"And it won't be the last," gloomed David Bunker, the senior vice president. "But at least we're not alone."
"Indeed not." Ileane pushed her glasses farther up her nose. "There are countless legal precedents . . . that Joachim Wtewael, which Sotheby's had to withdraw from their London sale ... the ongoing dispute over the Sevso silver, which both the former Yugoslavia and Hungary are claiming as theirs."
"Not to mention our own problems over the Kalimnos Kouros, back in 1982," Fairey murmured.
Ileane smiled. "I purposely left that one out," she confessed. "But to continue. Our first indication that the Holbein may have been illegally procured was a result of Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe's research. We then immediately corresponded with our client's legal representative, stating that we couldn't go ahead with the sale unless it was cleared by the proper German authorities."
"Which," Fairey muttered, "it subsequently was. Only now they've obviously had second thoughts."
"I'm afraid so," Ileane said. "But we have copies of every piece of correspondence, all of which prove that we are above reproach."
"Also," David Bunker interjected, "don't forget that we—on our client's behalf—were the ones who initially contacted the Cultural Institute about it. We brought the Holbein to their attention, not vice versa."
Ileane nodded. "Of course, that's standard operating procedure in such cases. It gives the original owner the opportunity to purchase the work at a special price before it goes on the auction block. However, the reply we received from the Cultural Institute was that the museum could not afford to buy it, and that we should proceed with the sale."
"Famous last words," Fairey growled.
"Indeed. Still, there's a bright side," Ileane pointed out. "Aside from the unprofessional manner in which the consignment was initially accepted, our subsequent dealings in this matter will hold up to the closest scrutiny ... and that includes any and all legal and ethical questions which may arise."
"You're certain?" Fairey asked sharply.
"Oh, absolutely." Ileane nodded definitely.
"Still, taking it on in the first place was skating on very thin ice," Fairey said. "This would never have occurred under Mr. Spotts."
Everyone was silent.
He raised his head magisterially. "In order to avoid such future fiascos, until further notice, any major work accepted for auction by the Old Masters department must be agreed upon by committee. Specifically, that means three out of the department's four employees must approve any work of art valued in excess of one hundred thousand dollars." His eyes roved from Kenzie to Zandra, and then from Arnold to Bambi, on whom they rested accusingly. "Have I made myself clear?"
They all nodded and murmured their agreement.
"Good." He sat back. "Then I would like to take this opportunity to commend Ms. Turner, Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe, and Mr. Li on a job well done."
Kenzie had to hand it to him. His solution for diluting Bambi's power was brilliant. If he'd insisted upon their unanimous agreement, Bambi would be able to sabotage their every decision.
But a vote of three out of four makes that impossible, she thought. Arnold, Zandra, and I can override her every time. Bambi was still head of the department, but a lame duck.
Fairey assumed an air of brusqueness. "I believe it's time we took a vote on the Holbein," he said. "The Old Masters department will kindly abstain. Now then, those in favor of withdrawing the painting from the auction, please raise your hands." He held up his own.
Kenzie glanced around; one by one, the others' hands crept up also, until each person's was raised.
"It's unanimous then. The painting shall be withdrawn and we'll publicize an in-depth investigation. Eunice, prepare a statement for Allison, will you? But I want to go over it with Ileane before you schedule a press conference."
"Will do," Eunice Ffolkes said.
Fairey looked around. "Any questions?" he asked.
There were none.
"In that case," he said in his best Chairman of the Universe voice, "this meeting is adjourned."
Chairs were scooted back and everyone began to file quietly out of the room. Bambi, shouldering her way past Kenzie, shot her a glare of pure venom.
Kenzie was nearly out the door when Sheldon D. Fairey's voice stopped her.
"Oh, Ms. Turner?" he called out.
Kenzie turned around. "Sir?"
"Could you please stay for a few minutes? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."
"Please sit, Ms. Turner."
The last person out had shut the conference room door. Kenzie, slipping into the seat next to his, waited for him to speak.
He was sitting erect, frowning at the far wall, apparently deep in thought. Kenzie's gaze wandered briefly in that direction. A van Gogh print of Provencal blooms hung there, gilt-framed and smug, a relic of the shop-till-you-drop eighties, when Burghley's had sold it for the world's auction record, an amount still unequaled.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "Do you know what Burghley's main function is, Ms. Turner?" he asked.
"Of course, Mr. Fairey. To sell art and decorative objects."
He drew his eyes back in. "Is it?" He gave a bitter little smile. "I used to think so. Now I'm beginning to wonder." He heaved a weary sigh. "More and more, it seems that the treasures we deal in are secondary to the commissions they generate."
She nodded. "That is true also."
Slowly he rose to his feet and switched chairs, seating himself directly opposite her. She gazed unblinkingly across the table at him.
"You look people straight in the eye," he observed.
Her expression did not change. "And so do you, Mr. Fairey."
Leaning forward, he eyed her thoughtfully. "Tell me something, Ms. Turner. This is completely off the record. What is your opinion of this ... this Holbein debacle?"
Kenzie shrugged, carefully keeping her face impassive, her voice neutral. "I suppose it's par for the course," she said noncommittally.
"Par for the course!" he exclaimed.
She nodded again. "Considering our volume of business, incidents like this are bound to occur every now and then."
"Indeed!" He raised frosty eyebrows. "Then are you saying this fiasco was unavoidable? Are you suggesting it was not the fault of that . . . that dim-witted, empty-headed dummy who was foisted upon us?"
She stared at him levelly. "Mr. Fairey," she said softly. "My job is to best serve the department. And I like to believe I do. However, what I don't like is to speculate or point fingers of blame. Especially after the fact. Art—not in-house politics—is what interests me."
"A devoutly noble sentiment," he murmured.
She was silent.
He held her gaze. "Does this mean you have no comment about this incident? None whatsoever?"
"Only that I'm glad it's under control, and that the worst damage can be contained."
She stared into his face, daring him to challenge her.
"I see ..." His breath sighed out. Then, bending his head over the table, he furled the fingers of both hands, as though intent upon inspecting his manicure. "Earlier, you suggested that we publicize further investigation into the Holbein's provenance."
"I did. Yes, sir."
"And you realize what this means, don't you?"
"That our efforts will be closely monitored by the press in general, and the art world in particular," she said, nodding.
"Good. Then you will undoubtedly understand why I'm putting you in charge of this investigation."
"Me! But ... but Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe is more than capab—"
"Yes, yes, yes," he interrupted irritably, waving her to silence. "I'm quite aware of her proficiency. However, she's only been with us for three months, and we need an expert—an old hand, if you will—to supervise this investigation. Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe can do the actual research, but you shall be in charge. And you will report directly to me."
He paused.
"I ca
n count on you, Ms. Turner?"
"Yes, sir." Kenzie nodded.
"Thank you, Ms. Turner." He rubbed his chin. "I seem to recall that on several occasions you've worked closely with an officer of the art theft squad ... what is his name . . . ?"
"Charles Ferraro," she supplied automatically, before the name even registered in her brain. When it did, it pierced her like a poison arrow.
"Ah, yes," Fairey nodded. "Officer Ferraro. Well, then, I suggest you contact him immediately and work together on this. He will have resources available to him that we do not."
Kenzie's mind was reeling. Oh, God! He can't expect me to work with Charley, she thought with a sinking feeling. He can't!
It had been three months now since the party at the Met, and in all that time, she had refused to see either Charley or Hannes. She'd hung up on their phone calls. Had even had her locks changed, since she'd once given Charley a set of keys to her apartment.
And now, just when she thought she'd gotten rid of him once and for all, what had to happen? She was stuck with him again!
"Ms. Turner? Ms. Turner!"
The voice cut sharply through her turmoil, brought her to with a start.
"Is something wrong, Ms. Turner?"
"Only that ..." She swallowed to lubricate her throat. "... that I'd prefer not to deal with Officer Ferraro again."
"Oh?" His eyebrows shot up. "And why not, pray tell?"
"I'd rather not get into that, sir."
"I'm afraid that's not good enough, Ms. Turner. Too much is at stake here—to paraphrase your own words, nearly three hundred years of sterling reputation! Burghley's 'single most precious asset' is the way I believe you put it?"
She sighed miserably. Damn. She'd really painted herself into a corner this time! Why, oh why did I let myself get so carried away?
He was leaning forward. "Do you still have a problem with this simple request, Ms. Turner? Am I asking too much of you?"
"No, sir," she said in a weary voice.
"Good. Then I expect to be kept informed of any developments. That will be all, Ms. Turner."
And the discussion was over.
Kenzie returned to her office, sank into her chair, and just sat there looking dazed.
"Kenzie?" Zandra was eyeing her with speculative concern. "My goodness, darling, you look absolutely pale. Whatever's the matter?"
Kenzie didn't reply. She was staring balefully at the telephone in front of her.
Charley, she thought miserably. I've got to call Charley—
—and I'd rather walk on hot coals!
But what choice did she have?
Resigning herself to the inevitable, she lifted the receiver and punched his work number, wondering how long it would take before her memory erased it.
"NYPD," a female voice answered. "Art theft squad."
She shut her eyes. "Officer Ferraro, please."
"Who's calling?"
"Ms. Turner."
"One moment, please."
Kenzie heard the woman calling out, "Ferraro! Line two."
And in the background, Charley's all-too-familiar voice: "Who is it?"
"A Ms. Turner. Should I put her through?"
Silence. Then: "Naw. She's waited this long. Let her stew awhile. Might do her some good."
Kenzie slammed down the receiver. Fucking bastard! Christ, he was unbearable!
She clenched her jaw determinedly. But he hasn't heard the last of me, she vowed grimly. Unh-unh. Not by a long shot! Snatching the receiver back up, she hit redial. Same female voice: "NYPD. Art theft squad." "I would like to speak to Officer Ferraro," Kenzie said through clenched teeth. "This is official business."
A pause. Then: "I'm sorry, but Officer Ferraro just stepped out. Would you like to leave a mes—"
Kenzie slammed down the receiver. She was seething.
Chapter 23
Busy, busy, busy!
These were busy days for one Dina Goldsmith. Now that she'd reached the Everest of society, she wasn't about to sit back and rest on her laurels. Far from it; she had as clear a sense of direction as a homing pigeon, and had mapped out a social strategy worthy of the joint chiefs of staff.
A case in point: Today.
According to her Filofax, she had a grueling schedule ahead of her:
7:00 A.M. Meet with Julio—instruct staff
7:15 A.M. Personal trainer
8:00 A.M. Bath
8:45 A.M. Correspondence, phone calls
9:30 A.M. Masseuse
10:00 A.M. Hairdresser and manicurist
Cream Chanel Suit & Verdura Pieces-of-Eight:
10:30 A.M. Interview new chef
11:00 A.M. Sotheby's lecture—Portraits in 18th Century
England
12:30 P.M. Fitting—Oscar de la Renta
1:30 P.M. Lunch—Becky V
2:45 P.M. French Lesson—Irregular Verbs!!!
3:45 P.M. Everyone Must Eat committee
Meeting—re: Spring Gala
5:00 P.M. Wildenstein Galleries re: Gainsboroughs
5:30 P.M. Quality downtime
Black Herrera Evening Suit & Cartier "Gatsby"
Pearls w/ Emeralds:
6:45 P.M. Knoedler Gallery—Donald Sultan opening
7:30 P.M. "Puccini and Champagne"—Met. Opera Guild—
Hunter College
9:00 P.M. Met. Benefit Dinner—Colony Club
It was like living in a constant hurricane, but Dina wouldn't have had it any other way. She thrived on the social whirl. And to think it had all begun at Karl-Heinz's party, when Becky V had singled her out!
Ever since, all doors hitherto closed to the Goldsmiths had magically opened. The invitations poured in. And the Goldsmiths went out. To Brooke Astor's. To Oscar and Annette's (town and country). To the Buckleys'. To the Kissingers'.
Everywhere, New York's prime welcome mats were spread.
For about two months, Dina had felt she was living a fairy tale. And then, she awoke one morning to discover she was still not quite satisfied.
So she'd reached the top. So she and Robert had been accepted by the highest ranks of society. So what?
She was determined to go even farther. Yes. Little Dina Van Vliet of Gouda, the Netherlands, had decided to be more than just your run-of- the-mill socialite, and had set her covetous sights on the greenest pasture of them all.
In short, she was obsessed with nothing less than becoming a legend. A true social star.
She had already made strides.
Taking a cue from Becky V, she had traded in her garish white superstretch Caddy for a discreet Lincoln Town Car, and was working on Robert to do likewise.
Knowingly or unknowingly, a virtual horde of socialites, past and present, had a hand in educating Dina.
Daily lessons in French soon resulted in a vocabulary peppered with "voulez-vous" and "n'est-ce pas" and "cherie," just like the multinational lingo of Becky V and Susan Gutfreund.
Inspired by Jayne Wrightsman, that authority on eighteenth-century French furniture, Dina decided it might behoove her to become master of one subject, too. And so began her thrice-weekly tutoring in Renaissance paintings.
Tales of Oscar and the first Mrs. de la Renta's informal Sunday evenings—when everyone popped in after returning from the country— prompted Dina to throw open her own doors for come-as-you-are, open- house Sunday evening buffets. .
They were an instant hit. To paraphrase the late Kitty Miller, who contended that all you had to do was hang out a ham and people would beat a path to your door, Dina did exactly that.
But with one important difference. She was learning that discretion is the better part of good taste, and that the smaller and more exquisite the ham, the better. Which was why, where once she would have overdone it by throwing huge formal banquets, she now concentrated upon underdoing it, and soon mastered the fine art of giving the kind of perfect, intimate little dinners everyone started talking about.
Instead of sending a hostess an embarra
ssingly expensive thank you gift, she began searching high and low for the unique, the tasteful, the inexpensive, and occasionally, the hilariously vulgar.
She kept a notebook in which she jotted down everyone's likes and dislikes—be it food, wine, flowers, dinner partners, friends, and, above all, enemies, so that no two foes got invited to the same party.
And always, she was refining, honing, perfecting. Learning to do all the right things.
At 6:45, dressed in her exercise outfit (fluorescent pink, yellow, and Kermit green Spandex), she rang her majordomo.
"Yes, madame?" Julio's voice over the in-house phone sounded sleepy.
"I'm running a bit ahead of schedule." Dina wasn't in the least apologetic. "We'll take our meeting now." She paused for two seconds. "In here."
"At once, madame."
When he arrived, she was seated on the sofa in her adjoining sitting room, sipping coffee Darlene had just poured from the silver pot.
Julio hovered. "Madame?"
"Thank you, Darlene," Dina said crisply. "That will be all."
"Yes, ma'am." Her maid half curtsied and fled.
Julio, sniffing disdainfully, eyed the departing figure with disapproval.
Dina's knowledge of fine things might have needed honing, but her claws did not. Fixing him with a sharp gaze, she said, "Julio. Sit." Sounding like a dog trainer. "No, no, not in that chair." She pointed. "In that one. There."
Meekly he obeyed.
"Architectural Digest is coming to photograph this apartment next week," she said, coming right to the point. "They will be here on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I expect you to extend them every courtesy." She paused. "In fact, you are going to bend over backward for them."
"Yes, madame." He got out his pocket-size notebook and Cartier pen and scribbled away.
"On Tuesday, Renny is coming to do the floral arrangements. He or one of his assistants will also be on hand each of the following three days to freshen up the bouquets. I expect you to bend over backward for him, also."
Too Damn Rich Page 23
