Too Damn Rich (48 page)

"Come on," she muttered testily, pink
fingernails like teaspoons scratching the rumpled sheet. "Come on
..."

"Yeah, babe. Can't wait to come!" The
mattress shifted and last night's pickup pressed himself against
her back, his head coming down so he could suck on her
shoulder.

She shivered, a rush of delicious desire
thrumming from her head right down to her toes.

They'd connected at a party yesterday
evening, where they'd discovered they had crystals, New Age, and
Gregorian chants in common, and had come back here to her new
apartment. She and Lex Bugg, Mr. Psychedelic Pop. On whom she'd
harbored a crush since childhood, a direct result of those cute
stylized rainbows, moons, stars, and clouds he painted.

Now here he was—sharing her bed!—naked but
for the sliver of crystal hanging from the thong around his neck.
Pressing his warm chest against her back, arms holding her, tongue
trolling the fragile contours and shoals of her shoulder.

And meanwhile, I have to waste time holding
for Kenzie!

Finally she heard a click and Kenzie's voice,
crisp and impersonal, came on the line: "Bambi? Kenzie here. What's
the matter?"

Lex's fingertips played itsy-bitsy
spider.

"Hiya, Kenzie. Nasty day, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose that depends
upon the way you look at it."

"Well, from here it looks pretty bad," Bambi
said, lying down and coiling the telephone cord around her finger.
"And Mr. Fairey agrees. I just got off the phone with him. We
decided to postpone today's sale."

"You what!" Kenzie's voice blared so loud
that Bambi cringed and held the receiver away from her ear. "Are
you crazy?"

Bambi took offense. "I won't have you talking
to me like that!" she snapped. "You are not in charge. I am!"

"In which case I strongly suggest you
reconsider. I take it Zandra's filled you in on what's going on
here?"

"Yes, and it proves my point. The sale will
go even better once it's rescheduled."

"Bambi, do you have any idea how badly
Christie's and Sotheby's fared this week?"

Bambi caught Lex's gaze and made yak-yak
motions with her hand.

"Look, Kenzie. I don't see what Christie's or
Sotheby's has to do with it. It's not our fault if they got stuck
with works of lesser quality."

"Bambi?" Kenzie's voice was soft. "Did you
actually go and see those paintings? Or, for that matter, did you
even bother to look through their catalogues?"

Bambi sniffed loftily. "I don't have to
answer to you. And I won't argue about it, either. The sale's off,
and that's that."

"You're making a big mistake," Kenzie
warned.

Bambi slammed the phone down.

"That's telling it like it is, babe!" Lex
flashed her a blinding white grin. "Don't take shit from
nobody."

Kenzie glared at the receiver. "And a nice
day to you, too!" she told it, before hanging up.

"Kenzie," Zandra called out. "What do I tell
people?"

"Keep taking bids. To the best of your
knowledge, the auction's still on."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely." Kenzie wasn't about to let
Bambi KO the sale, not while they were on a winning streak.
Snatching up the phone, she called Sheldon D. Fairey's office.

As expected, there was no answer. Just a
recording to leave voice mail. Which she did. Tried Allison Steele
next. Same thing. Left another message.

There. That took care of protocol.

Next, she got busy tapping computer keys.
Brought up the Faireys' unlisted home number on the telephone
directory file. Punched touch- tone digits.

"Hello?" a woman answered on the third
ring.

"Mr. Fairey, please. This is MacKenzie Turner
from Burghley's."

"I'm afraid he's in the shower right now.
This is Mrs. Fairey. Perhaps I can be of some help?"

"Yes. Could you please tell him that it's
extremely urgent? I'll hold."

"Certainly."

Kenzie pulled her lips back across her teeth.
The art world—some glamour industry! A place where back rubbing and
back stabbing went hand in hand was more like it! If you were at
the top of the food chain, it was a constant battle to stay there.
If you weren't, you battled to get there, or at least to paddle in
place.

The art world. If anyone doubted Darwin's
theories, they need look no further. Here was irrefutable proof.
Day in and day out.

A familiar plummy voice boomed: "Sheldon D.
Fairey."

"Mr. Fairey? MacKenzie Turner. I apologize
for disturbing you at home, sir, but we seem to have a
problem."

"Fire away, Ms. Turner."

Kenzie proceeded to fill him in on the bids
which were pouring in. She finished by saying: "You do see, sir,
don't you? This is a once-in-a- lifetime opportunity! If we
postpone the auction, we run the danger of bids being withdrawn. We
have to run with it!"

There was a pause. "You're certain, Ms.
Turner?" he asked quietly.

"Certain enough to stake my job on it!" she
declared, in a blaze of bold conviction.

Zandra, waving frantically at her, silently
mouthed: "No! Are you crazy?"

He cleared his throat. "In that case, I shall
call Ms. Parker and rescind the order."

The reprieve made Kenzie go weak with relief.
"Thank you, sir."

"And Ms. Turner?"

"Sir?"

"Good luck," he added dryly.

As Kenzie hung up, she noticed that her palms
were sweating. And her hands shaking.

The auction was scheduled for ten o'clock
sharp.

At 9:55, Bambi led Arnold, Kenzie, and Zandra
across the dais, where they took their seats behind a table on
which multiline telephones and four computers had been set up.

Kenzie felt exultant. Soon she would be
vindicated. Reveling in triumph.

Zandra took her hand and pressed it
encouragingly. Arnold leaned forward, held up both hands, and
showed crossed fingers. Only Bambi, thin-lipped and silent, ignored
her completely.

At 9:56, the first potential bidder arrived.
At 9:57, a couple strolled in. A minute later, a well-known
dealer.

Kenzie suddenly felt a terrible sense of
foreboding.

By 9:59, of the two hundred seats, one
hundred ninety-six were still vacant.

Only four people had shown up.

It was then that the enormity of her decision
hit her. I've really done it this time, she thought bleakly. If
there aren't enough absentee bids, I can kiss my job good-bye.

She watched Sheldon D. Fairey, immaculately
groomed as always, approach the lectern. He moved gracefully, as
though it was a packed house, and members of the media were
recording his every move. His chiseled face was expressionless as
his eyes scanned the empty seats.

He's going to go ahead with the sale, Kenzie
realized, feeling the horrified fascination of a spectator watching
an accident occur. We're headed straight for disaster. And all
because of me. I'm never going to get another job after this.
Heaven help me. Why did I have to go out on a limb?

And now—too late!—she suddenly realized
something else. For five minutes now, the telephones had been
silent. Ominously silent.

Oh, God, she beseeched. Why couldn't I keep
my trap shut?

"Lot number one," Sheldon D. Fairey
announced. "Portrait of Lady Digby from the studio of Sir Anthony
Van Dyck."

Two green-aproned young men carried the
gilt-framed painting onstage and placed it on an easel.
Simultaneously, a slide of the picture was projected onto an
overhead screen.

"Bidding shall start at one thousand
dollars."

Arnold, glancing at his computer screen,
lifted his pencil.

"We have a bid for one thousand dollars—"

On the back wall, the currency conversion
board's bright LED numbers converted the dollars into six exchange
rates—Japanese yen, Deutsche marks, English pounds, Italian lira,
and both French and Swiss francs.

"Do we have a bid for one thousand one
hundred?"

Kenzie and Zandra, on the phone to clients,
raised their pencils, as did Arnold.

"Do we have a bid for one thousand two
hundred ... one thousand five hundred ... two thousand ... three
thousand ... four thousand ..."

The dollars spiraled, as though conjured up
by the effortless swirl of a magician's wand, and seemed to take on
a life of their own.

"... Ten thousand ... ten thousand five
hundred ... eleven thousand ... twelve ..."

A dizzying half minute later, the gavel
banged down. "Sold. To a telephone bidder for eighteen thousand
dollars."

Four and a half times the high estimate.

Kenzie, weak with relief, exhaled a deep,
shaky breath. So far, so good, she told herself. Now, if this only
keeps up ...

The green-aproned porters carried the
painting offstage as two other porters lugged out the next one.

"Lot number two."

Behind his lectern, Sheldon D. Fairey exuded
confidence, authority, and a quiet, reassuring assertiveness.

"Portrait of an Italian Nobleman, also from
the studio of Sir Anthony Van Dyck. Bidding shall begin at one
thousand dollars ..."

Zandra and Kenzie were already on the phone
with long-distance clients; Arnold, with his eye on his computer
screen, was again executing bids on behalf of absentee buyers.

And again, like an enchanted thread snatched
out of thin air and woven into a dazzling fabric, the dollars spun
and soared, as though wrought by some sorcerer's arcane spell.

"Do we have a bid for six thousand ... six
thousand five hundred ... seven thousand ... seven thousand five
hundred ... ?"

The numbers billowed, swarmed,
multiplied.

"Fifteen thousand . . . fifteen thousand five
hundred ... going once, going twice—"

The hammer fell.

"Sold. To an absentee bidder for fifteen
thousand, five hundred dollars."

Nearly four times the high estimate.

Kenzie felt the narcotic of relief, like a
tranquilizer, anesthetizing her jumpy nerves. Dared she nurture the
sputtering flame of hope?

It was too early to tell. Still, the sale was
off to a better start than she had dared anticipate.

Who knows? she thought optimistically. Maybe,
just maybe, we can pull this off. We might even come out of it
smelling like roses.

But then the tide turned.

Neither Lot 3, a crucifixion by a follower of
Van Cleve, nor Lot 4, a tiny Barent Graat of sheep and goats, nor
Lot 5, Portrait of a Lady as Venus by van der Heist, found a single
bidder. Sheldon D. Fairey hammered down each of them with one
expressionless but ominous word: "Passed."

Kenzie felt each accompanying bang of the
gavel like a physical blow. We're in trouble, she thought. And
instantly revised that opinion. Nope. I might as well call a spade
a spade. We're in deep shit. Real deep shit.

But the gods of fortune laughed, and once
again teased her by spinning in her favor.

Lot 6, Adoration of the Magi by Jan van
Scorel, estimated at $10,000 to $20,000, sold for $21,000.

And Lot 7, a madonna and child by Raffaelino
del Garbo, went for $36,500—$16,500 over the high estimate.

Kenzie did not permit her hopes to surge,
which was just as well. The next six lots failed to reach their
reserve price. Each pound of the gavel was accompanied by two
inexorable words: "Bought in."

Kenzie, feeling a headache coming on, rubbed
her forehead. From experience, she knew what lay ahead and dreaded
it.

We're going to have a lot of unhappy
consignors, she thought. And some would inevitably blame Burghley's
for their paintings not selling, which meant she would be fielding
a flurry of angry calls.

Sheldon D. Fairey was saying: "Lot number
fourteen, Still Life by Pieter Claesz. Oil on copper. Signed in
monogram and dated 1630."

At a presale estimate of $500,000 to
$700,000, it was the first of the sale's truly spectacular and
expensive works.

"Bidding shall begin at $250,000."

Kenzie, knowing what was riding on it,
literally held her breath.

A brief but intense battle between Zandra's
telephone bidder and one of Arnold's absentee bids resulted in a
hammer price of $1.25 million.

It took Kenzie a moment for the success to
register. When it did, she was so sick with relief that it was all
she could do not to throw up.

And that was the pattern the rest of the sale
followed—a constant roller coaster of exhilarating crests and bleak
descents.

By ten-thirty, eleven more seats had filled
as veteran bidders, timing their arrivals to coincide with the lots
which interested them, arrived to bid in person.

By eleven o'clock, that number had grown to a
total of thirty-three, including a reporter from the New York
Times.

Despite the small turnout, there was
electricity in the air, as well as a tiny clutch of bargain
hunters.

A little over two hours after the auction
began, Sheldon D. Fairey's gavel fell for the last time. "Ladies
and gentlemen," he announced, "that is the end of the sale. Thank
you."

The auction was over.

Kenzie collapsed limply in her chair. The
sale had taken its toll. She felt completely wiped out, and just
sat there in a daze while Arnold finished his computerized
tally.

"Hmmm," he murmured. "Take a look at
this."

"Thanks, but I'd rather wait," Kenzie
murmured, thinking: If no news is bad news, then what's the big
rush? We'll learn the extent of the damage soon enough. Besides,
the auction's over. It's too late to do anything about it now.

Zandra was more upbeat. She had kept an
approximate mental count, and peered eagerly at Arnold's screen.
His numbers confirmed hers.

Of the two hundred twenty-eight lots, nearly
two-thirds—one hundred thirty-nine to be exact—had sold, and the
auction had generated a grand total of $56,609,112.00.