Too Damn Rich (7 page)

"Hi, guys!" intruded the bright, itty-bitty
little chirp that set their teeth on edge as Bambi Parker breezed
in, hoisting her Bottega Veneta bag onto her desk.

Mumbling desultory "Hi's," Arnold and Kenzie
quickly buried their noses in work.

"Am I late?" Bambi asked, all wide-eyed
innocence. "I think my watch has stopped." She made a production of
shaking her wrist, frowning at the thin gold timepiece, tapping its
face with a fingernail, and then holding it against her ear.

Arnold rolled his eyes; Kenzie, unable to
help herself, glanced down at her nemesis's elegantly shod feet.
Bambi's Roberto Vianni grosgrain pumps were perfectly intact, just
as she'd known they would be. But then, Bambi's heels never broke,
just as her palomino pantyhose never ran, split ends were unknown
to her, and her fingernails never, ever chipped or broke.

Dina Goldsmith was on her way, and as the new
"owner's" wife, was getting Burghley's red carpet treatment.

Outside, under the scalloped, dove gray
awning with its trademark oxblood lettering, waited no less a
personage than Sheldon D. Fairey, who held a total of three
distinct job titles: chief auctioneer; Chairman of the Board of
Directors, Burghley's North America; and President and Chief
Operating Officer of Burghley's Holdings, Inc.

He was flanked on his right by Allison
Steele, president of Burghley's North America, a deceptively
feminine creature who never hesitated to go for the jugular, and on
his left by David W. Bunker, Jr., the most senior of the New York
branch's nine senior vice presidents.

This bland-faced triumvirate, whose patience
had been worn extremely thin after standing there for nearly thirty
minutes already, were careful not to show their irritation at the
power behind the throne, who had yet to make her appearance.

Dina Goldsmith was—what
else?—ultrafashionably late.

Outward appearances to the contrary,
inwardly, each of them seethed. Especially Sheldon D. Fairey.

A busy man, he had far more pressing things
with which to occupy his time. Every so often, he shot up the cuff
of his bespoke suit to consult his gold wristwatch, a rare antique
made by the very hands of Louis Elisee Piguet himself, and for none
other than the wrist of the late John D. Rockefeller.

But Sheldon D. Fairey kept the true extent of
his indignation in check. Aside from periodically glancing at the
time, he managed to look outwardly serene.

He also looked to pinstripes born.

Tall, well-built, and perfectly turned out,
he was not only imposing— his head could have been a prototype for
the Antiquities department's very best Roman busts—but he proved
that the looks of a certain few men, like the flavor of a handful
of Grand Cru wines, only improved with age. He had thick silver
hair combed back from a noble brow, an aquiline nose, solid cleft
jaw, and jade marbles for eyes. Somewhere in the neighborhood of
sixty, his aura exuded equal amounts of power, polish, and
aristocracy.

But looks alone did not the man make. Sheldon
D. Fairey was a powerhouse in the art world. He had worked wonders
during his ten years at the helm of Burghley's North American
operations. For it had been he who had guided the auction house to
its present number-one position in New York.

Too, it had been at his instigation that
Burghley's had moved from its pricey, limited rental space on Park
Avenue to its current, outrightly owned square block—including not
only the spacious palazzo housing the auction house proper, but
conceiving and then overseeing the construction of Auction Towers,
that prime residential complex which out-Trumped Trump Tower
itself.

And finally
, he
, and he alone, had
initiated the highly controversial but financially lucrative
practice of helping finance multimillion-dollar art for potential
bidders.

Now, just as he shot back his cuff to check
his watch for the nth time, a block-long white stretch limo with
DINA G vanity plates and gold electroplate trim pulled up to the
curb.

A full thirty-three minutes late, he noted
sourly as he adjusted his cuffs and yellow silk Hermes tie,
simultaneously wondering why anyone with Dina Goldsmith's
wherewithal would choose such a vulgar outlandish mode of
transportation instead of something tasteful like a dark
Rolls-Royce or, even better yet, a discreet Town Car?

New money! he thought in disgust. New money
always had to trumpet its bourgeois insecurity!

But his face did not betray so much as a
flicker of emotion. Nor did he wait for Dina's chauffeur to come
around and open her door. Turning up his famous charm, Sheldon D.
Fairey took matters into his own manicured hands and helped the new
Queen of Manhattan alight with the same gallant demeanor he would
have reserved for the Queen Mother herself.

Dina Goldsmith emerged from the Cadillac
looking fashion-runway perfect. Having kept the more subtle light
of autumn in mind, she had used restraint on her makeup, with just
a touch of amethyst shadowing her eyes and a hint of bronze gloss
highlighting her rusty red lipstick. She wore a micro-length, black
wool tunic-dress with big gilt buttons. A high- necked black lace
blouse. Diamond-patterned black leggings. And her hair pulled back
and secured with a gold barrette which did double duty by anchoring
the silky, shoulder-length blonde hairpiece that matched her hair
color precisely.

But she hadn't been as discreet about wearing
daytime jewelry as she'd been about her makeup, because no matter
what the etiquette experts pontificated, she, Mrs. Robert A.
Goldsmith, fully subscribed to the belief that diamonds were
appropriate for daytime wear, a fact to which every gemstone
expert, diamond cutter, and cognoscente could universally attest,
for it is only in bright daylight—especially dazzlingly bright
northern light—that diamonds truly came into their own, reflecting
and refracting their brilliance the way their cut intended.

Also a firm believer that bigger is always
better, each of Dina's earlobes was weighed down with great
twenty-five-carat square-cut diamond solitaires.

"Ah ... my dear Mrs. Goldsmith!" Sheldon D.
Fairey greeted in his plummiest voice.

"Sheldon," Dina acknowledged.

He bent deferentially over her hand and
kissed a mere breath on Dina's fingertips. "May I compliment you on
how marvelous you look?"

Dina preened visibly, eating up the attentive
homage—and for good reason. She had a memory like an elephant, and
today was the day she would get back at him for a whole slew of
past slights.

Having greeted Dina, Fairey first introduced
Allison Steele and then it was her turn to bring the triumvirate's
attention to her sidekick— Gabriella Morton. "My secretary." Dina
gestured to the tweedy, bossy squirt of a woman. "Miss Morton."

"How do you do, Ms. Morton?" Fairey greeted
in his fruity tones.

"That's 'Miss' Morton, if you please," Gaby
sniffed, pumping his arm energetically up and down. "I remember
when it was perfectly acceptable to be a 'Miss'—and in my book, it
still is."

He looked somewhat taken aback. "Er, of
course, Ms.... er, Miss Morton ..."

Dina felt like hugging Gaby on the spot;
instead, she made a mental note to give her a well-deserved
bonus.

Well-deserved because, several years earlier,
it had been this self-same Sheldon D. Fairey who, at one of the
Goldsmiths' parties, had dismissed Dina's prized trio of Renoirs as
"minor," and had hinted that her treasured Degas Racehorses from
Christie's was possibly second-rate and had dared—actually
dared!—to question the authenticity of her Toulouse-Lautrec, the
very Toulouse-Lautrec she had successfully bid for at Burghley's
while no less an auctioneer's mallet than Sheldon D. Fairey's own
had sealed the sale! Then, as if that hadn't been provocation
enough, she had actually overheard him adding insult to injury by
snidely referring to her ornate French furniture as "Louis Cohen"
behind her back!

So wasn't it delicious that the tables should
suddenly have turned? And that he—Sheldon D. Fairey, of all
people!—should now be forced to eat humble pie and have to kowtow
to her?

"Louis Cohen" indeed!

Fairey was smiling ingratiatingly at her.

"I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have
this opportunity to show you around," he was saying, placing a
solicitous hand under Dina's elbow to steer her inside.

But Dina, pumped up with adrenaline, was not
quite ready to move.

"Sheldon, sweetie ..." She frowned at the
uniformed doorman who was holding open one of the thick plate glass
doors for them.

"Yes?" he asked.

She gestured. "That—uniform!"

Sheldon D. Fairey inspected the doorman, who
was fastidiously groomed and spit-shined as always. "What about it,
Mrs. Goldsmith?" he asked cautiously.

Dina turned to him, piercing him with a
drill-bit gaze. "Those breeches ..." she observed frostily,
pointing and making a little production of shivering. "And those
... well, those storm trooper boots! They're too neo ... you know
... Gestapo?"

Sheldon D. Fairey coughed into a cupped hand.
"Actually, it's a faithful copy of an English chauffeur's uniform,"
he informed her.

"Nonetheless." Dina smiled saccharinely,
reveling in his discomfiture. "Those uniforms have got to go.
Blazers and ties will do nicely ... and they'll be far less
intimidating as far as Burghley's customers are concerned. Don't
you agree?"

"Hmmm," he said noncommittally.

"Of course you do," Dina purred before
turning to Gaby, who was right behind her, steno pad and pen at the
ready. "Make a note of that, Gaby, will you?"

Gaby smirked. "Okie dokie, Mrs.
Goldsmith."

"Now then, Sheldon." Dina slid her arm
through Fairey's. "Shall we get on with the tour? I want to see
everything. Absolutely evvvverything!"

And so Dina set about having the time of her
life. Busting Sheldon D. Fairey's chops was an eminently satisfying
experience.

Once inside the spacious lobby, Dina paused
as though to soak in the surroundings, her laser-eyed gaze jumping
from one uniformed security guard to the next.

"Really, Sheldon," she said with a frown. "I
do believe those guards are half-asleep. Why, look at that one over
there!"

She pointed an accusatory finger.

"He's actually sitting down on the job!
Sitting down, Sheldon!"

Fairey followed the direction of her
quivering finger with unease. Just his bad luck for a guard to be
caught having his morning coffee and Danish on one of the
customers' benches. Gnashing his teeth, he wondered how word of
Dina's arrival had not gotten around to everyone, dammit!

"Hmmm," he said, looking concerned.

"Well? Do they, or do they not, seem far less
than alert?"

"Less," Fairey was forced to admit, but
quickly assured her: "I'll see to it that their boss is informed.
That should shake them up."

"I'm afraid talking about it won't be enough.
It's action that counts, Sheldon. Action! I suggest you fire the
entire lot and hire new ones."

"Fire the—" he stammered, looking
stricken.

"The entire lot." Dina was unrelenting.

"Very well," he sighed.

Dina turned around to Gaby, who was standing
right behind her. "You are making a note of that, Gaby?"

"Sure am!" Gaby assured her, not quite able
to hide her smirk.

It was all Sheldon D. Fairey could do to grit
his teeth and bear it. From his expression, it was clear he'd
rather be anywhere but here. In Timbuktu—or, better yet, lost on an
ice floe somewhere. Anywhere would have been preferable, so long as
thousands of miles separated him from Dina Goldsmith.

In Burghley's Basement, the low-ceilinged,
downstairs arcade where a gamut of items ranging from silver to
paintings to furnishings were auctioned off every Sunday for
customers requiring quick cash, Dina's head swiveled slowly in all
directions.

"Sheldon, dear? Don't you agree that the
lighting down here is ... well ... a bit too garish? I mean, how on
earth can we expect people to place respectable bids on items when
every chip and crack practically screams at them? Just look at this
piece of Export porcelain!"

She glared at the offending item.

"It looks like junk under these lights! Would
you want to buy it?" And before he could utter a reply, she turned
to her secretary. "Are you getting it down, Gaby?"

"Word for word!" came the cheerful reply.

As they continued their tour, Dina didn't let
up for an instant. She was making up for every slight she had ever
suffered from Sheldon D. Fairey—and then some.

At the sales counter upstairs, where books
and catalogues from each of the various Burghley's branches were on
sale, Dina said, "Sheldon? Are three girls behind that one small
counter really necessary? I'd prune them down to two at the most!
Staff is our biggest overhead, and cost effectiveness means extra
profits, you know. And while you're at it, you might see to it that
the staff smiles and welcomes potential customers. If you ask me,
those young ladies are altogether too snooty and arrogant.
Burghley's must be made to seem less imposing and intimidating—and
that starts with the staff!"

"I'm getting it down," came Gaby's voice from
behind.

In the soaring auditorium that was the main
auction gallery proper, Dina's fluid sweep of a hand encompassed
the rows of chairs lined up to either side of the wide center
aisle.

"Me ... tal folding chairs?" she intoned, a
mere arching of an eyebrow emphasizing her distaste. "Really,
Sheldon. It's obvious you've never had to sit on one of those for
two or three hours. Believe me, I have. Clients who sit here for
the privilege of bidding thousands, even millions,of dollars on
furniture and works of art deserve chairs more appropriate to their
station." She gave him a saccharine smile. "You do agree, don't
you?"