Too Damn Rich (15 page)

Kenzie, an army brat, was born and raised on
military bases. Childhood, or at least the first fifteen years of
it, was spent at a succession of Forts—Ord, Dix, Bragg, Bliss,
Jackson, and Leonard Wood—not to mention two different bases in
Germany, and one in the Philippines.

Despite the turmoil which resulted each time
Colonel Turner was transferred to a new post, Kenzie didn't mind
all the moving around. Her mother, Rosemary, was one of those
gifted military wives who could spruce up even the dullest assigned
quarters and turn them into home sweet home. Subsequently, Kenzie
was raised in a happy and loving atmosphere. The youngest of a
brood of four, she had three doting older brothers, each of whom
had been named after a noted military leader, Dwight D., George S.,
and Ulysses S.

Despite the military blood coursing through
the Turners' veins, Kenzie somehow veered sharply off course. She
gravitated toward art— why, it was never ascertained, since
military bases are not exactly known to be bastions of cultural
creativity. But there was no denying her talent, which surfaced at
an early age.

At first she entertained notions of becoming
an artist. When she wasn't drawing or painting, which was how she
spent most of her free time, she would haunt the post libraries and
pore over whatever art books were available.

And then, when she turned sixteen, her fate
was sealed—by the U.S. Army, no less. That was when her father was
assigned to the plum of all military assignments, the Presidio in
San Francisco.

As far as Kenzie was concerned, she'd died
and gone to heaven. For the Presidio, that huge tract of prime
wooded real estate overlooking the Golden Gate, suddenly gave her
access to no less than two nearby museums—the de Young and the
Palace of the Legion of Honor. Now, no longer having to settle for
studying reproductions of paintings in books or magazines, she
could finally feast her eyes on the real McCoys.

And she was blown away. Nothing had prepared
her for the vivid mastery bursting from the splendid canvases. It
was all there. Strength and color, fire and ice, and iridescent
brushstrokes ranging from boldly assertive swipes to the most
subtle and delicate of shadings.

It was then that she fell madly in love with
Old Masters. And it was then, too, that she was forced to face her
own shortcomings, realizing just how limited and meager her own
talent really was. After much soul searching, she decided that if
she couldn't be an artist she would become the next best thing—an
art historian.

In her senior year of high school, she
informed her parents that she wanted to apply to Columbia
University. "It's got one of the best art history departments in
the country."

Her father, seeing the fervent fire burning
in his daughter's eyes, said, "Honey, you know that no matter what
you decide to do, your mother and I will always stand behind
you."

So Kenzie applied to Columbia and was duly
accepted.

The morning she arrived in the Big Apple was
the single most exciting day of her entire life. She didn't even
stop to unpack her things at the dorm before setting out to explore
Manhattan on foot.

Uptown, downtown, all around the town; New
York was so much more of everything. Bigger, brasher, and the most
electrifying place on earth. It literally hummed and thrummed with
excess energy.

And she thought excitedly: This is where I
belong. Here is where I'll make my mark. Right here, at the very
center of the universe ...

Here is where I'll make my mark ...

Those seven simple words became Kenzie's
motto. They were her creed, her anchor, her bulwark.

Sheepskin in hand, she moved out of the dorm
and into a shared studio apartment in Chelsea. However, finding a
job in her chosen field was easier said than done. A literal army
of other graduates—arts majors all, and many with formidable family
and social credentials—were snapping up what scarce but choice
positions were available at the various galleries, museums, and
auction houses.

But Kenzie was undaunted. She figured that by
Christmas, Easter at the very latest, the ranks of the newly
employed ex-debutantes would be considerably thinned by marriage,
ineptitude, and a craving for leisure. In the meantime, she
supported herself with a variety of odd jobs, none of them
memorable.

And then, what should jump off the page of
the Help Wanted section of the Sunday Times but an ad which was
right up her alley? The owner of a gallery specializing in Old
Master paintings was seeking a qualified assistant.

With alacrity, Kenzie wrote a cover letter,
and along with a copy of her resume, sent it to the appropriate box
number.

Two weeks later, a message was left on her
answering machine. The caller identified himself as Mr. Pickel
Wugsby, "That's Pickel spelled 'el,' " and would she be so kind as
to come to his gallery for an interview at eleven o'clock the
following morning?

She arrived at the address he gave her ten
minutes before the appropriate time. The narrow storefront on
Lexington Avenue in the low Seventies did not look promising. It
had iron gates and door bars which had long since rusted into
place, blacked-out grimy windows, and not so much as a shop sign to
indicate that an art gallery—or anything else—could possibly lie
within. There was, however, the requisite door buzzer.

Kenzie rang it and waited.

Presently the lock tumblers clicked, the door
opened as far as the short security chain would permit, and a
suspicious eye peered out at her.

"Yes?" inquired a resonant male voice.

"I'm MacKenzie Turner," she said. "I have an
appointment with Mr. Wugsby?"

The man shut the door, undid the chain, then
reopened the door just wide enough to let Kenzie squeeze inside
before quickly locking it again. "I," he said, "am Mr. Wugsby."

She shook his dry paw briskly but firmly, in
the process giving him a swift but thorough once-over.

He was a dead ringer for Mr. Pickwick—a
portly, old-fashioned gentleman of indeterminate age. He had very
pink skin, beaming blue eyes behind thick little glasses, and
mutton chop whiskers edged in pure white, like superior ermine. All
that was missing were the tights, gaiters, and black swallow-tailed
silk waistcoat, and instead of a white cravat, his capacious chin
encroached upon an askew bow tie. But despite the baggy old
trousers, mousey, moth-eaten sweater, and ratty old kilim mules he
wore in lieu of shoes, he did sport a Dickensian gold watch chain
and fob.

Her inspection of him over, Kenzie suddenly
became aware of all the paintings.

They were everywhere.

Stored sideways in deep, shoulder-high
shelves.

Stacked ten deep around the double-height
room.

Hung wall-to-wall, from floor to ceiling,
frame against frame in apparently happy, if discordant,
clutter.

Even the garish light thrown by the bare
lightbulbs could not detract from the sheer mesmerizing energy
produced by the stock of masterpieces cluttering those decrepit
walls.

"My God!" she managed, her voice whispery and
reverent. "A genuine Rubens! And a Pompeo Batoni... Hans Memling .
. . Ghirlandaio ... Durer ... Matthias Grunewald!"

She was overwhelmed, her eyes feasting on
treasures ranging from German Gothic to Italian Renaissance;
seventeenth-century Dutch to eighteenth-century French. And there
wasn't a one the curators of the Louvre, the Met, or the Getty
wouldn't have killed for.

Stunned, she slowly turned to Mr. Wugsby.
"Why, from outside one would never begin to suspect—"

"Which is the idea," Mr. Wugsby replied with
a gentle little smile and sly twinkle in his eyes. "But come."

Gesturing for her to follow, he led the way
up a wide, graceful spiral of mahogany stairs to a wraparound
mezzanine. Midpoint along it, he stopped and pointed over the
balustrade at a gigantic, gilt-framed canvas hanging on the
opposite wall.

"Since you obviously know your artists, tell
me ... to whom would you attribute that?" he asked. "Remember,
there is absolutely no need to hurry. Please feel free to take all
the time you need."

"Mmm." Kenzie, well aware that she was being
tested, folded her arms in front of her and first studied the
painting from across the room.

It was a curious hybrid of Italian influence,
and showed an Arcadian clearing in which frolicking nymphs and
neoclassically draped women danced attendance upon an almost
girlishly pretty nude Apollo. And it could, at first glance, be
easily attributed to either Raphael or Poussin. But that, she knew,
was an easy trap to fall into.

After a minute or so, she walked around the
perimeter of the mezzanine and examined the artist's technique from
close up. Studied the cracked, varnished canvas intently. Ran her
fingertips lightly across the dusty surface to get a feel of the
brushstrokes.

Looking for clues.

Finally, after five minutes, she went back
over to where Mr. Wugsby was waiting. From there, she contemplated
the composition a while longer.

At last she cleared her throat. "Anton
Raphael Mengs," she said authoritatively.

"Well, goodness gracious!" he said, beaming.
"You're hired. Now, when can you start?"

Thus began a three-year-long relationship
which turned out to be a better training ground than all the
graduate schools combined. They became like family, the short,
portly old gentleman and the eager, sparkly young woman who was his
willing apprentice.

During her first day on the job, Mr. Wugsby
explained why he had hired her. "You are to be my eyes," was the
way he put it, and without a trace of rancor or self-pity, told her
of the degenerative retinal disease from which he was suffering,
and for which there was no cure.

She was so distressed that he ended up
comforting her.

"I do wish you'd stop acting as if it's the
end of the world," he said, "because it is not. Besides, even if it
were, being upset would not solve a thing. Think about it. If you
were in my shoes, wouldn't you be annoyed by having someone
melancholy moping around?"

She nodded.

"Anyway, when a situation is such that it
cannot be changed," he added, "one might as well adapt, and try to
make the best of it. In other words, the least I shall expect from
you is an attempt at some semblance of good cheer."

From that moment on, Kenzie adored him.

He proved an inspiration in countless ways.
His knowledge was encyclopedic, and never ceased to amaze her. The
first time they previewed an Old Masters auction together was a
case in point:

"What idiots some of these departmental
'experts' are!" he snapped testily. "That still life is no Chardin!
It is too filled with bravura. Chardin's touch is much more
analytical and poetic. Nor is this painting modest enough: notice
how the objects are far too grand ..."

And "... this is supposed to be a Stubbs?
Bah! That horse is much too sentimental, and not nearly haunting
enough. Nor does it have the anatomical details reminiscent of
Leonardo. Stubbs knew his musculature backward and forward, since
he spent years dissecting animals ..."

And "... Now, this Delacroix is sublime and
obviously genuine, but you mark my words: the price will go through
the roof ..."

Kenzie looked and listened and learned.

Before long, she discovered just how truly
select and wealthy Mr. Wugsby's clientele was. Agnellis and
Rothschilds, Niarchoses and von Thurn und Taxis,
Thyssen-Bornemiszmas and von und zu Engelwiesens— like worshippers
on a pilgrimage, a steady trickle of them came and looked and
bought.

Nor was he stingy. After the first six
months, he gave Kenzie a substantial raise, which she used to move
into the rent-stabilized walk-up she still inhabited. But what she
treasured above all was the priceless knowledge Mr. Wugsby handed
down to her. All the little tricks of the trade he'd picked up
during nearly half a century of dealing in fine art. She learned
how to spot forgeries by knowing which pigments were discovered
when. How to distinguish genuine patinas acquired over the
centuries from those which had recently been produced with
phenoformaldehyde dissolved in benzine or turpentine. Plus, the
various technical techniques, like using ultraviolet light, having
paintings x-rayed, and scraping a microscopic flake of pigment from
a canvas and having a lab technician analyze it through the use of
spectrography.

But perhaps the greatest gift Mr. Wugsby
bestowed upon her was his passion. He had that rare gift of being
able to bring a work of art to life, so that she saw it not merely
in decorative or historical terms, but as a living, breathing
entity with a pedigree as real, and as vital, as that of any human
being.

In the end, it wasn't the blindness that did
him in. It was cancer, and it was terminal. The doctors gave him
six months to live.

Kenzie helped him close up shop and liquidate
his stock. Unknown to her, he called in a favor from an old
colleague of his at Burghley's, Mr. A. Dietrich Spotts, thus
securing her a position in the auction house's Old Masters
department.

Kenzie was with Mr. Wugsby at the end.

On his deathbed, he confessed that before she
had come along, he had interviewed twenty-eight other applicants
for her job.

"Do you realize," he warbled, his voice
painfully thin and weak, "that of all of them, you were the only
one who attributed the Mengs correctly?"

She hugged his frail, emaciated body to
hers.

"But I'd have hired you even if you hadn't,"
he admitted, a bit of irrepressible slyness shining through. "When
you first walked in, I could tell from the way you looked around
that art was in your blood ... that it was your life!"