“When does it come off?” I was moved to ask.
“Totally? Six weeks. I get a walking cast before that. I’m so bored just lying around here.”
“Terrible,” I said.
“Yes, but it means I can help you in your search for information,” she said brightly. “I have tons of information, and I’ll give you copies of everything. You never know what might be useful.”
My heart sank. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have my life organized by Cynthia, and now I’d given her the perfect excuse. “I’m glad you don’t think I’m being foolish,” I said, trying not to sound glum.
“I don’t know whether you are or not. I’m a journalist, so I know the vital importance of poking around to uncover the truth.” She made it sound as if it were just a fluke that Woodward and Bernstein, instead of Cynthia Weatherford, had uncovered Watergate. Well, I’d asked for it. “What does interest me is why you’re so interested in pursuing this,” she said.
“Everybody asks me that,” I admitted.
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised. Is this some kind of midlife crisis?”
I sighed. “You do think I’m being foolish.”
She looked thoughtful. “No, that’s the wrong word. I wonder if you really understand your own motivation. I mean, does the fact that you want all this information on matrimonial and dating services strike you as nothing more than a coincidence?”
My mouth fell open. “I—”
She patted my hand. “No, don’t protest; just think about it. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.” She looked so satisfied with her thesis, I longed to slap her. I should have known she’d make me pay after all. I settled for slipping my hand out from under hers. But I did it gently.
I really didn’t want to get into my psychological hang-ups with Cynthia. “Maybe it’s trying to tell me I have doubts about the verdict,” I said.
“Possibly. Maybe you’re identifying with this poor Latino boy, too. After all, you were a kid like that once.”
“Cynthia, for God’s sake!” I exploded, my good resolutions forgotten. “This guy’s a juvenile delinquent. A burglar! It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Don’t get huffy,” she said with maddening calm. “I just meant that there was a time when you weren’t entirely comfortable with who you were. I thought you might feel some sympathy, that’s all.”
“What was I, some kind of basket case?” I didn’t want to know that my insecurities about my poverty and my background had been so obvious, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
“Don’t be silly,” Cynthia said. “I didn’t bring it up to hurt your feelings. I won’t mention it again.”
Mention what again? Before I could ask her, she cut me off. “Anyway, it’s good for you to have a project. It gives your life a sense of purpose, a direction.”
And why did she think my life lacked direction? I gritted my teeth. “I only want—”
“Yes, yes, I know, but never mind that now,” she said impatiently. “I told you I’d remember what it was about Ivanova Associates that was interesting. I just thought of it.”
“What? What was it?” I asked, relieved to get on to less-dangerous topics.
“Well, they were unusually receptive to older women, for one thing. Yes, I’m sure that was it.”
“What do you mean?”
She frowned. “As you can imagine, matchmaking services—and dating services, too, for that matter—work best for the people who would appear to need them the least. You know what I mean—people who have basic social skills and know how to dress and eat at restaurants. That kind of thing.”
“You aren’t being terribly selective. That covers a lot of the population.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “One of the articles was going to be on ‘dating horror stories.’ There are some big losers out there, apparently. People who set fire to the curtains with their cigars or think it’s cute to set up the dinner table over the toilet seat. That sort of thing.” Her tone said that, naturally, she had never encountered any of these defective Romeos in a social context, so I didn’t pursue it.
“Anyway,” she continued, “most of the services don’t want to have much to do with you unless you fit right into the middle of the bell curve. They don’t do much for people on the edges.”
I was catching on. “Like older women.”
“Right.” She sighed. “They may say otherwise, but we found that the clientele list isn’t exactly one big mirror of society. There are lots fewer older men, and they’re all looking for someone younger. They just aren’t interested in older women.”
Surprise. “Define ‘older,’” I said, with foreboding.
She lowered her eyes. “Forty-five.”
We both stared at our hands in mournful silence. I expected a full bloom of age spots to appear at any second.
“It’s not very advantageous to be overweight or a chain smoker or extremely zealous in your religious requirements, either,” she said heavily, “but age is by far the worst.”
Before we succumbed entirely to somatic entropy and couldn’t get up from the couch, I needed to find out more about Natasha Ivanova. “But Ivanova Associates was kinder to the demographically challenged?” I prompted.
Cynthia smiled grimly. “Apparently. As you discovered yourself, the clients aren’t very forthcoming, and none of them wanted to be interviewed. I couldn’t talk to Ivanova personally, either. Everything went through her assistant.” She shifted her leg on the cushion. “Now that was interesting. You know, I make it a rule not to speak ill of people, even though I’m naturally forced to do so in my work—”
I looked up quickly. She was perfectly serious. I nodded gravely.
“But I must say, the assistant didn’t look up to the job. So mousy you expected her to ask for cheese. Sort of beige, if you know what I mean.” I was wearing beige. She shrugged. “From what I hear, Ivanova wasn’t exactly a peach to work for, so maybe she didn’t want anyone with any backbone or anybody who competed with her in appearance. But still.”
“The assistant testified in court, and she did seem sort of colorless,” I said.
“Yes, probably a deliberate camouflage, to keep from attracting the wrath of her employer. No one could be that nondescript without serious effort.” She shrugged. “Since you say she’s apparently taken over the business, she’ll have to snap out of it. The rich and connected don’t want Jane Eyre for their matchmaker. Besides, Ivanova Associates has a major rival on the Westside, or at least it did when I was researching the story. The new executive—Ms. Whosits—will have to scramble to get a continuing client stream.”
She stared at her cast balefully. “God, it itches, but it can’t come off yet.” She closed her eyes. “This is so irritating.”
“Is there anything I can do for you? Any errands or shopping, or something like that?”
She shook her head. “My secretary is stopping by in a little while. She takes care of all that. But thanks. While she’s here, I’ll have her photocopy all the material in the file and send it round to you tomorrow. You’ll probably find it interesting, if nothing else.”
I thanked her and said I was sure of it. Actually, I did think it would be interesting, although possibly not upbeat.
“There’s something else, too. Hand me that paper and pen, and then get my Rolodex off the dresser in the bedroom. You know where it is.”
Was that a dig? I wondered, as I scurried to obey her. I was already feeling paranoid and intimidated, just the way I had in high school.
“Thanks,” she said, flipping through the entries. “I’m going to give you the name of a lawyer you might want to talk to if you need to discuss any legal aspects of the case. He’s a former trial attorney—prosecutor and defense, I think—one of the best. He’s been a great source of information for the magazine.” She looked up, perfectly serious. “He’s single.”
“Cynthia, please—” I choked.
“Suit yourself.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure why everyone assumes that any normal person should be able to meet his or her needs on his own. There’s nothing shameful about accepting help.”
Prickles of sweat broke out on my neck. I was about to say something I would regret later, if I wasn’t careful. I bit down my retort and said instead, “Like the kind matchmaking services offer?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Ellen. I’m very attuned to people’s gestures and facial expressions; it’s part of my job. It might interest you to know, however, that studies have shown that people who are willing to use dating or matchmaking services actually have a higher level of self-esteem that those who refuse to consider them, even though they’d like to meet someone. It takes a confident, assertive person to ignore the stigma of not being able to do it on her own. People with low self-esteem just can’t bring themselves to admit they need it; it hits too close to the mark.”
I thought I’d just been insulted, although in a rather elegant and roundabout way, but she was being helpful, and she might have been just reciting her research. “I see,” I said, in my most confident fashion. But I just had to ask. “Cynthia?”
“Yes?”
“Would you ever consider using a matchmaking or dating service?”
She smiled serenely. “Really, Ellen, I don’t mean to sound immodest, but the issue has scarcely arisen.”
Cynthia was divorced from a very good-looking TV newscaster who later went on to network fame and fortune. He was reportedly devastated when she left him, but she’d said a family of two workaholics was doomed from the outset. If she ever lamented her return to the single state, it certainly didn’t show.
“I know,” I assured her. “I mean, of course, you wouldn’t need that kind of help. But would you consider it, for a lark?”
She looked out the window at her stunning ocean view, her fingers drumming on the cushion beside her. “Not on your life,” she said. “I’d be too scared.”
8
Karin Deacon called me in a snit.
“I thought we had an appointment this afternoon,” she said.
“We do,” I told her, “but it’s not till three.”
“Then why,” she asked, pausing dramatically to spin out the syllable, “did your clients waltz in here unannounced just as I was about to close last night?”
My heart sank. “The Jensens?”
She picked up on my tone. “You mean you didn’t know?”
“Of course not. Would I do that to you?”
“Glad to hear it. I withdraw all the silent curses I hurled at your head as I was forced to go through my ‘what is art’ lecture number three thousand, four hundred and fifteen. He’s not so bad, but the missus thinks boudoir portraits are the stuff of dreams. It’s supposed to be your job to educate their tastes.”
“Well, I would have, if they hadn’t done an end run around me. Let’s cut to the chase, Karin. Did they buy anything?”
“Heaps,” she said, almost regretfully. “Both of the paintings you suggested and a perfectly exquisite faïence bowl you haven’t even seen yet. I just got it in.” She paused. “Ellen, I made it very clear I’m working through you on this. I hope you know that.”
“Thanks, Karin.”
“So why’d they show up solo? Did they think they wouldn’t have to pay you? Because if that’s—”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Some clients just find it more fun to do it on their own. You must have seen that.”
As a matter of fact, one of the main reasons my job existed at all is that many people did not find it fun. Some art galleries are frankly and purposefully intimidating, temples of snobbery and intellectual presumption. The front desk is a kind of immigration control that you must pass to be admitted to the milieu of belonging, a certified possessor of Acceptable Taste. You have to be very confident or very rich or both not to feel a frisson of insecurity. I’ve felt it myself, no matter how many times I remind myself that art galleries are, in the end, about nothing more or less than a sale.
Still, the other side of the coin is that collectors all want to be famous for both their taste and their acumen, and neither one is enhanced by admitting you had to have help. Some of them like the thrill of dealing with the galleries themselves, once the choices are preselected. I say more power to them, as long as I get my fee. If you have to take credit in this business, you’ll soon find yourself without a clientele.
“I’ve seen everything in the art business,” she said. I could almost see her glasses slipping down her nose. “But I don’t have to like everything I see. Which reminds me: Lady Jensen, the frost princess, melted enough to ask me whether I had ever heard of a serious art collector named Natasha Ivanova. Why is it, everyone in the world wants to know about her all of a sudden?’
“You’re kidding.” It was my turn to sigh. “I told her I’d never heard of her in that context, but I suppose that wasn’t enough. I wonder why she cares so much. What did you tell her?”
“The same thing I told you. That I never heard of her. I don’t think she quite realized what that meant,” Karin added, without a trace of self-consciousness.
“Well—”
“But,” Karin interrupted me, “since you have piqued my interest on the topic, I have made some inquiries among my contacts in the art world. And I don’t have to tell you how extensive they are.”
“No, you don’t,” I agreed. “Did you find out anything?”
“I must tell you, they were suspiciously close-mouthed. I smell something I don’t like, the way I do with your friend Valentin. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s there. The most I could find out is that the murderee used to have exclusive soirées a few times a year, and one or two top-drawer names were supposed to have attended. But it’s all rumor. Nobody would fess up.”
“But what does that have to do with art collecting?”
“I’m guessing that was the nominal reason at least for the party—to showcase a few pieces or a particular work. Not even a one-man show or anything like that, necessarily. I’m not even sure that the patrons could buy.” She paused. “The real purpose is obvious, of course.”
“It is?”
“Certainly. Think about it. What did you tell me Ivanova’s business was?”
“A matchmaking service.”
“Does that suggest something to you?”
“I don’t quite see…”
She sounded so impatient, I was afraid I must have come across as a pretty dim bulb. “Doesn’t some sort of trumped-up art soirée strike you as the perfect milieu for what used to be called ‘discreet introductions’? Let’s face it; that type of person is hardly likely to hang out at a singles’ bar. This way, there’s no stigma attached, particularly if there is never any advertised suggestion of a hidden agenda.”
“You could be right,” I said, transfixed by the idea. “That would certainly explain why no one wants to talk about it, and why you’ve never heard anything about these events.”
“Well,” she said briskly, “at least that’s solved. I’d love to tidy up any other loose ends for you, but I have to go make a living. Someone from Pace Wildenstein is coming by in a few minutes, so I’m hanging up now. Keep in touch.”
“I will. Thanks, Karin.”
After she had hung up, I had time to think about her suggestion. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I didn’t see anything sinister about it, though. If people didn’t want to admit to the world that they were looking for a mate and felt like inventing more elegant explanations to cover their real intentions, where was the real harm in that?
Still, I remembered that Mira Jensen had been fairly up front about being introduced to Jordan by Natasha Ivanova. She’d also been adamant that the contact was social, through the art gathering, and distinct from Natasha’s usual services. So maybe it was a coincidence that she met Jordan through Natasha.
Or maybe she didn’t know.
That was an intriguin
g concept. What if one person paid for matchmaking services and the potential mate was ignorant of his or her selection? What if they thought they’d simply been introduced by accident? Just good fortune, and a shared interest in art? It was an institutionalized and more sophisticated version of going home to mother’s and having a neighbor happen to “drop by” with her unattached, eligible son. Or being one of two single people (of opposite sexes) at the table when your best friend hosts a Thanksgiving dinner for eight couples.
If that was the case, of course the person in the know would never talk about it. I savored the idea of Jordan ordering up a size-two honey blonde with a pedigree and a twenty-two-inch waist.
Intriguing, definitely. But still speculation. I wondered how I could find out for sure without losing Mira and Jordan as clients and wrecking my reputation for discretion and tact. I sighed. It was an amusing puzzle, but I had the gritty realities to handle first.
I had to call Valentin to convey the news that the sale had taken place without him.
Valentin, to do him justice, was relatively civilized about his threats.
“You’d better watch your back, Ellen,” he said in a silky tone.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked him, annoyed.
“It means this is a dog-eat-dog business, and you’re just a little bitch. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
I tried to keep a lid on my temper. “Valentin, for Christ’s sake. I told you I was left out, too. They went straight to Karin and bought directly from her. They didn’t do it to be insensitive. Jordan just wants to make the selections on his own. It’s no lack of confidence in either of us, and besides, the clients will still pay both our fees.”
“That’s easy for you to say. My reputation is at stake here. My livelihood. I called Karin Deacon to demand an explanation, and she hung up on me.”
I could well imagine. “Karen’s a bit eccentric; the whole world knows that. I’m sure it’s no reflection…” I trailed off weakly. I hated trying to placate him, but we still had weeks of work together just on the Jensens.
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