Too Damn Rich (33 page)

Dina met her questioning gaze. Of course I
will, she thought. Isn't this exactly what I wanted? She pictured
Karl-Heinz and Zandra together, then unconsciously sighed with
pleasure. They really are the perfect match, she decided. As
perfect as they come ...

"Oh, yes," she said. "You can count on
me."

Becky smiled warmly. "D'accord. You don't
know how delighted that makes me!"

Dina basked in the narcotic of Becky's
approval. It made her feel all warm and glowing and tingly inside,
like a good belt of brandy in midwinter. Already, she could see her
powerbase expanding. But best of all, she was being courted by none
other than Becky V!

Who needed caffeine on top of that?

Becky was saying, her voice thoughtful: "What
we shall do is the following. This Saturday, there is an auction of
Faberge and
objets de vertu
at Christie's. Heinzie collects
such things, you know. I shall be viewing the exhibit with him the
day after tomorrow. Afterwards, I shall suggest we lunch at
Mortimer's—"

"Where," said Dina, picking up the
conversational thread and running with it, "I'll be lunching with
Zandra."

"
Exactement!
" Becky smiled with
feigned languor, but her violet eyes were alert, the sharp angles
of her cheekbones creating rakish shadows. "However, our meeting
must appear accidental ... totally without premeditation."

Dina shrugged. "I don't see why that should
present any problem. People run into each other at Mortimer's all
the time. We'll simply act appropriately surprised."

Becky nodded. "
Bon
. Now then. The
Sheldon D. Faireys. How well do you know them?"

"Not very," Dina admitted. "Why?"

"They own the estate next to mine in New
Jersey. Did you know that? It was left to Nina by her maternal
grandmother, I believe."

Dina waited.

"We shall be requiring the Faireys' help,"
Becky said slowly. Tapping her lip with a clear-lacquered talon,
she gave Dina a significant look. "However, they must under no
circumstances suspect what we are plotting. Nina is the most
terrible chatterbox, and secrecy—"

"—must be maintained at all costs." Dina
bobbed her head up and down. "Yes, yes. I quite understand."

Becky tapped her lips some more. "If only you
were closer to the Faireys. Extracting an invitation to their
estate would definitely make our little intrigue less obvious."

Dina smiled. "Just leave that to me. Don't
forget, Sheldon is head of Burghley's, and my husband is the
majority shareholder. If I say, 'Jump! Sheldon will ask, 'How
high?' You'll see. The instant I suggest it, an invitation shall be
forthcoming."

"Ah!" Becky's face betrayed a piquant trace
of amusement, a dash of zesty evil. "I must compliment you. Your
deviousness is almost French." She laughed throatily. "
Oui
.
Together we are
tres formidable
!"

"Yes. But as far as the Faireys are
concerned, the sooner you give me a firm date, the better."

"
A coup sur
. But first, I must find
out what Heinzie's plans are. I should know more the day after
tomorrow.
Alors
. I believe the time has come to toast our
little endeavor, non?"

And Becky pressed a button affixed to the
underside of the gueridon.

A minute later, a wide, vertical band of
golden light streamed in as Uriah opened the door and shuffled into
the room. "You rang, Madame?!"

"Yes, Uriah. Iced Dom Perignon and two
glasses, please."

"Coming right up, Madame!"

And so shouting, he shuffled back out.

Dina once again glanced around, feasting her
eyes on the intricately stenciled paneling, the complex patterns of
the shimmering silk Heraz, the voluptuous luxury of this most
magnificent of rooms.

Uriah returned with an ornate ice-filled
silver bucket. After much fumbling, he managed to wrest the cork
from the chilled bottle. He poured some shakily into two dazzling
cobalt flutes, shuffled back out, and shut the door behind him.

Becky plucked up one glass and raised it in a
toast. "To their Serene Highnesses, the Prince and future Princess
von und zu Engelwiesen!"

Dina lifted her own fragile, gold-banded
glass. "May they live happily ever after!" she added in a
whisper.

Then, exchanging smiles, they clinked their
glasses and sipped. The champagne was very, very good. But the
intrigue was even better.

Self-centered bastard, spiteful chauvinist
pig!" steamed Kenzie as she and Zandra sat in the huge subterranean
vault, Kenzie's refuge in times of crises. All around, hundreds of
priceless, tagged paintings and drawings were stored sideways on
metal shelving, like books. "I have a good mind to take a cleaver
to his you-know-what!"

"Oh, gosh," Zandra said. "How perfectly
awful. D'you think he's just having a beastly day? You know
men—striking out at you could be a matter of ... of
transference!"

Kenzie looked stupefied. "Transference?" she
repeated blankly. "What the hell's transference got to do with
this?"

"Oh, Kenzie, you know. Men are so moody—comes
from repressing their emotions ... all that macho posturing has got
to get to them sometime! I mean, you could simply be the handiest
surrogate for whatever's really bothering him. Right? Just don't
take it personally."

"Don't take it personally? For God's sake,
what other way can I take it?"

Zandra exhaled a sigh. She was utterly at a
loss. Making commiserating noises and providing a shoulder to cry
on was one thing; rallying her out of a bottomless funk was quite
another. Kenzie needed help, that much was clear. The only question
was ... how to proceed?

"A knife," Kenzie murmured dreamily, her eyes
glittering with fantasized revenge. "Yes, one of those superbly
balanced Hoffritz chopping blades would do nicely."

"Kenzie ..."

"Or better yet, one of their cleavers.
There's a prime example of what good old Solingen steel will do!
Now, if only I were a trained Beni- hana chef—"

"Kenzie, stop it," cried Zandra. "You're
being perfectly horrid. For God's sake, you're a vegetarian."

Kenzie slumped in defeat and looked
imploringly at her friend. "So what should I do?"

"Forget it for now. That's the clue."

"Forget it?" Kenzie squeaked. "Zandra, how
can I?"

"Then at least keep in mind what my Aunt
Josephine always used to say:
'Diem adimere aegritudinem
hominibus.
' "

"Zandra! Will you speak English?"

"I am speaking English, luv." Zandra
addressed her as she would a younger sister, lovingly but with the
slightest hint of exasperation. "I only quoted the Latin to make it
... well, to tell the truth, sound less trite."

"But I don't speak Latin!"

"So? I'll happily translate. Literally, it
means 'Time removes distress.' "

"Aha!" Kenzie slid her a gimlet glare. "
'Time heals all wounds.' Why is it," she muttered sourly, "that
whenever certain situations arise, people unfailingly fall back on
cliches?"

Zandra suddenly perked up. "Latin. Oh,
Kenzie, I just got an idea." Zandra sat there with a blissful
smile, because inspiration had finally dawned.

What, she asked herself triumphantly, were
the ancient Romans but Italians by any other name? And who, with
the possible exception of Jewish mothers, knew how to nurture
damaged souls better than Italians? Indeed. Everyone with the
slightest trace of Latin blood understood that the absolutely
swiftest remedy for any ailment, like the quickest way to a man's
heart, was undeniably through his stomach.

Popping to her feet, Zandra announced:
"Darling, I know ,exactly what you need!"

"You do?" Kenzie's voice was laced with
skepticism.

"Yes, luv, I do." Zandra paused for a beat.
"Food."

"Food!"

"Oh, Kenzie. I mean, honestly. Don't you know
anything at all? Food's the antidote. Real food. Italian comfort
food. You'll see. Now, let me think ..." Her voice took on a dreamy
tone. "We'll start with a heavenly tartine con il gorgonzola . . .
follow it up with some frivolous tagliatelle alia romagnola, or
perhaps you'd prefer risotto coi carciofi?— whichever. And, Kenzie,
while we're making such absolute pigs of ourselves, we might as
well go whole hog and splurge on the most divine bottle of really
good Chianti, after which we'll top it all off with espresso,
amaretto, and the most sinfully rich gelato di cioccolato in
town."

She paused, eyes aglow.

"Well, darling? What do you say? Shall we?
Oh, Kenzie, let's! You'll see. Nothing's ever so bad on a full
stomach!"

"What you're proposing," said Kenzie
inexorably, "is removing the symptom but not the cause."

"Well, at least it works. I mean, if you had
a headache, you'd want to get rid of it. Wouldn't you?"

"Yes, but my headache happens to be one
Officer Fer-fucking-raro," Kenzie sighed. "It's not lunch I need,
but some way to kick his ass in gear, and without leading the horny
bastard on!" She gnashed her teeth in frustration. "Where, oh
where," she demanded plaintively, "are the police when you need
them?"

"Oh, Kenzie, will you stop? Now, do you want
to go and have lunch, or don't you?"

"Lunch?" sniffed Kenzie, wounded. "I think
I'll pass."

Zandra threw up her hands in despair. "Have
it your way, then. Really!" She eyed Kenzie with disgust.

And whirling around, she left the vault.

Watching her depart, Kenzie snorted under her
breath, hit the lights, and pushed the armored door shut. She
punched the electronic lock code, from force of habit testing the
door to make certain it was secure. Already, she could hear the
nearby slam of the service elevator; the unmistakable whir of
hydraulics.

It was Zandra, ascending.

Kenzie didn't bother waiting for the elevator
to return. Nor did she head for the nearest stairwell. For some
unfathomable reason, perhaps because it had been awhile, she was
possessed of a sudden urge to cut diagonally through the building
via the convoluted, subterranean labyrinth.

Most people avoided venturing far into the
bowels of Burghley's, and not without just cause. Even the newer
engineers were constantly getting lost down here, and anyone
unfamiliar with the layout would have required a ball of string to
find their way back.

Not Kenzie. Long ago, her spirit of adventure
and fascination with all things Burghley's had compelled her to
explore every last nook and cranny of this neo-Renaissance palazzo,
and she'd committed to memory all six above-ground floors and both
subterranean levels.

The uppermost, Bl, was equally divided
between "Burghley's Basement" galleries and Auction Towers's
underground parking garage.

The subbasement, B2, through which she now
unerringly picked her way, was where the various departments had
their storage vaults.

Here, in this maze of tunnels making up
ninety-six thousand square feet, could be found the expected—all
the unsightly machinery necessary to keep a building this size
humming: malevolent furnaces and boilers, noisy pumps and silent
backup generators, Baby Bell terminals and Con Ed conduits, garbage
rooms, and machine shops.

And here, too, could be found the
unexpected—a cavernlike area for a vast collection of garden
statuary, small temples, fountains, and pergolas, at once
mysterious and enchanting in a menacing kind of way.

And farther on was another, even more
dreamlike space where chunks of antiquities too big for the
vaults—a pair of secretive sphinxes, fragments of columns and
carved friezes, statues in Parian marble, larger-than- life
bronzes, and a gargantuan head of Medusa positively writhing with
stone snakes, even a giant Roman foot broken off at the ankle—had
found a temporary sepulchre.

There was something appropriate about the
tomblike atmosphere, about the relics of past millennia reposing
underground. The sight never failed to quicken Kenzie's heart, as
though she were the first to stumble upon some hitherto inviolate
temple, such was the power of the illusion emerging from ruin.

Everything conspired to trick the eye. The
outsized proportions of the artifacts, their haphazard arrangement,
the way they seemed to give a deep, false perspective, a perfect
symmetry disappearing into gloom. That was what she loved down
here. That haunted secretiveness; the feeling, however ridiculous,
that there were many more such wonders waiting to be
discovered.

On she walked, her clicking footsteps
echoing, gradually fading like phantoms as she made her way along
the shadowy concrete corridors. Wall-mounted bulbs, protected by
wire mesh, punctuated the dark at regular intervals, made dusty
white pools of light.

Overhead, the ceilings were a hodgepodge of
tortured pipes and conduits and stealthy ducts which branched off
into tributaries at each bisecting corridor.

Yet despite the overwhelming ominousness,
Kenzie felt no fear. Nor was she the least bit claustrophobic. Her
explorations had familiarized her with every square foot, and she
was certain she could have found her way around even in a
blackout.

As she continued, she alternately shivered or
perspired, for unlike the interiors of the room-size vaults,
climate and humidity control did not extend to the rest of the
subbasement. The air was perpetually dank, always stuffy or chilly,
depending upon the vicinity of the heating ducts and hot water
pipes.

Not once did she run across a soul, but she
knew she was never entirely alone, either. Video cameras were
everywhere—mute, ever-vigilant sentinels panning each corridor with
Cyclopean eyes and sending her image back to the control room of
security, where walls of television monitors were manned 'round the
clock.