There was the choker of eight strands of giant round pearls (real pearls, not cultured), the kind Queen Alexandra used to wear in the Edwardian era, which had a clasp of—you guessed it—more diamonds.
And finally there were the earrings, huge pearls dangling from great sweeps of four-carat flawless D diamonds, which were pear-shaped like the pearls.
Or my husband, she thought with wry irony.
The Countess wore red. And white. And black.
The red was a flaring silk satin microskirt, Dina's of course. The white was a corset top and a silky crinoline, a lingerie-inspired Lacroix overdress, also Dina's. And the black were the lacy pantyhose, spike heels, and elbow-length gloves she'd borrowed from—who else?—Dina. But the scruffy motorcycle jacket Zandra wore atop it all was her own prized possession, as was her beautifully boned body and thick cascade of marmalade-colored hair.
She was a knockout and knew it. Half Frederick's of Hollywood and half downtown club habitue-turned-couture model, she was that most elusive of creatures which only the true British aristocracy seem able to turn out—every inch a lady, but hip, fun, and thoroughly with-it.
The telephone rang, sending a jolt through her. She knew better than to entertain hopes that it could be her brother, but still ...
She seized the receiver. "Hello?"
It was Julio. "There is a gentleman here to see you," he announced sniffily.
"I'll be right out," Zandra said, wondering, as she hung up, who her date for the evening was going to be.
Earlier, Dina had told her: "Darling, you know you cannot go alone. An unescorted woman is absolute anathema! You must have a walker, and I know just the one. Leave everything to me!"
Taking one last glimpse at herself in the mirror, Zandra left the suite. Julio intercepted her and led her stiffly down the corridor to the library. He opened the door and stood aside so she could enter.
Inside the book-lined room waited her date.
"Hi!" he beamed, striding, hand extended, across the palace-size Savonnerie. "I'm Lex Bugg."
Although Zandra had been a mere child at the height of his fame in the sixties, his name nevertheless rang a bell; even she was acquainted with his psychedelic, Yellow Submarine-style art.
No spring chicken, he possessed undeniably virile good looks and was all duded up in swallow-tailed, Byronesque formal wear. He was six feet tall with a deep, out-of-season tan and a blinding mouthful of expensive teeth. Graying blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes obscured by tinted lenses, and a classic swimmer's build. He was forty-nine years old and fighting every passing day.
From the looks of it, Lex Bugg seemed to be holding his own.
Then, catching sight of the long sliver of rock crystal dangling from a thong around his neck, Zandra gave an involuntary groan. Hoping discussions of pyramids, crystals, and psychics were not in her immediate future, she smiled brightly. Said, "Hello. I'm Zandra."
His handshake was firm, but didn't crush bones. Ever observant, she couldn't help noticing his fingers.
Incredibly, not so much as a smudge of paint showed from beneath a single manicured nail. How he managed to paint and do that was entirely beyond her.
Twenty minutes later, after drinks in the library, Dina, Robert, Zandra, and Lex Bugg sallied forth in Dina's white stretch limo, which transported them in garish luxury the few short blocks to the Met.
Chapter 11
Kenzie wore a gently used Salvation Army thrift shop find.
She didn't know what had possessed her to drop by the warehouse the day she had, but she blessed her lucky stars, not to mention her sharp eye which was always on the lookout for anything of exceptional quality. That was how she had spotted the sleeveless yellow silk sheath with its rhinestone-studded bodice and matching crusader scarf- cum-cape to begin with.
Unbelievably, it still had its Givenchy couture label intact, and other than a small stain on the bodice (a mere wee stain which could be cleverly hidden with some artful draping of the capelike scarf), it was in mint condition.
Givenchy! From the Salvation Army yet! Who'd ever believe it?
Kenzie hadn't, at least not at first. And when she'd glanced at the price tag, her disbelief had only increased. Not daring to trust her own eyes, she'd hesitantly brought the gown to the cashier's counter, where she'd asked how much it cost. The sales clerk had taken it, not with the reverence it was due, but as though it was just a bundle of worthless rags, and with a disinterested glance at the tag, had drawled, "Thirty-five."
And Mrs. Turner's daughter, who hadn't been raised a fool, had taken the extravagant bounty. Not ready-to-wear, but a donated, honest-to- goodness couture gown which had certainly been overlooked during the sorting, and which originally must have set some fashion-conscious worshipper of Monsieur de Givenchy back, what? Thirty-five thousand? Forty?
Now, eyeing herself from all angles in front of the full-length mirror inside her closet door, Kenzie thanked whichever gods were responsible for having dropped such unbelievable beneficence into her lap, not forgetting to mention her local seamstress, whose stitches had made it fit to perfection.
Oh, yes. Tonight's was one party where she'd be able to hold her own and fit in with the best-dressed, rich thin women of Manhattan. Neither Nancy Kissinger, Lee Radziwill Ross, Nan Kempner, nor the rest of the usual horde of undernourished social skeletons would be better dressed. The only thing lacking was jewels, but so what? Who needed bijoux with an outfit so glowingly scrumptious, so extravagantly mind-boggling, and so wantonly frivolous that any trinket would only be gilding the lily?
Kenzie, an army brat, was born and raised on military bases. Childhood, or at least the first fifteen years of it, was spent at a succession of Forts—Ord, Dix, Bragg, Bliss, Jackson, and Leonard Wood—not to mention two different bases in Germany, and one in the Philippines.
Despite the turmoil which resulted each time Colonel Turner was transferred to a new post, Kenzie didn't mind all the moving around. Her mother, Rosemary, was one of those gifted military wives who could spruce up even the dullest assigned quarters and turn them into home sweet home. Subsequently, Kenzie was raised in a happy and loving atmosphere. The youngest of a brood of four, she had three doting older brothers, each of whom had been named after a noted military leader, Dwight D., George S., and Ulysses S.
Despite the military blood coursing through the Turners' veins, Kenzie somehow veered sharply off course. She gravitated toward art— why, it was never ascertained, since military bases are not exactly known to be bastions of cultural creativity. But there was no denying her talent, which surfaced at an early age.
At first she entertained notions of becoming an artist. When she wasn't drawing or painting, which was how she spent most of her free time, she would haunt the post libraries and pore over whatever art books were available.
And then, when she turned sixteen, her fate was sealed—by the U.S. Army, no less. That was when her father was assigned to the plum of all military assignments, the Presidio in San Francisco.
As far as Kenzie was concerned, she'd died and gone to heaven. For the Presidio, that huge tract of prime wooded real estate overlooking the Golden Gate, suddenly gave her access to no less than two nearby museums—the de Young and the Palace of the Legion of Honor. Now, no longer having to settle for studying reproductions of paintings in books or magazines, she could finally feast her eyes on the real McCoys.
And she was blown away. Nothing had prepared her for the vivid mastery bursting from the splendid canvases. It was all there. Strength and color, fire and ice, and iridescent brushstrokes ranging from boldly assertive swipes to the most subtle and delicate of shadings.
It was then that she fell madly in love with Old Masters. And it was then, too, that she was forced to face her own shortcomings, realizing just how limited and meager her own talent really was. After much soul searching, she decided that if she couldn't be an artist she would become the next best thing—an art historian.
In her
senior year of high school, she informed her parents that she wanted to apply to Columbia University. "It's got one of the best art history departments in the country."
Her father, seeing the fervent fire burning in his daughter's eyes, said, "Honey, you know that no matter what you decide to do, your mother and I will always stand behind you."
So Kenzie applied to Columbia and was duly accepted.
The morning she arrived in the Big Apple was the single most exciting day of her entire life. She didn't even stop to unpack her things at the dorm before setting out to explore Manhattan on foot.
Uptown, downtown, all around the town; New York was so much more of everything. Bigger, brasher, and the most electrifying place on earth. It literally hummed and thrummed with excess energy.
And she thought excitedly: This is where I belong. Here is where I'll make my mark. Right here, at the very center of the universe ...
Here is where I'll make my mark ...
Those seven simple words became Kenzie's motto. They were her creed, her anchor, her bulwark.
Sheepskin in hand, she moved out of the dorm and into a shared studio apartment in Chelsea. However, finding a job in her chosen field was easier said than done. A literal army of other graduates—arts majors all, and many with formidable family and social credentials—were snapping up what scarce but choice positions were available at the various galleries, museums, and auction houses.
But Kenzie was undaunted. She figured that by Christmas, Easter at the very latest, the ranks of the newly employed ex-debutantes would be considerably thinned by marriage, ineptitude, and a craving for leisure. In the meantime, she supported herself with a variety of odd jobs, none of them memorable.
And then, what should jump off the page of the Help Wanted section of the Sunday Times but an ad which was right up her alley? The owner of a gallery specializing in Old Master paintings was seeking a qualified assistant.
With alacrity, Kenzie wrote a cover letter, and along with a copy of her resume, sent it to the appropriate box number.
Two weeks later, a message was left on her answering machine. The caller identified himself as Mr. Pickel Wugsby, "That's Pickel spelled 'el,' " and would she be so kind as to come to his gallery for an interview at eleven o'clock the following morning?
She arrived at the address he gave her ten minutes before the appropriate time. The narrow storefront on Lexington Avenue in the low Seventies did not look promising. It had iron gates and door bars which had long since rusted into place, blacked-out grimy windows, and not so much as a shop sign to indicate that an art gallery—or anything else—could possibly lie within. There was, however, the requisite door buzzer.
Kenzie rang it and waited.
Presently the lock tumblers clicked, the door opened as far as the short security chain would permit, and a suspicious eye peered out at her.
"Yes?" inquired a resonant male voice.
"I'm MacKenzie Turner," she said. "I have an appointment with Mr. Wugsby?"
The man shut the door, undid the chain, then reopened the door just wide enough to let Kenzie squeeze inside before quickly locking it again. "I," he said, "am Mr. Wugsby."
She shook his dry paw briskly but firmly, in the process giving him a swift but thorough once-over.
He was a dead ringer for Mr. Pickwick—a portly, old-fashioned gentleman of indeterminate age. He had very pink skin, beaming blue eyes behind thick little glasses, and mutton chop whiskers edged in pure white, like superior ermine. All that was missing were the tights, gaiters, and black swallow-tailed silk waistcoat, and instead of a white cravat, his capacious chin encroached upon an askew bow tie. But despite the baggy old trousers, mousey, moth-eaten sweater, and ratty old kilim mules he wore in lieu of shoes, he did sport a Dickensian gold watch chain and fob.
Her inspection of him over, Kenzie suddenly became aware of all the paintings.
They were everywhere.
Stored sideways in deep, shoulder-high shelves.
Stacked ten deep around the double-height room.
Hung wall-to-wall, from floor to ceiling, frame against frame in apparently happy, if discordant, clutter.
Even the garish light thrown by the bare lightbulbs could not detract from the sheer mesmerizing energy produced by the stock of masterpieces cluttering those decrepit walls.
"My God!" she managed, her voice whispery and reverent. "A genuine Rubens! And a Pompeo Batoni... Hans Memling . . . Ghirlandaio ... Durer ... Matthias Grunewald!"
She was overwhelmed, her eyes feasting on treasures ranging from German Gothic to Italian Renaissance; seventeenth-century Dutch to eighteenth-century French. And there wasn't a one the curators of the Louvre, the Met, or the Getty wouldn't have killed for.
Stunned, she slowly turned to Mr. Wugsby. "Why, from outside one would never begin to suspect—"
"Which is the idea," Mr. Wugsby replied with a gentle little smile and sly twinkle in his eyes. "But come."
Gesturing for her to follow, he led the way up a wide, graceful spiral of mahogany stairs to a wraparound mezzanine. Midpoint along it, he stopped and pointed over the balustrade at a gigantic, gilt-framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.
"Since you obviously know your artists, tell me ... to whom would you attribute that?" he asked. "Remember, there is absolutely no need to hurry. Please feel free to take all the time you need."
"Mmm." Kenzie, well aware that she was being tested, folded her arms in front of her and first studied the painting from across the room.
It was a curious hybrid of Italian influence, and showed an Arcadian clearing in which frolicking nymphs and neoclassically draped women danced attendance upon an almost girlishly pretty nude Apollo. And it could, at first glance, be easily attributed to either Raphael or Poussin. But that, she knew, was an easy trap to fall into.
After a minute or so, she walked around the perimeter of the mezzanine and examined the artist's technique from close up. Studied the cracked, varnished canvas intently. Ran her fingertips lightly across the dusty surface to get a feel of the brushstrokes.
Looking for clues.
Finally, after five minutes, she went back over to where Mr. Wugsby was waiting. From there, she contemplated the composition a while longer.
At last she cleared her throat. "Anton Raphael Mengs," she said authoritatively.
"Well, goodness gracious!" he said, beaming. "You're hired. Now, when can you start?"
Thus began a three-year-long relationship which turned out to be a better training ground than all the graduate schools combined. They became like family, the short, portly old gentleman and the eager, sparkly young woman who was his willing apprentice.
During her first day on the job, Mr. Wugsby explained why he had hired her. "You are to be my eyes," was the way he put it, and without a trace of rancor or self-pity, told her of the degenerative retinal disease from which he was suffering, and for which there was no cure.
She was so distressed that he ended up comforting her.
"I do wish you'd stop acting as if it's the end of the world," he said, "because it is not. Besides, even if it were, being upset would not solve a thing. Think about it. If you were in my shoes, wouldn't you be annoyed by having someone melancholy moping around?"
She nodded.
"Anyway, when a situation is such that it cannot be changed," he added, "one might as well adapt, and try to make the best of it. In other words, the least I shall expect from you is an attempt at some semblance of good cheer."
From that moment on, Kenzie adored him.
He proved an inspiration in countless ways. His knowledge was encyclopedic, and never ceased to amaze her. The first time they previewed an Old Masters auction together was a case in point:
"What idiots some of these departmental 'experts' are!" he snapped testily. "That still life is no Chardin! It is too filled with bravura. Chardin's touch is much more analytical and poetic. Nor is this painting modest enough: notice how the objects are far too grand
..."
And "... this is supposed to be a Stubbs? Bah! That horse is much too sentimental, and not nearly haunting enough. Nor does it have the anatomical details reminiscent of Leonardo. Stubbs knew his musculature backward and forward, since he spent years dissecting animals ..."
And "... Now, this Delacroix is sublime and obviously genuine, but you mark my words: the price will go through the roof ..."
Kenzie looked and listened and learned.
Before long, she discovered just how truly select and wealthy Mr. Wugsby's clientele was. Agnellis and Rothschilds, Niarchoses and von Thurn und Taxis, Thyssen-Bornemiszmas and von und zu Engelwiesens— like worshippers on a pilgrimage, a steady trickle of them came and looked and bought.
Nor was he stingy. After the first six months, he gave Kenzie a substantial raise, which she used to move into the rent-stabilized walk-up she still inhabited. But what she treasured above all was the priceless knowledge Mr. Wugsby handed down to her. All the little tricks of the trade he'd picked up during nearly half a century of dealing in fine art. She learned how to spot forgeries by knowing which pigments were discovered when. How to distinguish genuine patinas acquired over the centuries from those which had recently been produced with phenoformaldehyde dissolved in benzine or turpentine. Plus, the various technical techniques, like using ultraviolet light, having paintings x-rayed, and scraping a microscopic flake of pigment from a canvas and having a lab technician analyze it through the use of spectrography.
But perhaps the greatest gift Mr. Wugsby bestowed upon her was his passion. He had that rare gift of being able to bring a work of art to life, so that she saw it not merely in decorative or historical terms, but as a living, breathing entity with a pedigree as real, and as vital, as that of any human being.
In the end, it wasn't the blindness that did him in. It was cancer, and it was terminal. The doctors gave him six months to live.
Kenzie helped him close up shop and liquidate his stock. Unknown to her, he called in a favor from an old colleague of his at Burghley's, Mr. A. Dietrich Spotts, thus securing her a position in the auction house's Old Masters department.
Too Damn Rich Page 11
