Too Damn Rich (31 page)

"You're certain?" Fairey asked sharply.

"Oh, absolutely." Ileane nodded
definitely.

"Still, taking it on in the first place was
skating on very thin ice," Fairey said. "This would never have
occurred under Mr. Spotts."

Everyone was silent.

He raised his head magisterially. "In order
to avoid such future fiascos, until further notice, any major work
accepted for auction by the Old Masters department must be agreed
upon by committee. Specifically, that means three out of the
department's four employees must approve any work of art valued in
excess of one hundred thousand dollars." His eyes roved from Kenzie
to Zandra, and then from Arnold to Bambi, on whom they rested
accusingly. "Have I made myself clear?"

They all nodded and murmured their
agreement.

"Good." He sat back. "Then I would like to
take this opportunity to commend Ms. Turner, Ms. von
Hohenburg-Willemlohe, and Mr. Li on a job well done."

Kenzie had to hand it to him. His solution
for diluting Bambi's power was brilliant. If he'd insisted upon
their unanimous agreement, Bambi would be able to sabotage their
every decision.

But a vote of three out of four makes that
impossible, she thought. Arnold, Zandra, and I can override her
every time. Bambi was still head of the department, but a lame
duck.

Fairey assumed an air of brusqueness. "I
believe it's time we took a vote on the Holbein," he said. "The Old
Masters department will kindly abstain. Now then, those in favor of
withdrawing the painting from the auction, please raise your
hands." He held up his own.

Kenzie glanced around; one by one, the
others' hands crept up also, until each person's was raised.

"It's unanimous then. The painting shall be
withdrawn and we'll publicize an in-depth investigation. Eunice,
prepare a statement for Allison, will you? But I want to go over it
with Ileane before you schedule a press conference."

"Will do," Eunice Ffolkes said.

Fairey looked around. "Any questions?" he
asked.

There were none.

"In that case," he said in his best Chairman
of the Universe voice, "this meeting is adjourned."

Chairs were scooted back and everyone began
to file quietly out of the room. Bambi, shouldering her way past
Kenzie, shot her a glare of pure venom.

Kenzie was nearly out the door when Sheldon
D. Fairey's voice stopped her.

"Oh, Ms. Turner?" he called out.

Kenzie turned around. "Sir?"

"Could you please stay for a few minutes?
There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

"Please sit, Ms. Turner."

The last person out had shut the conference
room door. Kenzie, slipping into the seat next to his, waited for
him to speak.

He was sitting erect, frowning at the far
wall, apparently deep in thought. Kenzie's gaze wandered briefly in
that direction. A van Gogh print of Provencal blooms hung there,
gilt-framed and smug, a relic of the shop-till-you-drop eighties,
when Burghley's had sold it for the world's auction record, an
amount still unequaled.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "Do you
know what Burghley's main function is, Ms. Turner?" he asked.

"Of course, Mr. Fairey. To sell art and
decorative objects."

He drew his eyes back in. "Is it?" He gave a
bitter little smile. "I used to think so. Now I'm beginning to
wonder." He heaved a weary sigh. "More and more, it seems that the
treasures we deal in are secondary to the commissions they
generate."

She nodded. "That is true also."

Slowly he rose to his feet and switched
chairs, seating himself directly opposite her. She gazed
unblinkingly across the table at him.

"You look people straight in the eye," he
observed.

Her expression did not change. "And so do
you, Mr. Fairey."

Leaning forward, he eyed her thoughtfully.
"Tell me something, Ms. Turner. This is completely off the record.
What is your opinion of this ... this Holbein debacle?"

Kenzie shrugged, carefully keeping her face
impassive, her voice neutral. "I suppose it's par for the course,"
she said noncommittally.

"Par for the course!" he exclaimed.

She nodded again. "Considering our volume of
business, incidents like this are bound to occur every now and
then."

"Indeed!" He raised frosty eyebrows. "Then
are you saying this fiasco was unavoidable? Are you suggesting it
was not the fault of that . . . that dim-witted, empty-headed dummy
who was foisted upon us?"

She stared at him levelly. "Mr. Fairey," she
said softly. "My job is to best serve the department. And I like to
believe I do. However, what I don't like is to speculate or point
fingers of blame. Especially after the fact. Art—not in-house
politics—is what interests me."

"A devoutly noble sentiment," he
murmured.

She was silent.

He held her gaze. "Does this mean you have no
comment about this incident? None whatsoever?"

"Only that I'm glad it's under control, and
that the worst damage can be contained."

She stared into his face, daring him to
challenge her.

"I see ..." His breath sighed out. Then,
bending his head over the table, he furled the fingers of both
hands, as though intent upon inspecting his manicure. "Earlier, you
suggested that we publicize further investigation into the
Holbein's provenance."

"I did. Yes, sir."

"And you realize what this means, don't
you?"

"That our efforts will be closely monitored
by the press in general, and the art world in particular," she
said, nodding.

"Good. Then you will undoubtedly understand
why I'm putting you in charge of this investigation."

"Me! But ... but Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe
is more than capab—"

"Yes, yes, yes," he interrupted irritably,
waving her to silence. "I'm quite aware of her proficiency.
However, she's only been with us for three months, and we need an
expert—an old hand, if you will—to supervise this investigation.
Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe can do the actual research, but you
shall be in charge. And you will report directly to me."

He paused.

"I can count on you, Ms. Turner?"

"Yes, sir." Kenzie nodded.

"Thank you, Ms. Turner." He rubbed his chin.
"I seem to recall that on several occasions you've worked closely
with an officer of the art theft squad ... what is his name . . .
?"

"Charles Ferraro," she supplied
automatically, before the name even registered in her brain. When
it did, it pierced her like a poison arrow.

"Ah, yes," Fairey nodded. "Officer Ferraro.
Well, then, I suggest you contact him immediately and work together
on this. He will have resources available to him that we do
not."

Kenzie's mind was reeling. Oh, God! He can't
expect me to work with Charley, she thought with a sinking feeling.
He can't!

It had been three months now since the party
at the Met, and in all that time, she had refused to see either
Charley or Hannes. She'd hung up on their phone calls. Had even had
her locks changed, since she'd once given Charley a set of keys to
her apartment.

And now, just when she thought she'd gotten
rid of him once and for all, what had to happen? She was stuck with
him again!

"Ms. Turner? Ms. Turner!"

The voice cut sharply through her turmoil,
brought her to with a start.

"Is something wrong, Ms. Turner?"

"Only that ..." She swallowed to lubricate
her throat. "... that I'd prefer not to deal with Officer Ferraro
again."

"Oh?" His eyebrows shot up. "And why not,
pray tell?"

"I'd rather not get into that, sir."

"I'm afraid that's not good enough, Ms.
Turner. Too much is at stake here—to paraphrase your own words,
nearly three hundred years of sterling reputation! Burghley's
'single most precious asset' is the way I believe you put it?"

She sighed miserably. Damn. She'd really
painted herself into a corner this time! Why, oh why did I let
myself get so carried away?

He was leaning forward. "Do you still have a
problem with this simple request, Ms. Turner? Am I asking too much
of you?"

"No, sir," she said in a weary voice.

"Good. Then I expect to be kept informed of
any developments. That will be all, Ms. Turner."

And the discussion was over.

Kenzie returned to her office, sank into her
chair, and just sat there looking dazed.

"Kenzie?" Zandra was eyeing her with
speculative concern. "My goodness, darling, you look absolutely
pale. Whatever's the matter?"

Kenzie didn't reply. She was staring
balefully at the telephone in front of her.

Charley, she thought miserably. I've got to
call Charley—

—and I'd rather walk on hot coals!

But what choice did she have?

Resigning herself to the inevitable, she
lifted the receiver and punched his work number, wondering how long
it would take before her memory erased it.

"NYPD," a female voice answered. "Art theft
squad."

She shut her eyes. "Officer Ferraro,
please."

"Who's calling?"

"Ms. Turner."

"One moment, please."

Kenzie heard the woman calling out, "Ferraro!
Line two."

And in the background, Charley's
all-too-familiar voice: "Who is it?"

"A Ms. Turner. Should I put her through?"

Silence. Then: "Naw. She's waited this long.
Let her stew awhile. Might do her some good."

Kenzie slammed down the receiver. Fucking
bastard! Christ, he was unbearable!

She clenched her jaw determinedly. But he
hasn't heard the last of me, she vowed grimly. Unh-unh. Not by a
long shot! Snatching the receiver back up, she hit redial. Same
female voice: "NYPD. Art theft squad." "I would like to speak to
Officer Ferraro," Kenzie said through clenched teeth. "This is
official business."

A pause. Then: "I'm sorry, but Officer
Ferraro just stepped out. Would you like to leave a mes—"

Kenzie slammed down the receiver. She was
seething.

Busy, busy, busy!

These were busy days for one Dina Goldsmith.
Now that she'd reached the Everest of society, she wasn't about to
sit back and rest on her laurels. Far from it; she had as clear a
sense of direction as a homing pigeon, and had mapped out a social
strategy worthy of the joint chiefs of staff.

A case in point: Today.

According to her Filofax, she had a grueling schedule
ahead of her:

7:00 A.M. Meet with Julio—instruct staff

7:15 A.M. Personal trainer

8:00 A.M. Bath

8:45 A.M. Correspondence, phone calls

9:30 A.M. Masseuse

10:00 A.M. Hairdresser and manicurist

Cream Chanel Suit & Verdura Pieces-of-Eight:

10:30 A.M. Interview new chef

11:00 A.M. Sotheby's lecture—Portraits in 18th
Century

England

12:30 P.M. Fitting—Oscar de la Renta

1:30 P.M. Lunch—Becky V

2:45 P.M. French Lesson—Irregular Verbs!!!

3:45 P.M. Everyone Must Eat committee

Meeting—re: Spring Gala

5:00 P.M. Wildenstein Galleries re: Gainsboroughs

5:30 P.M. Quality downtime

Black Herrera Evening Suit & Cartier "Gatsby"

Pearls w/ Emeralds:

6:45 P.M. Knoedler Gallery—Donald Sultan opening

7:30 P.M. "Puccini and Champagne"—Met. Opera
Guild—

Hunter College

9:00 P.M. Met. Benefit Dinner—Colony Club

It was like living in a constant hurricane,
but Dina wouldn't have had it any other way. She thrived on the
social whirl. And to think it had all begun at Karl-Heinz's party,
when Becky V had singled her out!

Ever since, all doors hitherto closed to the
Goldsmiths had magically opened. The invitations poured in. And the
Goldsmiths went out. To Brooke Astor's. To Oscar and Annette's
(town and country). To the Buckleys'. To the Kissingers'.

Everywhere, New York's prime welcome mats
were spread.

For about two months, Dina had felt she was
living a fairy tale. And then, she awoke one morning to discover
she was still not quite satisfied.

So she'd reached the top. So she and Robert
had been accepted by the highest ranks of society. So what?

She was determined to go even farther. Yes.
Little Dina Van Vliet of Gouda, the Netherlands, had decided to be
more than just your run-of- the-mill socialite, and had set her
covetous sights on the greenest pasture of them all.

In short, she was obsessed with nothing less
than becoming a legend. A true social star.

She had already made strides.

Taking a cue from Becky V, she had traded in
her garish white superstretch Caddy for a discreet Lincoln Town
Car, and was working on Robert to do likewise.

Knowingly or unknowingly, a virtual horde of
socialites, past and present, had a hand in educating Dina.

Daily lessons in French soon resulted in a
vocabulary peppered with "voulez-vous" and "n'est-ce pas" and
"cherie," just like the multinational lingo of Becky V and Susan
Gutfreund.

Inspired by Jayne Wrightsman, that authority
on eighteenth-century French furniture, Dina decided it might
behoove her to become master of one subject, too. And so began her
thrice-weekly tutoring in Renaissance paintings.

Tales of Oscar and the first Mrs. de la
Renta's informal Sunday evenings—when everyone popped in after
returning from the country— prompted Dina to throw open her own
doors for come-as-you-are, open- house Sunday evening buffets.
.

They were an instant hit. To paraphrase the
late Kitty Miller, who contended that all you had to do was hang
out a ham and people would beat a path to your door, Dina did
exactly that.

But with one important difference. She was
learning that discretion is the better part of good taste, and that
the smaller and more exquisite the ham, the better. Which was why,
where once she would have overdone it by throwing huge formal
banquets, she now concentrated upon underdoing it, and soon
mastered the fine art of giving the kind of perfect, intimate
little dinners everyone started talking about.