by Stuart Woods
"Do you have a business card?" she asked.
Sandy fished one from his wallet and handed it to her. "And you?"
She rummaged through her purse. "I'm afraid I don't have a card with me," she said. She produced a pen and scribbled her name and number on a sheet of paper, ripped it from her notebook, and handed it to him.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Sandy would have asked her to dinner, but he had the feeling that the invitation would blow his chances with her. Best to start with business.
"When could you bring over some photographs of your work?" he asked.
"Would this evening be convenient?" she replied.
Sandy smiled. "Around eight? I can probably rustle up something to eat."
"I may be busy later," she said. "Let's make it seven; by then I should know more about my schedule."
Sandy handed her another card, this one with his home address. "Seven it is."
"Just there, driver," she said, pointing to a slim brownstone with heavily lacquered front door and a huge brass knocker.
The driver opened the door, and Sandy got out to say goodbye. He was taller than she, just. "See you this evening."
"Thanks for the lift," she said, following the driver to the door. She unlocked the door and disappeared inside.
When Sandy got back into the car, he discovered that he was short of breath and trembling. Had it been so long since a woman had done this to him? He nodded. It had. He began thinking about the evening and how to put Ms. Cara Mason at her ease in his home. It had been a long time since he had had a date that wasn't simply an assignation. He was going to have to rediscover some social skills.
CHAPTER 17
Sandy got a couple of hours' work done, then went home to prepare for his guest. He left her name with the lobby man, so she wouldn't be detained while he called upstairs, then he made a quick tour of the apartment to be sure the maid had done a good job; the woman had been slacking off since Joan hadn't been around to make sure she did her work. He plumped a few cushions, wiped the fingerprints off a glass coffee table, and pronounced the place ready.
He took a shower, dried his hair, and got into casual clothes-a soft flannel shirt, cavalry twill trousers, and a pair of alligator loafers that he hadn't often worn, because Joan hadn't liked them. He was nervous, and he considered having a quick drink, then decided against it.
The doorbell rang at seven promptly, and he saw that Cara Mason had dressed down a bit from her business suit, too. She was wearing a beige cashmere dress that suited her coloring very well.
"Come in," he said, showing her into the living room. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Some mineral water, if you have it; fizzy, please."
Sandy left her standing in the middle of the living room looking around, while he went to the wet bar for a bottle of San Pellegrino. He poured two glasses and handed her one. "What do you think?" he asked.
She looked at him. "Is there a room in the place that was done the way you wanted it?"
"Yes, my study; come with me." He led her into the room and watched her take it in.
"Yes," she said, "this is more like you."
"How can you tell? We've just met."
"I can tell," she said. "It's what I do." She seated herself on the sofa and opened a portfolio on the coffee table. "Come and look through my work, and see if there's anything in particular that you like."
He sat next to her and slowly flipped the pages. He stopped at a color photograph of a San Francisco living room, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. "You've worked in San Francisco, too?"
"I grew up there," she said, "and until a year ago I was employed by a firm of architects. I did some independent work, too; this was one of the jobs."
"I like it very much."
"Would you like to live in it?"
"I don't think so."
"Keep looking."
He continued through the portfolio, looking at both San Francisco and New York rooms, and he was impressed. "I'm impressed," he said.
"But you didn't see anything that made you want to move in."
"No."
"Do you have some particular style in mind?"
"Not exactly; it's hard to explain."
"May I take a leap in the dark?"
"Of course."
"You'd like it if the apartment had the air of the most elegant, most comfortable men's club in the world."
He smiled. "You've nailed me."
"Just look at this room," she said. "It wasn't done hurriedly; everything in it looks chosen particularly, and you can't do that overnight. And it all works together."
"Thank you, I'm glad you like it."
"I think it would probably be best to order some traditional upholstered pieces-sofas and chairs-from a good house as a base and then pick out the accompanying pieces at good shops and auctions. I'd go for the best antiques you can afford."
"What sort of money are we talking about?"
"I haven't seen the dining room or the bedrooms, yet."
He spent half an hour showing her the rest of the apartment.
"I'm going to have a drink, now," he said, when they had returned to the study. "Will you join me?"
"I'll have a Scotch on the rocks," she said.
"Do you enjoy single malts?"
"I've never drunk one."
He poured them both a Glenlivet. "What do you think?" he asked when she sipped it.
"It's very… big, isn't it?"
"Actually, that's one of the lighter ones. It's an acquired taste."
"I think I could acquire it." She took another sip and set down her glass. "Now, you asked about money."
"I did."
"It depends a lot on what you're willing to spend for antique pieces and for pictures. Quite frankly, there's not a picture in the house I can stand, except what's in this room; they're mostly nautical, and I love them."
"Thank you; I agree about the other pictures. What does good antique furniture cost?"
"There's practically no limit, but I think we can find good pieces for, on average, between fifteen and thirty thousand dollars."
"And pictures?"
"Again, no limit, but if you're willing to spend, say, fifty thousand for four or five superb ones and five to twenty on a lot more, you'll be all right."
"Give me a total, ballpark figure."
"Between half a million and a million, depending on the pieces and pictures you choose."
"And your fee?"
"Ten percent of everything, furnishings and labor; but I'll save you at least that much with discounts and judicious buying."
"Agreed."
"We should be able to get you some money back, too. The things your wife chose-both the furniture and the pictures-while maybe not to your taste or mine, are auctionable. She obviously wasn't stupid."
"No, she wasn't. What do you think I could get for them?"
"Two or three hundred thousand, I should think."
"Whatever you can get for them at auction, I'll add to my budget."
She smiled broadly. "I like your style, Mr. Kinsolving."
"Sandy."
She raised her glass. "Cara."
"Cara, would you like me to fix us some dinner here, or would you rather go out?"
"I'll take my chances with you."
"Come into the kitchen; I'll see what's in the larder."
Sandy found some smoked salmon and eggs in the refrigerator, and some caviar, too. He scrambled the eggs with the salmon, made some toast, and served the caviar as an appetizer, straight, with little silver spoons. "Would you prefer champagne or vodka with your caviar?" he asked.
"Champagne, please."
He went to the wine cabinet and found a bottle of Krug '83. "This should have enough age on it to make it interesting," he said, working the cork from the bottle.
She tasted it. "Mmmmm," she breathed. "What's the word I'm looking for?"
"Yeasty," he said.
"Yes. You are
in the wine business, aren't you?"
"I am, for my sins."
"Well, you must have sinned a lot to be doing this well at choosing drink," she said, raising her glass.
"Thank you, ma'am."
They ate the caviar, then the eggs and salmon.
"It all goes together so beautifully," she said.
"Thank you; it was meant to."
"Tell me something about your background," she said.
"Grew up in Weston, Connecticut, went to Exeter and Amherst, met my wife in college, got her pregnant, married her-in that order-produced a son. Advertising for a couple of years, then joined my father-in-law's liquor business and eventually started the wine division. He died six weeks ago and left me the wine division."
"When did your wife die?"
"Five weeks ago."
"How?"
"She was murdered."
Cara put down her glass. "Do you mind telling me about it?"
He related the events of that Saturday night.
"That's terrible," she said.
"Yes, it was."
"Were you devastated?"
"I was numb. I have, in fact, remained numb, until tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that this dinner is the first pleasant social interaction I've had with another human being since it happened."
"Were you and your wife very close?"
"We had grown apart over a very long time."
"Do you miss her?"
"No, I do not. I'm glad to have my son, though; he's finishing up a residency in cardiology at Lenox Hill Hospital."
"You're a very direct man, Sandy."
"It's a waste of time to be any other way. Now you."
"I told you I grew up in San Francisco. Went to Berkeley, studied architecture, but discovered I was more interested in the inside of buildings than their structures. Joined my father's firm as a designer; when he died and the firm closed, I went to another."
"Ever married?"
"Once; for three years. A mistake."
"Whose?"
"Mine."
"You're pretty direct, too, Cara."
"We're in agreement on that point," she replied.
"Good. Cara, I'm very attracted to you. In fact, I'd be very pleased if you would come to bed with me right now."
She shook her head. "Too soon," she said. "But please don't think that's a flat turndown. You're a very attractive man."
"Thank you."
"I want your job, Sandy, but I won't sleep with you to get it."
"You've got it, on your qualifications and what you've suggested to me. As beautiful as you are, I wouldn't spend a million dollars just to get you into the sack. You can decide whether you want to sleep with me quite independently of the job."
She smiled, but said nothing.
"Would you like some coffee?"
She glanced at her watch. "Thank you, no. I've had a long day, as you have, and I could use some rest." She stood up. "Do you mind if I go now?"
"Yes, but I can live with it."
"I'll come back tomorrow when you're not here and make a floor plan and some rough sketches. Will you tell the doorman to let me in?"
"Yes, of course."
"I'll have something for you to look at in a week or so."
"I wouldn't like it to be that long before I see you again. How about dinner this weekend?"
"Saturday is good for me."
"And for me."
He retrieved her portfolio and walked her to the door.
"Good night," she said, offering her hand.
He took it. "Good night, and go safely. I'll look forward to Saturday," he said.
"So will I," she replied.
CHAPTER 18
Sandy sat in Sam Warren's office at Mayfair Trust and listened to the presentation prepared by a younger associate at the bank, on the acreage, buildings, equipment, replanting and stock at the Larsen Winery. When the young man had finished, Warren took over.
"Here's where we are," the banker said. "Larsen wants twelve million for the property."
"What's it worth, in your opinion?" Sandy asked.
"Like anything else, it's worth what somebody will pay for it. Fortunately for you, because of the costs and uncertainties involved in replanting with phyloxera-resistant vines, the industry is in a period of retrenchment, and there's not likely to be a lot of bidding on the property. Our research has uncovered what Larsen actually has invested in the property, and, of course, what he owes, and I think what we need to come up with is a maximum amount we're willing to offer that would get him out of the business without a loss on his investment; actually, a small profit."
"And what is that number?"
"Eight million eight; we think that's about right."
"I see."
"I'd suggest offering eight, then working your way up in negotiations. It's important for him to understand right off that you're not going to pay anything near his asking price."
"I agree."
"There's another important consideration," Warren said.
"What's that?"
"Larsen employs a man who is, by all reports, a very fine winemaker. His name is Bernini, Italian-American, forty-two, good track record. He and Larsen have not hit it off, Larsen being so technically oriented, and in order for the vineyard to be worth the eight million eight, you're going to have to be able to sign him to a long-term contract at very good money We feel that Bernini is very important to the operation."
"Has anyone talked to him?"
"Not yet. I think it would be best if you did that personally. We can structure an earnings and stock option package for him that would make it attractive for him to stay, if you can offer him a lot more freedom to pursue his own methods."
"Did you say stock options?"
"Yes. He's going to have to have the prospect of participation down the line somewhere. It's manageable, and we recommend such a course of action. The autocratic, one-hundred-percent owner is a thing of the past; if you want good people you're going to have to allow them to buy in."
"All right."
"My suggestion is that you contact Bernini, tell him you're interested in buying, then hand him off to us; we'll talk with his representative and structure an offer to the man, then we'll be in a position to negotiate seriously with Larsen." Warren handed him a slip of paper. "Here's his phone number; it's your call as to whether to go out there and see him, or just talk to him on the phone."
"Okay, I'll think about that," Sandy said. "If I pay eight million eight for the property, is that going to leave me enough capital to expand into San Francisco and operate the combined businesses?"
"We feel you can do it without incurring debt, but we think that we should set up a line of credit, just in case. We don't want you to feel pinched. Personally, my advice would be to acquire the vineyard, consolidate the operations and identity of the London and New York stores to the maximum extent possible, then establish good cash flow and operating profits before going into San Francisco. We're only talking about a period of a year, possibly two, before you make the San Francisco move."
"That sounds like good advice," Sandy said. "I'd want to devote some time to bringing the vineyard up to speed in terms of the quality of the output and reidentifying it with me and my company. Opening in San Francisco at the same time might be too much to bite off."
"That's our view," Warren said.
Sandy stood up. "Sam, thanks for your recommendations. I'll give all this some thought, contact Bernini, then get back to you in a few days." He shook hands with his bankers, then left.
He walked over to Fifth Avenue and took a taxi down to Fifty-seventh Street, then walked a few yards west to the Rizzoli bookstore. In the rear of the shop was a newsstand that handled foreign and out-of-town newspapers, and he picked up a San Francisco paper.
He went to a deli across the street, ordered a sandwich and iced tea, then opened the paper. The story was still on page three. It began:
GALLERY OWNER FOUND
Peter Martindale, owner of the Martindale Gallery, where a killing took place earlier this week, was located in Los Angeles by detectives from San Francisco Homicide. Mr. Martindale had left for Los Angeles on the day of the shooting to make a scheduled speech at UCLA on nineteenth-century English art, and the gallery owner was speaking at the university at the time the murder occurred in San Francisco.
Well, thought Sandy, he certainly covered his own tracks well enough. But what the hell happened at the gallery? He read on.
Police theorize that the killer entered the gallery through an unlocked rear door, shot the woman, and stole the cash box and a pistol from the desk. The cash box was recovered from a street wastebasket two blocks away and is being examined for fingerprints and other evidence; the pistol has not been recovered. Police believe it may have already been sold on the street.
So it was simply a run-of-the-mill crime? Some street kid had gone into the gallery and, unknowingly, had done Sandy's work for him? It seemed too good to be true, Sandy thought, and when he read the next paragraph, he knew his intuition was correct.
The murdered woman has been identified as Sally Smith Fleming, the gallery's assistant manager for four years, who had remained after the usual closing hours to meet a client from New York, who has not been identified. Mr. Martindale told the police that he received a telephone call from the client the day before and had asked his wife, Helena, who co-manages the gallery, to stay late and meet with him. Mrs. Martindale had apparently passed on the assignment to Ms. Fleming. Police have been unable to locate Mrs. Martindale to speak with her about the incident.
C
Sandy nearly choked on his iced tea. The woman wasn't Martindale's wife? He broke out in a sweat and had to mop his face with his napkin. Feeling dizzy, he pressed the cold tea glass to his forehead and tried to think. He had come within minutes of murdering the wrong woman.
And Helena Martindale was still alive.
CHAPTER 19
