"Certainly. But first I'm going to enjoy a glass of the very best," she said, sitting down on the sofa. "Then I'll get busy in the kitchen."
"Fair enough." He sat down beside her.
Hearing someone sticking keys in the locks, they both turned toward the front door.
"You expecting company?" Charley asked quietly.
"No."
"Your roomie?"
"I already told you," Kenzie whispered. "She's not due back until tomorrow."
"Landlord? Super?"
"Neither one's got keys."
The first lock cylinder clicked.
"Somebody sure the hell does. So. If you're not expecting anybody, and nobody's got keys to this place, and your roommate's out of town... . Think it's a burglar?"
Kenzie smiled. "Then I'd say he's in for a big surprise. One of the benefits of entertaining a cop."
The second cylinder clicked.
Charley put down his glass, got up, and made his way quietly over to the door. He looked back at Kenzie and put his finger against his lips.
Three more cylinders clicked and then the door burst open.
Charley, service revolver out, yelled: "Hold it right there!"
Kenzie, seeing who it was, popped up from the couch and cried: "Zandra!"
And Zandra, tossing her overnighter inside, slammed the door. Oblivious to them both, she fumbled to lock the bolts and headed straight for her room, tears streaming down her face.
"Shit!" Charley exclaimed, putting his revolver away. He looked at Kenzie accusingly. "I thought you said—"
"Charley! Something's very wrong. You saw the state she's in."
"Shit," he repeated, but softly.
Kenzie headed for Zandra's door. Knocked, opened it, and slipped inside. A minute passed. Charley gulped his glass of champagne. Then the door opened and Kenzie came out.
"Whasamatter?" Charley asked.
"The poor thing's had a bad shock. Charley, listen ..."
"Oh, no!" He held up both hands and shook his head. "Unh-unh. Don't tell me. I don't want to hear it!"
"I promise I'll make it up to you," Kenzie said, pushing him toward the front door. "She's beside herself and needs me. Now, will you go? It's girl-talk time."
"Guess this means no risotto," he sighed.
"Afraid not." She took his coat out of the cloak closet and shoved it at him.
"You tossing me out among the huddled masses?" he asked.
"That's one way to look at it. Yes. But it's really only a rain check. Now please, Charley. Will. You. Go? I already told you I'd make it up to you."
"With risotto?"
"Yes!"
"Then hold the mushrooms. Save 'em for the huddled masses."
"I'll make it with radicchio." She had the front door open.
"Yeah? Taste as good as it sounds?"
"Good-bye, Charley."
She literally shoved him out the door.
"A princess, a genuine princess, you could have been a real-life, honest-to- goodness fairy tale princess—"
Kenzie sighed wistfully over her third vodka on the rocks, not her beverage of choice, but all they had on hand since polishing off the Dom Perignon.
"—just like Di or Caroline or Stephanie," she went on dreamily. "Zandra, you do know how to hurt a girl, telling her she almost had a princess for a best friend, you really do."
"It would hurt tons more to find oneself saddled," sniffed Zandra loftily, "with a certain frog for a prince, not to mention two witches instead of fairy godmothers."
"Yeah, I guess you've got a point there."
"Oh, Kenz! How ever could I have been such a fool as to trust my oldest friend in the world, only to discover that all this time she's been scheming behind my back—"
"Forget about it," Kenzie advised.
She lifted the fifth of Smirnoff and refilled both their glasses to the rim.
"These kinds of things happen to the best of us. To err is human, or didn't you know?"
"Yes, but I walked straight into it with both eyes wide open—"
"Hold it, kiddo. Hold it right there."
Kenzie, like a traffic cop, held up a hand, palm facing out.
"You can't keep hitting yourself over the head with this. What's done is done. Take my advice. Chalk it up to experience."
"Yes, that's all fine, well, and dandy to say. But Becky and Dina aside, how could someone who is my very own relation—whom I first met when I was still learning to walk, for Christ's sake!—pounce on me just to hit the big jackpot?"
"I dunno," Kenzie sighed. "C'mon. Drink up."
But Zandra wasn't listening.
"What really hurts," she was saying, "is that it should be Karl-Heinz, of all people. Little as I've actually seen him over the years, he's always been my absolute fave when it came to relatives. Of course, that's totally changed, I can tell you that."
"Can't say I blame you," Kenzie commiserated. "I wouldn't have expected it of him, either. Not Prince Karl-Heinz ... so handsome ... so rich ... so ... so royal."
"Serene," Zandra corrected her. "Prince Charles is royal. Karl-Heinz, like Rainier of Monaco, is merely serene."
"Serene ..." Kenzie murmured dreamily. "I do rather like the sound of that."
"You'd like it a lot less if it meant marrying that jackal!" Zandra said darkly.
"Castles in Bavaria..." Kenzie mused. "Hunting lodges in Schwaben ..."
"Thick dank walls and moldy fabrics ..." Zandra gloomed. "Drafty rooms and endless halls ..."
"Titians and Tintorettos. . ." Kenzie went on dreamily. "Banks and breweries ... that ancient lineage ... the continuity of all that blue blood ..."
"The inbreeding. Those horrid lobeless ears ..."
"And those wonderful private jets and helicopters and servants galore—"
"Kenz!" Zandra cried out in distress.
"Wh-what?" asked Kenzie, jerking out of her boozy reverie.
"You're getting carried away!" Zandra accused. "You've got to stop that! You're beginning to make him sound attractive!"
"What? Oh, shit." Kenzie made herself frown severely. "But don't worry. That wasn't me speaking, that was Mr. Smirnoff. All eighty proof of him."
"Then I suggest you tell all eighty proof of him to shut up, or else he's going to make me very, very angry, and you don't want to see that, believe me.
"You ... angry with me?" Kenzie giggled.
"Yes, and it's no laughing matter, either. The von Hohenburg- Willemlohe temper is legendary, and to be avoided at all costs."
"You mean ... there's an inherited temper in your family?" Kenzie was fascinated.
"Like Hapsburg jaws or those lobeless von und zu Engelwiesen ears." Zandra nodded. "Yes."
"And?"
"And, I think it goes back to Albrecht von Hohenburg-Willemlohe, who in 1680-something cut off the tip of his nose in a conniption fit." Zandra frowned. "Or was that his brother, Lucus? I keep getting them mixed up."
"Go-o-lly!" Kenzie, despite launching into boozy Gomer Pyleisms, was thoroughly enchanted.
Zandra tossed back half her glass and gave a noisy, satisfying burp.
"It really isn't easy, you know, coming from a family with such a frightfully long and wretchedly convoluted history. Aside from struggling to keep track of everybody, you wouldn't believe all the hereditary traits one's susceptible to. It's surprising one doesn't turn into the worst hypochondriac. I mean, honestly."
Her eyes suddenly widened.
"Oh, shit!"
"What is it?"
"I just remembered! I've inherited more than just the von Hohenburg- Willemlohe temper!"
"What?" Kenzie asked in horror. "Hemophilia?"
"Worse," Zandra gloomed. "Hedwig of Saxony's inability to hold liquor!"
"Don't be silly. You seem to be holding it quite well. You're only one glass behind me, and—"
"Come to think of it," Zandra said dolefully, "poor luckless Hedwig shares another trait with me."
"Which was—?"
"She was much too trusting as far as men went. God, sounds just like me, doesn't it?"
"Zandra, one rotten apple doesn't mean the whole barrel's spoiled."
"Darling, that's easy for you to say. Maybe ... " Zandra paused. "Yes! Maybe I should just accept my shortcomings. And give up men entirely. What do you think?"
Kenzie guffawed. "I think you'd make one hell of a lousy lesbian!"
"I wasn't thinking lesbian, Kenz," said Zandra severely. "I was thinking more along the lines of something . . . noble. You know. Like joining a religious order?"
"You—a nun!"
"Well, Mother Teresa could use another devoted sister, couldn't she? Washing beggars, feeding cripples, caring for lepers—"
"Zandra!" Kenzie cried in horror. "You wouldn't!"
"Well, you've got to admit those white habits with blue trim look awfully cute."
"They'd look ghastly on you! Turn you into a walking logo."
"Logo? Logo?" Zandra frowned. "Darling, what ever are you talking about?"
"Well, they're ... they're Pan Am colors."
"Pan Am? What Pan Am? You mean ... the airline?"
"The one and only. Yep."
"So?"
"So ... Pan Am went belly up."
"Oh, I remember. But how terribly boring. Well, perhaps the Black Hole of Calcutta isn't exactly me. Now, Kenzie. Let me try this one on you. How about one of those orders that wear those giant, starched winged hats? You know the ones. Very haute couture. What do you think?"
"No, Zandra, no."
Zandra sighed. "Well, maybe I won't take up the habit then."
"Come on, drink up," Kenzie said, vastly relieved. "The lay life isn't all that bad, once you accept its ups and downs. And besides, despite their failings, men still are the best thing God has come up with, at least until there's a better alternative."
"Which there isn't."
"That's right. So look on the bright side! Zandra, you're exceedingly attractive. Articulate. Sexy. Young—"
"I'll be twenty-nme next month, and my biological clock is ticking."
"So? Karl-Heinz isn't the only eligible bachelor out there. The world is full of them."
Kenzie frowned, and her voice suddenly turned introspective.
"Just listen to me. I'm the last person who should talk. Who else would have two affairs going simultaneously, and with cops who're teamed up together?"
"Bad girl!" Zandra wagged a smug finger at her. "Shame on you!"
"It's not funny," Kenzie fretted. "Everyone knows that cops and their partners are closer than husbands and wives. So I ask you. How's that for emotional stability?"
"Oh, Kenz. At least you're having fun. You are, aren't you?"
"Yeah, but what happens if Charley and Hans exchange bedtime stories?"
"They wouldn't! Would they?"
"You never know." Kenzie drained her glass, lifted the bottle, and morosely eyed the remaining half inch of vodka. "Cops," she declared, pouring herself the rest, "are worse than teenagers when it comes to locker-room stories."
"Couldn't you just drop one of them—" Zandra hicupped "—and keep the other?"
"That's the trouble. I can't make up my mind. When I'm with Charley, it's as if he's the only guy in the world. And when I'm with Hans, I feel exactly the same way!"
"But, surely there are other things besides just looks and sex? I mean, one of them must have some trait you can't stand."
"That's Charley," Kenzie said. "Egotistical and chauvinistic."
"Then drop him."
"God knows, I've tried. But then, when I see him ... oh, damn! Why does life have to be so fucked up and complicated?"
"You're asking me?"
"Whoops! Sorry. I forgot. Mr. Smirnoff's fault."
"Speaking of whom," Zandra said queasily, "I think I'm t-t-totally smashed."
And with the extreme concentration and overcautious movements of the truly inebriated, she got slowly to her feet.
It was a mistake. The instant she was standing, the room began to spin around her. She swayed dangerously, regained her equilibrium by windmilling her arms, and then held them straight out from her sides, like a tightrope walker.
"D-d-darling, this isn't a revolving room, is it? Like one of those b-b-beastly rooftop restaurants catering to t-t-tourists?"
"Nope, 'fraid not."
"Didn't think so. Fuck. Must have c-c-consumed more than my limit."
Arms still extended, and brow furrowed with concentration, Zandra applied herself to negotiating a few wary steps.
"Here. Better lemme give you a hand," Kenzie suggested.
She got up, and although she knew she wasn't on a boat, the deck abruptly listed beneath her feet.
"Uh-oh," she said. "Seems Mr. Smirnoff snuck up on me, too."
She staggered over to Zandra, who looped both arms around her neck.
"D-d-darling, you've been an absolute angel, not to mention one d-d-devil of a b-b-bartender," Zandra said, with pie-eyed love. "D-d-don't know whether to kiss you or c-c-curse you."
Kenzie, the slightly lesser soused, took the initiative. Still, it was almost, but not quite, a case of the blind leading the blind, or to be more precise, the drunk leading the drunk.
Weaving unsteadily toward Zandra's room, she got the door open and managed to drag Zandra inside.
And just in the nick of time.
Zandra's arms went slack, and she toppled over backward, falling diagonally across the bed.
She was out like a light.
Kenzie didn't bother undressing her—it was all she could do to make it to her own room and collapse.
From somewhere far, far away in the land beyond sleep, the telephone was ringing. Zandra moaned and rolled over. She buried her face deep into the pillow and pulled another one over her head and held it there until the ringing ceased.
The next thing she knew, Kenzie was shaking her roughly.
"Yo! Sleeping Beauty! Wake up! You've got a phone call."
"Go 'way."
"Zandra! Yoo-hoo. Zandra! Wake up!"
Kenzie clapped her hands, then flickered the lights, turning them on and off, on and off.
"Up, up, up!"
"Wha-wha ... ?" Zandra muttered thickly.
"You don't get up, you're going to find yourself in Betty Ford!" Kenzie threatened. "Enrolled in a twelve-step program!"
"What time is it?"
"Six in the morning. Now get on the phone. It's about your brother, Rudolph."
Rudolph! The name pierced Zandra's grogginess. Her eyes snapped open and she sat up, instantly regretting the sudden movement. Splinters of pain shot through her skull.
Kenzie picked up the extension phone and thrust it at her.
Zandra fumbled with the receiver; banged it against the side of her head. More splinters shot through her skull.
"Rudolph!" She could barely contain her excitement.
"Zandra?" It was a female voice.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Penelope Troughton, darling! You know, nee Gainsborourg? We met again in New York—"
"Oh . . . Penelope. Gosh. Hello. What's this about Rudolph? Did you see him? Talk to him? Please, you've got to tell me!"
"Actually, I didn't see him. Alex did."
"Alex?" Zandra repeated blankly.
"Alex Troughton. My new husband."
"And?"
"Rudolph's been taken to hospital."
"Hospital!" Dear God, Zandra prayed, it can't be true. Tell me it isn't true!
"I do so hate being the messenger who brings bad news."
"Penelope! Please. Is he—"
"He's alive, if that's what you want to know. But he's in bad shape, darling. Very bad shape. From the way he was worked over, Alex says it's a miracle he's even alive!"
The walls seemed to close in on Zandra from all sides.
The way he was worked over. The words reverberated like thunder in her ears. A miracle he's even alive ... Rudolph ... bad shape ... worked over ...
<
br /> Oh, God, she prayed, please, let him be all right.
Three-and-a-half hours later, stomach churning and head still splitting, Zandra was over the Atlantic on a British Airways jet, bound for London.
Chapter 39
Weatherwise, that Sunday was a 3-D day: dreary, depressing, and dark.
Prince Karl-Heinz's mood was just as somber. Soon after Zandra's departure from Becky V's, he had left also, returning to Manhattan and his Auction Towers penthouse.
There, he had spent the longest night of his memory.
He had tried sleeping, but all he'd been able to do was lie there, as though marooned on that huge giltwood bed as if on a desert island, his mind full of painful reflections and self-reproaches.
He had tried reading. Listening to music. Watching a movie on video.
Useless. Nothing distracted him. No amount of escapist entertainment could detract him from his pain; even the anesthetic of alcohol was unable to fill, however fleetingly, the empty spot in his soul. Over and over, his mind replayed that appalling scene on the snowy rise, when those lamentable words had burst from his lips:
"And if love's got nothing to do with it ... surely you know about the von und zu Engelwiesen criteria for inheritance ... could you find it in your heart to marry me anyway?
He winced each of the hundreds of times he relived that ghastly moment. Gott im Himmel! No wonder she had fled! If their positions had been reversed, he would have done the same.
How he could have been so stupid ... so preoccupied with himself, his desires, his inheritance ...
Um Gotteswillen, but I'm an idiot! he thought. No—worse. At least an idiot's blunders can be forgiven. Mine cannot—
—and so he had forfeited Zandra. Forfeited her forever ...
With excruciating slowness, the endless night had stretched into morning, and daylight, weak and disspirited, revealed a low, uniformly gray blanket of cloud.
But even this was too much light for the bleakness of his mood, the aching emptiness in his soul. Darkness, he sought, the stygian blackness of night; the welcome amnesia of nothingness.
Pressing the button beside his bed, he rang for Josef.
His valet, who was up before the crack of dawn, answered the summons at once.
"Your Highness?"
Karl-Heinz gestured to the windows. "Close the curtains," he said listlessly.
Too Damn Rich Page 41
