Triumph (13 page)

That couldn’t be helped. Kelly left and followed Atwood through the crush of guests to the dais where Natalie Conrad still sat.

Atwood brought Kelly up the low stairs to the side, approaching Mrs. Conrad with deference. There was an attractive older man on either side of her, leaning in attentively as she spoke in a low voice. They were both impeccably groomed. One had dashes of silver at the temples and the other had snow-white hair. Natalie Conrad seemed younger than either man, but she might have been close in age to the first.

She stopped talking when she saw Kelly, rising graciously from her seat. The two men rose also. “Run along,” she told them playfully. “We can pick up where we left off later.”

They obeyed, nodding to Kelly without expecting to be introduced and leaving the dais. Atwood retreated to a respectful distance.

“I was so surprised to see you when I walked in, Kelly,” the older woman began. “Forgive me for not smiling. I wasn’t sure it was you at first. By the time I realized it was, the crowd had closed in.”

“It’s a wonderful ball. Thank you—” Kelly stopped. She couldn’t say
thank you for inviting me
. She hadn’t been invited.

“You and I had such a nice chat in Atlanta at the benefit gala—ah, it was years ago, wasn’t it? But I remembered you the instant I saw you. What are you doing now? Are you still a reporter?”

“Not really,” Kelly said. “I anchor the evening news. Occasionally I do a feature.”

“Oh, I see,” Natalie said. “I must confess that Monroe Capp let me know you’d be here.” She smiled blandly.

And Kelly thought she’d escaped unnoticed. Good old Monroe. He had a way of finding out what everyone was up to and he loved to meddle. But how did he know Natalie?

“Kelly, please sit.” The older woman made it easier for her by resuming her own chair. “You must be exhausted. By the way, he mentioned that you’d been shot while you were taping a report. Some sort of criminal altercation, was it? I had no idea that reporting could be so dangerous.”

Kelly racked her mind for the right words to downplay her experience. “I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wasn’t hurt.”

“Even so—you had to have been traumatized.”

The older woman’s nervous manner and fixed stare were hard to take. Kelly looked away. “Not really. All in a day’s work for me.”

“My dear, I admire your courage.”

“I really was just standing there. There are neighborhoods in Atlanta where you don’t want to do that. I wouldn’t even call the area a neighborhood. It’s slated for development.”

“A word that so often means condemned.”

Kelly looked at her, puzzled. “Natalie, with all due respect, I’d rather not think about the incident. If we could talk about something else . . .”

“Of course.” The older woman condescended to her with a gracious smile. “Are you enjoying the party? I hear you’ve been dancing nearly all night.”

One thing was certain about Natalie Conrad: she paid extremely close attention to a lot of things—and she could pay other people to do her watching for her.

“What else can I do? The band keeps playing.”

Natalie’s silvery laugh rang out. “My dear, I think it is the company you keep. Is the young man your fiancé? Last time we met I believe you were unattached.”

“No,” Kelly said quickly. “Russ is just a friend. He’s a wonderful dancer.”

Natalie gave her an amused, conspiratorial look. “I don’t know him, but I wish I did. Atwood had a photo—he and his team keep me informed as best they can.”

Kelly had noticed that.

“The guest list just kept getting longer. We need donors at all income levels for this fund-raiser. Not everyone has a million to give away.”

“I certainly don’t,” Kelly said cheerfully.

“So did you know I was hosting the ball when Mr. Thorn asked you to accompany him?”

“I did, yes. He made sure to tell me. He didn’t know that you and I had met before.”

“Such a small world.”

Kelly was desperate to change the subject again. Natalie’s gaze held an inquisitive intelligence that went far beyond her ability to make small talk. “Tell me more about the art museum, Mrs. Conrad.”

“Please call me Natalie.”

Fair enough. Kelly didn’t mind. “Is that the architect’s model?”

Natalie looked proudly at the small structure beside her. “Yes. Isn’t it marvelous.”

That didn’t seem to be a question. Kelly agreed with a nod.

“And it will cost millions to build,” the older woman said thoughtfully. “I do wish you worked in Texas and not Georgia.”

“I don’t know if I ever told you that I’m a Texas native—does that help?” Kelly could almost feel the twang coming back. She suspected that wouldn’t impress Natalie Conrad one way or another.

“Oh. How interesting. But it doesn’t really matter. I know you and I would trust you to produce a feature story.”

“What about the Dallas media?” Kelly asked.

“Out in force,” Mrs. Conrad said dismissively. “In all honesty, an art museum benefit simply isn’t their sort of story. Nonetheless, they are here.”

Kelly didn’t need to look at dangling press passes. She’d spotted several reporters already, swilling champagne and eating all the coconut shrimp. Took one to know one. She’d made meals out of canapés and free drinks more times than she could count, back when she was an underpaid newbie. There were undoubtedly many more media people here tonight representing local TV, the newspapers, and the blogosphere.

Natalie’s disapproving frown eased into a smile as she thought of something else. “Would a feature on an east coast station help us get national coverage?”

“Why not?” Kelly took the opportunity that had just been offered. “We’ve had several stories picked up by the major networks. They’re cutting costs too. In-depth features, general interest—they get to go national without sending out a team of their own.”

“Ah. But even so—”

“You once had a home in Atlanta, as I remember.”

“Yes. I still do.”

Kelly picked up on what the other woman left unsaid. Natalie owned many houses. They weren’t homes, strictly speaking, since she probably didn’t stay more than a week in any of them, like a lot of rich people.

“We could say you are an Atlanta resident, you know, part-time. And of course the story would be mostly about contemporary art.”

As if. The average viewer wouldn’t be wowed. Art with a capital
A
was a public-television topic, not a ratings raiser. But Kelly wasn’t going to give up.

“With you to introduce it in a brief interview—”

“My dear, this isn’t about me.” Natalie Conrad’s soft voice was threaded with steel. “After my husband’s death, I became a much more private person.”

Kelly wasn’t going there.
Some say you became a recluse, Mrs. Conrad. Can you tell us about that?

“But this project changed everything.” Natalie gestured toward the architect’s model. “Harry had always admired the Fisher Museum in Houston. I think ours will be a worthy rival.”

She sat up, her back ramrod straight. Natalie Conrad’s most striking characteristic was her pride. It put the steel in her voice and burned in her eyes as she turned her classically beautiful face to Kelly.

“I’m sure it will.” Once again Kelly noted the blurred line of Natalie’s lips, feeling a little ashamed for thinking it was due to collagen. Tears, emotions, even suppressed anger, could give a woman that look.

“I hope to name it for him. The museum board must agree,” Natalie said, looking down at the model again. Seeming dissatisfied, she turned it so that a projecting angle faced front.

Must
agree? Did anyone ever say no to Natalie Conrad? Kelly told herself not to fill in too many blanks until she had more information. “I think that’s a great idea,” she said.

The other woman didn’t answer. Natalie Conrad seemed preoccupied as she looked at the model museum, her expression troubled. Kelly set aside the idea of an interview for the moment, sensing that the subject was effectively closed.

Well-dressed guests, a woman and three men, had come up onto the dais and seemed to be waiting to speak to Mrs. Conrad, kept discreetly at a distance by Neil Atwood and other staffers in dark suits.

The older woman barely looked up as Kelly said something about getting back to the party. She had the feeling she was about to be dismissed.

“Please stay,” Natalie said suddenly. “If you decide to do a feature—and we would be honored—you’ll want to hear what those people have to say.” She gave an almost invisible nod in their direction.

“Won’t they mind if I listen?” Kelly asked.

“I don’t care.” Natalie’s smile was less than warm. “They want something from me—their names on a wing or a gallery. And I want something from them.”

Kelly didn’t have to ask what that might be. The honor would cost many millions. Worth it, apparently, for those who could afford it.

“Forgive the cliché, my dear, but time is of the essence,” Natalie continued. “We need to put together the museum’s financing tonight if we can. Listen and learn.”

Kelly sat back.

The murmured conversations with the people on the short line weren’t as interesting as trying to figure out Natalie Conrad’s accent. She didn’t have one. Her precise pronunciation could be the product of a finishing school, probably abroad. Kelly tried to remember where Natalie was from and drew a blank, realizing that she knew more about the late Mr. Conrad than she did about his widow.

An hour passed. The private negotiations were over and deals had been struck. The money at stake was mind-boggling. And all for an unbuilt art museum with no start date for its construction, as far as Kelly could tell. She hadn’t been able to glean any hard facts at all.

With pledges from ultra-rich donors secured, the bidding opened to the public: a select group of the merely wealthy seated in gilt chairs in several rows before the dais.

A roving spotlight moved over the group, stopping on each donor as names were called from an unseen microphone and the amounts announced. Huge monetary gifts were added to a running tally, accompanied by roars and cheers. Bigger spotlights began to rove over the crowd in the ballroom, ratcheting up the excitement. Kelly had never seen anything like it.

Natalie Conrad presided from the dais, encouraging the attendees to dig deeper. The final total was staggering. Between the glaring spotlights and the frenzied noise, Kelly had had enough and felt a mean headache coming on. Slipping away down the low stairs to the side, she went in search of Deke.

Finding him was an impossibility. It was after midnight and the party was deteriorating. It got worse once she was in the thick of it. A stiletto heel took a step back and nearly nailed her gown. Kelly lifted her skirt a few inches and hung on to it, pushing through loud guys and women with smudged makeup trying to be heard over the din. A large hand cupped her rear and squeezed. Kelly turned around and swung. Her closed fist just missed the jerk. He guffawed and stumbled away.

Forget it
, she told herself. She needed to get to the penthouse and just chill out, call room service for some real food and something hot to drink. Deke might already be there on the other side of the adjoining door. They could trade notes, talk, relax—she wanted to do that, badly. Then a roving spotlight stopped and trapped him in a circle of cold light.

Deke was at a table with two women, having a grand old time. They couldn’t see her.

Kelly recognized one of them as his fellow agent, the Happy Hacker. Mousy but cute. The other one was familiar. That taffeta dress and the come-hither smile—Deke had winked at her while they were dancing.

Was Taffy an agent too? No telling. Kelly almost didn’t care one way or another. But it would have been nice to have a
complete
list of the players in advance, she thought grimly. Apparently Deke felt entitled to give out that information on a need-to-know basis.

Moving on when the spotlight did, she glided past the suddenly darkened table, noting the empty bottle of champagne stuck upside down in a bucket of melting ice.

Whoopee. The party was definitely over as far as Kelly was concerned. She didn’t turn around when she heard Deke call her name. But she was whipped around to face him seconds later, his grip on her arm almost painful.

“Where are you going?”

“Bed.”

“Not by yourself.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Deke. I don’t even need a night-light. You can party on. I’ve had enough.”

“Stop it. Both those women are colleagues.”

“I recognized the hacker.” She pulled away from his hold, trying not to make a scene. Kelly made the mistake of glancing back at the table.

Deke’s companions were looking at her curiously.

“The other one is also an agent.” The mocking gleam in Deke’s dark eyes didn’t reassure her on that score.

“Of course.” Her lips curved into a stiff smile of response. She was mad at herself for being jealous, even for a few seconds. The feeling was irrational and unwarranted. The look on his face didn’t make things better. Smacking him wasn’t an option, but it would have been satisfying. “See you in the morning.”

“Kelly—”

He couldn’t stop her from heading out. Kelly walked on, keeping her gaze on an open exit to the side, the only one that wasn’t swarmed with people.

Then the lean figure of a man walked swiftly through the shadowy hall beyond the doors. Even at this distance, the aristocratic profile was recognizable. Gunther Bach.

She glanced back toward Deke, instinctively seeking confirmation. He caught up with her. “Don’t follow him,” he muttered. “That’s not your job.”

“I didn’t intend to.”

The crowd surged, separating her from Deke. A huge man with unruly black hair and a shapeless suit stepped between them, his back to Kelly. Deke looked up at the interloper with an expression of mingled anger and surprise.