The one on the left functioned as a one-horse stable and two-car garage. The other had been converted into a small caretakers' apartment.
Halfway to the house, the station wagon was intercepted by two golden retrievers, which barked joyfully while bounding circles around the now-creeping vehicle.
The Faireys drove carefully around to the back, where they parked beside the kitchen. Mrs. Pruitt, the caretaker's wife, opened the door, wiping her hands on her apron, to say she would unload the car.
Nina and Sheldon spent the next few minutes fussing over the dogs. Long slavering pink tongues licked faces; giant paws made snowy prints on clothes.
Looking around, Sheldon sighed wistfully. The sky was a pellucid blue, the sun shone brightly, and the air was crisp and clean. All in all, it promised to be the perfect winter weekend.
Only one dark, ugly cloud smudged his pleasure's horizon. The Goldsmiths.
Prince Karl-Heinz also set out for the country at three-thirty, but he eschewed driving by car. He simply went to the East Side heliport and boarded the lush comfort of a waiting executive helicopter.
It took off at once and the pilot vectored it southwest, heading down over the East River and its quartet of bridges—the Queensboro, Williamsburg, Manhattan, and Brooklyn—past the towers of Wall Street, and zoomed out across the choppy gray waters of Upper New York Bay.
Karl-Heinz gazed out as they flew south along the coastline of Sta- ten Island.
Below, set among trees, were low apartment buildings, stately old Victorians, developments of tract houses. Suburbia-in-the-City, the American Dream alive and well—and within sight of Manhattan.
The juxtaposition was discombobulating. Across the water, the needlepoint skyline. Here, another world entirely.
Neat gridworks of snowy lawns. Curving drives among rows of ranch houses, split levels, Colonials. And residents who sneered at their sophisticated sister borough across the bay, who were middle-class proud, wore their provincialism like a badge, and regularly made noises to secede from New York City.
Next came the familiar, industrial wasteland of New Jersey. Perth Amboy and Metuchen. Docks, refineries, oil storage tanks. And finally, the Raritan River, where once again suburbia flourished before giving way to true countryside. Forests, farmland, rolling hills—
—and the helicopter roared in low over the rooftops of Becky V's compound, hovered in midair above the front lawn of the Greek Revival mansion, and then set down, the wash of its whirling rotors whipping up great blizzardlike flurries of snow.
The hinged door of the main cabin opened, the boarding stairs were lowered, and Karl-Heinz exited, suitcase in hand. From force of habit, he half ran, hunched forward, until he cleared the rotors, to where a Secret Service agent wearing dark aviator shades was waiting.
The agent stared at him for a moment, then raised his arm and murmured, Dick Tracy-like, into his sleeve while covering an ear with his other hand. Only afterward did Karl-Heinz notice the tiny earphone.
"You're expected, sir." The agent had to shout to make himself heard. "If you'll follow me—" He pointed toward the mansion.
Karl-Heinz nodded and followed him, glad to turn his back on the stinging whirlwind of snow. Behind him, the boarding stairs were retracted, the hinged door pulled shut, and the helicopter rose, banked sharply, and climbed, like some giant metallic insect recalled by the now- purpling sky, its roar lessening until it soon faded altogether.
Upon reaching the mansion, the imposing front door was opened from inside.
"Prince Karl-Heinz?" It was a second Secret Service agent.
Karl-Heinz nodded and the agent stepped aside to let them enter the oval, pilastered foyer with its grand sweeping staircase.
"Sorry, sir. A mere formality." The agent waited for Karl-Heinz to put down his suitcase. A swift, professional frisk followed.
"Mon dieu!" rang out Becky's rich, opulent voice from the landing above. "Really!" she said with amusement. "I hardly think that's necessary."
The three men looked up.
Becky, clad in black turtleneck, one hand in the pocket of her loose, pleated tan Garbo pants, the other on the ebonized banister, was coming down the stairs. Making as casual and devastating an entrance as Marlene Dietrich, or Garbo herself.
Upon reaching Karl-Heinz, she placed her hands on his shoulders, hopped on tiptoe, and pecked his lips.
"Cher ami. You must forgive my watchdogs their enthusiasm! They do mean well, you know."
She stepped back while the butler relieved him of his cashmere coat and silk, cut-velvet scarf. At a signal from her, both Secret Service agents made themselves scarce.
"They are most remarkable, you know," Becky continued. "The way the Service trains them! Such fierce loyalty. Can you believe, they will fling themselves directly into the line of fire?"
She regarded Karl-Heinz with her incredible violet eyes.
"I think, my dear Becky, that we would all gladly do that, were it your life which was at stake."
"Surely you jest." But she smiled with pleasure. "D'accord. Just leave your suitcase there. Someone will see to it. Now come. Let us go into the sitting room. You will have plenty of time to freshen up later."
She slid an arm through his and walked him into the enormous room, where flaming logs fluttered in both marble fireplaces.
Despite its crystal-chandeliered grandeur, the yellow-lacquered room was comfortable with cigar smoke, paintings, bookcases, and rich carpets. One entire wall of latticed windows, framed by garnet velvet, looked out upon the cobalt blue night beginning to fall.
But here inside, everything glowed with warmth.
All around, in pools of soft lamplight, were voluptuous couches upholstered in cognac suede and heaped with petit point cushions. Deep comfortable armchairs of varying styles which invited gossip, just as draped round tables, piled high with books, encouraged reading and contemplation. And here, there, and everywhere, bushes of rare orchids, branches bent under the weight of heavy, brown-speckled blooms, had been placed in giant, turquoise-glazed Sung dynasty bowls and amber Tang vessels.
Lord Rosenkrantz, rimless half glasses perched on the tip of his nose, was ensconced in a scuffed, brown leather club chair. He had a folded newspaper on his lap and a glass of red wine, glowing like rubies, at his elbow. Expensive cigar smoke swirled from a scintillating rectangle of crystal.
"Ah!" he boomed. "The guest of honor!" And with a rye-crisp smile, he quoted: " 'Plots, true or false, are necessary things, to raise up commonwealths—' "
" '—and ruin kings'?" Karl-Heinz finished for him, arching an eyebrow in amusement.
"Let us fervently hope not, dear boy!" Lord Rosenkrantz's cherubic features were rosy with a Boucher-like glow, whether from the reading lamp at his side or the wine he'd consumed, it was difficult to tell.
Becky waved a dismissive hand. "Don't listen to his rubbish, cheri. Whatever this weekend portends, one thing is for certain. At least it won't be boring." She slid Karl-Heinz a sly sidelong smile. "N'est-ce pas?"
And with a swirl of her wide-legged trousers, she kicked off her gold- buckled slippers, sank into the sofa nearest the fire, and tucked her legs under her.
She gave the spot beside her an imperious pat.
"Alors. You shall sit right here, Heinzie. With me. Now, do you have a preference? Coffee? Tea? Or perhaps something a bit stronger?"
He smiled. "Why? Do you think I shall be needing it?"
"Take my advice, dear boy," Lord Rosenkrantz called out, amid the crackling of newspaper. "Opt for fortification. Remember, 'One can drink too much, but one never drinks enough!' As for this weekend, I believe the latter, rather than the former, shall hold true."
Chapter 35
The Goldsmiths occupied Cedar Hill's "best guest room"—Nina Fairey's term—a large north-facing room on the second floor. Despite its size and period furnishings, it was by no means luxurious. Rather, Dina thought to herself with mental lip-pursing as Mrs. Pruitt, having lit a fire
in the fireplace, now marched briskly back out, heels clacking sharply on bare floorboards, it was decidedly awfr'-luxury: puritanical, prudish, and penitential as only authentic Colonial can be.
Dina, huddled in her ranch mink, glanced around with growing despair. Everywhere, her luxury-seeking eyes met nothing but relentless sobriety.
It was evident in the rectitude of the four-poster, skeletal, without bedhangings, and covered with a patchwork quilt. In the no-nonsense, three-paneled oak chest at the foot of the bed. In the primness of the unadorned, free-standing wardrobe. In the kneehole bureau which, thanks to a plain, mahogany-framed mirror, doubled as a dressing table. Even in the two very early Early American armchairs which flanked a chest of drawers.
The only concession to decoration was on the wall: a dour pair of naive portraits—husband and wife—both of whom projected silent disapproval, she in a stiff lace bonnet and holding a prayer book, he in what appeared to be clerical garb.
Turning her back on them, Dina drew close to the fire and stood, hands extended, soaking up whatever warmth it gave off while waiting— she prayed not in vain!—for the heat to come on, but not daring to go so far as to tempt fate by actually looking around for evidence of radiators or heating vents. Since none had caught her eye thus far, she was afraid that—
She squashed the thought.
Surely the Faireys could not be such radical purists that their passion for authenticity precluded them from having installed central heating.
Could it?
Mr. Pruitt trod in and set down the last two of Dina's six Vuitton cases. "That's it, then," he said, leaving before she could pluck up her courage to inquire about the heat.
Crossing her arms, she tucked her hands into the armpits of her fur sleeves and glanced through the arch to the adjoining sitting room.
Robert, who couldn't give a damn about his surroundings so long as he had a roof over his head, was right at home. Seated on a stiff camel- back sofa, cellular phone in hand, the Pembroke table in front of him littered with the usual detritus—ashtray, cigars, pens, calculator, laptop computer, and the inevitable sheafs of reports and printouts. No doubt making money in some far-off time zone where the business day was just beginning.
Dina tightened her lips in annoyance. Obviously, no sympathy would be offered from that quarter. Not that she'd expected any. In truth, she had never understood how her husband could go through life oblivious to everything but business and sex. And not necessarily in that order.
Abruptly disgusted with him, she paced the bedroom. She had to find something to do to keep her mind off the cold. If she didn't, she would go stark raving mad.
But what?
She eyed her suitcases malevolently.
No, keeping herself occupied did not extend to unpacking, especially considering that she had brought at least six times as many clothes as that single dreary wardrobe could hold.
"What did I do to deserve this?" she wailed. "Oh, why can't I be back home? Or at least someplace nice and warm?"
But of course, she knew why.
How could she forget how quickly she'd jumped at the chance to play matchmaker. Now here she was, regretting it already!
Talk about learning the hard way, she thought. This will teach me. From now on, I'll find out exactly what I'm getting into before I commit to something!
She became aware of knuckles rapping on the door.
Now what! she wanted to scream. I'm miserable enough! Can't I be left in peace?
The knocks continued.
Narrowing her eyes, she scraped her chair around. "What?" she shouted.
The door opened just enough for an inappropriately cheerful face to peer around the jamb. "Getting settled, are you?" Zandra asked brightly.
And suddenly the door burst wide open. The two huge dogs, tails wagging furiously, forced their way past and headed straight for Dina— nearly knocking her over as they leaped up on her and bestowed ecstatic licks.
"Help! Help! Ugh!" Dina covered her face with mink-sheathed arms to avoid the slobbering tongues. "Sweetie!" she cried desperately. "Get these brutes off me! I'm going to get bitten!"
"Oh, honestly," Zandra drawled. "Don't you know anything? They're retrievers. Absolute marvels. Don't make good watchdogs, though ... would hold a flashlight for a burglar."
"I don't care! They're smelly and disgusting! I hate animals! I—"
"Nonsense. Never met anyone could hate a retriever. They're the absolute greatest. Aw, will you look at that? Darling, they adore you!"
As if to prove it, the male tightened his forelegs around Dina's knees and started humping her legs.
"Zandra!" Dina screamed. "Do something! I'm being raped by a dog!"
"But, darling, you really can't blame him. I mean, look at yourself. You're one big frightfully furry thing. Teach you to stop wearing poor slaughtered little minks!"
"Zandra! If you don't get these monsters off me right this very minute, so help me God, I'm ... I'm going to call the ASPCA!"
"No reason to get your nose out of joint. I'm getting them off you. Might take me a minute."
Zandra grabbed hold of both dogs' collars and tugged.
"George!" She tried for an assertive tone. "Get down. Down, I say. Martha. Sit. Sit!"
"Zandra?" Dina peeked out from between her arms. "Did I hear you call them ... George? And Martha?"
"As in Washington. Yes. Aren't they splendid, though? How ever could you not like them?"
Easily, Dina thought. Now that the dogs were obediently seated, tails thumping on pegged pine, drooly jaws panting like bellows, she cautiously lowered her arms.
"Oh, no!" she wailed in distress.
"Darling, what is it now?"
Dina gestured at herself. "Just look at me! I have dog hair ... and ... what's this? Slime! Slime—all over me! And this is my very best Maximilian natural Red Glow mink—"
"God's sake, darling. It's hardly the end of the world. Chill out."
"Chill out?" Dina, quivering with rage, stared at Zandra incredulously. "Chill out, did you say? What do you think I've been doing? Sitting in a sauna? Enjoying this blistering heat?"
"Granted, it's rather on the cool side. So? Doesn't mean you can't wash up and change."
"Wash up?" Dina's voice dripped sarcasm. "Am I being led to understand that there's running water in this house? Hot running water?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Well, forget it. I'm not about to get undressed in this cold. Do you have any idea what the temperature must be?"
"Higher, I suspect, than in most stately homes in England. Anyway, why do you think I advised you to buy sweaters?"
"There." Dina pointed an offending finger at the row of Vuittons. "In whichever one Darlene packed them."
"Darling, you mean ... you haven't even begun to unpack?"
"How could I? There aren't any closets."
Zandra took a quick visual inventory. "There's this chest ..." She pointed at the foot of the bed. "... that dresser ... and that's surely a wardrobe ..."
"I know," Dina gloomed. "I just can't bring myself to do it!"
"Tell you what, darling." Zandra grabbed the nearest Vuitton case, swung it effortlessly up on the bed, and sprang the brass latches. "You see about getting cleaned up, and I'll do your unpacking. How's that for a deal."
Dina looked at her blearily. "Sweetie?" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You'd really do that? For me?"
"Especially for you, pain in the arse though you may be!"
"You're too wonderful, sweetie. Too, too!" For the first time since setting foot in the house, Dina glowed with radiance. "Yes. I think I will get cleaned up after all. Mmmm ..."
She tapped her lips with a peppermint-nailed finger.
"But first I have to use the phone." She glanced through the connecting arch. "And Robert's glued to the cellular."
"So? What's wrong with this one?" Zandra gestured at an old black rotary phone on one of the nightstands.
"No," Dina said quickly. She was terrified that Zandra, overhearing the conversation, would put two and two together. And that had to be avoided. Zandra must never discover the scheme Becky and I hatched, Dina thought. If she finds out about it, she might well be furious.
It could also, she realized, put a severe strain on their friendship, something which hadn't even occurred to her before.
Although it's a little late to get cold feet now. I should have thought of the consequences earlier.
"I'm going downstairs," Dina said. "Perhaps there's a phone in the kitchen. Chances are, it'll be the warmest room in the house."
And she darted guiltily out. Glad to make her escape, however brief it might be.
Suddenly she wished she'd never gotten involved in this plot.
Callas was in rare form. Becky, posing gracefully on the couch, was engaged in deep conversation with Karl-Heinz. From the leather club chair, Lord Rosenkrantz was conducting the La Scala orchestra with the CD remote.
The butler entered and made his way woodenly across the room toBecky, a cordless phone on his sterling salver. With a flourish of the makeshift baton, Lord Rosenkrantz silenced Verdi.
The butler cleared his throat. "Excuse me, madam."
Becky looked up. "Yes, Mumford?"
"Mrs. Goldsmith is on the telephone."
Lord Rosenkrantz glanced over at Becky, raising his exophthalmic eyes above the level of his reading glasses without actually lifting his head. "Sooooo," he observed deliriously. "The plot thickens!"
"Would you like to take it, madam? Or are you indisposed?"
"Mais oui," Becky said, lifting the phone from the proffered salver. "I will take it. Merci, Mumford. That shall be all."
Becky extended the telephone's plastic-coated antenna and dabbed the talk button. "Allo? Dina?"
"Yes." Dina's voice was guarded.
"Alors. You are well, j'espere bien?"
Too Damn Rich Page 37
