“You’ll be in your office?”
“Either there or over at Gallinger’s.”
“Keep an eye on your genes.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
***
Carla was busy handling a client call when Guinevere returned to the office that afternoon. She had a terrific telephone voice, Guinevere thought as she listened to her sister promise a temporary secretary to one of Camelot Services’ better clients. Maybe she should think twice about pushing Carla out on her own. There were times when it was extremely convenient to leave the office in good hands.
“Find out anything useful?” Carla asked expectantly as she hung up the phone.
“Maybe. Zac’s not sure. One of the neighbors said she thought the Sandwick house had been sold to a big-time East Coast investor. Yet the real estate agent says the buyer was a grungy, long-haired local. Zac wants to talk to Mason again. I’m supposed to set up an appointment for all of us this evening.”
“I’ll do it,” Carla said, reaching for the phone immediately.
Guinevere raised one brow but said nothing. Her sister’s eagerness to talk to Mason Adair was almost amusing.
“Mason? It’s Carla. Zac and Gwen want to get together to talk about the problem this evening. Are you free? Great. Why don’t we meet down at one of the taverns in Pioneer Square?” There was a pause while Carla listened. “Okay, that sounds fine. I’ll tell Gwen. See you later, Mason. Oh, by the way, I talked to a columnist from the Review-Times today. He covers art for the paper, and I got him interested in doing an interview with you. I think it could be a really nice piece of publicity, Mason. I’ll let you know the details later. I think I’ll have a chat with Theresa this afternoon, too. I want to speak to her about putting Frost and Mission up front in the gallery. She’s got them too far back. You need to lure people in with a flashy display. This is a competitive world, Mason. You can’t run an art gallery the old-fashioned way. You need to catch people’s attention. Yes, all right. See you then. Bye, Mason.”
Guinevere took over her seat at her desk as her sister vacated it. “Does Mason mind the fact that you’re beginning to run his career?”
“Not at all. He’s grateful. He hates the business side of art.”
“You don’t seem to hate it.”
“No,” said Carla thoughtfully, “I love it. I think I could be very good at managing artists’ careers, Gwen. I can see me now with my own little gallery in Pioneer Square. What do you think?”
“A fascinating idea. When do we meet Mason?”
“At five thirty. Bouncer’s. Know it? It’s that little sidewalk tavern near the Midnight Light gallery.”
“I know it. I’ll tell Zac.”
Carla was studying the tip of her pencil. “Why don’t you and I leave a little early, Gwen? I want to talk to Theresa. We could go to the gallery first and then meet Mason and Zac.”
“I don’t know, Carla. I’m not sure I want to be around when you start lecturing Theresa on how to display Mason’s art.”
Carla smiled. “Leave it to me. I know what I’m doing.”
“I wish I did.” Guinevere picked up the phone to dial Zac’s office.
***
As it happened, Guinevere was not obliged to go with Carla when she talked to Theresa that evening. The two sisters left Camelot Services and started walking up First Avenue toward Pioneer Square shortly before five. The street was full of commuters heading toward the ferry docks. In the mornings people who lived on Bainbridge Island or over in Bremerton frequently walked onboard a ferry at one end and walked off to work in downtown Seattle at the other. In the evenings they reversed the procedure. The bars and pubs sprinkled along First Avenue catered to the people waiting for ferries or buses or those who simply wanted a little happy hour time before heading back to the suburbs. During the spring and summer many of the small taverns put tables out in front on the sidewalks.
Guinevere and Carla had crossed Yesler and were heading toward the Midnight Light gallery when someone hailed them from a sidewalk table. At first Guinevere didn’t recognize the thin-faced man who was raising his hand to beckon them. Then something about his nervous, high-strung manner jolted her memory. She smiled aloofly at Henry Thorpe and was about to ignore his invitation when she thought better of the idea. She paused in front of his table.
“Hello, Henry. Carla, did you meet Henry Thorpe the other evening at Mason’s show?”
“Yes, I believe I did,” Carla said politely, waiting for her sister to continue down the street with her.
“Sit down, sit down,” Thorpe commanded genially. He had obviously started happy hour early. The glass in front of him was half empty, and Guinevere was willing to bet it wasn’t his first drink of the day. “Plenty of room. Let me buy you both a drink.”
“We’re in a hurry,” Carla began austerely.
Guinevere looked at her. “Why don’t you run along to the gallery, Carla? I’ll have a quick drink with Henry and join you later.”
“But, Gwen . . .” Carla paused, trying to read her sister’s face. She seemed to realize that there was something going on and was shrewd enough not to interfere. With a smile for Henry she nodded and walked off.
“That sister of yours is nice looking,” Henry said, gazing after Carla with regret. “She ever do any modeling?”
“No.” Guinevere ignored the fact that Henry had been hoping Carla would join him. She plunked herself down in the seat opposite him and smiled blandly. “I’ll have a glass of white wine, please.”
“What?” Henry was still gazing mournfully after Carla. “Oh, sure. White wine.” After a couple of attempts he managed to catch the waitress’s eye and give the order. Then he sat back, obviously resigning himself to a drink with the less-attractive sister. “So. How goes the war?”
“What war?”
“Just an expression.” Henry looked petulant. “Is Mason still riding high on his big success the other night?”
“He seems to be anxious to get back to work.”
Thorpe’s eyes narrowed. “It’ll be interesting to see if he can get back to work. Lots of artists do great up until they start to make it big and then phfft. Up in smoke.”
“I beg your pardon?” Guinevere sipped cautiously at her wine.
“They blow up. Dry up. Can’t work anymore. Can’t handle success. It’s a common story,” Thorpe explained knowledgeably.
“I hadn’t realized.” Perhaps this was the excuse Henry Thorpe had been trying to use for himself during the past few months, Guinevere thought. She remembered Mason saying that the thin, nervous man hadn’t done any worthwhile painting for quite some time.
“Yeah. Some turn to coke, some head for the South Seas. Some just drink too much. Be interesting to see which route Adair uses.”
“You’re assuming he won’t be able to handle his success. Perhaps you’re wrong.” Guinevere wasn’t sure just why she had sat down with Henry Thorpe. Some vague instinct had suggested that she do so. Now she wondered if she hadn’t wasted her time. Henry Thorpe was an embittered man who could only offer caustic comments about Mason Adair. It was a good thing Carla hadn’t stayed.
“I’m not wrong,” Thorpe said irritably. “You just wait and see. It’s just like I told that guy a few months ago. Adair’s a flash in the pan. Here today, gone tomorrow. By this time next year no one will remember him.”
Guinevere caught her breath. “You told someone else that Mason probably wouldn’t make it?”
Thorpe frowned and took a gulp of his drink. “Forget it. It was just some jerk hanging around the galleries looking to make a discovery. Thought he’d found one when he saw some of Adair’s stuff hanging in the Midnight Light gallery. He happened to wander into the gallery next door where I had one of my pictures.” Thorpe’s mouth tightened. “One I did a wh
ile back. Still hasn’t sold. Some fools don’t know art when it hits them in the face. I thought for a while that this guy was going to buy it. But then he started talking about Adair’s stuff.”
Guinevere paused, trying to pick her words carefully. “But you set him straight on Mason Adair? Told him Mason wouldn’t be important in the long run?”
Thorpe moved uneasily in his chair. “I just told him the truth, that’s all. Said if he wanted to buy something worthwhile for his backer, he should be looking at someone else’s pictures. Not Adair’s.”
“I see.” Guinevere wished she’d had more experience trying to pump people. She would just have to rely on the empathic charm Zac claimed she had. “This man was buying for a backer? How interesting. Is a lot of art sold that way?”
“Oh, sure. People who don’t trust their own taste use professionals to do their collecting for them.” Thorpe was scathing.
“It does sound a little remote,” Guinevere observed. “I’d certainly want to see what I was buying before making a purchase.”
“Yeah, but a lot of people don’t know one goddamn thing about art. They just want to collect.”
“I suppose so. Did this man end up buying anything by Adair?”
“I don’t know. We talked for a while. Had a few drinks. He told me he thought he’d buy that picture I’ve got in the gallery next to Midnight Light. But he never did. I didn’t see him after the night we had our drinks.”
Guinevere wondered just how many drinks Henry Thorpe had put away while chatting with the art buyer’s representative. She doubted whether Thorpe himself could remember, much less recall just how much he’d talked about Mason Adair to the man buying the drinks. “This happened a few months ago, you say?”
“Yeah. Six, maybe seven months. Say, you want another glass of wine?”
Guinevere smiled regretfully. “I wish I could stay, but I have an appointment.”
“Oh.” Thorpe looked disappointed.
“I think I’ll stop in at the gallery next to Midnight Light and take a look at your painting,” Guinevere said gently.
Thorpe brightened. “You do that. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one to see the real depth in it.” The momentary dash of hope died as he swallowed the last of his drink. “God knows no one else has. Everyone these days wants art to be pretty.”
“Thank you for the drink, Henry.” Quietly Guinevere got up and left. She knew now why she had followed her instincts and let Henry Thorpe buy her a drink.
Farther down the block a sense of guilt made her drop in at the gallery next door to the Midnight Light gallery. She inquired about the Henry Thorpe painting and was shown a medium-size canvas hanging on the back wall.
The canvas was a ceremonial mask of rage and pain. It was done in harsh reds and browns, and it had a kind of raw energy that couldn’t be denied. But Guinevere knew she certainly wouldn’t want it hanging in her home. It was far too depressing.
With a sigh for the inner fury that must be driving Henry Thorpe, she walked back out onto the street. Zac would be waiting together with Carla and Mason at the tavern.
Zac was going to be fascinated to learn that not only had a big-time East Coast investor’s representative been making inquiries about the people who used the Sandwick house for parties, but that an art buyer’s representative had been making inquiries about Mason Adair. All at about the same time. Six or seven months ago.
Zac was highly suspicious of coincidences.
Chapter Eight
Clutching the simulated-leather-bound document labeled Analysis of Security Systems of Gallinger Industries by Free Enterprise Security, Inc., Zac sat outside Elizabeth Gallinger’s office door and awaited the summons.
He had been sitting in the plush outer office for only a few minutes, but he had already used up his entire stock of bracing sayings and encouraging words. He was down to “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do” and “No guts, no glory.”
But the constant pep talk he had been feeding himself since he’d left his office fifteen minutes ago was not doing much to stem the tide of masculine nerves. He still wished he were anywhere but in Elizabeth Gallinger’s outer office. The thought of facing her after the excruciatingly embarrassing scene on the terrace of her home last night was anathema. The thought of abandoning the potential fee he was about to receive for his security analysis services, however, was unthinkable. So: A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
He still wasn’t quite ready when Elizabeth’s private secretary smiled and showed him into the inner office, but he got another tiny reprieve. Elizabeth Gallinger was still on the phone.
“No, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I want all four houses or none of them. See what you can do, Hal. Yes, the usual financing arrangements. All right, that will be fine. Give me a call in the morning. Good-bye, Hal.”
She hung up the phone and smiled brilliantly at Zac. “Sorry about that. Just finishing up some business with someone who handles my real estate investments for me. Do sit down, Zac. I see you have your report. I’m anxious to read it.”
Zac breathed a sigh of relief. She was all business today. Maybe they could both just pretend last night’s scene on the terrace hadn’t happened. He took the leather chair across from her and handed her the genuine simulated-leather binder. He could be all business, too.
“I think you’ll find that everything’s been covered. I’ll be glad to go over any of the details with the people in your security department, but in general they will concur with almost all the recommendations. I’ve already spoken to them. Your main areas of concern are the shipping docks and the computer operations. That’s typical for companies the size of Gallinger Industries. But there are steps that can be taken to tighten up both departments. In addition, I’ve outlined some ways of limiting the kind of casual employee theft that takes place in large organizations.”
Elizabeth opened the binder and glanced through the table of contents. Zac was enormously glad he’d taken Guinevere’s advice and hired one of her temporary secretaries to type the final draft. At least he knew the document looked polished and professional. Of course, Guinevere had charged him a fortune for the afternoon’s work, and it had been disconcerting to discover that the temporary secretary she had assigned him was male, but now it all seemed worthwhile. He waited while Elizabeth perused the opening remarks. Then she looked up with another smile.
“It looks fine, Zac. I certainly appreciate your efficiency. I thought this sort of thing would take months to produce.”
Not when you’re inspired the way I was, Zac thought ruefully. “I gave it my top priority, Elizabeth.”
“I see. Well, I suppose that concludes our association, doesn’t it?” she asked with just the smallest touch of wistfulness.
Zac decided to steer clear of the direction in which she was heading. “I don’t mean to pry, Elizabeth, but have you had a lot of experience in real estate investment? You said a moment ago that you were talking to your agent. I’ve, uh, been thinking of picking up a fixer-upper myself.”
“Have you? It can be very time-consuming if you don’t have someone like Hal to ride herd on the properties and financing for you.”
“Financing? You don’t just pay cash?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Of course not. When you’re investing, the whole point is to use other people’s money as much as possible. Never tie up your own capital. If I can’t work out a good financing arrangement with the owners or my bank, I don’t buy.”
“I see. I certainly appreciate the advice.”
“Let me give you Hal’s phone number. If you’re really interested in picking up some choice properties, give him a call. He’s a wonderful negotiator. Knows all the ins and outs of financing.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth.” Dutifully he accepted the phone number and inserted the
slip of paper into his wallet. Then Zac got to his feet. “I’ve enjoyed working with you. I hope the analysis answers all your questions. As I said, give me a call if your people have any questions.”
He was halfway to the door when Elizabeth’s voice caught him. “Zac?”
His hand froze on the doorknob. “Yes, Elizabeth?” He glanced back over his shoulder.
“You won’t reconsider the offer I made last night?”
Zac cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve more or less committed my genes elsewhere.”
There was a small hesitation, and then Elizabeth nodded soberly. “I understand. I envy her. Good-bye, Zac. And thank you.” Regally gracious to the last.
“Good-bye, Elizabeth.” He escaped into the outer office. Nodding politely to the secretary, he forced himself to walk calmly down the hall to the elevators. It seemed forever before the elevator doors hissed shut behind him and he was swept downstairs to safety.
Out on the street he breathed the air of freedom and glanced at his watch. He realized he was going to be a few minutes late to the rendezvous he’d arranged with Guinevere and Mason. He decided to grab one of the free buses that ran through the core of the city.
The bus was jammed because of rush hour, and Zac nearly missed the stop he wanted in Pioneer Square. He emerged at last, straightening his jacket, and tried to look as if he’d just parked his Ferrari down the block. Hot-shot security consultants probably didn’t ride buses, free or otherwise. Image.
Guinevere saw Zac approaching from the table she was sharing with Mason and Carla. The warm afternoon had attracted a good-size after-work crowd, and the sidewalk seating was nearly filled. She and Mason and Carla had been lucky to get a table.
“Over here, Zac.” She waved encouragingly. “You’re late.”
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