Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  Now, with Becky having successfully completed Phase One, corraling Karl-Heinz into the scheme, Phase Two was at hand—literally in Dina's hands!—and she savored the triumph to come.

  Because it will come! she reiterated to herself. It must!

  Not only was the timing right, but Dina knew it could never be more right.

  It's now or never, she told herself.

  If there was anything as heady or intoxicating as playing matchmaker for a real-life prince and his future princess, she had yet to run across it.

  After all, a marriage between Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engel- wiesen and Zandra, Countess of Grafburg, would hit countless birds with a single stone. Not only would it validate and consolidate Dina's own importance and power; it would, in one fell swoop, cap off her dizzying winning streak of social triumphs and put Karl-Heinz and Zandra firmly into her debt.

  Careful, she cautioned herself. It's dangerous to celebrate prematurely.

  Without changing position, she moved her gaze from the Boldinis and rested a hand lightly atop the telephone. She had procrastinated long enough. It was time to stop daydreaming. Time to get busy. Time her fingers did some walking!

  And lifting the receiver, she punched Sheldon D. Fairey's private number at Burghley's.

  Lunch had left a warm, convivial glow as Sheldon D. Fairey returned to work, the savory, full-bodied smugness of having pulled off a major coup. Eyes beaming like headlights, he bestowed a sunny smile upon his secretary, the sharp-featured, formidable Miss Botkin.

  Without hesitation she rose from behind her desk to take his coat, scarf, and gloves.

  He basked in her fussy, wifelike ministrations. No feminist, she. Not by a long shot.

  Miss Botkin—she insisted upon being addressed as Miss, not Ms.— was one of the last of the old-fashioned holdouts. Not only did she pride herself upon bringing her boss a cup of coffee, but trusted no one but herself to grind the beans, brew it just so, and then serve it, using the big formal silver set and creased linen napkins and fine china.

  Elsewhere standards might have slipped, but not in this office. Nor would they while she was alive. Miss Botkin clung to her inflexible, Victorian values with a rectitude that was as amazing as it was outdated.

  Fairey patted the sides of his silver hair, straightened his tie, and then strode victoriously into his inner office, shutting the door so he might savor his triumph in private.

  He had gone to lunch anticipating the very worst.

  He had returned feeling downright euphoric.

  And with good reason. Leonard Sokoloff, producer of mind-numbing, tooth-grating television sitcoms, it turned out, was not your stereotypical Hollywood ego who collected art as an investment or because it was fashionable.

  Shrewd, articulate, and sharp as a tack, Sokoloff had one finger on the pulse of the nation's couch potatoes, and the others on a whole variety of subjects ranging from politics and philosophy to business and art. Particularly modern art.

  Thus, courting the producer—or rather, wooing his collection of contemporary art, which was soon to go under the hammer—had turned out to be a highly agreeable experience for Fairey. But what had astonished him the most was Sokoloff himself; the man showed a genuine passion for his Mondrians, Klines, Lichtensteins, and Klees. He'd talked about them as affectionately as if they were his children.

  Unfortunately, he'd have been better off showing the same kind of passion to his wife. If he had, the collection might have stayed intact. As things were, it had fallen victim to one of the "Three Big D's" of auctions—death, debt, and divorce—and was going on the block because of the last.

  Fairey shook his head in commiseration. Just as there were two sides to every coin, so too was one man's misery another one's gain. The ultimate loser in this case was Sokoloff. The big winners would be the divorce lawyers, who'd haul in outrageous fees; Sokoloff's soon-to-be ex, who was raking him over the coals; and Burghley's, which would earn a hefty commission on the sale of his art.

  Because Burghley's—not Christie's or Sotheby's, but Burghley's!— would be conducting this sale! That had been agreed to over lunch.

  That was why Sheldon D. Fairey was so bloated with triumph.

  The abrupt bleating of his private line pricked his pleasure's balloon. Certain it was his wife calling, he picked up on the second ring. "Yes?"

  "Sheldon! Sweetie!"

  The voice at the other end was all purrs and bright tinkles and most definitely not his wife's.

  "It's Dina!"

  Oh, Christ, he thought, feeling his testicles shrivel. And to what, he wondered, do I owe the displeasure of this call?

  "Mrs. Goldsmith," he acknowledged warily.

  "I'm not disturbing you, Sheldon? Am I?"

  Damn right you're disturbing me! he wanted to snarl. Naturally, he voiced nothing of the sort.

  "Because if you are in the middle of something," Dina went on magnanimously, "we can talk later."

  Dina showing concern? His internal alarms went on full alert. This kinder, gentler Dina was way out of character.

  "Of course you're not disturbing me," he lied smoothly. "Not a'tall."

  "I'm so glad! You are well, I take it?"

  "Fine, thank you," he said. Now flashing red lights had joined the klaxons screeching inside his head. "And you?"

  "Oh, you know ... comme ci, comme ca. But overall quite well, I suppose." Dina cut right to the chase. "Sweetie, the reason I'm calling is—I need your help!"

  "Y-yes ... ?" he said cautiously, wishing he were still lunching with Leonard Sokoloff or ...

  ... or better yet, that he was halfway around the world somewhere, on a desert island, perhaps, or in the Himalayas—any place, so long as it was out of reach of the long arm of Dina Goldsmith.

  "The problem," Dina explained, "is this. You see, Robert and I are looking for a house in the country. He's set his sights on Connecticut, while I prefer the Hamptons. I'm not sure he realizes how boring the country can be."

  "Oh, very boring," Fairey assured her, feeling a terrible premonition coming on.

  "Well, then I spoke to Becky V ..." Dina paused, obviously to make certain the exalted name sank in. "... and you'll never guess what she said."

  He shuddered to think. "No ..." he said softly.

  "She suggested I take Robert to New Jersey. Somewhere in the hunt country. She assured me it's so quiet there that one weekend will cure him of the country once and for all."

  "Hmmm," he murmured noncommittally.

  "Becky also told me you have neighboring estates."

  Fairey put a hand over his face and shut his eyes. Dear God, he thought. What hath Thou wrought?

  "Yes," he admitted in a whisper, "we do."

  "Anyway," Dina continued, "I was wondering if we might impose upon you one of these weekends. Just to get a feel for the area. You know ... so we can drive around? Look at places? So Robert can see for himself just how boring it is?"

  His mind was racing. Imposing! For a weekend! Good Lord, he had to head her off—and now, before she got any more ideas.

  "I'm afraid our place is ... well, quite shabby, Mrs. Goldsmith," he said quickly. "My wife rides, and the stables are in better condition than the house." He forced a jovial laugh. "I'm afraid you'd absolutely hate it."

  "Never mind me," Dina said inexorably. "So long as Robert hates it, that's all that matters."

  He couldn't believe this! Bad enough that he had to put up with the Goldsmiths in New York. But in the country? In his very own house?

  "You do see, sweetie?" she went on. "Unless my Robert finds it horribly dull and horrendously boring—and he must!—I'll end up somewhere

  in Litchfield County instead of Southampton. And the moment I saw the house I found there, I knew it had my name on it. You see? Sweetie, my happiness is in your hands! You must help me make Robert see reason!"

  He gulped, visions of Dina's bullying and Robert's uncouth manners and smelly cigars tainting the purity of his weekend san
ctum.

  "I-I'm really not sure my wife and I can be of much help," he murmured stiffly.

  "Oh, but you can, sweetie! You can! Now, what do you say to ... the weekend after next?"

  The what—! His mouth gaped at her audacity. "I ... I'll have to check with my wife," he said.

  "Naturellement! That goes without saying."

  "I'll let you know what she says."

  "You do that." Dina paused. "And Sheldon?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Goldsmith?"

  "Just remember, sweetie," she trilled. "One hand washes the other!"

  And with that, Dina rang off.

  One hand washes the other ... The phrase echoed endlessly in the chambers of his ears. One hand washes the other ...

  Its meaning was crystal clear.

  "Damn that woman!" he screamed, beating on his desk with his fists. "Damn her to eternal hell!"

  Then, regaining his self-control, he jabbed the automatic dial button of his home.

  His wife did not pick up; the answering machine did.

  Swiftly he broke the connection and stabbed the next button down, the number of her cellular phone.

  A swift series of electronic tones. Silence. Then one ring ... two ...

  He could hear his breath ricocheting off the mouthpiece, feel his fingers gripping the receiver as though to break it.

  Come on, come on ... answer it, dammit!

  He had to talk to Nina. She always knew the most plausible excuses. Maybe she'd be able to extricate them from a weekend with the Goldsmiths ...

  ... from a weekend in hell!

  While her husband was suffering testicular trauma, Nina Fairey was ordering an entire new riding habit at Hermes. Cap, blouse, jacket, jodhpurs, boots—beaucoup bucks at any equestrian supplier's. But at Hermes, a major investment.

  Nina Fairey preferred to think of it as a capital improvement.

  Her order was being written up when the cellular phone in her Kelly bag cheeped. "Excuse me," she told the saleslady, taking out her Microtac and flipping it open. She undipped a heavy bas-relief earring before lifting it and saying: "Hel-lo-oh."

  "Thank God! Nina. Where are you?" She could hear the relief quavering in her husband's voice.

  "At Hermes," she replied. "I told you I had an appoint—"

  "Yes, yes, yes," he hissed, cutting her off in midsentence. "Listen, something's come up which can't wait. Can you talk freely?"

  Nina glanced around at hovering salespeople and browsing shoppers. "N ... no," she told him, "not exactly. But wait a moment." She pressed the hold button and looked at the saleslady. "Is it possible for me to take this call in private?"

  "But of course! If madame would please follow me?"

  Nina was led past glass counters filled with a display of bone china with toucan motifs, another with trellises, pagodas, and butterflies, then riding tack and wood-and-leather campaign furniture before being shown into a private office in the back.

  As soon as the door shut behind her, Nina punched the hold button and lifted the phone. "Sheldon? You there?"

  An explosion of breath: "Yes!"

  "We can talk freely now," she said. "Darling, what happened? You sound beside yourself."

  "What happened?" His laughter was ragged and high-pitched, as if he was on the verge of hysteria. "Genghis Khan happened, that's what!"

  She rolled the gold earring between her fingers. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

  "Nina, for God's sake—the Goldsmiths have happened!"

  "Darling, what do you mean?"

  "Didn't you hear what I said?"

  "Sheldon, I'm not psychic. Will you stop talking in riddles and be more forthcoming?"

  "Okay. Okay! But you're not going to believe this!"

  She took a seat in a campaign chair. "Why don't you try me."

  "All right." She could hear the soughing of his breath. "I come back from lunch, and what do you think greets me?"

  She was silent.

  "—ringing phone. My private line, dammit! You know how I guard this number, it's not even listed!"

  Nina made commiserating noises.

  "Anyway, who should it be but Dina Goldsmith? God alone knows how she got hold of this number, though I'm not surprised that she did— that ballbuster's capable of anything!"

  Nina pressed two fingers against her brow to forestall an oncoming headache. "Slow down, darling. Please. I don't have the foggiest notion as to what's going on. Now then: Dina called."

  "Yes!" he shouted.

  "Well, what did she want?"

  "Would you believe, she invited herself to ... to our house in the country? Our house, goddammit!" he sputtered, his voice rising feverishly in outrage. "Christ, is nothing sacred anymore? Whatever happened to a man's home being his castle?"

  Nina remained calm. "And what did you tell her?"

  "What do you think? God knows, I tried to turn her down graciously, not that that did any good."

  Again a burst of mirthless laughter; she recognized the telltale, strung-out vibrato of nerves stretched to the breaking point.

  "That woman doesn't know the meaning of the word no!"

  "Sheldon, cool your heels. Let me think, darling—"

  "Well, you'd better think fast!" he snapped. "Otherwise, we'll be stuck with her and that slob of a husband the weekend after next!"

  "Did she happen to mention why she wanted to come?"

  He filled her in on what Dina had told him. "Not that her song and dance fools me," he said. "She's got some other, more devious motive up her sleeve, though what it is I can't begin to guess."

  "Hmmm." Nina tapped her lips thoughtfully. "The weekend after next ..."

  "Yes! Nina, you've got to do something! Find a way to wheedle out of this—"

  "Sheldon! For God's sake, will you calm down? This isn't the end of the world. In fact ..." She admired the wood and leather campaign chair and smiled to herself. "... it could very well be a new beginning. And definitely work to our advantage."

  "Nina! What are you saying?"

  His voice had once again taken on that tremolo of panic. She felt mildly irritated at having to dispense the necessary antidote, but forced herself to be forebearing.

  "Darling, I'm only saying that I have our best interests in mind. Your career ... our social position. Really. When you think about it, having the Goldsmiths out to Somerset might not be such a bad idea—"

  "Nina!"

  "Darling, trust me. Now forget all this nonsense and get on with your work. I'll take care of everything."

  "Nina—Nina! You are going to head them off! Aren't you?"

  "Sheldon, will you stop?" God, she hated it when men whined! "I know what I'm doing."

  "Oh, Christ ... !"

  "Hush, darling. Need I remind you that despite being neighbors, we never got past square one with Becky V?"

  "So?"

  "So—" She crossed shapely, mocha-stockinged legs. "—rumor has it that Becky V and Dina Goldsmith have become thick as thieves, or at least allies of some sort. Therefore, it stands to reason that the easiest way to enhance our own social stature is by hitching our star to Dina's."

  "Hitching our—Nina! Have you gone mad?"

  "Not at all, darling, not at all." Smiling to herself, Nina regarded her crossed leg and curled the pointy toe of her caramel-colored high heel. "Opportunistic, perhaps. But crazy? Definitely not. Now, I have got to get busy. Darling, I'll talk to you later—"

  "But—"

  "Later, Sheldon," she said firmly. "Right now I've got my work cut out for me. Just give me Dina's telephone number so I can get back to her right away."

  When Dina hung up, she felt the gratifying afterglow of having wielded a small fraction of her considerable power.

  Ah, power. Can anything else compare?

  Dina didn't think so.

  But there'd be plenty of time to reflect on her triumph. Right now she had more pressing matters on her agenda. Calling Zandra, for one. Nina Fairey had, of course, extended an invitation
to the three of them— Robert, herself, and Zandra.

  And, if everything went according to plan, Zandra would be the next Princess von und zu Engelwiesen!

  Not wasting another second, Dina dabbed out the number of Burghley's Old Masters department. "Sweetie! It's me!"

  "Gosh, Dina," Zandra said lazily into the phone. "Hullo!"

  She was sitting behind her desk watching the fax machine extrude a length of thermal paper into Kenzie's waiting hands.

  "I didn't forget my purse or something at the restaurant, did I? I mean, I can be so horridly scatterbrained at times ..."

  "No, no," Dina assured her quickly. "Sweetie, you didn't forget a thing."

  "Oh, good. Sometimes, I believe I'd leave my head somewhere if it weren't attached to the rest of me."

  Dina laughed dutifully. "Sweetie, the reason I'm calling is to invite you to the country the weekend after next."

  "The country! But, Dina, this comes as a total surprise."

  "I can count on you, sweetie, can't I?"

  "I ... uh ..." Zandra tried to think. The invitation was so unexpected that she was momentarily thrown. Did she have any plans for that weekend? "Who else is going to be there?" she asked, flipping the calendar on her desk.

  "Oh, nobody of any consequence," Dina said dismissively. "It's at the Faireys, and it'll only be them, Robert, and the two of us. You know. Just an informal, intime little weekend."

  "I ... I don't know what to say!"

  "Sweetie! You must say yes! If you don't, I ... I'll die of boredom and never, ever, forgive you!"

  "Oh, Dina. Darling, I really need a minute to—"

  "Did I catch you at an inopportune moment?"

  "No, that's not it at all. It's just so sudden, and—well, I hadn't exactly planned—"

  "But you must come!" Dina wailed. "Sweetie, I insist! I command you! In fact, your presence is required!"

  Zandra frowned and thought: Required? Of course my presence isn't required. Why should it be? And why's Dina making such a big deal of it?

  "Dina—" she began, and then halted: from across the room came a sudden whoop of triumph as Kenzie raised one fist and shouted, "Yes!" Obviously, Professor Tindemans's fax was everything he said it would be, and the Holbein fiasco could now be dumped into the laps of the authorities and the courts.