Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  "Of course, madame." He made a note of it.

  Dina took another sip of coffee. "Now, concerning last Sunday's buffet. Must I reiterate that it is casual for guests only? Last week, I distinctly detected shoddiness on the part of the staff. You will not permit this to happen again."

  "No, madame."

  "You were not here last Sunday," she pointed out.

  "I was visiting a sick relative and—"

  "You will call on your friends and relatives on your own time. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly, madame. I'm sorry—"

  "See that it doesn't happen again."

  They discussed general household matters, during which Dina consulted a little gold notepad and rattled off a litany of complaints: Dust here ... smudged marble there ... a cobweb in a chandelier—a cobweb!

  He made a note of everything.

  Darlene knocked, announcing that the personal trainer had arrived.

  Dina glanced at the tiny Faberge clock on the end table. It was seven o'clock; he was fifteen minutes early. Good.

  Dina spent the next twenty-five minutes in her mirrored, Nautilus- equipped gym, where Scott, her merciless trainer, put her through rigorous paces.

  A soothing bath followed, after which she met with Gaby.

  Personal telephone calls ate up another half hour.

  At nine-thirty, Dina submitted to a robust massage, and at ten, to her thrice-weekly ministrations from her hairdresser and manicurist.

  Later, dressed in cream Chanel with black frogging and heavy Verdura pieces-of-eight (necklace, bracelets, ear clips, and brooch), she interviewed the Pritikin chef (Becky V had one, why shouldn't she?) and hired him on a trial basis.

  Then she sallied forth.

  Morning and noon flew by in a blur. One Sotheby's lecture and a de la Renta fitting later, Dina arrived at Becky V's.

  It was one-thirty, and despite her grueling schedule, she wasn't the least bit exhausted.

  Far from it. Dina Goldsmith had energy to burn. She was in the fast lane—and loving every damn minute of it!

  "Merci, Uriah. That shall be all," Becky V told the shaky, beaky-nosed old retainer who set down the tray laden with sterling: teapot, coffeepot, sugar urn, and creamer.

  "Yes, Madame!" shouted the ancient Uriah, who, like so many hearing-impaired people, yelled rather than spoke.

  Becky caught Dina's disapproving glance at the departing servant; reaching for the Limoges cups, she explained: "Uriah and I have grown quite fond of each other. Did you know he was with my last husband, poor dear Joaquin, for over fifteen years? And for thirty years with his father before him? Oui. Uriah is of the old school. His pride precludes him from considering retirement. Personally, I think it would kill him."

  Tilting her head, she regarded Dina with that famous, unfathomable smile.

  "Alors. Uriah and I have an understanding. He puts up with my eccentricities, and I ignore his little infirmities. It is as my grandmother taught us: 'First our servants take care of us, and then we must take care of them.' It is a sacred obligation. Ou. Look at Uriah. It is a small price to pay for nearly fifty years of devoted service, n'est-ce pas?"

  Dina nodded.

  Becky gestured to the tray. "Alors. Would you prefer coffee or tea?"

  "Coffee, please."

  Becky picked up the coffeepot, fashioned one hundred ninety-four years earlier by Joseph Richardson, Jr., of Philadelphia, and tipped the spout delicately toward the cups. She pressed on the lid with the forefinger of her left hand and kept the pinkie of the right extended. She poured a thin steaming arc for each of them and set the pot back down.

  "Au lait?"

  Dina shook her head. "I always take mine black."

  "Moi aussi." Becky nodded approvingly, handed Dina a cup and saucer, and sipped her own strong French roast as delicately as she had poured it, again with the pinkie extended.

  They were enjoying these apres-lunch coffees in the shadowy cabinet d'amateur of Becky V's penthouse, a mysteriously seductive cocoon created by the maestro of the world's most sumptuous interiors, Ren- zo Mongiardino.

  The room, which Becky called her "cabinet," was like the inside of a precious Renaissance jewel casket—an effect conjured through masterful tromp 1'oeil on all four walls and coved ceiling, every square inch of which had been painstakingly painted, then poetically mellowed.

  A plethora of simulated, "aged," surfaces abounded. Ebony, tulip-wood, porphyry, agate, scagiola, gilt.

  But this shimmering, spectacularly rich background was not merely decorative. Indeed, a single calculated purpose lay behind the profligate opulence: to enhance, without bringing immediate attention to, the sixteen superb miniature Goyas embedded in the walls like half-hidden gems.

  Unable to help herself, Dina found her eyes constantly roving, enviously eating up the details of this glorious room in this glorious apartment, which could have come from a hotel particulier on the Quai d'Anjou, and reassembled here, in the heart of Manhattan.

  Drunk on this intoxicating atmosphere, Dina also realized with a pang, that her own nearby duplex, of which she had been so proud, was nothing if not woefully, hopelessly, unforgivably nouveau riche and just ... well, just too everything.

  But this—Becky V's premeditatedly aged chateau-in-the-sky, redolent with an air of history, lineage, titles, and breeding—this was what Dina truly hungered for.

  Yes! It was high time to redecorate, and with the help of a master! Renzo Whatever-His-Name was, who else? Indeed! Before departing, she would ask Becky for an introduction.

  After all, Dina asked herself, hasn't my motto always been, "When in doubt, redecorate"? And didn't everyone know it?

  "Alors." Becky set down her cup and saucer.

  "Wha—" Dina gave a start. "Oh, dear. I am sorry. My mind was—"

  Becky gestured with a languid hand. "Point du tout. There is no need to apologize. I was only saying that I have a small confession to make."

  "Really!" Dina looked at her raptly, all thoughts of decor forgotten. "Do tell!"

  "I had an arriere-pensee ..." Becky smiled. "What you would call an ulterior motive ... for inviting you here. However, I believe you will find it most amusing and intriguing ..."

  "Oh, but I do!" Dina, all ears, was breathlessly perched at the edge of her seat. "I already do!"

  Becky lifted a cautionary finger. "But first, a warning. Utter discretion is imperatif. This cannot go further than this room." She raised her chin, her eyes suddenly hardening. "This must remain our little secret. D'accord?"

  Dina stared at her. Sharing a secret with Becky V! Good heavens. Would miracles never cease? She tried to reply, but to her chagrin discovered she was hopelessly tongue-tied.

  Becky picked up her cup, took another sip of coffee, and set it back down. "I can rely on your discretion, then?"

  "Er, uh, uhm," stuttered Dina, still at an utter loss for words. And then, before she could help herself, she blurted the first thing which popped into her head: "Oui!"

  As soon as it was out, she placed her fingers against her lips. Oh, God, she thought, appalled. I've really blundered now!

  But Becky merely smiled. "As this concerns one of my best friends and one of yours, it is only natural that we join forces. N'est-ce pas? Especially since we are both in such a unique position to help."

  Join forces? With Becky? Dina immediately warmed to the idea. How extraordinary! she thought. What on earth can Becky have in mind?

  "I see I must explain." Folding her hands in her lap, Becky gazed contemplatively up at the faux rosettes of the coffered ceiling. "Prince Karl- Heinz is arriving back in town tomorrow."

  "Is he? I had no idea ..."

  "I believe I am the only person who knows." Lowering her eyes, Becky met Dina's gaze directly. "I shall be frank, oui?"

  Dina, still overwhelmed at being taken into Becky's confidence, didn't trust herself to speak, and merely nodded.

  "Apparently, le vieil Prince's condition has stabilized. That is not to me
an Heinzie's father is healthy; far from it. He is in a coma which is believed to be irreversible. However, he is out of immediate danger. And, more importantly—"

  Pausing, Becky sat forward and exhaled an explosion of breath: "He ... is ... legally ... alive!"

  Her eyes had widened, the unsurpassed violet pupils floating in a sea of white.

  Dina stared at her with dawning understanding. So this was it! she thought, feeling something twitching to life deep inside her. She took a quick gulp of coffee. Now she had a good idea of exactly why Becky had invited her, and where this conversation was headed. Together—

  —the two of them could bring Karl-Heinz and Zandra together!

  Becky's face shone with an inner light. "Ah!" She nodded slowly. "So you do know of what I speak, chere amie."

  Dina was silent.

  "Of course you do."

  "Yes," Dina managed, and then, finding her voice, said in hushed tones: "The prince is your best friend, and Zandra is mine."

  The intensity of her own face seemed to mirror Becky's.

  "Apparently we have both come to the same conclusion. He needs an heir before his father dies—and Zandra is the obvious candidate."

  "Exactement!"

  Becky's perfect teeth gleamed moistly, and for a fleeting instant Dina glimpsed the steel behind the fathomless da Vinci smile.

  "But neither of us can bring this about alone. Alors. We must work together."

  "Like two puppeteers?"

  "S'il vous plait! I prefer to think of us as ... as wise and well- intentioned friends ... fairy godmothers, if you will. Would you like some more coffee?"

  "Well ..."

  "Un peu?"

  "A little, perhaps. Yes. Please." Dina held out her cup for a refill.

  Becky continued talking as she poured, delicate pinkie extended: "After all, there is no denying that Heinzie and Zandra are perfectly suited for one another."

  "Yes," said Dina, who'd mulled this over ever since the night of the party at the Met. "But there might be one or two, er, stumbling blocks."

  "Oh?" Becky frowned. "And what might those be?"

  Dina sighed. "Love, for one thing."

  "Love!" Becky sat there, unfazed. "What's love got to do with it?" She laughed softly, chidingly. "Really, chere amie. We are speaking of fortunes, birthrights, bloodlines. We are speaking of one of the largest empires on earth! And you speak of love?"

  "Plus there's their age difference," Dina pointed out.

  "Age!" Becky waved a hand, as at an irritating fly. "In light of everything Zandra and Heinzie have in common, that is insignificant. Dit moi: Have not you yourself ... and I on one occasion ... married older men?"

  Dina nodded.

  "And are not Zandra and Heinzie both blessed with that aura of multiplying the other's allure?"

  Dina nodded again.

  "And would they not make an exceedingly splendid and dashing couple?"

  "Yes," agreed Dina, "that they would."

  "Alors. There you have it." Becky regarded her unblinkingly for a moment. "I can count on you, then? You will help?"

  Dina met her questioning gaze. Of course I will, she thought. Isn't this exactly what I wanted? She pictured Karl-Heinz and Zandra together, then unconsciously sighed with pleasure. They really are the perfect match, she decided. As perfect as they come ...

  "Oh, yes," she said. "You can count on me."

  Becky smiled warmly. "D'accord. You don't know how delighted that makes me!"

  Dina basked in the narcotic of Becky's approval. It made her feel all warm and glowing and tingly inside, like a good belt of brandy in midwinter. Already, she could see her powerbase expanding. But best of all, she was being courted by none other than Becky V!

  Who needed caffeine on top of that?

  Becky was saying, her voice thoughtful: "What we shall do is the following. This Saturday, there is an auction of Faberge and objets de vertu at Christie's. Heinzie collects such things, you know. I shall be viewing the exhibit with him the day after tomorrow. Afterwards, I shall suggest we lunch at Mortimer's—"

  "Where," said Dina, picking up the conversational thread and running with it, "I'll be lunching with Zandra."

  "Exactement!" Becky smiled with feigned languor, but her violet eyes were alert, the sharp angles of her cheekbones creating rakish shadows. "However, our meeting must appear accidental ... totally without premeditation."

  Dina shrugged. "I don't see why that should present any problem. People run into each other at Mortimer's all the time. We'll simply act appropriately surprised."

  Becky nodded. "Bon. Now then. The Sheldon D. Faireys. How well do you know them?"

  "Not very," Dina admitted. "Why?"

  "They own the estate next to mine in New Jersey. Did you know that? It was left to Nina by her maternal grandmother, I believe."

  Dina waited.

  "We shall be requiring the Faireys' help," Becky said slowly. Tapping her lip with a clear-lacquered talon, she gave Dina a significant look. "However, they must under no circumstances suspect what we are plotting. Nina is the most terrible chatterbox, and secrecy—"

  "—must be maintained at all costs." Dina bobbed her head up and down. "Yes, yes. I quite understand."

  Becky tapped her lips some more. "If only you were closer to the Faireys. Extracting an invitation to their estate would definitely make our little intrigue less obvious."

  Dina smiled. "Just leave that to me. Don't forget, Sheldon is head of Burghley's, and my husband is the majority shareholder. If I say, 'Jump! Sheldon will ask, 'How high?' You'll see. The instant I suggest it, an invitation shall be forthcoming."

  "Ah!" Becky's face betrayed a piquant trace of amusement, a dash of zesty evil. "I must compliment you. Your deviousness is almost French." She laughed throatily. "Oui. Together we are tres formidable!"

  "Yes. But as far as the Faireys are concerned, the sooner you give me a firm date, the better."

  "A coup sur. But first, I must find out what Heinzie's plans are. I should know more the day after tomorrow. Alors. I believe the time has come to toast our little endeavor, non?"

  And Becky pressed a button affixed to the underside of the gueridon.

  A minute later, a wide, vertical band of golden light streamed in as Uriah opened the door and shuffled into the room. "You rang, Madame?!"

  "Yes, Uriah. Iced Dom Perignon and two glasses, please."

  "Coming right up, Madame!"

  And so shouting, he shuffled back out.

  Dina once again glanced around, feasting her eyes on the intricately stenciled paneling, the complex patterns of the shimmering silk Heraz, the voluptuous luxury of this most magnificent of rooms.

  Uriah returned with an ornate ice-filled silver bucket. After much fumbling, he managed to wrest the cork from the chilled bottle. He poured some shakily into two dazzling cobalt flutes, shuffled back out, and shut the door behind him.

  Becky plucked up one glass and raised it in a toast. "To their Serene Highnesses, the Prince and future Princess von und zu Engelwiesen!"

  Dina lifted her own fragile, gold-banded glass. "May they live happily ever after!" she added in a whisper.

  Then, exchanging smiles, they clinked their glasses and sipped. The champagne was very, very good. But the intrigue was even better.

  Chapter 24

  Self-centered bastard, spiteful chauvinist pig!" steamed Kenzie as she and Zandra sat in the huge subterranean vault, Kenzie's refuge in times of crises. All around, hundreds of priceless, tagged paintings and drawings were stored sideways on metal shelving, like books. "I have a good mind to take a cleaver to his you-know-what!"

  "Oh, gosh," Zandra said. "How perfectly awful. D'you think he's just having a beastly day? You know men—striking out at you could be a matter of ... of transference!"

  Kenzie looked stupefied. "Transference?" she repeated blankly. "What the hell's transference got to do with this?"

  "Oh, Kenzie, you know. Men are so moody—comes from repre
ssing their emotions ... all that macho posturing has got to get to them sometime! I mean, you could simply be the handiest surrogate for whatever's really bothering him. Right? Just don't take it personally."

  "Don't take it personally? For God's sake, what other way can I take it?"

  Zandra exhaled a sigh. She was utterly at a loss. Making commiserating noises and providing a shoulder to cry on was one thing; rallying her out of a bottomless funk was quite another. Kenzie needed help, that much was clear. The only question was ... how to proceed?

  "A knife," Kenzie murmured dreamily, her eyes glittering with fantasized revenge. "Yes, one of those superbly balanced Hoffritz chopping blades would do nicely."

  "Kenzie ..."

  "Or better yet, one of their cleavers. There's a prime example of what good old Solingen steel will do! Now, if only I were a trained Beni- hana chef—"

  "Kenzie, stop it," cried Zandra. "You're being perfectly horrid. For God's sake, you're a vegetarian."

  Kenzie slumped in defeat and looked imploringly at her friend. "So what should I do?"

  "Forget it for now. That's the clue."

  "Forget it?" Kenzie squeaked. "Zandra, how can I?"

  "Then at least keep in mind what my Aunt Josephine always used to say: 'Diem adimere aegritudinem hominibus.' "

  "Zandra! Will you speak English?"

  "I am speaking English, luv." Zandra addressed her as she would a younger sister, lovingly but with the slightest hint of exasperation. "I only quoted the Latin to make it ... well, to tell the truth, sound less trite."

  "But I don't speak Latin!"

  "So? I'll happily translate. Literally, it means 'Time removes distress.' "

  "Aha!" Kenzie slid her a gimlet glare. " 'Time heals all wounds.' Why is it," she muttered sourly, "that whenever certain situations arise, people unfailingly fall back on cliches?"

  Zandra suddenly perked up. "Latin. Oh, Kenzie, I just got an idea." Zandra sat there with a blissful smile, because inspiration had finally dawned.

  What, she asked herself triumphantly, were the ancient Romans but Italians by any other name? And who, with the possible exception of Jewish mothers, knew how to nurture damaged souls better than Italians? Indeed. Everyone with the slightest trace of Latin blood understood that the absolutely swiftest remedy for any ailment, like the quickest way to a man's heart, was undeniably through his stomach.