But if the two men were closer than I imagined, Clemens would hear of the auction soon enough. And if he did, I could envision his fury and despair. He had described the “surprise” in the Fabergé egg Mrs. Westmore planned to buy, and now it was to be hawked in New York with a blizzard of publicity. Edythe would be sure to ask some very pointed questions. Panic time, folks.
Unless of course the silver-tongued financial counselor could convince his client Fabergé had created identical surprises for
two
Imperial eggs—but I thought it highly unlikely. No, Mr. Clemens would be confronted with a crisis—and the fact it had been wholly invented by your scribe did not affect the peril he faced.
I returned to Royal Palm Way in a chipper mood. I am never happier than when I have launched a devilish scheme, especially when it may result in the discomfiture of miscreants. Why should villains have all the fun?
Back in the McNally Building I did something I should have done days ago: I visited the office of Mrs. Lenore Crittenden, who heads the department of McNally & Son dealing with estate planning and investment advising.
Lennie is a frisky middle-aged lady, cheerfully overweight, with a fondness for loose dresses in flowered Pulitzer prints. She is one of the two women I’ve known who use a monocle, which she wields with great éclat. Her knowledge of high finance is awesome and her judgment so sensible that father is content to let her handle the firm’s capital. She manages it very well indeed.
I found the money whiz at her desk lunching on a toasted BLT and what appeared to be a chocolate milk shake.
“On a diet, Lennie?” I asked pleasantly.
“Go to hell, Archy,” she said just as pleasantly. “And if you’re looking for a stock tip, here it is: Buy low and sell high.”
I sighed. “I know a bartender who repeats the same mantra. Actually, I was hoping you could spare me some time.”
“If you have a candlelit dinner for two in mind I’m afraid I can’t make it tonight. My husband’s in town.”
“Doggone it,” I said. “And I was chilling the bubbly. Well, maybe some other time. Lennie, I’m investigating a bloke who claims to be an investment adviser, financial planner, money manager—whatever. He says he’s worked for a few brokerage houses and a banker. He also says he had no bad marks except for a few arbitration hearings settled in his favor. He apparently moved to West Palm from California about a year ago. Question:. Are there government agencies and professional associations which might provide the inside poop on this guy and say whether he’s soiled or as pure as the d.s.?”
“Of course. At least a dozen organizations you can check, from the Securities and Exchange Commission in Washington to the Division of Securities in Tallahassee.”
“Glad to hear it. But not that
I
can check but
you
can check. Will you handle it for me, Lennie darling? Send them faxes or E-mail or however you do it.”
She slurped her milk shake. “What’s in it for me?” she demanded.
“A candlelit dinner for two when your husband’s out of town.”
“With bubbly?”
“Naturally.”
She laughed. “You sly conniver! All right, give me the man’s name and address, and I’ll see if he’s got a rap sheet.”
I dictated Clemens’s full name, street address, and telephone number. Mrs. Crittenden scrawled the info on a pad of Post-it Notes bearing the legend “The Buck Stops Here.”
“When do you need this stuff?” she asked. “Yesterday?”
“Nan,” I said. “Tomorrow will do excellently.”
“It figures. Don’t forget to tell your papa how helpful I am.”
“Is that why you’re doing it—to score brownie points? And I thought it was my animal magnetism.”
“You got the animal part right,” she said. “Begone!”
I returned to my office happy I had put the pot on to boil, especially since it entailed no labor on my part. But there was something I could do personally, and I called Clemens Investments intending to set up a meeting with the poohbah himself for later in the week. I would offer some fraudulent reason for wanting to see him but actually I hoped to discover if Sydney Smythe had repeated to him my fictional opus about the Sotheby auction.
I phoned but was greeted by an answering machine and hung up. I detest talking to machines; they never reply to one’s queries or engage in light-hearted banter. Does that make me a traditionalist? So be it.
I sat there momentarily paralyzed by a mild state of confusion. Then the phone shrilled and I was told the caller was Natalie Westmore.
“How delightful to hear from you,” I said—not a lie but a slight exaggeration.
She wasted no time. “I’d like to see you this afternoon,” she said, and her tone was almost peremptory. “Can you come to my studio? I have something for you, Archy.”
I instantly thought of a bitter response; to wit, “What are you peddling today—peonies?” But I didn’t voice it of course. I merely wondered what this elusive woman was up to. She was as confusing as Schrodinger’s cat.
“Now?” I bleated. “This afternoon? Your studio?” All of which added up to “Duh.”
“Yes,” she said crisply. “As soon as possible.”
I surrendered, craven that I am. Ten minutes later I was in the Miata heading for Ocean Boulevard. I didn’t forget to bring along Natalie’s Christmas present in the brown bag. The lack of festive paper and a gay bow didn’t bother me. She didn’t gift-wrap my petunia, did she?
I parked at one end of the Westmore driveway. It would do little harm if Edythe spotted and identified my distinctive quadriga. She’d probably think her plan of my becoming her son-in-law was beginning to show promise.
Natalie was standing at the studio entrance as I approached; she had obviously been awaiting my arrival. After I was inside she closed and bolted the door. Hmm. She greeted me with a wide smile and then a kiss. Not a swift cheek buss but a lingering smackeroo on the lips. Enjoyable, but like a student of method acting I wondered: What’s her motivation?
She was barefoot, wearing her cutoff minishorts with a man’s blue denim work shirt, sleeves rolled up to her biceps, the top two buttons undone. What came as something of a shock was her makeup—the first time I had seen her with mascara, lipstick, and a faint rouging of the cheekbones. The cosmetics had been inexpertly applied; the effect was more clownish than seductive. I found myself regretting the makeover. I preferred the unadorned original.
“You’ve already given me my Christmas gift, Nettie,” I said. “Now here is yours.”
She literally tore open the paper bag and ripped off the tissue. The sight of the little porcelain box with the bouquet on the lid brought forth a squeal of delight and my reward was another smooch. I hoped her lip gloss was kiss-proof.
“Oh it’s divine!” she cried. “The nicest, sweetest, cunningest present in the whole world!”
I wasn’t certain there is such a word as “cunningest” but there was no mistaking her enthusiasm, which, quite honestly, I found suspect. I mean my gift might have been Limoges but it wasn’t Cartier. I couldn’t believe such effusiveness from a woman I originally thought apathetic.
“Now you sit there,” she said, motioning toward the new cot, “while I put this lovely, lovely present in a safe place.”
I sat gingerly on the cot but it seemed stable enough. Nettie had turned away to place the porcelain box atop the cupboard. When she faced me again I saw the top
three
buttons of her shirt were now open. Listen, I’m an experienced investigator and trained to notice such details.
“Here’s what I wanted to show you,” she said, picked up a single sheet of stiff paper from the drawing table, and handed it to me.
It was a color photo of a Fabergé Imperial egg. A ruler placed at the bottom of the reproduction provided a handy guide to the dimensions. I estimated the egg to be almost four inches high, the top quarter being a hinged lid, closed in the photo. The outer coating appeared to be a gleaming yellow enamel in a repeated starburst design. The entire exterior was bound within a trellis of gold bands of leaves. At each intersection of the lattice was a tiny black enameled royal eagle set with what was apparently a diamond.
All in all, it was breathtaking objet d’art, rich and lustrous. The proportions were perfect, the craftsmanship precise and elegant. It may have been designed to be a czarina’s toy but it was much more than a bibelot. I thought it beautiful and could understand wanting to own it, to see it every day and feel the lift of spirit a flawless creation can produce.
“It’s magnificent!” I burst out, and discovered immediately I had said the wrong thing.
“Magnificent?” Natalie repeated in a tone of great disgust. “How can you say such a thing? It’s just a trinket, a novelty for the wealthy to show off and boast about. But can’t you see it has no real value? It’s garish and vulgar.”
I didn’t want to argue with her.
Chacun à son goût.
I said only, “I presume this is the Fabergé egg your mother wants to buy?”
She nodded. “Half a million dollars,” she said acidly. “And she refuses to give my brother one red cent to help him get back to Africa. She says his work is a waste of money and time. Walter is furious, I know, even though he tries to hide it. Archy, it’s just not fair! You don’t think it’s fair, do you?”
“I can comprehend how Walter feels,” I said carefully. “Nettie, where did you get this photo?”
“I took it from mother’s desk drawer.”
I looked at her, remembering what Connie had told me of her kleptomania at the aerobic sessions. “I suggest you put it back as soon as possible,” I said.
“What difference does it make?” she said offhandedly.
Suddenly she sat down close to me on the cot and slid a warm arm about my neck.
“Archy, you’re sympathetic with what Walter wants to do, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“It means so much to him. It’s his whole life, his happiness, which certainly should be more important to mother than buying a silly ornament.”
“Your concern is understandable,” I said, trying hard to be noncommittal.
“I knew I could depend on you, sweetheart!” she said joyously, embraced me with both arms, pressed me back onto the cot.
If I had an ounce of pride—or even a gram—I would have risen from my recumbent position, uttered a cutting remark (e.g.: “What do you take me for—passion’s plaything?”), and stalked out in a state of high dudgeon—or even low dudgeon. That is what I
should
have done.
But in situations such as this my backbone becomes wet twine. I am bereft of any sense whatsoever. So it happened and in a trice we were thrashing about on the sturdy cot like finalists in a world championship match of Greco-Roman wrestlers.
I shall not describe our encounter in more explicit detail since this chronicle may be read by devout celibates and I don’t wish to excite them unnecessarily.
Much later, after we had relaxed, rested, and were reclaiming and donning the garments so frantically flung aside, Natalie vowed I had introduced her to a whole new world of sensory pleasure for which she would be eternally grateful. And in the future, she hinted, her favors would be mine for the asking. She was, she implied, looking forward to a long, intimate relationship during which I was to lead the way to nirvana.
Was I delighted my gamble had paid off? I was not. On the trip homeward I attempted to suss out the reason for Natalie’s unexpected largesse. I regretfully admitted she was not swept away by my charm, or even the aroma of my aftershave. Nettie’s motives were more byzantine. I did not resent what she was attempting to do but I was somewhat peeved she apparently believed I could be so primitively manipulated.
I verified my theory that evening at the family cocktail hour. I asked my father, “Did you inform Natalie and Walter Westmore I will be present at their conference with you tomorrow?”
“I did,” he said. “I phoned them this morning.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And did they object?”
“Initially. Until I explained they really had no choice. Then they accepted your presence as a witness and perhaps as a participant in the consultation.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, thinking, Ah-ha!
I
DRESSED IN SOBER
threads on Tuesday morning, knowing my father would be outraged if I appeared in his office attired like Ronald McDonald. The only spark I allowed myself was a four-in-hand of silk jacquard with a pattern of brightly colored carousels. Incidentally, I tied it in a Windsor knot, which brought to mind Windsor Antiques and my Machiavellian ploy involving Sydney Smythe and Frederick Clemens. And so I went to work with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart.
I lollygagged in my office for almost an hour, smoked an English Oval, doodled on a scratch pad, and wondered why I hadn’t heard from Binky Watrous. Possibly, I thought, because Bridget Houlihan, his inamorata, had returned from Ireland. If so, the turtledoves would probably be busy with their musical recitals, during which Binky does birdcalls accompanied by Bridget on the tambourine. They perform gratis at local nursing homes for the entertainment of aged residents many of whom, I am reliably informed, refer to them as The Crackpots.
My summons arrived a few minutes after eleven o’clock via a phone call from Mrs. Trelawney.
“Boss wants you,” she reported laconically.
“Be there forthwith,” I replied. “If not sooner.”
I climbed the back stairs one flight to m’lord’s sanctum on the uppermost floor. Although the McNally Building is a modern cube of stainless steel and tinted glass daddy-o had insisted his private office be wood-paneled, equipped with leather-upholstered furniture, and designed to accommodate his enormous antique rolltop desk. Steel engravings of judicial luminaries decorated the walls. Roger B. Taney would feel right at home in that chamber. The only thing it lacked was a brass gaboon on a rubber mat.
The Westmores were sunk into club chairs when I entered but Walter struggled to his feet to shake my hand: a gentlemanly act. He was clad in a three-piece suit of rusty tweed with a white dress shirt, the collar of which was obviously too tight. Natalie, lost in a nondescript shirtwaist dress of beigy cotton, gave me a smile I thought strained.