Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  The team of investigators worked around the clock for six weeks before reaching their verdict. According to Mr. Kramer, they ruled out the possibility of arson early on because of the lack of an incendiary device.

  "It's an act of God," Chief Czubik said. "We've never seen this before, and hope we'll never see it again."

  Local gas company officials were not available for comment.

  November Auction Planned

  Beginning on November 11 in New York, Burghley's will kick off a series of auctions of art, antique furnishings, decorative objects, and important jewels owned by what the auction house calls "one of the most famous and fascinating women of our century."

  Born Rebecca Cornille, the woman who came to be known as Becky V was married to, and widowed by, President William Winterton Wakefield III, Leonidas Danaus Lantzouni, the shipping magnate, and Gran Duque Joaquin de la Vila, and maintained various residences around the world.

  According to Burghley's, thirty-two experts from eight departments will catalogue the various collections.

  Over eight hundred of the world's finest Old Masters, including works by Velasquez, El Greco, Rubens, Titian, Veronese, and Goya will be sold, as well as furnishings by Roentgen, Jacob, and Boulle.

  "It's a pity to see the collections broken up," the Gran Duquesa's sister, the Vicomtesse Suzy de Saint- Mallet said, "but as Becky would say, 'We're just temporary custodians.' "

  All proceeds from the sales will go to charity.

  Chapter 58

  The mayor charged into his office twenty minutes late, personality and charisma creating a cyclonelike burst of energy, a fluttery aide at his heels.

  "Sorry I'm late, gentlemen," he apologized, flashing a mouthful of bright teeth. "Couldn't be helped."

  The seated men had risen to their feet. Each received a brisk, campaign-trail handclasp, a sincere look straight in the eye, and heard the mayor say his name: "Mr. Goldsmith. Mr. Fairey. Detective Ferraro. Mr. Hockert."

  Hizzoner had obviously been briefed in advance. Not that it mattered. He liked giving that personal touch, and knew from experience that people fell for it.

  He didn't shake hands with the police commissioner, but acknowledged him with friendly familiarity. "Ed," he said, "Thelma and the kids okay?"

  "They're just fine, Mr. Mayor," beamed the tall black man in uniform.

  "Good. Be sure and give them my regards. Gentlemen, please. Have a seat."

  Greetings over, the mayor was suddenly all business. He strode behind his desk, sat down in his red tufted-leather executive swivel chair, and leaned forward. Behind him were two flagpoles, one with the Stars and Stripes, the other with the state flag.

  "You're here to discuss security at the auction on—?" He clicked his fingers.

  "November eleventh, Mr. Mayor," supplied his hovering aide.

  "Right. At Burghley's." He eyeballed the PC. "Have you been filled in, Ed?"

  "Yes, Mr. Mayor."

  "And?"

  "In my opinion, police presence is a definite must. Mr. Fairey gave me a partial list of people who'll probably attend. There's a copy of it on your desk."

  The mayor picked up the sheet of paper and quickly scanned it. He looked up sharply, his voice incredulous. "These are some of the people you expect at the auction?"

  "Yes, Mr. Mayor," Sheldon D. Fairey replied. "Those and many other notables."

  "Good God! This looks more like an international summit than an art sale!"

  "That's why we're being so security-conscious," Fairey said.

  "I take it you have your own security staff?"

  "Naturally, and we plan to augment it. But with two heads of state, some former ones, major celebrities, movie stars, and hundreds of the richest people in the world—" Fairey gestured eloquently. "Their safety has to be our foremost concern."

  Frowning thoughtfully, the mayor swiveled on his big chair and stared out the window, where a light rain was falling. After a moment, he swiveled back around. He looked at the PC. "Your call, Ed."

  "My advice is we pull out all the stops, Mr. Mayor. Treat this as if the President were coming to town."

  "You're talking expensive." The mayor was only too aware of the city's budget deficit.

  "Can't be helped. We'll need heavy security around Burghley's and wherever the most politically sensitive VIPs are staying. Also, we should consider providing police escorts to a select few. And we should definitely close off a section of Madison before and during the auction."

  The mayor pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know what this means, Ed. Don't you?"

  "Yes, Mr. Mayor. A lot of overtime."

  "Which the city can't afford."

  "Yes, but there's something the city can afford even less."

  "Which is?"

  "There are people on that list who've survived several failed assassination attempts. How would it look if someone succeeded at it here?"

  He didn't have to spell out the ramifications of such a scenario. The mayor knew them well.

  The press would have a field day, he thought grimly. The city would suffer an onslaught of adverse publicity. Tourism would plunge. And I can kiss reelection good-bye.

  "And to think they're all coming here because of the Becky V auction," he marveled softly, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

  "Not if you bear in mind who Becky V was, Mr. Mayor," Fairey said quietly. "Besides being a national icon, she was inarguably the most famous woman in the world."

  "True." The mayor nodded. "Tragic, what happened to her."

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  Robert decided it was time to chip in his two cents. "Somethin' else to keep in mind," he said, changing the subject. "Becky V's art treasures."

  "Yes?" the mayor said.

  "Well, outside a few museums, so many masterpieces've never been in any one place at one given time. Our insurance company's bustin' its gut tryin' to get other companies to help underwrite the policy. Four to six billion's a lot a simoleons."

  The mayor leaned forward and stared. "Did you say ... billion? With a 'B'?"

  Robert returned his stare. "That's right."

  "Holy cow." The mayor leaned back in his chair and whistled softly. "I see that this is going to mean more than just a day or two of extra police presence."

  "I'd say it's justified," Robert said.

  "Yes, but we're talking a major tab here. And the city's stretched thin as it is."

  The mayor rolled back his chair, got to his feet, and moved over to the windows. He looked out thoughtfully, silhouetted by rain-squiggled glass. "Also," he said, rubbing a hand over his face, "the taxpayers are going to scream bloody murder. They'll want to know why their hard-earned money's being spent protecting a very small segment of very rich people who've gathered for a very exclusive, private event."

  "You might," Robert said serenely, having come armed with figures, "remind them that Burghley's paid over ten mil in city taxes last year. An', that doesn't include another eight point seven mil we collected in sales tax. You want, I can reel off the fed and state figures, too."

  The mayor turned around, walked back to his desk, and lowered himself into his chair. "I don't believe that'll be necessary."

  "You ask me," Robert glowered, "we're entitled to some protection."

  The PC spoke up. "If I may suggest something, Mr. Mayor."

  "Suggest away, Ed." The mayor smiled bleakly. "Heck, I'm open to any ideas."

  "Well, you know the old saying about an ounce of prevention."

  "What about it?"

  "For starters, Detective Ferraro and Mr. Hockert can do a study of Burghley's security system, see what flaws can be ironed out. The same goes for whatever transport system is used to move the art. That'll take care of the first line of defense, if Mr. Fairey's amenable to putting their findings into effect."

  "I certainly would be," Fairey said.

  "Then I'm in favor of it." The mayor looked at Hannes and Charley. "Take all the time you need, g
entlemen."

  "Thank you, Mr. Mayor," Fairey said.

  "However," Hizzoner pointed out, "it still doesn't solve the cost dilemma of providing extra police protection."

  There was a moment's silence, then Robert spoke. "Seems to me, the city'd try harder to keep its tax base here."

  The mayor blinked. "I'm not sure I follow you, Mr. Goldsmith."

  "Oh, I think ya follow, aw right. But let me spell it out. I could, for instance," Robert said, putting the screws on the mayor, "move our warehouse from Long Island City over to Jersey, and use Jersey truckin' firms. Hell of a lot cheaper than what it costs us here."

  The mayor frowned.

  "For that matter, I can move GoldMart's headquarters and my investment office across the river, too. Everything's computerized, so it doesn't matter where we are. But the city'd lose out on an annual tax base of sixty to seventy mil—minimum. More, if we move some a our employees, too."

  "I ... see," said the mayor slowly.

  "Guess you do. This is one a those times the city's got to divvy up an' do its duty."

  The mayor did not look happy. "It seems you have us over a barrel," he sighed. "I'll see to it you get the extra police protection."

  Robert rose to his feet. "Good. Glad we could see eye-to-eye."

  Chapter 59

  A pizza, a large, double cheese, fried eggplant and onion pizza," sighed Kenzie ecstatically as she dropped two nylon carry-ons and three shopping bags to the floor while Charley struggled her suitcase into her bedroom.

  Kenzie felt both electrified and exhausted—a pardonable condition, considering she had just returned from a two-month European sojourn, in which every waking hour had been devoted to cataloging the paintings in Becky V's various palazzi, palacios, villas, elegant apartments, and town- houses. She had, in fact, studied so many masterpieces that they still tumbled, helter-skelter, around in her sassy little head like clothes in some cosmic dryer.

  "But please, Charley, please tell them to hold the olives," she called out beseechingly. "Between Madrid, Seville, and Athens, I swear I was ol- ived to death."

  "And Monte Carlo?" asked Charley, coming back out into the living room.

  "A sunny place for shady people. Why, it made me feel positively pre- pubescent! Really, Charley, I've never in my life seen so many pickled old farts. Wall-to-wall elephant skin—no amount of diamonds could help those pachyderms! I vowed never to lie out in the sun again. Oh," she exclaimed happily, flopping down on her cut-velvet, Napoleon III sofa, "but it does these bones good to be home! Even if this place seems to have shrunk in my absence."

  "A result, no doubt, of all those palaces you stayed in."

  "You can crack all the jokes you want. But between you and me, I've never seen anything like it. I mean, every one of those places was a museum. A girl could get used to living that way, Charley," she said, stretching luxuriantly. "Uh-huh, she easily could."

  "Earth to Turner, Earth to Turner. Come in, Turner—"

  Kenzie tossed a cushion at him, which he easily deflected.

  "Well?" she asked. "Gonna order that pizza? Or you'd rather I starve?"

  "What's the matter? Airlines suddenly stopped serving food?"

  "Food?" Her amber eyes slid him a pitying glance. "Since when," she demanded, "have inflight meals been considered edibles? Food indeed! I fasted in anticipation of my eggplant pizza, thank you very much!"

  He approached her in a bowlegged, Howdy ma'am, cowpoke kind of walk.

  "This mean," he drawled, hooking a thumb in his belt, "you're really hungry?"

  Kenzie squinted narrowly up at him. "Didn't I say I was?"

  "Yeah, but I just wanted to get things straight. You know. Make sure it's pizza you're really after."

  "Why? Would you rather I be hungering for something else?"

  He thrust out his pelvis and grinned. "Thought you might like to take a bite out of life."

  "Same old Charley," she sighed, feigning boredom. "Same juvenile, one-track mind." She pretended a mighty yawn and tapped her mouth with her hand. "Which are you today? Beavis? or Butt-head?"

  He assumed a hurt expression. "You rather I didn't miss your bod?"

  The corners of her mouth twitched with a tiny smile. "Why? Did you? Miss it?"

  "Do bears—"

  "Puh-leeze!"

  "Well, seeing as how I'm a man of few words, I'll have to let my deeds speak for themselves."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah," he said.

  And three fly buttons later, he did.

  Ah, would wonders never cease? And how could she have so completely forgotten the velvety softness of his mouth, the strength behind the muscle-corded arms which tightened around her, the good, fresh masculine fragrance of his skin?

  At his entry, she gasped and felt as though she was floating sumptuously. Wondrous, this melting desire, the delicious weight of him as their two bodies fused into one!

  "Oh, Charley," she moaned, "Charley ..."

  Then he began to thrust, and she loosened his belt, pulled his trousers farther down, gripped his small firm buttocks in order to press him closer.

  "It's been so long!" she gasped. "Oh, God! It's so good! So damned good—"

  And in her mounting passion, she kissed him deliriously: lips, cheeks, chin, neck, shoulders, chest.

  "All the way, Charley!" she pleaded. "All the fuckin' way!"

  Harder and harder he drove into her, faster and faster, and she squirmed and arched beneath him, tightening herself around him, matching his rhythm, thrust by thrust.

  Then the first wave crashed over her, caught her in its vortex, and swooped her down into its trough before lifting her higher and higher. Great spasms of ecstasy bucked uncontrollably through her body. She cried out, and a fierce growl rose from Charley's throat as he could no longer hold back, and together they let themselves be lashed by the orgasmic storms.

  Slowly, the raging fires and tempests abated. He was atop her, his weight heavy but not crushing, and they were both gasping for breath.

  "Welcome home, babe," Charley said, after their shudders subsided and they lay there panting, face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

  "Did you?" asked Kenzie. Her pupils were dilated, and she was still clutching his moist, perspiration-sheened buttocks. "Did you really?"

  "Did I really what?"

  "Miss me that much?"

  He kissed the tip of her nose. "That much, babe," he said, "and a whole lot more."

  Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Then I take it there's second helpings where that came from?"

  "Seconds," he assured her, with a lopsided grin. "Thirds."

  "Wow!"

  "But the pizza—"

  "Charley?"

  "Huh?"

  Her voice was husky. "Fuck the pizza."

  It was the following day. A glorious, snappy October afternoon. Kenzie and Zandra were in a rowboat in the Central Park lake.

  "The seventh month?" Kenzie was exclaiming in astonishment. "You're going into the seventh month! It can't be! It's just not possible!"

  The sky overhead was silvery blue, the leaves on the trees just beginning to turn, and everyone was out taking advantage of the weather. Tourists in horse-drawn carriages, children with Mylar balloons bouncing happily in the aii; marathon hopefuls doing some serious jogging, dogs catching Frisbees. Like superior beings, the exclusive apartment buildings lining Fifth Avenue showed their dignified facades from above the tree line.

  Zandra swallowed the last of her giant pretzel and washed it down with a mouthful of chocolate milkshake from a giant paper cup.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Kenzie," she said. " 'Course it's possible. Do arithmetic, darling. You'll see. I was married last March. Right?"

  "Right," Kenzie said, dipping the oars slowly.

  "And, this is the beginning of October. Right, darling?"

  "I know it's October. I just want to know where all the time has gone!"

  "Darling, you tell me. I was already pregnant in April. And, p
oor lovely sweetie, unfortunate dear Becky. She died in May. That's only five months ago. Is it any wonder that Lord Rosenkrantz is still inconsolable? Thank God for Dina. He'd be lost without her."

  "Is it true she's adopted him?"

  "Not adopted, darling. He's her walker." Zandra eyed the remainders of Kenzie's deli lunch on the seat. "Are you going to eat your pickle, by any chance?"

  "No. Be my guest."

  "Oh, good." Zandra sat forward, swooped it up, and bit off a crunchy end. She chewed with ecstatic enjoyment. "Lovely." Leaning back in the transom, she let her other hand trail lazily in the water.

  Kenzie made a face and shuddered. "Chili, pretzel, milkshake, and pickles? Oy vey. And that doesn't include the lox and bagel you ate on the way here, or that cheese Danish."

  "Well, I am eating for two."

  Kenzie locked the oars and took another bite of her own lunch. A BLT—actually, a triple-decker BLT without the B, but with sliced hard- boiled eggs and dressing.

  "Yum, yum," she said, talking with her mouth full. "Oh, but isn't this splendid? Do you realize, after all the years I've spent living in New York, this is the very first time I ever did this?"

  "Rowing, you mean?" Zandra looked appalled. "Darling, you can't be serious! Whatever else are parks for?"

  "Your common urban ills?" Kenzie suggested. "Muggers? Rapists? Robbers? Addicts?"

  "Goodness, you are jaded. I mean, look how marvelous this is!"

  "Yes, but that's only because you're here." Kenzie unlocked the oars and resumed rowing.

  "Still, with two boyfriends, surely you could get one of them to take you rowing?" Zandra withdrew her hand from the lake, flicked water from her fingertips. "You still have the both, don't you? Charley and Hannes?"

  Kenzie sighed. "I've given myself until after the auction." She dipped the oars, pulled, lifted, and dipped. "Then I'll have to decide upon one or the other."

  "Do either of them know that?"

  "I told Charley last night."

  "Oh?" Zandra popped the last of the pickle into her mouth. "And how did he take it?"

  "Remarkably well, all things considered."