"Strings?" Arnold asked, his interest piqued. He sat forward. "What kinds of strings?"
Mr. Spotts eyed them both solemnly over the rims of his half lenses. "What I need," he sighed quietly, "is to extract one promise from each of you."
"We'd gladly do that anyway," Kenzie assured him. "There's no need to give us presents!"
"I know." Mr. Spotts nodded. "But this particular favor ... well, it's a rather large one." He stared intently from one of them to the other.
"Just name it," said Kenzie.
The old man was silent.
"Yes, just say the word," pressed Arnold.
"Save the department!" Mr. Spotts's voice was soft but harshly bitter, like a brittle, arctic wind. "That's the one thing I ask!"
Every Tuesday and Thursday Bambi Parker spent her lunchtime at the Vertical Club on East Sixty-first Street. The way she figured it, she was twenty-four, going on twenty-five, and not getting any younger. Besides, at Burghley's you never knew who you were apt to run into. It behooved a single young woman to always be in shape and look her absolute best.
After thirty minutes of concentrated workout, she peeled off her lime green and shocking pink Spandex exercise outfit, showered, dressed, repaired her makeup, and moseyed on back to Burghley's, eating a container of non-fat, lemon-flavored yogurt while checking out the windows of the clothing boutiques along the way. When she finally returned to the auction house, she headed straight for one of the second-floor employees' powder rooms.
This particular one, which she frequented, was known as "The Club," since it unofficially doubled as sorority house for the most popular among Burghley's army of Seven Sisters-educated arts majors—trust-fund babies all—every one of whom was biding her time working in an appropriately genteel job until Prince Charming came along.
Then, once they were swept off to the grand townhouses and penthouses of the upper East Side of Manhattan, plus oceanfront weekend "cottages" out in the Hamptons, or bucolic country estates in the rolling hills of northwestern Connecticut, the roles they now played would be reversed, and the self-perpetuating cycle become evident: Burghley's ex- employees would trade the expertise gained working at the auction house by becoming its most knowledgeable clientele.
Even before opening the door of "The Club," Bambi could already hear the noise coming from within. It sounded like an aviary—albeit, judging from the chatter and coos, trills and squeaks, and more than a few Locust Valley lockjaws, a highly elite aviary consisting of only the most carefully select and singularly bred of all species.
Bambi felt right at home as she squeezed between two girls to get at the long stretch of mirror above the sinks; sometime back, the more enterprising among them had taken up a collection, so that a row of frosted makeup bulbs was installed all the way across the top. A fiercely unflattering light, it was perfect for its purposes.
"Hiya Bambs!" greeted the reflection of the preening blonde leaning into the mirror on her right. "Howareya?"
Bambi smiled into the mirror at Elissa Huffington, who could have been a model if the Social Register Huffingtons hadn't instantly put the skids on that particular line of work. But Elissa didn't rate much of a reply from Bambi—she was one of Bambi's major competitors in the Great Manhunt for Mr. Right.
"Well?" Elissa asked through a barely moving mouth as she slid Perfect Pumpkin lipstick across her lips. "Aren't ya gonna share the news?"
"News? What news?" Bambi leaned into the mirror, thickening her lashes with lightning strokes of an eyelash brush.
"What news! About your boss—what else!"
"Well? What about him?"
"You mean ... oh, Christ! You would be the last to know!"
"Know what?" Bambi's eyelash brush was a blur.
"That 'The Translucent' is finally retiring—that's what!"
Bambi's eyelash brush stopped moving. "Say that again?" She stared at Elissa's reflection.
"Gawd!" Elissa rolled her eyes. "It's about time, isn't it? I mean, if anyone's an antiquity, it's gotta be him ..." Elissa kept her voice deliberately light and chiding, but her sharp eyes, catching Bambi's reflection, gratified her to no end: the tidbit had elicited the hoped-for reaction.
But after a moment, Bambi sloughed off the news with a shrug, leaned back into the mirror, and resumed brushing her lashes. "There've been rumors about Mr. Spotts's retirement since the very first day I started working here," she said dismissively.
"Yes, but this time it isn't a rumor. This is on the up-and-up."
"Oh?" Bambi's eyes flicked suspiciously sideways at Elissa. "Says who?"
"Says Sheldon D. Fairey's assistant secretary. She overheard the whole thing. You might as well face it, Bambs. Today's your boss's last day on the job. So. Who d'you think'll get promoted? You? Kenzie? Arnold? Or d'you think they might bring in an outsider?"
Bambi abruptly felt physically ill. Why haven't I been informed? she railed silently, wanting to clutch the sink and retch. Was that the reason those three traipsed off together? Purposely leaving me behind because they decided to discuss succession?
She could practically see them, thick as thieves. Hunched over a dim table like a cabal. Whispering. Scheming. Hatching their plot ...
Her chest suddenly felt as if a boa constrictor had coiled itself around her, and was relentlessly tightening its grip.
Suddenly her heart skipped a beat and something hard and steely gleamed in her eyes. The corners of her lips curved into a bladelike smile. Well! If the matter of succession was being discussed over lunch without her, then fine! She had a trick or two up her own beautifully tailored sleeve, and a better one than that kissy-kissy little triumvirate could ever come up with!
"Anyway, I'd check it out if I were you," Elissa was saying, giving Bambi a pointed look. "Catch my drift?"
"I do, and thanks, 'Liss." Bambi hurriedly stuffed her makeup back into her purse. "See you later."
"If ya hear anything new, you'll let me know? Us debs have got to stick together, right?"
"Uh, right," Bambi said. "I'd better run along now. 'Bye!"
She backed out from the row of chattering girls who, with her departure, immediately spread out further, sensing, more than seeing, additional precious inches of elbow room becoming available.
In the vestibule outside the powder room, Bambi squeezed into one of the phone booths, shut the door, and deposited a quarter. She didn't want to use her office phone—not if she wanted to make certain she wouldn't be overheard should the trio return early from lunch. This was one call which required the utmost privacy—and urgency.
Punching the highly secret number of Robert A. Goldsmith's highly private line down on Wall Street—the one telephone which bypassed his platoon of secretaries—she waited through one ring, two, three—
Then:
"Robert?"
Bambi used her best itty-bitty wittle girl's voice.
"It's me—Bambs. Listen, I'm in a phone booth, so I've got to make it real short."
She cupped her hands around the receiver and glanced quickly over both shoulders, making certain no one was standing within earshot.
"I just heard that the head of my department's retiring," she whispered into the phone. "I want that job, Robert. I want it so badly I can taste it!" She took a deep breath. "I'll do anything to get it. And by anything, I mean anything."
Bambi was alone in the office and considering cutting out early when the telephone chirruped. She stared reproachfully at her extension, wondering whether or not to answer it. She knew that she should, but that was beside the point.
Why not skip out early? Why even answer that damned insistently chirruping phone?
Suddenly it occurred to her that it might be Robert, and she lunged for the receiver. "Old Masters!" she breathed perkily. "Ms. Parker speaking!"
A voice which definitely did not belong to Robert A. Goldsmith said, "Hello? This is Zachary Bavosa of the legal firm Calvert, Barkhorn, Waldburger, and Slocum. I'm calling on behalf of a client of our
s."
Bambi suppressed a sigh. "And how may I help you?"
"A client of ours who ... er ... wishes to remain anonymous ... has inherited a painting. A Holbein, to be exact."
"Yes ... ?"
"Both Christie's and Sotheby's, as well as several private dealers, have determined it to be genuine, and have appraised its value at somewhere between twenty and thirty million dollars."
Suddenly Bambi was all ears. "And you wish a third opinion, I take it?"
He chuckled. "Oh, no, Ms. Parker. We're quite convinced it's genuine. Our client wishes to sell it."
Then what's the catch? she wondered. If it's the real McCoy, both Christie's and Sotheby's must be chomping at the bit to handle the sale. Why call us, also, unless there's a problem? "We'd be glad to take a look at it," she said carefully. And then, in a reflex action, Bambi threw caution to the four winds and plunged right on it. "I'm sure we'd be delighted to handle it!"
He was silent for a moment. "I could bring it by tomorrow, along with the pertinent documentation of its provenance. Would eleven a.m. be convenient for you?"
Her heart skipped a beat. "Eleven a.m. will be fine," she assured him. "Just ask for me. Bambi Parker."
Well, well, well! she thought as she hung up the phone. What a coup! From the sound of things, the Holbein will be the star of the next Old Masters auction! She could see it already. We'll put it on the cover of the catalogue. Send out press releases and watch a bidding war break out. Chances are, it might even set a world record for the artist. Bambi could barely contain her excitement. I can't wait to see Kenzie and Arnold's expressions. They'll be so envious they'll want to tear my eyes out!
Chapter 7
832 FIFTH AVENUE
The elegant white letters, outlined in black, graced the creamy whipcord canopy that extended from the building to the street like a convex lozenge.
Engraved plaques, shiny as new money, repeated the three-digit number on either side of the brass and etched-glass Art Deco doors.
The Robert A. Goldsmiths occupied two full penthouse floors in this, one of the most expensive residential addresses in the world. From outside, the pristine prewar apartment house looked like a sand-blasted armory. Inside, a small army was on duty around the clock. In addition to the uniformed doorman, two armed security guards were stationed in the marble lobby, and a third guard, a state-of-the-art alarm system, and closed-circuit television protected the delivery entrance on East Eighty- first Street.
The security measures were well founded, considering that the tenants had an aggregate worth of between eighteen and twenty billion dollars.
Zandra von Hohenburg-Willemlohe, who had been the Goldsmiths' houseguest before, appreciated the Elysian edifice, and not for its white- glove service, either. For her, it was the ideal hideout. If the London goons somehow managed to tail her here, they would never be able to get past the lobby, since even known visitors were as carefully screened as guests at the gates of the White House.
"You may go on up, madam," the doorman intoned gravely after having conferred over the house phone with someone at the Goldsmiths'. "It's the fourteenth floor."
When Zandra got off the elevator, the pedimented double doors to the Goldsmith apartment were open wide and an impeccably dressed man stood waiting in the luxuriously furnished vestibule.
"I am Julio," he sniffed, "the majordomo. Madame has informed me that you are to be shown every courtesy."
Without turning his head, he raised one hand and snapped his fingers. Instantly, and seemingly out of nowhere, scurried a uniformed maid with downcast eyes and a flustered manner.
Julio cocked one disapproving eyebrow at Zandra's disreputable- looking shoulder bag and the maid instantly jumped to and snatched it.
"If you will follow me, please?" Julio announced loftily, "I shall show you to your guest suite."
They passed an opulent marble staircase with an ornate wrought-iron and ormolu balustrade which swept gracefully up to the second floor of the duplex, the curved, yellow-marbled wall alongside it hung with a succession of eye-popping Old Masters.
Wherever Zandra looked, she noticed that things were totally different and far, far more luxurious than the last time she'd visited, nearly two years previously.
Through one open doorway, she caught a tantalizing glimpse of ancient tooled leather walls and elegant, full-length portraits by Tissot, Boldini, and Sargent, not to mention eighteen-foot-tall silver Regency palms reminiscent of the Brighton Pavilion, whose curvacious fronds nearly scraped the ceiling.
And everywhere the eye wandered, it met priceless luxury: rich, overlapping seas of mysterious, intricate carpets, firelit mantels. Green and scarlet silk lampshades. Brocade banquettes, voluptuous cushions, gleaming rare woods, and elaborate mirrors.
A completely new stage set, she thought to herself. Dina's been at it again. "When in doubt, redecorate—that's my motto!" her friend had once laughingly confided.
Zandra smiled at the memory. If one thing could be said about Dina, it was that she practiced what she preached. But unfortunately, along with the decor, she apparently replaced the entire staff as well. Zandra saw not a single familiar, welcoming old face.
"Madame said to inform you that she would return as soon as possible," Julio sniffed frostily as he opened a mahogany door and stepped aside.
Zandra entered the guest suite, and he followed her in, going purposefully around the sitting room, switching on all the lamps, and twitching aside the heavily lined and interlined seventeenth-century silk brocade draperies while the maid did likewise in the bedroom.
"If you wish to summon me or any of the staff," Julio said, "use one of the ivory telephones. You will notice it has the numbers of everyone from the cook to myself listed on both sides of the push buttons."
"Like in an hotel!" Zandra said brightly.
"Yes." He was not amused. "For outside calls, this suite has two separate private lines, but you must use one of the brass telephones. Both numbers are listed on each telephone. Now, if there is nothing else ..."
"Not at the moment, thank you."
After he was gone, Zandra could have sworn the room temperature shot up by a good twenty degrees.
The maid appeared in the doorway of the adjoining bedroom. Smiling shyly, she asked, "Would you like me to unpack your things, madam?"
Zandra shook her head. "No," she smiled, "thanks."
"Then is there anything I can get you?"
"If it's not too much bother, I would appreciate a cup of tea."
"Oh, it's no bother at all, madam!" the maid assured her. "What kind would you prefer?"
"You wouldn't, by any chance, have Lapsang Souchong?"
"But of course we do!"
"Then that is what I'll have."
"Coming right up, madam! By the way, my name's Lisa." The maid bobbed a little curtsey and disappeared without a sound.
Zandra took the opportunity to investigate the suite.
The luxurious sitting room was sheathed in green boiserie highlighted with gilt from which hung several small Fantin-Latour oil paintings of flowers. Four sets of French doors led out onto a planted, wraparound terrace, and the giltwood Louis XVI bergeres a la reine and settee were upholstered in salmon mohair cut velvet. Tables en chiffonniere held ceramic bibelots and vases of fresh flowers.
The adjoining bedroom was very feminine, with a magnificent Aubusson, pale, faded rose silk damask on the walls, marbelized green moldings, and lavish, raspberry silk brocade curtains and bedhangings. A television was concealed in a demi-lune Boulle commode. By any standards, a palatial suite.
Zandra tried the leftmost of two perfectly scaled, artfully symmetrical doors. It opened into an enormous en suite bath the size of a studio apartment: all brocatelle marble, with mirrors reflecting everything—herself included—to infinity.
Leaving the bathroom, Zandra shut the door and tried the one on the right. Opening it, cove lighting and indirect tracks automatically clicked on, illuminating
a boutique-size, walk-in closet. All empty and awaiting steamer trunks of clothes.
There were Lucite drawers for folded garments, slanting racks for shoes, stands for hats, angled mirrors, and no end of clear plastic garment bags, with sachets of cedar chips attached to every pink silk- padded hanger.
Zandra smiled sardonically and thought, Everything I brought along could probably fit into a single drawer.
Hearing a discreet knock, she went back out into the sitting room. Lisa had returned, bearing a damask-draped wooden tray. Zandra smiled and said, "It looks lovely. That will be all, Lisa. Thank you."
Now that she was alone at long last, she poured herself a cup, added a mere drop of cream and a single lump of sugar, and stirred it while carrying it by the saucer into the bedroom. Setting it down, she unpacked the meager contents of her shoulder bag. Hung her motorcycle jacket on a padded hanger. Folded what few rumpled belongings she'd brought along and placed them inside a single Lucite drawer.
Done, she gloomily surveyed the king-size closet. Her wardrobe looked—indeed was—lamentably wanting in even the most trivial, basic essentials.
Wisely, she quickly shut the door against it, and as she sipped her tea, reminded herself that her lack of clothing was the very least of her problems. Thanks to Dina, she had a roof over her head, and a splendid one at that. In fact, she should be thankfully counting her blessings. Considering the circumstances and haste with which she'd successfully eluded her captors and escaped London, it was gratitude—and not self-pity—which was warranted. Really! She must stop moping, Zandra scolded herself, and start looking on the bright side. Things could be worse.
Thoughts of Rudolph filled her mind.
Rudolph ... Rudolph ...
She sighed loudly, as if exhaling a buildup of poisonous gasses. The unvarnished truth was, her brother's uncertain fate cast a dark shadow across her own.
Eyelids twitching, she collapsed, marionettelike, into a chair. Of course her own problems were reduced to insignificance! She was safe, if not indefinitely, then at least for the time being. But Rudolph ...
Too Damn Rich Page 7
