Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  "How's about right now?"

  "I'll be waiting."

  Hot damn!

  Five minutes later, he was in the back of his limo. Libido in overdrive. Headed uptown.

  To the very place he swore he wouldn't be caught dead.

  Chapter 33

  Old Masters auctions were all held during the same week. Sotheby's had been on Tuesday. The art world—and Christie's and Burghley's in particular—had watched closely and held its collective breath.

  Zandra and Kenzie had attended.

  "This should give us an indication of how we'll fare on Thursday," Kenzie had whispered as they took their seats.

  Zandra looked around doubtfully. "It seems frightfully empty. Darling, where on earth do you suppose everyone is?"

  "Let's just hope the bidders who are here are in an upbeat mood," Kenzie said grimly.

  They hadn't been; nearly half the one hundred eighty-four lots went unsold.

  Christie's held its auction on Wednesday. Again Kenzie and Zandra attended. And again, little more than half the two hundred eleven lots sold.

  Afterward, they trudged back to Burghley's on foot, their moods as dark and gloomy as the weather. When they'd arrived before ten, the sun had shone weakly; now, at two-thirty, the wind had picked up and the sky was a uniform, oppressive blanket of gray.

  "It's this damned economic slump," Kenzie said dispiritedly, wrapping her scarf tighter around her. "Top of the market always sells, but no one else is buying."

  "Bugger it!" Zandra muttered darkly. "We could certainly have used that bloody Holbein."

  "Tell me about it," Kenzie sighed. "But that's water under the bridge. Meanwhile, the only activity there is going on is bottom fishing, and not enough of that. Trouble is, people won't open their wallets. Damn, but it's a good time to snap up bargains!"

  At Sixtieth and Madison, they waited for the pedestrian light to change.

  "I'm definitely not looking forward to tomorrow," she added unnecessarily.

  Zandra pulled a face. "It's going to be extremely uncomfortable and humiliating sitting up there on that damn podium taking telephone bids and not receiving any and trying to look busy, whatever the hell that is, while the people who will show up and don't give a fart are all bloody staring at us, as if we're animals in a zoo and somehow to blame."

  "C'mon!" Kenzie grabbed her by the arm. "While we're standing here gabbing, the light's turned green. Let's go!"

  They started hurrying across.

  "Shit!" Abruptly Kenzie stopped dead in her tracks and stared upward.

  "Kenz, what is it?"

  "It's starting to snow!" Kenzie wailed. "If this keeps up, tomorrow's turnout will be worse than godawful!" She looked imploringly at Zandra. "Why, oh why, can't we just call in sick in the morning?"

  "You know why, Kenz. Professionalism. Esprit. Pride. Must keep the department safe from our Great Beloved Leader!"

  North Korea's late Kim II Sung had provided the inspiration for Arnold's most recent nickname for Bambi Parker.

  "Right."

  The light changed, and drivers began honking their horns.

  "Come on, Kenz! Don't just stand there! Darling, we're both liable to get run over!"

  Kenzie smiled wryly. "Sounds pretty tempting, doesn't it?"

  "No, it bloody well does not!" Zandra snapped, and yanked her across.

  By the time they reached Burghley's, the snow was coming down steadily.

  "I've listened to the weather reports," Arnold Li said. "They now predict six to eight inches."

  It was almost seven o'clock and they were still hard at work, par for the course on the eve of an auction.

  "Now tell me some good news," Kenzie pleaded, "please."

  "Thirty more absentee bids have come in by fax. I'm entering them in the computer now."

  "Any more ... bad news?"

  He nodded. "Four lots have been withdrawn."

  Shit. "Which ones?" she asked wearily.

  "Lots 64, 113, 161, and 201."

  Kenzie knew them by heart. The Jacob Jordaens, estimated at $200,000 to $300,000; the Lorenzo di Niccolo, estimated at $100,000 to $150,000; the Hendrik Terbrugghen, estimated at $300,000 to $500,000; and the Veronese, also estimated at $300,000 to $500,000.

  Four of the best paintings in the sale.

  Kenzie shut her eyes. There goes tomorrow, she thought.

  By six-thirty the following morning, five inches of snow had accumulated, and it was still coming down in a white, opaque blanket. Radio broadcasts reported that schools were closed, all three airports had shut down, and alternate-side-of-the-street parking was suspended.

  If only auctions could be cancelled as easily, Kenzie thought.

  Turning up the newscast, she headed into the kitchen, put her favorite mix of coffee beans, half Colombia excelso and half Brazil Bourbon Santos, through the electric grinder, filled the coffeemaker, and switched it on. Soon it was gurgling and hissing and steaming up a storm.

  Zandra, sleepy-eyed and barefoot, padded from her bedroom clad in an oversize white bathrobe. Her nose twitched, rabbitlike, as she sniffed the air.

  "Fresh coffee? You're a saint. Shan't ever be able to go back to tea again. Nothing like a good jolt of caffeine to jump-start one awake. Have a good sleep?"

  "I was dead to the world," Kenzie said. "And you?"

  "Slept like a baby." Zandra yawned and stretched, went over to the living room window, and peered out from behind the curtains.

  It was still night out, but not dark: the back garden was peculiarly and faintly luminescent from the reflection of the snow, and the air was alive, swirling with millions upon millions of fat, seemingly weightless flakes.

  "Gosh, Kenzie. Snow's still coming down!"

  "Tell me about it. Airports and schools are shut."

  Zandra let go of the curtain and turned to her. "What about the auction?"

  "Oh, I suspect it'll be business as usual," Kenzie sighed.

  "What!" Zandra stared at her.

  "You know the saying," Kenzie said wryly. " 'The show must go on.' "

  "Yes, but . . . Jesus, Kenzie." Zandra gestured at the window. "In that?"

  "Presumably so. In all my time at Burghley's, I can't recall one auction ever having been postponed."

  In the kitchen, the coffeemaker had quieted down.

  "Aha. Our fix is ready." Kenzie went and returned with two steaming mugs and handed one to Zandra. "Here."

  Zandra took it in both hands, blew softly on the surface, and lowered her head to take tiny birdlike sips. When she looked up, she was frowning.

  "Honestly, darling, if they had any sense at all they'd bloody well postpone the sale. Just getting across town must be hell. I mean, how's anyone supposed to get there—"

  The telephone chirruped.

  Kenzie glanced at the mantel clock. It was only quarter till seven.

  "How very odd," Zandra murmured. "Who could be calling this early?"

  "Only one way to find out." Kenzie strode to the nearest extension. "Hello?"

  "Kenz?"

  "Arnold! Don't tell me you're stuck and—"

  "No, I'm at work," he said. "I camped out here rather than risk a morning commute. Listen, you and Zandra had better get in here. Fast."

  "Now? But why?"

  "All hell's breaking loose."

  And he hung up.

  Frowning, Kenzie replaced the receiver. She didn't know what was going on, but she knew that whatever it was had to be serious. Arnold was not one to raise false alarms.

  "Throw on your clothes," she told Zandra. "No time for hair or makeup. We can do that on the train."

  Five minutes later, they were flying out the door.

  "I say!" Zandra exclaimed, and stopped short.

  A frazzled Arnold, collar open and shirt sleeves rolled up, was frantically punching lit and flashing buttons on his phone. "Please keep holding, ma'am. Someone will be right with you—" He glanced up, saw Kenzie and Zandra, and with circular motions of
his arm gestured them hastily to their desks.

  "What's going on?" Kenzie mouthed silently as she slipped out of her coat.

  With an index finger he signaled that he'd be right with her.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said into the receiver. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh." He rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Just half a minute longer, ma'am, no more. I pro—"

  Another line rang.

  He stabbed the flashing button. Said, "Burghley's Old Masters please hold," like one word.

  Then, dropping the receiver, he made bug eyes, inflated his cheeks, and slumped back in his chair.

  "Whew!" He expelled a noisy breath. "Am I ever glad to see you guys!"

  Kenzie said: "I think you'd better fill us in on what's happening, and fast."

  "It's the phones. They're ringing off the hook! Everybody and his brother's calling in absentee bids, and that doesn't take into account the ones being faxed. God alone knows how many of them have piled up."

  Kenzie glanced over at the fax machine. The tray was overflowing, and copies of completed bid forms were scattered all over the floor.

  She turned back to Arnold. "So by 'all hell breaking loose,' you meant we're getting swamped with bids?"

  "That's right."

  Good God, she thought. Talk about things coming out of the blue!

  Kenzie was suddenly so excited she could barely breathe. It was truly staggering. The phones overloaded, the faxes accumulating.

  I've never seen anything like it, she thought jubilantly.

  "But why?" she asked Arnold. "I don't understand."

  "Neither do I. My best guess is, people who're trapped at home or in hotels or only God knows where are leafing through our catalogue and calling in bids. You know, sort of a cross between shopping and laying bets."

  Kenzie shook her head. "Puts a whole new spin on 'home shopping,' doesn't it?"

  Another line rang.

  "Shit." Arnold started to reach for it, then flapped a hand. "Whoever it is can leave voice mail."

  "Not for long." Kenzie, having sized up the situation, now took charge. "Listen up, you guys. Arnold, your voice sounds like you've been talking yourself hoarse. It could use a break."

  "You can say that again!"

  "Then give the phones a break and cover the fax. All those bids have to be entered into the computer, and the sooner you get started, the better. But first call out for some coffee."

  "Will do."

  "Zandra, you and I'll work the phones till nine-thirty. Then we'll recruit the first three people who show up for work, and I don't care which department they belong to!"

  "Take the call on line three first," Arnold advised. "Poor woman's been holding forever."

  "Right." Zandra punched line three. "Hallo? I'm very sorry to have kept you waiting. Thanks so much for your patience ..."

  And Kenzie, punching line six: "Old Masters, may I help you ..."

  For nearly two hours it was as if they'd been swept up in a whirlwind. It was all they could do to keep up with the deluge of calls. But despite the awesome volume, Kenzie, Zandra, and Arnold worked together like a well-oiled piece of machinery.

  Each kept the others up to date by shooting voice bullets in code:

  "Lot 21, de Hamilton. Nine thou! Within est."

  And "160, Guardi, four point nine mil. Within est."

  And "208, Hendrik Meyer, twenty thou. Just under."

  And "74, Rynacker, quarter mil. Over est."

  It was dizzying. Kenzie had never experienced anything like it. For the first time in three days, she permitted herself to feel hopeful, and then euphoric.

  Please God, she prayed. Let this continue.

  Her prayers were answered until nine o'clock. That was when a curveball was thrown from way out in left field.

  Zandra said: "Kenzie. Major trouble, I'm afraid. Could you pick up line seven?"

  Kenzie covered the receiver with her hand. "Who is it?"

  "Bambi."

  "From whom," said Kenzie grimly, "no news is good news. All right." She sighed with resignation. "I'll take it. After I'm done with this client."

  Bambi stared impatiently out the glass wall at the billions of flakes swirling in the turbulence. They blotted out the entire city except for the two nearest high-rises, which had taken on a kind of half-glimpsed, spectral magic. Under other circumstances, she might have fantasized herself a storybook princess high in a castle tower.

  This morning, however, reality in the shape of a slender naked man obviated the need for fairy tales. All she wanted was to resume snuggling and screwing, hence her itchiness to get off the phone.

  What is taking Kenzie so long? I don't have all day!

  "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. L
eft 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.