Marked Masters (18 page)

A minute later, an even larger crowd
returned to view, with Jack now appearing in the frame as he
restrained the struggling Welshman by holding the man's arms locked
behind his body.

"Good show!" Clive yelled over the noise of
the speakers. I think he snapped a couple of pictures too, but
between the earplugs and the pounding bass coming from the
speakers, I couldn't hear the clicks to be sure.

Clive slapped me on the back. "Good show!"
he repeated. I think he added something about being right back, and
he moved toward the front of the plane. I wasn't sure exactly what
a roadie did, but Clive seemed to be "a man for all rock seasons,"
and I assumed he had plenty of tasks to check off his list.

The luxurious leather couch where Clive left
me felt like a million-dollar hug. People continued filing onto the
plane, so I took the opportunity to look around. The interior was
predominantly leather, a buckskin color and blond on the scattered
couches and captain's chairs. All of the wood surfaces were stained
a honey-oak color.

The Whyte Noyse musicians and crew, dressed
mostly in black leather and jeans, steadily loaded equipment,
running in and out of the door or roving the cabin when their stuff
was aboard. Everyone seemed friendly, nodding a greeting to me,
which was about all anyone could accomplish in the heavy-metal
haven. Several of the band members looked drunk or half asleep when
they first stepped onto the plane but perked up within a minute or
so. Despite the early morning hour for Brits whose biorhythms were
set to Greenwich. The quick transformation left me wanting to do a
little head scratching.

In the front of the cabin, I saw a fully
stocked bar and galley kitchen. The half wall hiding part of the
kitchen boasted a lovely built-in cabinet, which obviously secreted
a supersized television screen. There was a desk at either end at
the back of the plane and even a couple of bookshelves. A closed
door led to areas presumably kept private. Everything was neat and
functional. Scrupulously neat. Not what I expected in a
rock-and-roll party plane. Well, beyond the volume button stuck on
ear-bleeding, of course.

The noise was getting old fast, and I half
contemplated taking my leave and finding alternative passage.
However, the decision was made for me when the flight attendant
closed and locked the hatch. Everyone immediately found seats and
buckled up. Clive came back and sat beside me. He still had the
camera and continued to fiddle with the viewer. The takeoff was as
smooth as any I'd ever experienced. As I felt the landing gear
retract beneath us, Clive knocked my arm to get my attention and
removed his earplugs.

Oh, good heavens, blessed silence.

"Will it come back on again?" I asked.

"Not until just before we land," Clive said.
"Appearances, you know."

Ah, I did know. That's what he meant about
not "grassing to the press" on the group. I looked around and saw
the heavy metal rockers quietly talking and reading. The drummer
had earbuds in his Kindle, so I assumed he was listening to an
Audible book.

"So, it's all a front?"

Clive shrugged. "The boys know how to party,
but as we've all gotten older, we've found we don't need to do so
much of it anymore." He pressed a button on the camera and turned
the view screen my way. "Got a couple of good 'uns, I did. They
nailed that bloke good."

I peered closely at the takedown. Jack
looked truly in his element. "I couldn't by chance get a couple of
these, could I?"

"Sure. Give me an e-mail address, and I'll
send them all to you."

I withdrew my wallet and found one of my
business cards. "Thank so much, Clive. I'd like to send them to my
friend."

"The one what got 'im, eh?"

"Yes."
The one what got 'im,
indeed.

As soon as the flight attendant signaled we
could move around the cabin, Clive unbuckled his seat belt and
motioned me to follow him.

"Gordon made me promise to fetch you for
him. He's a big art collector, and when Patricia told us who was
doing a ride along, old Gord recognized your name right away."
Clive stopped and ran a hand over his cheeks, his fingernails
playing a scritchy refrain over the couple of days' worth of
whiskers. He leaned toward me, brushing my arm as he said, "Just a
little bit 'o warning, love. Gord's a great bloke, but he can get a
mite…focused…you know?"

I could only imagine, and my face must have
shown my guarded understanding, because he quickly added, "Nothing
bad, see, but he gets fixated. It can annoy people. This isn't
really a long flight, you know, and sometimes he gets on a subject.
And if you wouldn't mind…"

Was he kidding? After they saved me the time
and trouble of flying commercial? Not to mention giving me a way to
sneak around any operatives Tony B had watching out for me.

"Don't worry." I placed a hand on his
forearm as I spoke. "I've spent a lifetime around people who love
art and want to talk exclusively about their favorite artists and
works."

The relief on his face spoke volumes. He
smiled and motioned for me to again follow him. But first things
first.

"Clive, I've been traveling in these clothes
for a couple of days now." Okay, so it wasn't consecutive time
frames, but I wasn't skirting the truth by much. I looked down at
my brave, trusty gray knit dress, then looked back up at Clive.
"I'd really like to change before I meet new people."

"Sure, gotcha. The loo is this way." He
motioned me through the door I had already guessed led to a toilet
and dressing rooms and found instead it held a conference table and
a couch I assumed pulled out into a bed. Alrighty, then. Not what I
expected but then neither had much of anything else about this
flight. Clive closed the connecting door, and I was left with the
space to myself.

The bathroom was larger than a conventional
airline toilet but not anything to get excited about. However,
there were real towels with good soap, and I took my time
luxuriating in the little niceties. I pulled a sapphire wrap dress
from my bag and thanked the heavens once again for giving me Cassie
and her common-sense approach to life and travel. A few minutes to
retouch my makeup and artfully toss my curls, and I was set to go.
The gray dress went into a handy plastic bag my thoughtful
assistant included and was zipped into one of the outer pockets of
the bag to head next to the laundry.

I felt human again and ready to meet a rock
star or four.

Clive was still by the door when I exited
back into the public part of the cabin and walked me around to make
introductions. I knew everyone's names and faces, but I had little
opportunity to chat as the roadie systematically herded me toward
the bass guitarist who sat near the galley in obvious anticipation
of our meeting.

Clad in head-to-toe black, even his
shoulder-length hair dyed an unrelieved ebony, Gordon Silver was
the defining image of aging rocker. When he began talking, however,
I immediately understood what Clive meant and why he'd offered the
subtle warning about Gordon's
focus
. "Laurel Beacham. I've
been looking forward to meeting you. I want to add some pieces to
my collection, and I was wondering…"

And I went temporarily on autopilot. It was
no problem, since he handled the monologue quite well on his own.
From the way Gordon launched into his preferred topic and mostly
kept his gaze slanted away from mine, I presumed some level of
highly socialized Asperger's. Now in his late forties or early
fifties, he may not have been actually diagnosed as a kid but
likely enjoyed a large family or friendship circle that helped him
through support and acceptance and let him evolve out of the
stereotype of the syndrome.

I soon found myself enthralled by the tales
of how he acquired his personal collection. He tumbled headlong
into an immediate waxing of affection for art
—
and particularly for his personal collection.
"Acquired my first Constable when I attended an
Antiques
Roadshow
event at Belton House. Still remember the gardens and
the blue of the sky. Brilliant! The National Trust opened the
grounds up to the
Roadshow
crew and visitors that day, and I
stood there under the lovely azure heavens along with the rest of
the hordes. Thousands of us came. Everyone had something in their
hands, showed off a bit to one another. Lots of comments about the
gorgeous day…"

Backstories like these always made me smile,
and I let him patter on for a while until I realized he was stuck
in a circle, so I prompted, "What did you take for appraisal?"

"Nothing important." He made a face, so I
assumed his valuation by the experts came in at a disappointing
level. He continued, "What's more important is what I took away.
Wandered down a bit to do a lookie-loo, and that's when the
paintings bloke, Philip Mould, took a turn inspecting the old
paintings what people trotted out of their attics and grannies'
lounges to bring along for the day."

He stopped and tilted his head away from my
direction, staring into the distance. I started to ask for his
recollections of the paintings he saw there, but he cut me off.
"Gorgeous stuff. Liked it all a lot. Studied music at the Royal
Conservatory, and for the first time I saw music in something
besides the art we all played on instruments. One painting in
particular caught my attention because the blue above perfectly
matched the one we were under that day. A pure blue with white
clouds and tan shadows to define the shapes of the clouds."

Again he stopped and kept his attention
riveted once more on a point to his right. It was just the couch
Clive and I had sat on, but I felt he was instead seeing rolling
green fields and lawns along with well-tended gardens anchoring a
stately historic home, all under the fairest of British skies. I
waited, contemplating his words about his musical studies. I'd
always noticed a classical method below the Whyte Noyse trademark
decibel-pumping rock standard, and now I understood why. This day
was shaping into one of nonstop surprises and unexpected
information.

After a few minutes, Gordon spoke again.
"The killer for me was an absolutely brilliant Constable. A
landscape that hooked me right here." He covered his head with his
left hand and his heart with his right, but he stared at the couch
as he spoke. "The genius of the man. I'd been to the Royal Gallery
in London and seen me some of Constable's work before, but until
that day at the Belton House
Roadshow
event, I truly hadn't
tumbled onto what his art really said."

The flight attendant came by with a tray.
"I have cappuccino, Americano,
and espresso.
And I'll bring along some pastries in a
moment."

This cappuccino tasted even better than the
one I'd received an hour earlier in commercial first class. But I
needed to load up now since the rule in Italy is no cappuccino
after ten in the morning, and that was about the time they would be
dropping me off in Florence. I'd gotten a little spoiled by America
letting me drink any kind of coffee drink I wanted at any time.

Gordon took a sip from his tiny cup of
espresso and picked up exactly where he'd left off. "Constable grew
up in Suffolk, just like me. But my father wasn't a mill owner. I
know the country Constable painted. Even once he moved into London
circles, he still went back to Suffolk, the home county, you know,
just to paint the scenes he'd known ever since childhood."

I knew a little about Constable, how the
subject of his landscapes created a harmony between the nature he
loved and the human beings he usually chose to put in for
perspective. Most of his landscapes were peaceful scenes, with
workers at the day's tasks in the distance doing jobs like cutting
hay. "I always liked
The Hay Wain
the best, I think."

"Love that one!" Gordon actually smiled
directly at me for a second. "That's on the Stour River. And you
know the house on the left side of the painting, under the trees?
It's known as Willy Lott's Cottage."

"Anytime I see a Constable, I'm amazed at
the way he could always capture nature in the tiny movements."

"Yeah, like the way the shadows ebbed and
flowed across the meadows. Like the light was shifting all the
time."

"And how the treetops always seem to shimmer
just a bit in the wind."

"Was Constable's gift, it was." Gordon
nodded. "Great skill."

Before I could ask what pieces he owned, the
rocker switched gears. "I got me a couple of Gainsboroughs too.
Both of mine are portraits, but he really just wanted to do
landscapes, so the people in the foreground are fine, yet
unremarkable. The setting, though, that's the masterpiece each
time. Gainsborough picked up the time of the year beautifully in
each of the paintings I own. Both are great estates, with the
owners all fancy dress in the close part of the painting, and the
landholding sweeping back and circling behind. Summer in one,
autumn the other."

"So, do you concentrate on English
painters?"

"Pretty much. Would like a J. W. Turner, but
I keep getting outbid anytime one becomes available. And you really
have to have the right space and lighting and all for his work. But
I segued out a bit." He ducked his head and grinned, looking almost
like a mischievous schoolboy. "I always liked the Alice books by
Lewis Carroll, and I heard about this artist…"

I laughed. I couldn't help myself. At
Gordon's shocked expression, Clive hurried over, so I spoke
quickly. "I'm sorry. I figured you were going to say you added
Quinten Massys to your collection. Though the artist is from the
Netherlands, it's believed his painting
A Grotesque Old
Woman
was the ideal for Sir John Tenniel's illustrations of the
Duchess in
Alice in Wonderland.
"