In one fell swoop she had bartered the only three things she could ever truly, inviolately, call her own: her name, her body, and her self-respect.
Which left her with nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Chapter 42
The senior partner of the law firm of Freiman, Steinberg, Hirst, and Andrews, P.C., looked up as his secretary came into his plush office in Detroit's Renaissance Center. He took the sealed envelope she was carrying and placed it solemnly on his desk.
"Sotheby's guarantee?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who is looking at the drawings now?"
"Mr. Adeane and Ms. Blow. From Christie's."
"What about Burghley's?"
"Their specialist is waiting out in reception."
"Good. I take it you walked the Sotheby's representatives to the elevators?"
"I was going to, but they said there was no need."
"What was their mood?"
"Very excited."
"Ah. Most excellent. Now then, why don't you tell the Burghley's specialist it'll be a while. Apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused him—"
"It's not a him, sir. It's a her."
"Whatever. You know the routine, Mrs. Silber."
"Yes, sir." The secretary hurried out to the reception area. "What the—" she began, and looked around.
Kenzie had vanished.
A few minutes earlier, Kenzie had been sitting in the posh reception area, bent over a tome on Leonardo drawings she had brought with her when three people approached and stopped beside her chair.
"The elevators are right this way," she had heard Mrs. Silber say.
"Thank you, but we can see ourselves out," a man's vaguely familiar voice replied. "Our flight isn't until seven-fifteen, and we have a few hours to kill. Could you recommend a bar on the premises?"
"Well, there are quite a few," Mrs. Silber said.
"I suppose the restaurants are already closed?" a woman asked.
Her voice also sounded familiar. Keeping her head down, so that her profile was hidden behind her curtain of Prince Val bangs, Kenzie slid the party a curious upward glance.
Standing right beside her, yuppie-perfect and groomed to the nines, were Robert Sullivan and Gretchen Ng—her counterparts from Sotheby's.
"Just take the elevator down to the ground level," Mrs. Silber directed. "When you get out, turn right. There's a very nice bar there that also serves snacks. You can't miss it."
"It sounds perfect," Robert Sullivan told her warmly. "Thanks ever so much."
They exchanged handshakes. "I hope you were pleased with the drawings," Mrs. Silber said.
"Pleased doesn't begin to describe it!" Gretchen Ng enthused. "I'm sure we'll be in touch."
"You have a good flight back, now," Mrs. Silber said. "It was lovely meeting you."
She left, and Robert Sullivan went to the cloak closet to fetch their coats.
Kenzie continued to keep her head down, hoping she wouldn't be recognized.
"This your coat, Gretchen?"
"That's it. God, Bob! Could you believe those drawings?"
"They're incredible. I've never seen anything like them."
"Think we stand a chance of handling them?"
"I don't see why not."
"Yes, but our guarantee—"
"I've got to wet my whistle. Why don't we discuss it over a drink? Got everything?"
And together they left the reception area, opened the glass doors etched with FREIMAN, STEINBERG, HIRST, AND ANDREWS, P.C., and disappeared down the lushly carpeted corridor.
Let's discuss it in the bar ... Those six little words had done it.
Slamming the book shut, Kenzie shoved it in her shoulder bag and jumped to get her coat.
"If anybody asks, I'll be back shortly," she told the receptionist. "What's the fax number here?"
The receptionist scribbled it down and handed it to her. "Where can you be reached in—"
But Kenzie wasn't listening. She was already flying out the etched- glass doors and down the corridor to the bank of elevators. Pressing the down button, she waited for the next car and took it to the shopping arcade level.
It was bustling with people, and there were shops galore. I don't have time to search and browse, she thought. There has to be a quicker way.
There was. A uniformed security guard.
She rushed over to him. "Excuse me. Could you direct me to the nearest hair salon?"
"There's one right down there," he informed her, and pointed. "But I'm afraid it's one of those old-fashioned parlors—"
Her heart beat a little faster. That's exactly what I'm looking for, she thought.
"Thanks!" she told him.
It really did turn out to be an old-fashioned beauty parlor. The window was shared by faded blown-up photos of outdated hairstyles and faceless Styrofoam heads modeling dusty wigs.
She opened the door and went inside.
For all the Renaissance Center's futuristic sleekness, it was like stepping backward in time. The air stank of permed hair, and women leafing through glossy magazines were seated under a row of noisy hooded dryers.
"Sorry, hon," a red-haired woman in a blue smock and big pale blue designer frames told Kenzie. "We're all booked up."
"That's okay. I just came to see about buying a wig."
"Wig! You sure got the wrong place, hon. We only do hair."
"But ... what about those wigs in the window?" Kenzie demanded.
"Oh, them. They're just win'der displays. Been there ferever."
Kenzie reached for her wallet.
How much can one of those wigs possibly be worth? she wondered. Twenty bucks is pushing it.
She pulled out a hundred dollar bill. "I'd really like the long blonde one."
The woman fished the money from between Kenzie's fingers. "Then it's all yers, hon. I'll go git it right now."
A minute later, Kenzie left the beauty parlor, sunglasses on her nose and mid-1970s Farrah Fawcett tresses bouncing. Catching sight of her reflection in a store window, she paused and cringed.
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 p
opped 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
Chapter 43
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 givin
g 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.
Too Damn Rich Page 45