“No.”
Of course, Daniel didn’t ask Catherine out on a date, either.
“Did he, like, say anything to indicate you were anything more than a brief bedtime distraction?”
Brittany winced. “No.”
Catherine frowned.
Nothing. Not a word. And Daniel was married. Michael, at least, was single.
Catherine glanced sympathetically at Brittany, and Sybil spotted it. “Why aren’t you backing me up on this?”
Catherine smiled tightly, and Sybil threw up her hands. “Fine. Go ahead, like, desert me when we should be standing together, and see if I forget it, or better yet, if I don’t opt to tell you the latest.”
Sybil’s office was next to the board of directors’ meeting room, and she usually got the good board gossip before even Catherine. A bonus to their friendship.
“Don’t tell me it’s bad.” She didn’t want bad today. She needed happy, cheerful. Something good. Anything.
“Chadwick’s commission structure for the last six months looks remarkably like Montefiore’s.”
The break room got quiet, deathly quiet, since this was a gazillion times worse than bad. There were three big auction houses in New York. Montefiore, Chadwick and Smithwick-Whyte. Chadwick’s was number two behind Montefiore, their main competitor, and a name usually not spoken, except in a casual, expletive-laden sort of manner.
When two competing firms had the same commission structure, the government got very angry and called it price-fixing, assuming that the two companies were artificially inflating prices. And not only did the government get angry, but the auction house customers weren’t happy about it, either. In the upper echelon of the auction business, if your customers were unhappy and didn’t trust you, you might as well shut the doors forever.
“That’s impossible,” Catherine blurted out. “Commission structures are state secret and too variable to be the same.” It was true. There were two parts to auction house income. Commissions charged on items to be auctioned and the commission on the sale itself. It was a delicate balancing act and always fluid.
“That’s what I heard. The board is completely not happy. It was a customer who brought the matter to their attention. A customer quite capable of starting ugly rumors that the board wanted to quash right away before the government stepped in or before the news got whiff of it.” Sybil shrugged, wrinkling a crisp linen dress that had probably cost a fortune. That was why Catherine liked her. She had the money, the class, the style, but she didn’t lord it over others, like the debutantes who flocked to Montefiore for jobs.
“I’ll talk to Grandpa.”
Brittany, much more comfortable telling other people how to live, launched off. “Catherine, think. This could be your chance. You’ve been looking for a way to impress your grandfather. You should do something. Head it off at the pass. Tell him you’ll help, go over the books and show everybody what a crisis they’re making of nothing. You’ll be the hero. Your grandfather would love it.”
Brittany meant well, but Catherine still winced. It’d taken her four years to work her way to art specialist. Nepotism might be alive and well in America, but not at Montefiore. “Maybe we should leave the books to the experts?”
“I think you should try. I bet your grandfather would appreciate the concern.”
Catherine met Sybil’s eyes and didn’t like what she saw there. “I’ll talk to him this afternoon,” she said, sounding much braver than she felt.
CATHERINE WORKED through lunch, the catering company delivering her usual turkey and Swiss on wheat. While she ate, she silently rehearsed her talk with her grandfather, until she finally found the right mix of firm resolution and cheerful optimism.
She wasn’t normally this nervous. She loved her grandfather dearly; however, that didn’t change the fact that he was an intimidating figure, albeit not in a bad way, but in a be-all-that-you-can-be way. He was a trailblazer, a renegade, an icon in the art world, and if someone wasn’t a trailblazer, didn’t have a renegadeish bone in the body, and had yet to master the concept of be-all-that-you-can-be at the ripe old age of twenty-eight—nearly twenty-nine—intimidation was perfectly understandable.
And this was more than asking to borrow the beach house for a weekend. Montefiore’s had dodged some scandals in the past—her Gainsborough incident ranked high on the list—but these days the stakes were even higher. Her grandfather had sold off a percentage of the firm to a private equity company in order to finance the opening of London and Paris offices. They both were now profitable, but one financial misstep, and the board would replace Charles Montefiore with someone whose name wasn’t Montefiore. In leaner times, people didn’t seem to care whose name was on the letterhead. And while other people might not care, she did. Catherine adjusted her jacket, fluffed her hair, squared her shoulders and checked the mirror for the trademark Montefiore gleam in her eye. It didn’t happen often, but she could fake it with the best of them.
Once on the top floor, Catherine waved at her grandfather’s secretary, who flagged her in. Catherine settled into the old chair until Charles Montefiore got off the phone. According to her grandfather, Winston Churchill had sat in this very chair and written his speeches. The age was right, but the faint aroma of cigars was missing, so Catherine suspected that this was another tale her grandfather had told.
Her grandfather, even seated, towered over most everyone. He was tall, pickwick-lean, with a booming voice that carried perfectly in an auction, and a shock of gray hair that never looked combed. Catherine adored that about her grandfather. In the art world, where customers showed up in four-thousand-dollar dresses, Charles Montefiore had a cowlick that didn’t phase him.
He didn’t wear glasses, said that they distorted his vision and discolored the world. To prove it he’d always find the misplaced color of a brush stroke, a chip hidden in marble or a counterfeit signature.
After he hung up the phone, those sharp eyes looked at her expectantly.
Catherine tugged at her slacks. “I’ve heard the rumors,” she started inelegantly.
“Forget the speech, Catherine. There’s no need for rehearsals. I’m your grandfather, and this isn’t the state of the union.”
She blushed, but trudged onward. Remember, firm resolution and cheerful optimism. Just like Churchill.
“I think you need to act. Go on the offensive. Kick some board-butt before they can come after you. Think about it, Grandpa, you take the high road, arrange for an audit, and then—”
He held up a hand, stopping her midspeech. “I’ve already told them to go ahead with the audit.”
“Well,” Catherine said, blowing out a breath. “That’s good. An audit will prove that we didn’t do anything wrong and our customers can again have complete faith in us. And that the board was wrong to doubt you for a moment. Excellent plan.” Thinking of the best way to charge forward and telling him that she wanted to help was much more difficult than cheerful optimism.
“You might need some help,” she said, not quite blazing forward, but hinting broadly nonetheless.
“I put Foster Sykes in charge. He’s making the call this afternoon. He’ll pull all the invoices from the sales and let the numbers speak for themselves.” Foster was the accounting VP. Capable, intelligent, good at his job and never fooled by a fake Gainsborough in his life.
“Oh,” answered Catherine weakly.
“Did you want to add something?” he asked, noting her carefully from under bushy, silvered brows.
“If you do need some help—”
“Speak up, girl!”
“I could do it,” she finished, much more firmly. Much more firmly. Definitely.
“Are you sure about that? High dollars and math. Not quite your thing.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said, staring dubiously at her notes.
“Then how could you help?”
Finance. Dollars. Math. All areas where she could contribute absolutely nothing. “Never mind,” said Ca
therine, stuffing her hands deeply into her pockets. Maybe next time.
“You’re not going to help?”
“I probably shouldn’t,” she muttered.
“That’s all you wanted?” he asked.
“That’s it,” she said, smoothing her hair with her hand.
“Too bad,” he answered. “Get back to work, then.” Catherine hurried out the door, but felt his eyes on her, watching.
Watching her with disappointment.
Well, that makes two of us, doesn’t it.
6
IT WAS A HOT Tuesday night, and Prime was unseasonably slow. Thankfully.
Lloyd, Syd and E.C. were sitting behind the bar. They were a motley crew of old-timers who had been coming to Prime since Daniel had been a kid watching his uncle tend bar.
Lloyd had been an ironworker for most of his life, and had the ruddy complexion to prove it—and the bronchitis, as well. E.C. had been an engineer for MTA, but you’d never know it by talking to him. He talked like a professor, carried his tall frame like a professor and had two ex-wives, who wished he’d been paid like a professor. Syd was one of New York’s finest, who, at fifty-one, planned on working past his retirement age because the force and the bar were about all he knew.
Behind the long mahogany bar at the back of the place, Tessa was working, a tiny figure with a really cocky mouth, and Daniel was happily surprised to see her. Although she’d been a great bartender at Prime, she’d quit in order to pursue a bigger, better and more financially stable future in the real estate biz—and also to move in with his brother.
“Where’s Gabe?” he asked, and Tessa pointed behind the green tarp that covered one half of a wall. “Follow the sound of drilling, punctuated by assorted obscenities. There, you’ll find your brother.”
The music was turned up on high, but even the sounds of the Red Hot Chili Peppers couldn’t drown out the steady whir. Then the drilling stopped, Tessa held up a wait-for-it finger and immediately the sound of pain split through the bar, followed by a word that their mother, Katie O’Sullivan, had never let them utter without dire consequences. Their father, Thomas O’Sullivan, had never taken to the bar, choosing to work for a newspaper instead, and left Uncle Patrick to run the bar. Thomas had passed away while Daniel was in high school; his brother Patrick had passed away ten years later. There were only three remaining O’Sullivans now. Daniel, Gabe and Sean. Daniel’s eyes automatically went to the framed picture of their mother and their uncle standing behind the bar. The walls were full of pictures from the establishment over the years. It was the history of the bar consolidated in five-by-seven images.
When their great-grandfather had first started O’Sullivan’s, it was a speakeasy serving politicians and robber barons. Over the years, the clientele changed. The bar served gin to Mafia dons, Yankee sluggers and even two presidents. For every moment in the bar’s history, there was a photograph to prove it.
“Where’s the new guy?” Daniel asked, hoping the employee was a no-show.
“Bringing up beer,” Tessa answered with a satisfied smile. “I see a strong man. I put him to work. I’ve conquered independence, now I’m moving on to delegation. And here’s my faithful minion now.” She cocked her head toward the male emerging via the basement stairs.
“What’s next, ma’am?” the new bartender asked dutifully.
Tessa beamed. “He’s so obedient. Daniel, this is Jackson.”
Jackson looked barely legal, but he had some meat on him and kept grinning nervously every time Tessa said his name.
Daniel held out his hand. “Daniel O’Sullivan.”
Jackson stared at Daniel’s hand and then tapped his fist to it. From the front side of the bar, E.C. howled with laughter, and Daniel understood why. There was probably fourteen years of age separating Daniel from Jackson, but God help him, now it felt like fourteen hundred.
Desperately, Daniel looked at Tessa. “You’re here. I could leave, couldn’t I?”
Tessa shook her head. “Nope. You’re stuck here till closing.”
Daniel remembered his new resolution to make his brothers happy, and didn’t scowl at Jackson, but it was difficult. “All right. Two rules. Tessa will tell you what to do and you call any woman ‘honey’ or ‘baby’ and you’re fired.”
“He’s always like this,” Tessa said, feeling the need to explain things to Jackson. Daniel faked a smile.
“That’s true,” added Lloyd.
“Where’s Charlie?” Daniel asked, proud of himself for managing friendly conversation. It was like riding a bicycle. He hadn’t forgotten, he was merely out of practice. He looked over at Tessa, but regretfully she hadn’t even noticed. Jackson, however, was still grinning broadly.
“Sad,” answered Syd.
Daniel looked at him with concern. “The new guy?”
“No, Charlie, He’s wandered wide-eyed into matrimonial bliss,” answered E.C., who didn’t seem to bear any scars from his divorces.
“Sad,” Syd repeated, shaking his dark head. As far as Daniel knew, Syd had never been married, always alone, a man of habits, none of them good.
“A toast to the new bride and groom,” Lloyd said, lifting his glass, and four sets of eyes stared at Daniel expectantly.
“What?” he said, feeling something twitchy behind his neck.
“Aren’t you going to give us a round on the house?” E.C. asked, as if free drinks were a constitutional right. “To celebrate the nuptials of a man who’s been a customer here for over fifty years. It’s tradition.” He looked pointedly at Jackson. “You have to train the bartenders correctly from day one.”
Daniel wavered because this was a tough one. The price of alcohol had shot up twenty-seven percent over the past three years, and he didn’t want to free-drink the bar into bankruptcy, but they were talking about marriage. Jackson looked at Daniel, waiting.
No one understood the cost of things. Everyone moved blithely through life without once thinking of the consequences. Every decision, every transaction, had consequences.
He frowned, and Syd glared at Tessa. “Did you have to put the accountant behind the bar?”
Tessa shrugged. “Sorry. He’s part owner.”
Oh, fine. “What do you want?” Daniel asked, and then started making drinks.
“Sorry,” said Daniel, who looked expectantly at Jackson. “You’re training here. Help out.” Then he turned to Tessa. “I should give him more responsibility, don’t you think? I could go downstairs, finish up with the payroll.”
Tessa stopped him with a deceptively strong hand to the arm. “No.”
He looked at her, defeat in his eyes. “I had to try.”
“You should listen more to Gabe. And Sean,” she added reluctantly.
Oh, he knew where this was leading. “Let’s talk about something else, okay? How’s the career coming?” Daniel smiled to himself, happy with the neat conversation change.
At that, her eyes lit up. Tessa loved talking real estate. “Oh, yeah, tell me about the house! You got a chance to look at the one I asked you to, right? I’m looking for something classically Greek, but with a comfortable feel to it. It’s for an older couple. Not retired, but thinking about more long summers away from the city. Was the lighting good? They need good lighting. Too dark and a place gets dreary.”
Damn. Daniel had forgotten about that bit of responsibility this weekend. If he admitted to not seeing it, he’d have to share an explanation of why he hadn’t fulfilled his responsibility. He, who always fulfilled his responsibilities.
“I hated it,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
“Too dark?”
“Definitely,” he lied.
“What about the view?”
“The view?”
“Yeah, the pictures from the file looked like a postcard, but you can’t really trust that. I mean, are you looking out their window, or the neighbor’s window, or is it a zoom lens from two miles down the road? People lie.”
“I didn’t notice
the view,” he said, shamed into honesty.
“Oh.” She studied him suspiciously. Tessa knew that Daniel wouldn’t miss anything.
“It was late when I drove past it,” he said, hoping that’d be enough.
“Okay.” They were blessedly interrupted when a man came up to the bar and ordered a rum and Coke from Jackson, who looked at Tessa helplessly.
“You should tell him what’s in it,” encouraged Daniel, now trying to be helpful, since it got him out of the weekend conversation.
“Gabe said you met somebody.” She burst his bubble, all the while pouring the drinks. That was Tessa. Multitasking was her specialty.
“Nope,” he lied again, wondering what had happened to his ethics, his scruples, his moral conscience. But the idea of his family staring, asking questions, prying into something that he would never repeat anyway…“Read a book. A great thriller.”
“Good,” she said, and he knew she didn’t believe him. He’d never been a good liar, didn’t have a deceptive bone in his body.
He was saved from further cross-examination by Gabe bursting out from behind the tarp, holding up something tiny. “Look what I found in the wall.”
Daniel moved closer to see. The something was a ring. A diamond ring. An expensive diamond ring. “In the wall?”
Gabe nodded. “It was stuck in the old newspaper insulation. Newspapers. Can you believe it? It’s no wonder this place sucks heat in the winter.”
“The ring,” Tessa reminded him, peeking over Jackson’s shoulder.
“It’s an engagement ring,” commented Lloyd. “Probably from the fifties, by the look of it. My sister got one like it. What a complete waste of money, but then the dolt she married wasn’t smart enough to know.”
Gabe turned it over in his hand. “There’re some markings on the inside. Can’t read them.”
Tessa took the ring between her fingers and peered at the inside. “I bet it’s stolen. I can’t see anyone burying it in the wall unless there’s a body attached.”
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