Too Damn Rich (61 page)

My own mother wouldn't recognize me.

But then, that was precisely the point.

The cocktail lounge was dim and mostly empty,
and its Gay Nineties decor was a salute to petrochemical
byproducts: phony "stained glass," red acrylic carpeting, fake
gaslights which flickered, and a tufted, red vinyl,
horseshoe-shaped bar. There were red vinyl booths along three of
the walls, wood-grained formica tables, and laminated Gibson Girl
posters on the red-and-gold flocked wallcovering.

What I won't do for Burghley's, Kenzie
sighed, lowering her sunglasses a hair to scan the premises from
the doorway.

Not that there was much to see. A bored
bartender polishing glasses.

Two businessmen at a table. The mandatory
drunk hunched over the bar. A sweet-looking, blue-rinse grandmother
tanking up on gin. And, occupying a booth in the far corner, Robert
Sullivan and Gretchen Ng.

Bonanza!

Kenzie made her way over to them and took the
adjoining booth. They both fell instantly silent. Then, obviously
dismissing her, they picked up right where they'd left off.

Sitting back-to-back with Gretchen, Kenzie
overheard every word:

"Another Kir Royale to celebrate?" Robert
Sullivan. Smug. Confident.

"You don't think it's premature?" Gretchen
Ng. Guarded. Prudent.

"Get real, Gretchen! What's there to worry
about?"

"Oh, just minor things. Like what if
Christie's or Burghley's—"

"Oh, for crying out loud! You know that
Christie's is so snooty they'll refuse, and Burghley's is famously
cheap."

Oh, we are, are we? Kenzie had a good mind to
blurt.

The snap of bubblegum cracked like a gunshot.
Startled, Kenzie looked up.

"Get ya somethin'?" It was the waitress.

"Oh." Kenzie was momentarily thrown. Then she
remembered that she'd better disguise her voice. "Ah ... ah thank
ah'll have a mint julep," she drawled, saying the first thing which
popped into her mind.

"One mint julep comin' right up."

The waitress sashayed off and Kenzie settled
back to listen.

... inarguably the finest drawings I've ever
...

... market's so tiny ...

... even the Royal Library at Windsor doesn't
...

... the Getty Museum, a handful of collectors
...

... twenty mil's awfully little considering
...

Bingo!

Having found out exactly what she needed to
know, Kenzie was ready to split.

"Here ya go!" The waitress set her drink on
the table.

"Wha, thank yewwww," Kenzie said. "How much
do ah owe yew?"

"That'll be three ninety-five."

Kenzie handed her a five. "Thank
yewwwww!"

And leaving her drink untouched, Kenzie
hastily gathered up her bag and coat, scooted out of the booth, and
hauled ass.

The waitress stared after her, then shrugged
and carried the mint julep back to the bar.

Kenzie was speaking into a pay phone.

"Mr. Fairey? Kenzie Turner."

"Yes, Ms. Turner. Have you had a chance to
look at the Leonardos?"

"No, sir, not yet. I'm next in line. However,
something interesting has developed. You might wish to call Mr.
Goldsmith again."

There was a pause. "And what about, may I
ask?"

Kenzie told him, then read off the fax number
the receptionist had given her.

"Thank you, Ms. Turner," he said. "I'll let
you know one way or the other."

Kenzie pulled off the wig, stuffed it in the
nearest trash container, and took the elevator back upstairs.

"Ms. Turner?" the receptionist called out. "A
fax just came in for you."

"Thanks." Kenzie took it and read:

01/23/1995 15:47 BURGHLEY'S SINCE 1719 PAGE 01

VIA FAX

TO: FREIMAN, STEINBERG, HIRST, AND ANDREWS, P.C.

ATTN: MacKenzie Turner

FROM: Sheldon D. Fairey

Approval granted.

S. Fairey

Now that, Kenzie thought, was certainly a
fast response.

Mrs. Silber was reporting to the ancient
senior partner.

"The experts from Christie's just left,
sir."

"And?"

"They said they would be delighted to handle
the sale, but declined to leave a guarantee."

"Hmm. That is not entirely unexpected. And
Burghley's?"

"Their legal department sent us a fax of a
blank sales guarantee for Ms. Turner to fill in. She is studying
the drawings now."

"Excellent."

"Yes, sir. However ..."

"Yes, Mrs. Silber?"

"I'm not sure, sir. It's Ms. Turner. She
strikes me as rather ... unpredictable."

"Does she now? That should make things
interesting."

Two attorneys and a security guard were
present in the conference room as Kenzie, armed with thin cotton
gloves and large padded tweezers, studied the Leonardo drawings in
the unforgiving brightness of halogen floods.

Outwardly calm, she was inwardly intoxicated.
Her heart pounded and her pulse was going at breakneck speed. She
could barely breathe.

Never—not even at Mr. Wugsby's, nor at
Burghley's, not even in any museum!—had she ever encountered
anything so exquisite!

Dear God, she thought. Neither the Uffizi's
nor the Royal Library at Windsor's Leonardo drawings are comparable
to these! They truly are priceless.

And that there should be twenty-four of
them!

It was astonishing. Beyond comprehension
...

If only I could share this momentous
occasion. If only Arnold were here, or Zandra. Mr. Spotts would be
in seventh heaven, and as for Mr. Wugsby—that dear old connoisseur
would be beside himself, may he rest in peace!

Overwhelmed, Kenzie put the last of the
drawings down and sat back. She put the tweezers aside, and slowly
stripped off the gloves. Then she shut her eyes and massaged her
eyelids.

The drawings seemed indelibly imprinted upon
her retina. If only they would stay there forever, she thought.

She opened her eyes. "About the minimum sales
guarantee," she said softly.

"Mrs. Silber will help you with that," one of
the attorneys told her.

Kenzie nodded and rose. "Gentlemen," she
said.

"Ma'am." They both got to their feet.

Mrs. Silber was waiting outside and led
Kenzie into a small empty office. It had a desk, a chair, and a
small copy machine on a table.

"Here is your sales guarantee form," she
said, handing Kenzie a one- page document. "You'll notice it's a
fax prepared and sent to us by your own legal department on
Burghley's letterhead. All you have to do is fill in the dollar
amount in figures and script, just as you would a check. Then sign
it, make a copy for your files, and seal the original in this
envelope. Oh, and be sure and sign it across the envelope flap. Any
questions?"

Kenzie shook her head.

"I'll be waiting right outside." Mrs. Silber
walked out of the room and shut the door.

Without sitting down, Kenzie read the
document, picked up a pen, and filled in the amount:

Twenty million and one dollars and zero
cents

$20,000,001.00.

She signed it, made two copies, and slid the
original into the envelope. Then she went back outside.

Mrs. Silber registered surprise. "Goodness!
That was certainly quick!"

Kenzie handed her the envelope.

Mrs. Silber checked to make sure that the
flap was signed. "Well, what did you think of the drawings?" she
asked.

"Oh, they were okay." Kenzie affected a bored
yawn. "Sorry. It's been a long day. Anyway, thanks. I can see
myself out."

The ancient senior partner aligned Burghley's
envelope with Sotheby's. "That's it, then." "Yes, sir."

"And this Ms. Turner. What was her mood?"
"Decidedly odd, sir. I was told that in the conference room, she
seemed literally awestruck. Yet she gave me the exact opposite
impression." "She seems unpredictable indeed. Fascinating. Well,
then ... " He cleared his throat.

"Call our clients and inform them that the
envelopes are ready." "At once, sir."

Her business completed, Kenzie still had an
hour to kill before she had to leave for the airport. Returning to
the cocktail lounge, she decided to celebrate with a split of
champagne.

This time, she sat as far across the room
from Robert Sullivan and Gretchen Ng as possible.

The popping of bubble gum announced the
arrival of the waitress. "Don't tell me," she said to Kenzie. "A
mint julep." Kenzie stared at her, too stunned to correct the
order. "I never forget a face. Frankly, I liked ya better as a
blonde. You sorta looked like Farrah Fawcett."

Farrah who? "Gee," Kenzie said. "I'm
flattered."

"I'll go get you that drink."

Kenzie watched her sashay to the bar. I'll be
damned, she thought. When the mint julep came, she drank it.

01/23/1995 19:34

FREIMAN, STEINBERG, HIRST, AND ANDREWS, P.C.

PAGE 01

VIA FAX

TO: BURGHLEY'S, INC.

ATTN: Mr. Sheldon D. Fairey

FROM: Martin D. Freiman

RE: Leonardo da Vinci drawings

Your sales guarantee has been accepted. Please
contact

Mrs. Silber for details concerning transfer of
monies and shipping.

Sincerely,

Martin Freiman

Poor traumatized thing, you proud
old-fashioned fool," Kenzie chided affectionately.

She and Zandra were sprawled on the Anatolian
kilim sipping Campari and champagne in front of the blazing log
fire.

"You told me Rudolph was ducking creditors,
but what you conveniently neglected to mention was that he was
hiding out from mobsters."

Zandra sniffled and stared into her glass.
"There are some things," she enunciated clearly, despite her
distress, "which are difficult enough to cope with by keeping them
to oneself, without adding to one's misery and making the whole
blasted nightmare seem even more real by giving it spoken credence.
God knows, it's not like some treat one wants to share. It's bad
enough merely having to think about—and that doesn't hold true in
England anymore, where it's fodder for the gossip mill and
virtually everybody who's anybody, and a lot of people who aren't,
are talking about it already. Well, one could go out of one's mind
discussing it. I certainly would. Last thing I needed was constant
reminding. Not that I could forget. I couldn't. Not for a
minute."

Kenzie reached out and touched Zandra's hand.
"Silly fool," she chastised gently. "I would have tried to
help."

Zandra sighed and looked up, each of her
lower eyelids holding an unspilled reservoir of tears.

"Oh, darling, don't you see? There's nothing
you could have done. Not a thing. You're an absolute marvel, and
bloody wonderful. My one and only true friend on earth, and I'll
love you forever. But this thing is bigger than the both of
us."

"But I would have been here for you! If I'd
had an inkling, I could at least have given you moral support."

"No, Kenzie, no. If I'd talked it out
beforehand, I might actually have lost my nerve. Believe me,
darling. It was better this way."

"When I think of what you've been through
over the weekend!" Kenzie shook her head in amazement. "The
marriage plot—"

"—for which I have two honorary stepmothers
to thank."

"Your brother—"

"—the turd."

"Going to Prince Karl-Heinz—"

"—to sell myself."

"And here it's only Monday night! Makes you
wonder what Tuesday will bring."

"It is Tuesday, darling," Zandra corrected
her. "Two-thirty a.m., or thereabouts."

"My," said Kenzie morosely, "time does fly
when you're not having fun."

She had arrived from Detroit three-and-a-half
hours earlier, and upon letting herself into the apartment at a
quarter to midnight, had fully expected to head straight to bed.
Finding the living room dark except for the fire, and Zandra
sprawled across an ottoman like a pre-Raphaelite funerary figure
draped, elegantly weeping, over a tomb, certainly had put an end to
that.

Quick thinking—namely an SOS call to the
local liquor store, which was in the process of closing, and
promises of a huge tip, a humongous tip—had resulted in first aid
in the form of three chilled bottles of Korbel and a one-liter
bottle of Campari to be delivered forthwith.

"Oh, Kenzie," Zandra had wailed. "Honestly,
darling, it's a total waste of money."

"Let me be the judge of that, will you?"

"But I can't eat or drink a thing, and
nothing on earth will cheer me up. Things are too, too serious. If
you care about me at all, you'll just go to bed and leave me
be."

"Not before you get your prescribed dose of
Dr. Turner's Specially Patented Medicine Show Tonic and Cure-Ail,"
said Kenzie staunchly, tossing a few more logs on the fire and
getting comfy.

She regarded her friend with concern. Poor
sweet Zandra. Whatever was the matter, one thing was for
certain—this was no time to desert her. Misery needed company.
Clearly, some serious drinking was called for.

After all, Kenzie told herself, it was like
lancing a boil. Sometimes the accumulated poisons needed to be
punctured and drained, or else they could become septic and prove
fatal. Twelve-step programs aside, everyone knew that some
emergencies simply required a good stiff drink.

"Just one little sip," Kenzie had cajoled,
"just one teensy little swallow."

And sure enough, one sip had led to another,
and then another, and before long Zandra's tongue had loosened and
the poisons came spilling out.

"Well, now that everything's out in the open,
it's time to forget the bad," Kenzie advised, refilling their
glasses and going extra heavy on the Campari. "That's water under
the bridge. It's time to ac-cen-tu-ate the positive. Time to look
on the bright side of things."