures?" Kenzie and Arnold chorused as one.
Mr. Spotts tucked his chin, tortoiselike, down into his chest and gave them a severe look from over his half glasses. "As of tomorrow, one of you shall have to take over the reins as head of the department."
Pausing again, he looked from one of them to the other.
"Well? Which of you shall it be?"
Kenzie didn't hesitate. "Arnold," she said.
"Kenzie," Arnold said simultaneously.
All three of them sat there in stunned silence before bursting into spontaneous laughter.
"In all seriousness," Kenzie insisted solemnly once they'd stopped laughing, "Arnold's far more knowledgeable about the seventeenth century than I am."
"Yes, but you're the expert when it comes to the eighteenth," Arnold told her. "And, you display far better leadership abilities, and are by leaps and bounds more diplomatic than I could ever be."
"My God!" Mr. Spotts could only shake his head in exasperated wonder. "Other people would be tearing each other's eyeballs out for such an opportunity! But you? The two of you just sit there, insisting that the other is the better qualified! I must say, never in my entire life have I ever run across anything quite like this. No, never." Then he frowned thoughtfully. "Still, we don't have much time in which to decide this. I have a meeting scheduled with Mr. Fairey for this afternoon. He shall want my recommendation by then. So?" His eyes flicked back and forth between them. "Which of you wants to be in charge?"
Kenzie and Arnold sat there, silently digesting what he had just said. In truth, while neither of them was loath to get promoted, both of them were dedicated professionals for whom quality was not negotiable—both only wanted what was best for the art form to which they had dedicated their lives.
"If it's all right with you, Kenz," Arnold said slowly, "I'd rather not be saddled with all the politics. Besides, you really are the best as far as diplomacy's concerned."
"Well, if you're certain," she said dubiously.
"Of course I am. You know I'm happiest when I'm left alone to either pore over art, or thumb through volumes of dusty reference books. If I'd wanted to deal with management, I would have joined IBM or AT&T."
"Well, then." Mr. Spotts sat forward. "Now that we have that ... umn ... little matter out of the way, there is one last thing."
Kenzie looked at him questioningly, but instead of replying, he reached for the battered old leather satchel he always lugged around with him, and which was on the banquette beside him. Unclasping it, he opened it and lifted out two small, flat packages wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with Scotch tape. Looking slightly embarrassed, he handed one across the
table to Kenzie, and the other to Arnold.
"What's this?" Kenzie asked.
"Oh ... umn ... just a little ... you know ..." The old man waved a hand dismissively. "Something to remember me by."
"Oh, Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie chided. "You shouldn't have!"
"But I did, and that is my prerogative. Well?" He gestured impatiently. "Don't just sit there looking stupefied. Open them!"
Kenzie and Arnold tore away the wrapping papers. Then they sat there, staring at a small framed picture in stunned silence.
"Why it's ... it's ..."
Kenzie's voice deserted her while her eyes followed every line of the exquisite study of a baby rendered in pen, brown ink, and a purple wash on blue paper, its effect heightened here and there with traces of black and white chalk.
"A Zuccaro!" she finally managed in a breathy whisper. "The one retouched by Rubens himself!"
Slowly she raised her eyes and stared across the table.
"My God, Mr. Spotts! You know I couldn't possibly—"
"Now, now. You not only can, my dear, but you must. Really, I find this most embarrassing ..." Mr. Spotts glanced around, visibly distressed. "Yes, yes, most embarrassing indeed ..."
"And this!" Arnold said shakily.
Kenzie balanced her weight on the back of Arnold's chair as she half stood, looking over his shoulder at the picture in his hands.
"Tiepolo," she murmured automatically, needing but one glance at the buff paper with its red chalk and highlights of black and white. "To be precise," she added, "Giovanni Battista Tiepolo's Bishop Saint Healing a Young Woman."
"All I ask is that you enjoy them," Mr. Spotts said. "Hang them on your walls and derive pleasure from them. Think of them as part of your nest eggs."
"Oh, Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie whispered, tears coming into her eyes. "You know we can't possibly—"
"In that case," the old man said cryptically, "perhaps it will make you feel better to know that these are not ... umn ... exactly outright gifts?"
"Oh? Then what are they?"
"They're conditional. You know ... they come with strings attached?" Mr. Spotts made marionette-controlling motions with his gnarled fingers.
Too Damn Rich Page 6
