Elinore’s voice changed again when she returned to Jane on the receiver. Now it was coquettish and giggly.
“So Janie, honey, sweetie, it’s so wonderful to talk to you. You know, I’m hearing fantastic things about the show in California at the … you-know museum … what’s it called?”
“The Fyfe.”
“They love your father. Absolutely love him. It’s incredible. Did you see the article in ArtNews that I sent you? Isn’t it fantastic?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “It’s nice to see that Dad is finally getting some of the credit he deserves.”
“And it’s about time,” Elinore said smugly. “I mean, I feel so proud. I’m the only one who believed in your father, you know. I sweat blood for that man. It cost me a fortune to promote him, a fortune!”
Jane felt her jaw tighten. She hadn’t seen her father’s dealer in eight years, but could still picture Elinore’s delicate features, her long blond hair, her self-serving smile. Most people thought Elinore was pretty. Jane knew what she really was.
“If you believed in him so much, why wouldn’t you buy Dad’s paintings from me after his accident?” said Jane, her voice exceedingly cool.
“Janie, Janie …”
“You could have had them for next to nothing, but you weren’t interested. You wouldn’t even store them.”
“Janie, listen to me …”
“It would have made a real difference.”
“Janie, sweetie, please,” cooed Elinore, “let’s not get back into this, okay? Nobody wanted Realism back then. That wasn’t my fault, was it? God, everybody thinks it’s so easy, but believe me, it’s not. You were too young to understand, but I promise you, honey, that this was … that I didn’t … you know what I mean? Okay? It’s all water over the bridge. Okay? I mean, you really hurt me when you talk that way. Now that things are going so well. Did I tell you about the New York Times?”
“No. What about the New York Times?”
“They’re doing a piece in the Sunday Magazine. A feature. I’ve sent them transparencies and everything. It’s fantastic. This is what I’ve been working for all this time, to get Aaron the recognition he deserves. You’d be amazed at what has to go on behind the scenes to get this kind of publicity. Oh God, you don’t know what I’ve gone through to get this show at the what-do-you-call-it museum, and this article in the Times. You owe me, you know. You really do.”
Jane took the phone away from her ear and tried to stay calm. What she owed Elinore was seventy percent of the proceeds from any sale of her father’s paintings because of the overreaching contract he had signed when he was desperate for gallery representation. Jane had talked to three different lawyers about it over the years. The bottom line was that trying to break the agreement could cost thousands of dollars in legal fees with only the tiniest possibility of success.
But if Jane were stuck with Elinore, Elinore was also stuck with her. Elinore couldn’t collect her percentage unless Jane agreed to a sale, which of course was the reason for all this sudden interest.
“I’m not calling to argue with you, Elinore,” said Jane in a quiet voice. “I just want to ask you something.”
“That’s fine, sweetie. Ask me, ask me anything. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what a dealer does. I’m just here to serve. I’m just here for you. I’m like your personal servant. Your wish is my command.”
“Have you ever heard of Peregrine Mannerback? Perry Mannerback?”
“Perry Mannerback, of course I’ve heard of Perry Mannerback,” declared Elinore. “Why? What about him?”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a client of mine. Very difficult. I’ve tried a million times to get him on the phone to tell him about opportunities, but he never returns my calls. He’s very rich but strange. A real problem.”
“Did he know my father?” asked Jane.
“Yes, of course he knew your father. Mr. Mannerback … Peregrine … Perry … was the man who bought that big painting of Aaron’s, the only thing we ever sold. I put a photo of it in the window downstairs and he came up and bought it before we opened the show, before anyone else even saw it. It was one of the transparencies I sent to the Times. Has Perry Mannerback contacted you? Is he interested in another piece?”
Jane wondered if it was her imagination or whether you could actually hear someone salivating over a phone line.
“I just found his name in some of my father’s old papers and was curious, that’s all,” Jane said, not wanting to share any more with Elinore than she had to. “Did Perry Mannerback and my father know one another well?”
“They met when he bought the painting,” said Elinore. “Then he came to my opening vernissage. I don’t know what happened after that, but listen to me, honey. If Perry Mannerback wants to buy another painting, you can’t fuck around with him. He’s an important man and the only one who supported Aaron’s work back then. You have to let me sell him whatever he wants. You just have to.”
“We’ve been all over this, Elinore,” said Jane evenly.
“But Perry Mannerback—”
“I’ve told you, I don’t want to do anything right now.”
“Okay, okay,” muttered Elinore. “That’s your privilege. If you want to be this way, I’m not going to argue. You’re your own woman. You can do what you want, now that Aaron is beginning to get a little success. I just happen to think that you have a moral obligation to your father, that’s all. Sales are what he would have wanted. This isn’t about money, it’s about Aaron. His work, his art. Okay, now I’ve said my piece, and I won’t bring it up again. You’ll never hear another word from me on the subject, I promise. I swear to God.”
“Don’t worry, Elinore,” said Jane. “You’ll get paid if I do anything. I’m just not ready to sell anything to anybody right now.”
“Janie, darling, sweetie,” said Elinore, her voice growing dewy. “Of course I trust you. After all we’ve been through together. We’re just alike, you know. We’re like sisters. That’s why you have to trust me, too. You do trust me, don’t you?”
Jane didn’t say anything. What do you say to a sister who would probably charge you a commission for selling you into slavery?
“So when can I see you?” Elinore resumed, the ground glass returning to her voice. “Greg and I would love to take you out for dinner, get reacquainted. There’s this fabulous new place in the Village that everyone’s talking about, Les Matins. It’s all the rage. The ‘in’ place. And you know that I’m an ‘in’ girl. So when would be good? Saturday? This is absolutely the top place in the city. You’re going to love it.”
“I just got back to town. Maybe in a few weeks.”
“Next Saturday then. Please, pretty please?”
“I’d like to, Elinore, but there’s so much I have to do.”
“Sure, darling. I understand completely. That’s why we want to take you out, so you can relax among friends. Then it’s a date? Next Saturday? Please say yes, I absolutely won’t take no for an answer.”
Jane gritted her teeth. Elinore’s strategy was to make herself so difficult that most people ultimately gave up and just let her have her way. Jane really didn’t want to have anything to do with the woman, but getting rid of her would probably require a silver bullet. And a wooden stake through her heart. And perhaps burial at a crossroads at midnight. Maybe if Jane saw her in person she could get Elinore off her back for a while.
“All right. Next Saturday.”
“See?” said Elinore, laughing happily. “That wasn’t so hard. I’m going to mark it in my calendar right now. You can’t know what I’ll have to go through to get a reservation, but it will be so great to see you. I’m going to win your trust, you’ll see.”
“Do you have Perry Mannerback’s telephone number?”
“Why don’t you let me call him for you?”
“I thought you said he didn’t return your calls.”
“Can you believe that?” shrieked Elinore, remembering h
er outrage. “I don’t understand that man. I really don’t. And I suppose it’s your business if you don’t want to tell me what this is all about. That’s okay. I’m not hurt. Really, I’ll be fine.”
Jane didn’t say anything.
“Martha!” Elinore yelled. “Get me a phone number. Where is that stupid girl?”
It took another five minutes for Jane to extricate herself from the conversation. Then she dialed the number that Elinore had gotten from her secretary. As Jane did so, she caught a glimpse of herself in the little mirror on the back of the kitchen door and shook her head in disbelief. She should have left her hat on. She looked like a dandelion.
“You have reached the offices of OmbiCorp International,” answered a mellow, recorded female voice. “If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it at any time or select from the following menu …”
It took several minutes to get from this point to a human being, but Jane eventually succeeded.
“Mr. Mannerback, please,” she said in her best command voice, the voice she employed to order self-important actors and narcissistic actresses to perform summersaults and sit-ups.
“Thank you,” said the operator. “One moment, please.”
“Chairman’s office,” said another voice after a moment.
“Mr. Mannerback, please,” Jane repeated.
“I’ll connect you.”
“Mr. Mannerback’s office,” said a third voice in due course.
“Is he available?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Jane Sailor.”
“Is this a foundation matter or corporate?”
“It’s personal.”
“One moment, please.”
There was a longer wait this time. Eventually, still another voice came on the line. This too was female, as all the others had been. She spoke with a clipped, efficient British accent. Her voice was as cold as the concrete floor in Jane’s basement.
“Miss Barbara Fripp. May I help you?”
“I’d like to make an appointment to see Mr. Mannerback,” said Jane, trying to sound equally efficient.
“To what is this in reference?”
“It’s personal,” said Jane. She had no idea of what she would say to Perry Mannerback, but figured that just meeting him would give her an idea of how to proceed.
“Mr. Mannerback is a very busy man,” declared Miss Fripp. “If you would care to put your problem in writing and send it along, I will be happy to bring it to his attention.”
“I’d prefer to see him in person.”
“Then you will have to tell me what this is about.”
“I believe that Mr. Mannerback bought a painting of my father’s,” said Jane. “My father was an artist. I believe they were friends.”
“And your father’s name would be?”
“Aaron Sailor.”
“No, it is not a name with which I am familiar. Mr. Mannerback makes the acquaintance of many individuals during the course of his travels. His time is very valuable. I am afraid that a meeting is out of the question. Impossible. You are welcome to send us a letter.”
“I see,” said Jane, her spirits sinking. What could she write under the circumstance? “Dear Mr. Mannerback, do you happen to remember if you pushed my father down a flight of stairs eight years ago?”
“Our address is 1381 Avenue of the Americas,” said Miss Fripp, “New York, New York, 10020.”
“May I ask you a question?” said Jane.
“Certainly,” replied the chilly voice.
“Why would Mr. Mannerback give my father a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card?”
“Get Out of Jail Free?”
“From Monopoly. The board game. Mr. Mannerback signed it on the back.”
“And you have this card?” said Miss Fripp, amazement flooding into her voice. “It is in your possession?”
“I’m looking at it now.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” demanded the secretary. “How about tomorrow morning?”
“How about tomorrow morning for what?”
“For your appointment, of course. Mr. Mannerback takes his ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ cards very seriously. Would eleven o’clock be convenient?”
Four
The Avenue of the Americas—or Sixth Avenue, as New Yorkers still called it generations after its renaming—was one of those places, like the city’s financial district, where skyscrapers had triumphed entirely over human beings.
Buildings that touched the clouds lined both sides of the busy thoroughfare from Forty-second Street all the way up to Central Park. While a few were architecturally distinguished, like Radio City Music Hall and CBS’s Black Rock Building, most were just the anonymous glass cigar boxes that Corporate America required of its big league players.
The headquarters of OmbiCorp International was one of these behemoths, a towering gray structure at Fifty-sixth Street, complete with the requisite fountain-strewn pedestrian plaza in front and half-acre Frank Stella tapestry hanging in the lobby.
Jane sat on a beige suede sofa in the fifty-first-floor reception area of OmbiCorp’s executive offices. Directly across from her, behind the receptionist, was an enormous window that looked out over the long green postage stamp of Central Park far below. From up here, the exclusive apartment buildings of Fifth Avenue and Central Park West looked like dollhouse furniture, and the people on the sidewalks weren’t even the size of ants. That was the point of all this. A skyscraper was about perspective. This was the top of the world, or so the inhabitants of such aeries would have you believe.
Jane was dressed in her best gray Bonnie Businesswoman suit, complete with white silk blouse and a string of Jackie Kennedy-style fake pearls. Being of the theatre, she knew the importance of costume as well as OmbiCorp knew the importance of sets. From the address Miss Fripp had given her, Jane had expected something like this. The reality, however, was beyond intimidating, it was positively scary. She again thanked the hair gods that Chop Sui had managed to squeeze her in for a nine a.m. appointment.
At least she wouldn’t face Perry Mannerback looking like an advertisement for bad hats or rebellious teenagers, thought Jane, gazing at her reflection in a chrome end table. Romero had assured her that Raphael Renaissance Red was the only way to neutralize the blond mess she had made of her hair, and he had been right. At the cost of a mere two hundred and fifty dollars, she no longer looked like a dandelion. Now she looked like a marigold.
Jane twiddled her thumbs and tried to move her thoughts from how stupid she looked as a redhead to what she was going to say. Unfortunately, there was no real way to plan for a situation like this. You had to let things unfold naturally. From what Peregrine Mannerback looked like, however, Jane suspected they would end up screaming at one another. She had seen him twice now in the half hour that she had been kept waiting. The first time was when he had arrived off the elevator.
He was unmistakably the man in charge here: thin, tan, and six foot four—a ramrod-straight military type, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, cold gray eyes, and thin lips. He wore a two-thousand-dollar black suit, a starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs, and an “I take no prisoners” expression. He not only seemed perfectly capable of pushing someone down a flight of stairs, he looked like he would enjoy doing so.
The receptionist had shot to her feet in fearful silence and practically saluted when he entered. He had breezed past her without even a glance of acknowledgment, moving through the space as if he owned it and everyone in it as well. About ten minutes later, he had crossed back through the reception area with a train of deferential associates in tow, all clamoring for his attention.
This must be the chairman of OmbiCorp, Jane had decided immediately, the man who needed four levels of secretarial protection, the man who may have destroyed Aaron Sailor’s life.
Jane found herself planning for the coming confrontation. Should she begin with guns blazing? “Why did you push my father down the stairs eight years
ago, Mr. Mannerback?” Or should she first lull him with small talk, then take him by surprise? “My, what a lovely tie. Is that what the well-dressed murderer is wearing this season?”
And “murderer” was the right word. If Peregrine Mannerback had in fact pushed Aaron Sailor down those stairs, then he had murdered him, murdered him as surely as if he had plunged a knife into his heart. In a way, it was worse than murder. When a person was dead there was at least finality, the story was over, you could mourn. Aaron Sailor was dead, but his corpse lived on.
At that moment the man Jane believed to be Peregrine Mannerback entered the lobby again. This time he noticed Jane for the first time and stopped abruptly. Jane felt the adrenaline surging into her system as, not taking his eyes off her, he crossed to the receptionist and whispered something that Jane could not hear. The girl turned pale and whispered something back. The man listened, then turned on his heel and exited without another glance at either of them.
Jane knew she was having an involuntary fight-or-flight response. Her pulse was racing. Her hands had become cold. That would never do, she thought angrily. She took a deep breath from her diaphragm, counting to ten as she did, then let it out twice as slowly. Her center of gravity had leaped into her chest, which was absolutely the worst thing you could have going into a fight.
Jane took another deep breath. She didn’t have to be thrown off balance, she told herself. Perry Mannerback couldn’t intimidate her, no matter how cold his manner or rich his stage set, unless she let him. He could let her cool her heels for another hour if he wanted to. She would begin their meeting with a calm heart and a low center. She would find out the truth.
“Gummy bears, gummy bears,” muttered a voice. “Very important. Very important.”
Jane turned toward the voice in time to see a man getting off the elevator. He was a slight, wild-looking fellow, with a long, thin nose, a high forehead, and big, startled brown eyes. His tangled brown hair swept back in all directions as if he had just stepped out of a race car or a centrifuge. Under his rumpled raincoat he wore a navy blue blazer with gold buttons, a butterscotch-colored vest, and a big polka-dotted bow tie. He was about five foot seven and walked with the spastic energy of a teenager, though the bags under his eyes and wattle beneath his pointed chin suggested an age approaching sixty.
The Girl in the Face of the Clock Page 4