At 9:55, Bambi led Arnold, Kenzie, and Zandra across the dais, where they took their seats behind a table on which multiline telephones and four computers had been set up.
Kenzie felt exultant. Soon she would be vindicated. Reveling in triumph.
Zandra took her hand and pressed it encouragingly. Arnold leaned forward, held up both hands, and showed crossed fingers. Only Bambi, thin-lipped and silent, ignored her completely.
At 9:56, the first potential bidder arrived. At 9:57, a couple strolled in. A minute later, a well-known dealer.
Kenzie suddenly felt a terrible sense of foreboding.
By 9:59, of the two hundred seats, one hundred ninety-six were still vacant.
Only four people had shown up.
It was then that the enormity of her decision hit her. I've really done it this time, she thought bleakly. If there aren't enough absentee bids, I can kiss my job good-bye.
She watched Sheldon D. Fairey, immaculately groomed as always, approach the lectern. He moved gracefully, as though it was a packed house, and members of the media were recording his every move. His chiseled face was expressionless as his eyes scanned the empty seats.
He's going to go ahead with the sale, Kenzie realized, feeling the horrified fascination of a spectator watching an accident occur. We're headed straight for disaster. And all because of me. I'm never going to get another job after this. Heaven help me. Why did I have to go out on a limb?
And now—too late!—she suddenly realized something else. For five minutes now, the telephones had been silent. Ominously silent.
Oh, God, she beseeched. Why couldn't I keep my trap shut?
"Lot number one," Sheldon D. Fairey announced. "Portrait of Lady Digby from the studio of Sir Anthony Van Dyck."
Two green-aproned young men carried the gilt-framed painting onstage and placed it on an easel. Simultaneously, a slide of the picture was projected onto an overhead screen.
"Bidding shall start at one thousand dollars."
Arnold, glancing at his computer screen, lifted his pencil.
"We have a bid for one thousand dollars—"
On the back wall, the currency conversion board's bright LED numbers converted the dollars into six exchange rates—Japanese yen, Deutsche marks, English pounds, Italian lira, and both French and Swiss francs.
"Do we have a bid for one thousand one hundred?"
Kenzie and Zandra, on the phone to clients, raised their pencils, as did Arnold.
"Do we have a bid for one thousand two hundred ... one thousand five hundred ... two thousand ... three thousand ... four thousand ..."
The dollars spiraled, as though conjured up by the effortless swirl of a magician's wand, and seemed to take on a life of their own.
"... Ten thousand ... ten thousand five hundred ... eleven thousand ... twelve ..."
A dizzying half minute later, the gavel banged down. "Sold. To a telephone bidder for eighteen thousand dollars."
Four and a half times the high estimate.
Kenzie, weak with relief, exhaled a deep, shaky breath. So far, so good, she told herself. Now, if this only keeps up ...
The green-aproned porters carried the painting offstage as two other porters lugged out the next one.
"Lot number two."
Behind his lectern, Sheldon D. Fairey exuded confidence, authority, and a quiet, reassuring assertiveness.
"Portrait of an Italian Nobleman, also from the studio of Sir Anthony Van Dyck. Bidding shall begin at one thousand dollars ..."
Zandra and Kenzie were already on the phone with long-distance clients; Arnold, with his eye on his computer screen, was again executing bids on behalf of absentee buyers.
And again, like an enchanted thread snatched out of thin air and woven into a dazzling fabric, the dollars spun and soared, as though wrought by some sorcerer's arcane spell.
"Do we have a bid for six thousand ... six thousand five hundred ... seven thousand ... seven thousand five hundred ... ?"
The numbers billowed, swarmed, multiplied.
"Fifteen thousand . . . fifteen thousand five hundred ... going once, going twice—"
The hammer fell.
"Sold. To an absentee bidder for fifteen thousand, five hundred dollars."
Nearly four times the high estimate.
Kenzie felt the narcotic of relief, like a tranquilizer, anesthetizing her jumpy nerves. Dared she nurture the sputtering flame of hope?
It was too early to tell. Still, the sale was off to a better start than she had dared anticipate.
Who knows? she thought optimistically. Maybe, just maybe, we can pull this off. We might even come out of it smelling like roses.
But then the tide turned.
Neither Lot 3, a crucifixion by a follower of Van Cleve, nor Lot 4, a tiny Barent Graat of sheep and goats, nor Lot 5, Portrait of a Lady as Venus by van der Heist, found a single bidder. Sheldon D. Fairey hammered down each of them with one expressionless but ominous word: "Passed."
Kenzie felt each accompanying bang of the gavel like a physical blow. We're in trouble, she thought. And instantly revised that opinion. Nope. I might as well call a spade a spade. We're in deep shit. Real deep shit.
But the gods of fortune laughed, and once again teased her by spinning in her favor.
Lot 6, Adoration of the Magi by Jan van Scorel, estimated at $10,000 to $20,000, sold for $21,000.
And Lot 7, a madonna and child by Raffaelino del Garbo, went for $36,500—$16,500 over the high estimate.
Kenzie did not permit her hopes to surge, which was just as well. The next six lots failed to reach their reserve price. Each pound of the gavel was accompanied by two inexorable words: "Bought in."
Kenzie, feeling a headache coming on, rubbed her forehead. From experience, she knew what lay ahead and dreaded it.
We're going to have a lot of unhappy consignors, she thought. And some would inevitably blame Burghley's for their paintings not selling, which meant she would be fielding a flurry of angry calls.
Sheldon D. Fairey was saying: "Lot number fourteen, Still Life by Pieter Claesz. Oil on copper. Signed in monogram and dated 1630."
At a presale estimate of $500,000 to $700,000, it was the first of the sale's truly spectacular and expensive works.
"Bidding shall begin at $250,000."
Kenzie, knowing what was riding on it, literally held her breath.
A brief but intense battle between Zandra's telephone bidder and one of Arnold's absentee bids resulted in a hammer price of $1.25 million.
It took Kenzie a moment for the success to register. When it did, she was so sick with relief that it was all she could do not to throw up.
And that was the pattern the rest of the sale followed—a constant roller coaster of exhilarating crests and bleak descents.
By ten-thirty, eleven more seats had filled as veteran bidders, timing their arrivals to coincide with the lots which interested them, arrived to bid in person.
By eleven o'clock, that number had grown to a total of thirty-three, including a reporter from the New York Times.
Despite the small turnout, there was electricity in the air, as well as a tiny clutch of bargain hunters.
A little over two hours after the auction began, Sheldon D. Fairey's gavel fell for the last time. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "that is the end of the sale. Thank you."
The auction was over.
Kenzie collapsed limply in her chair. The sale had taken its toll. She felt completely wiped out, and just sat there in a daze while Arnold finished his computerized tally.
"Hmmm," he murmured. "Take a look at this."
"Thanks, but I'd rather wait," Kenzie murmured, thinking: If no news is bad news, then what's the big rush? We'll learn the extent of the damage soon enough. Besides, the auction's over. It's too late to do anything about it now.
Zandra was more upbeat. She had kept an approximate mental count, and peered eagerly at Arnold's screen. His numbers confirmed hers.
&n
bsp; Of the two hundred twenty-eight lots, nearly two-thirds—one hundred thirty-nine to be exact—had sold, and the auction had generated a grand total of $56,609,112.00.
Four paintings alone accounted for nearly a quarter of that grand total:
Lot 160, the Francesco Guardi, which had gone for $6.75 million.
A small Titian, which had brought in $2.64 million.
A Gericault, which had commanded $2.42 million.
And a Joachim Wtewael, which went for $1.8 million.
"Goodness, Arnold!" Zandra said. "How ever did we do it? Kenzie, you really must look!"
"No, thanks," Kenzie said weakly. "I don't think I can bear it."
"Balls! Course you can!" Zandra declared stoutly. "In all, we've totaled fifty-six-point-six million dollars. Can you believe it? Fifty-six million, Kenzie! Darling, you should be thrilled!"
"Fifty-six ... ?" Kenzie repeated dully.
"Darling, do snap out of it. I mean, honestly. I know it's somewhat below the presale estimate, but you have to admit the estimates were on the steep side ... Darling? Did you hear me? We fared tons better than Christie's or Sotheby's. See? You were absolutely right about the show going on."
Kenzie blinked. "I ... was?" she said in a tiny, hesitant voice.
"I'll say. You're vindicated—to the tune of fifty-six million. Arnold— shouldn't we drink to this, or something?"
"Definitely," he agreed, and launched into his Chinese takeout routine. "Come on, radies. We workeee, now starvee. Join me in a rate runch?"
Kenzie shook her head. "Why don't you two go? I couldn't possibly keep any food down."
"So?" Zandra wouldn't take no for an answer. "Have a liquid lunch, darling. That's the antidote. Nothing like a good stiff drink."
She took Kenzie's hands and pulled her to her feet.
"You're coming, and that's that. No argument now. That's a good girl!"
When they got outside, a snowplow was scraping noisily past on Madison. Kenzie turned her face up to the sky.
"Wouldn't you know it? Now that the auction's over, the snow's stopped."
Chapter 34
Becky V set out for the country at eleven o'clock in the morning. For anonymity's sake, she drove an unassuming, dark gray Chrysler Le Baron hardtop, and wore big round sunglasses and had an Hermes scarf tied around her head. Lord Rosenkrantz, with his pink baby face and Dickensian paunch, sat beside her in the passenger seat. They were followed by a dark blue Ford Taurus, driven by her Secret Service detail, which in turn was followed by a black Chevrolet Astro minivan.
The van was driven by Becky's Pritikin chef, and was loaded down with baskets of fresh black and white truffles, cases of 1988 Duque de la Vila Rioja, bottled on Becky V's own Spanish estates, five-kilo tins of Beluga Malossal caviar packed in dry ice, and coolers filled with fresh seafood bought that very morning at the Fulton Street fish market.
With Becky in the lead, the three-car motorcade took the Holland Tunnel under the river and were soon in the famous New Jersey hunt country: unspoiled woods, rolling pastures, and farmland. The winding country roads, though plowed, were treacherous, and the going was slow.
Half an hour later, they turned into a private, unmarked lane which cut through white-fenced, snow-blanketed pastures. This lane, too, had been cleared.
A quarter of a mile later, there it was. Becky V's equestrian estate. A sprawling compound, to say the least.
The main house was a handsome, white, thirty-room mansion said to be one of the finest examples of Greek Revival architecture in America. Then there were the outbuildings. The guest house, which she'd put at Lord Rosenkrantz's disposal. Twin brick stables with cupolas facing each other across a cobbled courtyard—one for horses, the other used as a multicar garage. A blacksmith shop. Glass hothouses. Barns and sheds.
For recreation, there were indoor and outdoor pools. A tennis court. A 40,000-square-foot indoor riding arena. Plus two outdoor arenas.
And, last but not least, a caretaker's house and staff building.
As soon as Becky arrived, she and Mrs. Wheatley, the housekeeper, made the rounds of both the main house and the guest house. Accompanied by Mr. Wheatley, the estate manager, she then inspected the barns, sheds, garages, and indoor riding arena and swimming pool. Next came a tour of the hothouses with the head gardener, where Becky inspected the plants, fingered the moistness of the soil, talked fertilizer, and selected the out-of-season flowers and blooming potted plants she wanted brought into the house and guesthouse.
Horses being her passion, she left the stables for last. There, with the head groom in attendance, she unhurriedly examined her fifteen beloved thoroughbreds and fed them cubes of sugar.
Her inspection over, she decided a ride was in order. She loved the thrill and freedom of a gallop over snow-covered pastures and rolling hills.
"Saddle up Sparky," she said, naming her favorite horse, a nine-year- old gelding. "I'll be taking him out in a few minutes."
Then, secure in the knowledge that everything in the compound met her impeccable standards, Becky returned to the house, where she changed into jodhpurs, boots, down-filled blue ski parka, helmet, shawl, and fleece-lined gloves.
When she returned to the stable, the two Secret Service agents were waiting. Both had changed into jeans and bulky, fleece-lined suede jackets.
"Is this really necessary?" she asked. "I'm only going for a short ride."
"Afraid so, ma'am," the one in charge said politely. "It's for your own protection."
Becky nodded and told the groom to fetch Sparky. "And then saddle up Moonbeam and Firefly for these gentlemen, would you?"
The groom looked at her in surprise. "Ma'am? Are you cer—"
Becky cut him off. "Just do it."
"Ma'am!" He hurried away and returned leading Sparky, who breathed plumes and pranced friskily in place. He was magnificent—big and shiny black, with sculpted muscles and white points, excellent head, long sturdy legs. The groom held the reins and gave Becky a leg-up.
She waited until Moonbeam and Firefly were saddled up and brought around. Moonbeam was a skittish, willful white stallion; Firefly, a recalcitrant, elderly mare.
Becky watched in amusement as the two men struggled to mount. Then, once they were in the saddle, she said, "Giddy-yap!" and shook Sparky's reins.
And she was off.
A glance backward made her burst out laughing. Moonbeam, rearing and bucking, threw his rider, and Firefly refused to move faster than a sedate trot.
Which of course was exactly what she'd been counting on.
The ride through the crusty snow was beautiful; the air, though stingingly cold, was bracing and pure. Sparky jumped fences with ease. Raced gracefully up sloping hillsides. Surprised a family of deer and sent them leaping for the shelter of the nearby woods.
An exhilarating hour later, Becky returned to the stable. The Secret Service men were waiting. One was obviously angry. The other looked sheepish. She dismounted Sparky, who was lathered with sweat, and tossed the reins to the groom.
"Gentlemen," she told her bodyguards. "I seem to have lost you."
Both their faces turned red.
Returning to the house, Becky had a maid run a hot bath. Then, sliding into a tub for the second time that day, she reflected on the delights of country life.
Afterward, dressed in sweater and slacks, she pondered the weekend ahead.
Zandra and Karl-Heinz. They seemed a match made in heaven. Whether the same held true on earth remained to be seen.
Still, one thing was for certain. It promised to be an interesting weekend ...
... a very interesting weekend indeed.
The Sheldon D. Faireys set out for the country at noon. New England Wasps to the core, they drove an appropriately sensible vehicle—a much- dented, decade-old Country Squire station wagon.
Likewise, they were suitably attired for a commute to the country. Sheldon had on a red and black flannel shirt, olive corduroys, and an old shearling jacket. Nina w
as in oatmeal (oversize cowl-necked sweater) and tobacco brown (sueded twill pants and lace-up lugger boots). You couldn't tell by looking at them, but they had more money than Ivana Trump— only they knew how to hold onto it.
Offspring of New England bankers (Nina), and New England brokers (Sheldon), both had been raised to believe in God, country, the almighty dollar, and Yankee understatement—not necessarily in that order—and each could recite the Five Wasp Commandments by heart:
I. Thou shalt never touch the Principal, no matter what Thou might covet.
II. Thou shalt live off a portion of the Principal's interest—the remainder to be automatically reinvested so that the Almighty Principal shall multiply fruitfully.
III. Thou shalt not display thy wealth for all the world to see.
IV. Thou shalt practice thrift and be frugal.
V. Thou shalt under no circumstance touch the Principal.
Which was why the casual observer could be forgiven for not guessing that the Faireys lived on a six-figure salary (his), plus the six-figure interest generated by blue chip investments (hers).
And so off they drove in their rusty, ten-year-old station wagon. The only baggage which did accompany them was in the form of garment bags, and even those were an exception, entirely due to receiving a dinner invitation from Becky V for them and their houseguests.
Taking the Lincoln Tunnel to New Jersey, they hooked up with 1-95, then changed to 1-78, and got off at North Plainfield. A prudent stop in a nearby shopping center ensued, where they thriftily stocked up on staples and discount liquor (Jersey prices and sales tax being a lot lower than pricey Manhattan's). Afterward, they drove the familiar country roads through snowy woods and pastures. Five miles after Middlebush, they passed the lane leading into Becky V's estate. A quarter of a mile farther, and they made a sharp left onto their own modest but sufficient ten acres, Cedar Hill.
A short gravel drive, recently plowed, led straight up to the house, which had been built atop a cleared incline, so that it seemed to dominate its setting. As always, the sight of it gave the Faireys a warm rush of pleasure. It was red brick, two stories, authentic Federal. Perfectly proportioned and symmetrical. There was a steep, snow-laden roof, a stately two-storied central portico, and tall brick chimneys at either end. On both sides, short one-story wings had been added at a later date.
Too Damn Rich Page 36
