Too Damn Rich (8 page)

"We haven't had any complaints thus far,"
Fairey ventured stiffly.

"Be that as it may," she said airily, "the
more comfortable the seat, the longer a client is apt to stay. And
the longer he or she stays, the more likely they are to bid on
items they hadn't even considered!"

Dina turned to Gaby, who, suppressing a snide
grin, was scratching away in her notepad.

Next, Sheldon D. Fairey escorted Dina to the
conference room, which was sheathed in seventeenth-century, Louis
XIV boiserie. Surely, he thought, this was the one place where she
couldn't find fault with anything.

How wrong he was.

Dina, after doing an eyesweep of the room in
general, advanced on the nearest of the twenty-four identical
giltwood armchairs which surrounded the twenty-foot-long conference
table, and inspected the chair closely. It was splendidly
symmetrical and voluptuously wide and deep, with a cartouche-formed
backrest, serpentine-fronted seat, and ancient, rust-colored velvet
upholstery.

"Why, my goodness!" she gasped. "Unless my
eyes deceive me, and I don't believe they do, I could swear these
are all authentic Chippendale!"

"Actually, they're not," sniffed Sheldon D.
Fairey, immensely pleased to be able to show off his superior
knowledge. "They are George III, circa ... oh, 1770 or
thereabouts."

"Hmm. George III ..." Dina ran an admiring
hand along one of the smooth, richly carved backs. "That should
make them exceedingly valuable."

"Oh, I'd appraise their market value at
somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five and thirty-five
thousand dollars per pair," he said offhandedly. "You must agree
they really are quite, quite exceptional. Museum quality, to say
the least."

Dina did some instant mental computations and
gasped. "Why, that means the entire set is worth anywhere between
six hundred to eight hundred and forty thousand dollars!"

Fairey nodded. "Somewhere in that vicinity,
yes," he murmured.

Knitting her brows together, she cocked her
head sideways and frowned. "Are they here on consignment?"

"Consignment!" He allowed himself a soft
chuckle. "Good heavens, no! As a matter of public trust and honor,
consigned items are never lent, borrowed, or in any way used while
in our temporary custody. No, Burghley's happens to own these
outright. Has, for well over a century, I believe."

A cloud flitted across Dina's picture-perfect
features. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Sheldon, but what you're
telling me is that they're a corporate asset. No?"

"Oh, indeed they are!"

Her features hardened. "Well, not anymore,
they aren't, at least not if I have any say in the matter. I
suggest they're sold and replaced with copies at once! Really!
Employees have absolutely no business sitting on such priceless
treasures!"

"B-but they've been in Burghley's possession
since eighteen—"

"So?" Dina widened her aquamarine eyes. "They
also happen to be among Burghley's assets, and as such are, in your
very own words, very, very valuable. Too valuable, I should think,
to just sit here gathering dust. I see that I shall have to bring
this matter up with Mr. Goldsmith at once."

Fairey, his face reddening and puffing,
looked as though he was on the verge of spontaneous human
combustion.

"Gaby?"

"It's down," cackled Gaby, happily scribbling
away.

Fairey eyed the twenty-four precious chairs
morosely; then, since Dina had him over a barrel, he expelled a
noisy breath. "They'll be in the next Fine English Furniture
auction," he decreed.

Dina smiled brilliantly and hooked a chumlike
arm through his.

"I knew you'd see it my way, Sheldon, dear!"
she cooed. "Didn't I tell you we'd get along famously? It's so
simple. I tell you what to do, you agree with me, and there's no
problem. Right?"

And turning, she winked at Gaby, whose face
wore a malicious crocodilelike smile.

Finally, back out on the sidewalk beside her
waiting limousine, Dina turned to Fairey and said, "Oh, and one
more thing, Sheldon, dear." She wasn't about to ride off into the
exhaust fumes without giving his balls one final, departing
squeeze.

"You do remember my Toulouse-Lautrec? The
very one you sold me right here at Burghley's, and whose
authenticity you afterward questioned at my home?"

Sheldon D. Fairey went red as a beet.
Swallowing miserably, he cursed himself for ever having opened his
mouth.

"Well, to ensure that nothing like that every
occurs again—at least not here at Burghley's—I want you to consider
the matter of vetting every single item this establishment sells.
You will bring that to the attention of the executive staff. Won't
you?"

He murmured that he would.

"You do that," she said. And giving him a
long, hard look, she started to duck into the white stretch limo
before changing her mind, stepping back out, and turning to him
once again. "Oh, and one last thing," she said in treacly tones, as
though it had just occurred to her.

He raised his eyebrows dutifully. "Yes, Mrs.
Goldsmith?"

"Doesn't Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu
Engelwiesen sit on Burghley's advisory board?"

"Actually, he is on the board of
directors."

"Which one? Burghley's North America? Or
Burghley's Holdings?"

"Burghley's Holdings," he replied, referring
to the auction house's worldwide operations.

Looking thoughtful, she tapped her lips and
said, "I see. I shall want to meet him sometime."

"I shall pass along the message," Fairey
promised her. "In fact, I'll do so at his birthday party this very
evening."

Dina felt her stomach contract. The Sheldon
D. Fairey's had been invited to the prince's birthday party! And
Robert and I haven't? She decided to remedy this oversight at once.
She was, after all, the new Queen of Manhattan. As such, it was
time to wield her power and make her presence felt.

"Sheldon, dear," she said in a voice as
smooth as velvet, "the moment you get back to your office, I just
know you'll pick up the telephone, talk to Prince Karl-Heinz, and
secure an invitation for Robert and myself. Isn't that right?"

He looked positively apoplectic. "I ... er
... I'll see what I can do," he murmured, fidgeting uncomfortably
with his collar, which suddenly felt exceedingly tight.

She smiled sweetly. "Oh, I know you will,
Sheldon! I just know you will! I'll expect invitations for Robert
and myself to be messengered to our apartment within the—no. On
second thought ..." Once again, she tapped a perfectly manicured
fingernail against her perfectly glowing lips. "We have a
houseguest, so you'd better make that an invitation for three ...
no,
four
; since our guest is a lady who will require an
escort."

"I ... I'll get on it right away," he
sputtered.

"Of course you will, sweetie!" And with that,
she threw him a kiss before ducking into her limousine, secure in
the knowledge that he would move heaven and earth to accommodate
her.

Taking a cue from her boss, Gaby eyeballed
him with a long hard look of her own before piling in after
her.

"Home," Dina gaily instructed her chauffeur,
and within moments the limousine eased smoothly away from the curb
and merged into the dense uptown traffic.

Lunch was Mr. Spotts's treat. He insisted
upon La Caravelle.

"My last cholesterol splurge," he sighed
sadly as the captain led them past the murals and seated them at a
red velvet banquette along the wall of mirrors. "Today, I say the
hell with those doctors! I am going to have my usual terrine de
foie gras followed by poularde rotie a l'ail doux, and top it all
off with a frozen cassis mousse in a ring of apple slivers, not to
mention a nice vintage bottle of Chateau Margaux. If my heart gives
out from all that pleasure, then so be it. At least I shall have
had the satisfaction of dying quite contentedly."

When the appetizers came, Kenzie pushed her
chair de crabe Caravelle desultorily around on her plate. That the
mass of fresh crab meat with cognac dressing, caviar, and lobster
roe was a symphony for the taste buds made absolutely no difference
to her. She had simply lost her appetite at the news of Mr.
Spotts's forced retirement—all the more so, since on the way over
to the restaurant, he had dropped the bombshell that today would be
his very last day at Burghley's.

She was still in a state of shock.

Mr. Spotts frowned at Arnold Li, who was
picking at his truffle- studded foie gras with an equal lack of
enthusiasm.

"Young man, the way you are eating that is
really quite, quite unforgivable," said Mr. Spotts with a gesture
of his fork. "Unless, of course, it is inedible, in which case I
shall have to summon the waiter and register a complaint."

Arnold shook his head. "You know that's not
it," he said tightly, putting down his fork, the tines resting,
inverted, on the edge of his plate. He leaned across the table.
"It's just that we can't imagine the department getting along
without you!"

"Well, you two had better get along without
me, Mr. Li." Mr. Spotts paused, smiling acidly, and righteously
lifted a stern, crooked pinkie finger in that learned way of his.
"Otherwise, that blonde nincompoop named for a Disney cartoon will
see to it that our department's most precious asset, its
reputation—in short, everything—will go right down the drain."

Kenzie took a sip of her Margaux. "What I
want to know," she asked listlessly, setting down the wineglass and
running her moist finger around its rim, but too lethargically to
make it chime even feebly, "is now that you can't work, what are
you going to do?"

"Do?" Mr. Spotts looked slightly taken aback.
"Why, I'm not supposed to do anything!" He sighed deeply. "Unless
you call retiring to the Sunshine State doing something?"

His perfectionist eyes consulted theirs and
saw no reaction. He smiled grimly.

"My widowed sister, Cosima ..." he murmured,
"has ... umn ... what I believe in Fort Lauderdale is referred to
as an ... umn ... 'Waterfront French Renaissance Estate' ... if you
can imagine such a contradiction in terms?" One eyebrow, the
precise color of silverplate, rose in distaste and he tutted his
tongue.

"An abomination. Spun-sugar Tara meets Beaux
Arts on the Intra- coastal, as only a native Floridian could
design. But such is life. It could be worse, you know. I have a
generous pension and my not inconsiderable collection of Old
Masters, which, though second rate, are nonetheless still quite
superb. So you see, at least I'm not destitute." His lips broadened
into a smile. "However, enough of this depressing subject! The
reason I invited you both to lunch is not to talk about me, but to
discuss your futures."

"Our futures?" Kenzie and Arnold chorused as
one.

Mr. Spotts tucked his chin, tortoiselike,
down into his chest and gave them a severe look from over his half
glasses. "As of tomorrow, one of you shall have to take over the
reins as head of the department."

Pausing again, he looked from one of them to
the other.

"Well? Which of you shall it be?"

Kenzie didn't hesitate. "Arnold," she
said.

"Kenzie," Arnold said simultaneously.

All three of them sat there in stunned
silence before bursting into spontaneous laughter.

"In all seriousness," Kenzie insisted
solemnly once they'd stopped laughing, "Arnold's far more
knowledgeable about the seventeenth century than I am."

"Yes, but you're the expert when it comes to
the eighteenth," Arnold told her. "And, you display far better
leadership abilities, and are by leaps and bounds more diplomatic
than I could ever be."

"My God!" Mr. Spotts could only shake his
head in exasperated wonder. "Other people would be tearing each
other's eyeballs out for such an opportunity! But you? The two of
you just sit there, insisting that the other is the better
qualified! I must say, never in my entire life have I ever run
across anything quite like this. No, never." Then he frowned
thoughtfully. "Still, we don't have much time in which to decide
this. I have a meeting scheduled with Mr. Fairey for this
afternoon. He shall want my recommendation by then. So?" His eyes
flicked back and forth between them. "Which of you wants to be in
charge?"

Kenzie and Arnold sat there, silently
digesting what he had just said. In truth, while neither of them
was loath to get promoted, both of them were dedicated
professionals for whom quality was not negotiable—both only wanted
what was best for the art form to which they had dedicated their
lives.

"If it's all right with you, Kenz," Arnold
said slowly, "I'd rather not be saddled with all the politics.
Besides, you really are the best as far as diplomacy's
concerned."

"Well, if you're certain," she said
dubiously.

"Of course I am. You know I'm happiest when
I'm left alone to either pore over art, or thumb through volumes of
dusty reference books. If I'd wanted to deal with management, I
would have joined IBM or AT&T."

"Well, then." Mr. Spotts sat forward. "Now
that we have that ... umn ... little matter out of the way, there
is one last thing."

Kenzie looked at him questioningly, but
instead of replying, he reached for the battered old leather
satchel he always lugged around with him, and which was on the
banquette beside him. Unclasping it, he opened it and lifted out
two small, flat packages wrapped in plain brown paper and secured
with Scotch tape. Looking slightly embarrassed, he handed one
across the table to Kenzie, and the other to Arnold.

"What's this?" Kenzie asked.

"Oh ... umn ... just a little ... you know
..." The old man waved a hand dismissively. "Something to remember
me by."