Too Damn Rich (34 page)

Pulling open a gray steel door with a
glass-and-mesh inset, she stepped into a cinderblock stairwell.
Behind her, the door closed automatically; B2 was painted on it in
huge red letters.

She started up. On the next floor, she passed
an identical door labeled BI. Above that, another marked G. TWO
landings later, and she was on 2.

She pushed that door open.

After the dimness of the subbasement and
stairwell, the carpeted hallway seemed bright to the point of
blinding. Recessed fluorescents cast diffused, shadow-free light,
and warm air circulated from vents along the baseboards.
Cream-painted doors punctuated both walls at regular intervals.

Each was identified by a Lucite plaque with
burnished gold letters. The third one down was it: OLD MASTERS

Underneath, a smaller plaque with slide-in
slots held three nameplates:

A. LI

M. TURNER

Z.V. HOHENBURG-WILLEMLOHE

Opening the door, Kenzie announced, "I'm
ba-ack!"

No one greeted her. No one was here. A quick
glance at the coathook confirmed that both Zandra and Arnold had
gone to lunch.

Which is just as well, she thought. Some
things are best done in private ... especially things like
stretching the truth . . .

Shutting the door, she sat down at her desk
and eyed the phone accusingly. It seemed to sit there, taunting her
with smug superiority.

"Well," she sighed, "might as well get it
over with." And grabbing the receiver, she jabbed redial.

One ring ... two ... three—

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

"Yes. This is Ms. Turner again. It's
imperative that I speak with Officer Ferraro."

"I'm sorry, but Officer Ferraro is in the
field."

"The field? What field?" Kenzie demanded in
outrage. "I'm calling from Burghley's on official business. Now,
why don't you be nice and go scare him up?"

"Because he's not in the office, ma'am. If
you'll kindly leave a number where—"

"Oh, for crying out loud! Look, this is a
bona fide emergency, okay? Now, will you, or will you not, patch me
through to wherever Officer Ferraro might be? Otherwise, I can save
myself a lot of trouble by going directly over his head." Kenzie
paused. "Which'll it be? The choice is yours."

There was a moment's hesitation. "What did
you say the emergency was?"

"I didn't. It's a stolen work of art with an
estimated value of twenty- five million dollars."

No argument now. "Please hold," the voice
said briskly. "I'll transfer you."

Within fifteen seconds, Kenzie was patched
through.

"This'd better be an emergency," Charley
snapped, with irritation. "The shit's been hitting the fan. Or
haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"I'm at the Artisteria Gallery. Bunch of
perps tied up the staff and made off with art to the tune of half a
mil. Can you believe it? Right in broad daylight."

"Some thieves." Kenzie had to laugh. "What
did they steal? Ertes?"

"That's not funny."

"No, I guess it isn't."

"So ... what's your reason for calling?"

"Mainly," she said stiffly, "because Sheldon
D. Fairey ordered me to."

"And?"

"And nothing. I just didn't want you to get
the wrong idea. It wasn't my choice."

"Kenzie, I really am pressed for time. Now,
either cut to the chase, or I'm hanging up. You've got one
minute."

"Jesus, will you cool it? For your
information, this painting happens to be worth a fortune."

"This concerns that Holbein, right?"

Her eyes narrowed with unease. "What makes
you say that?" she murmured cautiously.

"Because I read the papers, Sherlock. Shit,
Hans is gesturing. Gotta go. I'll be in touch once the mess down
here's—"

"Don't you dare hang up! Charley, if you
refuse to work with us on this, so help me God I'll ... I'll
..."

"You'll what?" he asked calmly, yawning with
bored amusement.

"I'll call 'Page Six.' Yes! And New York
magazine! And the News and Newsday and ..." Kenzie smiled dreamily,
wondering what other threats she could possibly pull out of her
improvised grab bag.

"Kenzie?" he drawled.

"What?"

"Blow it out your—"

"No, you blow it out yours, Charles Gabriel
Ferraro! Either we meet to discuss this today, or your public
affairs officer'll be working overtime. In fact, I wouldn't rule
out a special mayoral investigation. Who knows? With the stink this
has already raised between D.C. and Bonn, maybe the secretary of
state will personally give the police commissioner a call. So do
yourself a favor and wear your Cerruti suit. You'll want to look
your best for TV."

"Why, you ... you bitch!" he whispered with a
kind of grudging awe. "You do know how to fight dirty, don't
you?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," she said
loftily. "And one more thing, Charley," she added inexorably. "Do
try to avoid wearing one of those awful garish ties which are all
the rage? I think your red Hermes will look best on camera."

He threw in the towel. "All right, all
right!" he snapped, in disgust. "You win. But I'm running late.
It'll have to be sometime after seven."

"Sometime after seven's fine. But don't come
here; I'll be at home. You do remember the address?" she asked,
heaping on the syrup.

He replied by slamming down the phone.

Smiling, Kenzie replaced the receiver. There!
That wasn't so difficult!

No, indeed. She had Officer Ferraro over a
barrel, all right, she thought smugly. She knew it. And more
important, he knew it, too. But the one thing he didn't know was
that she now had a roommate. And with Zandra present, there'd be no
danger of his libido acting up.

Not that any amount of sex appeal was going
to help Charley this time. Because, whether he knew it or not, she,
MacKenzie Turner, was totally immune to his charms. In fact, she
felt absolutely nothing for him.

Nothing at all!

Theater, real theater, Zandra had discovered
during the past three months, was not found On or Off or even
Off-off Broadway so much as it was on the teeming streets and
sidewalks of Manhattan.

This held true even on the posh Upper East
Side, where despite the prevalence of vast wealth the cast was
likely to comprise an egalitarian mixture: the sable-coated
socialite hurrying past a ragged panhandler, the daredevil
bicyclist in neon Spandex narrowly missing the custom-suited
banker, the leggy supermodel giving the obscenity-screaming maniac
a wide berth, and, oblivious to it all, the unflappable black
nurse's aide pushing a wheelchair-bound elderly.

Zandra, whose experience on stage had been
limited to beauty contests, always felt as if she'd blundered onto
the set of the real greatest show on earth: the constantly running
theater that was Manhattan, a directorless hodgepodge of Marat
Sade, Barefoot in the Park, Private Lives, and The Three-Penny
Opera, the exact allotment of each play depending upon such
vagaries as the weather, the economy, the time of day, and even the
phases of the moon.

However, this thousand-ring circus was not on
her mind as she now drifted, content and purposeless, along Madison
Avenue in her new black cashmere-blend coat, an after-Christmas
markdown which she'd enlivened with a crinkle-pleated Issey Miyake
tricolor scarf, to indulge in a lunch hour of window-shopping, that
spectator sport necessitated by the most stringent of budgets.

As always, the unabashedly rich store windows
drew attention and enticed. Not that Zandra envied the flush
shopper darting out of Gianni Versace, or the collector frowning at
a Francesco Clemente in the window of the Gagosian Gallery, or the
tourists poring over frivolous bric-a-brac at Mabel's. Having been
raised virtually penniless, she had early on learned the value of a
farthing and to pinch it till it bled while simultaneously
observing from her vastly rich, spoiled cousinage that happiness
was the one thing no amount of wealth could buy.

Thus, confronted with temptations ranging
from a floral springtime confection at Givenchy to a dazzling Art
Deco suite of bijoux at Fred Leighton, she felt quite content
merely to browse and ... well, to be honest, perhaps indulge in
just a wee bit of dreaming. Otherwise, she was quite satisfied.

And why shouldn't she be? New York had been
exceptionally good to her. What more could she possibly want?

Well, two things actually, the only two
things missing from her life. One was a steady boyfriend. The
other—far more important and disturbing—was the fact that Rudolph,
her brother, had yet to surface.

Zandra sighed. His absence had the habit of
stealing up on her, like a guilt, at the most inopportune
moments.

Every call she had made to England—by her
last reckoning, nearly two thousand dollars' worth—had proved a
dead end. Either her brother had gone to ground so successfully
that he couldn't be found, or else he—

He—what? Occupied a shallow, unmarked grave
somewhere? Lay, weighed down with lead, at the bottom of some
obscure body of water? Was part of some unspecified landfill?

Sighing more loudly, she slammed a mental
door. She wouldn't allow herself to contemplate his fate. To do so
would drive her stark, raving mad.

Pulling the lapels of her coat tighter around
her throat, she moved on, until a female's fluty Oxbridge tones
called out:

"Zandra? Zandra von
Hohenburg-Willemlohe?"

Startled, Zandra whirled around. Her brows
knitted as she frowned, trying to place a familiar face in
unfamiliar surroundings. Then her mental circuits connected; memory
cells clicked.

"Oh, gosh. Penelope. Penelope Gainsborourg!
Is that you?"

"In the flesh!" giggled the lanky,
carrot-curled thing in the humongous bag lady coat by Fendi, all
strips and balls of various pelts, leathers and suedes in every
conceivable shade of brown.

The requisite hug, and kisses strategically
aimed past each other's cheeks, followed.

Then, holding each other at arm's length: "My
goodness, Penelope. Darling, you are looking well. And how's
Dicky?"

"Gone," came the cheerful reply.

"Gone!" Zandra's eyes widened, became
dramatic saucers. "What ever do you mean?"

"The name's not Gainsborourg any longer,
darling—that's the clue. It's Troughton now. Mrs. Alex Troughton."
Penelope affected the same disjointed, fractured speech patterns as
Zandra. "And ... here's twenty- two flawless carats to prove it.
See?" She extended a limp hand.

Zandra stared at the giant diamond. "Why,
it's ... it's huge."

"Grotesquely huge and absolutely bourgeois!"
Penelope giggled happily. "Still, diamonds are a girl's best
friend. Never return one, that's my motto ... make a scalp
bracelet—necklace is more like it the way I'm going. I mean, third
divorce and fourth marriage? All Mexican quickies and me only
twenty-six? Can you imagine? Anyway, you should have seen the
scandal. Everybody boffing everybody else! First Lucinda Troughton
running off—God only knows where—with another woman, then Dicky
with Alex's butler ... can you imagine anything more awful ... I
mean, running off with someone's butler, of all people! And finally
me with poor sweet Alex, well—"

"Goodness, Penelope. How absolutely
frightful. I must say, I don't know when I've heard anything quite
as convoluted."

"What?" Penelope stared with open-mouthed
astonishment. "You mean ... you hadn't heard?"

"Oh, Penelope, I'm afraid not. I'm terribly
out of touch, you know."

"You must be! God. Last time we talked ... I
remember! You rang to ask about Rudolph ... yes ... hear he owes
Dicky tons, not that I give a fart. Fact is, I hope Dicky never
sees a shilling—that's just deserts for running off with Alex's
butler, wouldn't you say? Especially with decent butlers heading
the endangered species list ... or are they extinct already?
Anyway! Imagine. Bumping into you here, of all places. Darling,
what on earth are you doing in New York?"

Zandra, trying to keep abreast of the
loquacious twists, turns, and detours, said, "Oh, gosh. Well,
that's a terribly long story. I live here now." At a loss for a
more detailed explanation, she deftly turned the conversational
tables. "But, darling, what about you? What brings you here? Still
hiding from Fleet Street, are you?"

"Hiding? Good heavens, no!" came the bright
reply. "Honeymooning with Alex—what else?"

"But darling, that's marv. Happy, are
you?"

"Lord, yes."

"Congrats. Doesn't this call for a drink or
something?" Zandra glanced around. "Wherever is the lucky man?"

Penelope's face fell. "Would you believe,
came down with the flu, of all things? Really. I warned him: 'Get
inoculated, darling.' Well, men bloody well never listen, do they?
And, would you believe, we have front- row seats for Sunset
Boulevard tonight? Hate to waste the tickets, but that's out now
... I mean, who wants to go alone?"

Abruptly Penelope brightened.

"Of course! How utterly silly of me! Zandra!
Why don't you come? We'll have dinner before ... the Russian Tea
Room's my absolute fave. Oh, do say yes. It'll be divine."

"Why ... I ... yes. Why not?"

"Zandra, that's super! You're a darling. I
mean, you've only positively saved my entire evening. We've tons to
catch up on ... oops! Better run! Playing Florence Nightingale
between shopping. You know. Anyway, we'll meet at six?"

"The Russian Tea Room. Yes."

"I can't wait! We'll look positively glam.
Remember, reservations are for Troughton. Mrs. Alex Troughton."
Penelope giggled. "Off I go!"

Swift kisses punctuated air; fingers waggled
blurrily.

"Toodle-oo!"

And the bundle of couture rags dashed
off.