Too Damn Rich (9 page)

"Oh, Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie chided. "You
shouldn't have!"

"But I did, and that is my prerogative.
Well?" He gestured impatiently. "Don't just sit there looking
stupefied. Open them!"

Kenzie and Arnold tore away the wrapping
papers. Then they sat there, staring at a small framed picture in
stunned silence.

"Why it's ... it's ..."

Kenzie's voice deserted her while her eyes
followed every line of the exquisite study of a baby rendered in
pen, brown ink, and a purple wash on blue paper, its effect
heightened here and there with traces of black and white chalk.

"A Zuccaro!" she finally managed in a breathy
whisper. "The one retouched by Rubens himself!"

Slowly she raised her eyes and stared across
the table.

"My God, Mr. Spotts! You know I couldn't
possibly—"

"Now, now. You not only can, my dear, but you
must. Really, I find this most embarrassing ..." Mr. Spotts glanced
around, visibly distressed. "Yes, yes, most embarrassing indeed
..."

"And this!" Arnold said shakily.

Kenzie balanced her weight on the back of
Arnold's chair as she half stood, looking over his shoulder at the
picture in his hands.

"Tiepolo," she murmured automatically,
needing but one glance at the buff paper with its red chalk and
highlights of black and white. "To be precise," she added,
"Giovanni Battista Tiepolo's Bishop Saint Healing a Young
Woman."

"All I ask is that you enjoy them," Mr.
Spotts said. "Hang them on your walls and derive pleasure from
them. Think of them as part of your nest eggs."

"Oh, Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie whispered, tears
coming into her eyes. "You know we can't possibly—"

"In that case," the old man said cryptically,
"perhaps it will make you feel better to know that these are not
... umn ... exactly outright gifts?"

"Oh? Then what are they?"

"They're conditional. You know ... they come
with strings attached?" Mr. Spotts made marionette-controlling
motions with his gnarled fingers.

"Strings?" Arnold asked, his interest piqued.
He sat forward. "What kinds of strings?"

Mr. Spotts eyed them both solemnly over the
rims of his half lenses. "What I need," he sighed quietly, "is to
extract one promise from each of you."

"We'd gladly do that anyway," Kenzie assured
him. "There's no need to give us presents!"

"I know." Mr. Spotts nodded. "But this
particular favor ... well, it's a rather large one." He stared
intently from one of them to the other.

"Just name it," said Kenzie.

The old man was silent.

"Yes, just say the word," pressed Arnold.

"Save the department!" Mr. Spotts's voice was
soft but harshly bitter, like a brittle, arctic wind. "That's the
one thing I ask!"

Every Tuesday and Thursday Bambi Parker spent
her lunchtime at the Vertical Club on East Sixty-first Street. The
way she figured it, she was twenty-four, going on twenty-five, and
not getting any younger. Besides, at Burghley's you never knew who
you were apt to run into. It behooved a single young woman to
always be in shape and look her absolute best.

After thirty minutes of concentrated workout,
she peeled off her lime green and shocking pink Spandex exercise
outfit, showered, dressed, repaired her makeup, and moseyed on back
to Burghley's, eating a container of non-fat, lemon-flavored yogurt
while checking out the windows of the clothing boutiques along the
way. When she finally returned to the auction house, she headed
straight for one of the second-floor employees' powder rooms.

This particular one, which she frequented,
was known as "The Club," since it unofficially doubled as sorority
house for the most popular among Burghley's army of Seven
Sisters-educated arts majors—trust-fund babies all—every one of
whom was biding her time working in an appropriately genteel job
until Prince Charming came along.

Then, once they were swept off to the grand
townhouses and penthouses of the upper East Side of Manhattan, plus
oceanfront weekend "cottages" out in the Hamptons, or bucolic
country estates in the rolling hills of northwestern Connecticut,
the roles they now played would be reversed, and the
self-perpetuating cycle become evident: Burghley's ex- employees
would trade the expertise gained working at the auction house by
becoming its most knowledgeable clientele.

Even before opening the door of "The Club,"
Bambi could already hear the noise coming from within. It sounded
like an aviary—albeit, judging from the chatter and coos, trills
and squeaks, and more than a few Locust Valley lockjaws, a highly
elite aviary consisting of only the most carefully select and
singularly bred of all species.

Bambi felt right at home as she squeezed
between two girls to get at the long stretch of mirror above the
sinks; sometime back, the more enterprising among them had taken up
a collection, so that a row of frosted makeup bulbs was installed
all the way across the top. A fiercely unflattering light, it was
perfect for its purposes.

"Hiya Bambs!" greeted the reflection of the
preening blonde leaning into the mirror on her right.
"Howareya?"

Bambi smiled into the mirror at Elissa
Huffington, who could have been a model if the Social Register
Huffingtons hadn't instantly put the skids on that particular line
of work. But Elissa didn't rate much of a reply from Bambi—she was
one of Bambi's major competitors in the Great Manhunt for Mr.
Right.

"Well?" Elissa asked through a barely moving
mouth as she slid Perfect Pumpkin lipstick across her lips. "Aren't
ya gonna share the news?"

"News? What news?" Bambi leaned into the
mirror, thickening her lashes with lightning strokes of an eyelash
brush.

"What news! About your boss—what else!"

"Well? What about him?"

"You mean ... oh, Christ! You would be the
last to know!"

"Know what?" Bambi's eyelash brush was a
blur.

"That 'The Translucent' is finally
retiring—that's what!"

Bambi's eyelash brush stopped moving. "Say
that again?" She stared at Elissa's reflection.

"Gawd!" Elissa rolled her eyes. "It's about
time, isn't it? I mean, if anyone's an antiquity, it's gotta be him
..." Elissa kept her voice deliberately light and chiding, but her
sharp eyes, catching Bambi's reflection, gratified her to no end:
the tidbit had elicited the hoped-for reaction.

But after a moment, Bambi sloughed off the
news with a shrug, leaned back into the mirror, and resumed
brushing her lashes. "There've been rumors about Mr. Spotts's
retirement since the very first day I started working here," she
said dismissively.

"Yes, but this time it isn't a rumor. This is
on the up-and-up."

"Oh?" Bambi's eyes flicked suspiciously
sideways at Elissa. "Says who?"

"Says Sheldon D. Fairey's assistant
secretary. She overheard the whole thing. You might as well face
it, Bambs. Today's your boss's last day on the job. So. Who d'you
think'll get promoted? You? Kenzie? Arnold? Or d'you think they
might bring in an outsider?"

Bambi abruptly felt physically ill. Why
haven't I been informed? she railed silently, wanting to clutch the
sink and retch. Was that the reason those three traipsed off
together? Purposely leaving me behind because they decided to
discuss succession?

She could practically see them, thick as
thieves. Hunched over a dim table like a cabal. Whispering.
Scheming. Hatching their plot ...

Her chest suddenly felt as if a boa
constrictor had coiled itself around her, and was relentlessly
tightening its grip.

Suddenly her heart skipped a beat and
something hard and steely gleamed in her eyes. The corners of her
lips curved into a bladelike smile. Well! If the matter of
succession was being discussed over lunch without her, then fine!
She had a trick or two up her own beautifully tailored sleeve, and
a better one than that kissy-kissy little triumvirate could ever
come up with!

"Anyway, I'd check it out if I were you,"
Elissa was saying, giving Bambi a pointed look. "Catch my
drift?"

"I do, and thanks, 'Liss." Bambi hurriedly
stuffed her makeup back into her purse. "See you later."

"If ya hear anything new, you'll let me know?
Us debs have got to stick together, right?"

"Uh, right," Bambi said. "I'd better run
along now. 'Bye!"

She backed out from the row of chattering
girls who, with her departure, immediately spread out further,
sensing, more than seeing, additional precious inches of elbow room
becoming available.

In the vestibule outside the powder room,
Bambi squeezed into one of the phone booths, shut the door, and
deposited a quarter. She didn't want to use her office phone—not if
she wanted to make certain she wouldn't be overheard should the
trio return early from lunch. This was one call which required the
utmost privacy—and urgency.

Punching the highly secret number of Robert
A. Goldsmith's highly private line down on Wall Street—the one
telephone which bypassed his platoon of secretaries—she waited
through one ring, two, three—

Then:

"Robert?"

Bambi used her best itty-bitty wittle girl's
voice.

"It's me—Bambs. Listen, I'm in a phone booth,
so I've got to make it real short."

She cupped her hands around the receiver and
glanced quickly over both shoulders, making certain no one was
standing within earshot.

"I just heard that the head of my
department's retiring," she whispered into the phone. "I want that
job, Robert. I want it so badly I can taste it!" She took a deep
breath. "I'll do anything to get it. And by anything, I mean
anything."

Bambi was alone in the office and considering
cutting out early when the telephone chirruped. She stared
reproachfully at her extension, wondering whether or not to answer
it. She knew that she should, but that was beside the point.

Why not skip out early? Why even answer that
damned insistently chirruping phone?

Suddenly it occurred to her that it might be
Robert, and she lunged for the receiver. "Old Masters!" she
breathed perkily. "Ms. Parker speaking!"

A voice which definitely did not belong to
Robert A. Goldsmith said, "Hello? This is Zachary Bavosa of the
legal firm Calvert, Barkhorn, Waldburger, and Slocum. I'm calling
on behalf of a client of ours."

Bambi suppressed a sigh. "And how may I help
you?"

"A client of ours who ... er ... wishes to
remain anonymous ... has inherited a painting. A Holbein, to be
exact."

"Yes ... ?"

"Both Christie's and Sotheby's, as well as
several private dealers, have determined it to be genuine, and have
appraised its value at somewhere between twenty and thirty million
dollars."

Suddenly Bambi was all ears. "And you wish a
third opinion, I take it?"

He chuckled. "Oh, no, Ms. Parker. We're quite
convinced it's genuine. Our client wishes to sell it."

Then what's the catch? she wondered. If it's
the real McCoy, both Christie's and Sotheby's must be chomping at
the bit to handle the sale. Why call us, also, unless there's a
problem? "We'd be glad to take a look at it," she said carefully.
And then, in a reflex action, Bambi threw caution to the four winds
and plunged right on it. "I'm sure we'd be delighted to handle
it!"

He was silent for a moment. "I could bring it
by tomorrow, along with the pertinent documentation of its
provenance. Would eleven a.m. be convenient for you?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "Eleven a.m. will
be fine," she assured him. "Just ask for me. Bambi Parker."

Well, well, well! she thought as she hung up
the phone. What a coup! From the sound of things, the Holbein will
be the star of the next Old Masters auction! She could see it
already. We'll put it on the cover of the catalogue. Send out press
releases and watch a bidding war break out. Chances are, it might
even set a world record for the artist. Bambi could barely contain
her excitement. I can't wait to see Kenzie and Arnold's
expressions. They'll be so envious they'll want to tear my eyes
out!

832 FIFTH AVENUE

The elegant white letters, outlined in black,
graced the creamy whipcord canopy that extended from the building
to the street like a convex lozenge.

Engraved plaques, shiny as new money,
repeated the three-digit number on either side of the brass and
etched-glass Art Deco doors.

The Robert A. Goldsmiths occupied two full
penthouse floors in this, one of the most expensive residential
addresses in the world. From outside, the pristine prewar apartment
house looked like a sand-blasted armory. Inside, a small army was
on duty around the clock. In addition to the uniformed doorman, two
armed security guards were stationed in the marble lobby, and a
third guard, a state-of-the-art alarm system, and closed-circuit
television protected the delivery entrance on East Eighty- first
Street.

The security measures were well founded,
considering that the tenants had an aggregate worth of between
eighteen and twenty billion dollars.

Zandra von Hohenburg-Willemlohe, who had been
the Goldsmiths' houseguest before, appreciated the Elysian edifice,
and not for its white- glove service, either. For her, it was the
ideal hideout. If the London goons somehow managed to tail her
here, they would never be able to get past the lobby, since even
known visitors were as carefully screened as guests at the gates of
the White House.

"You may go on up, madam," the doorman
intoned gravely after having conferred over the house phone with
someone at the Goldsmiths'. "It's the fourteenth floor."

When Zandra got off the elevator, the
pedimented double doors to the Goldsmith apartment were open wide
and an impeccably dressed man stood waiting in the luxuriously
furnished vestibule.