Kenzie flew back to New York the following day. The magic of Zandra's wedding was behind her, and she felt curiously out of sorts. It wasn't at all the way it had been during the flight over to Europe.
She and Zandra had flown together, and they'd made it into a midair party, gulping glassfuls of champagne and vowing eternal friendship, no matter what. They'd reminisced and laughed and cried.
Now, returning by herself, Kenzie was hit by an aching loneliness which was intensified when she let herself into her apartment.
It seemed eerily quiet.
I miss Zandra, dammit! she thought, walking around and opening the windows to air out the stuffy rooms. She was the sister I never had, the best friend I could tell anything. And now she's up and married.
There would be no more late-night gab fests. No more waiting turns to use the bathroom. No more sharing of makeup and secrets or of rushing off to work together.
Living by herself again would take getting used to.
She unpacked her suitcase and hung away her maid of honor gown.
"The reason I chose this particular one," Zandra had confided, "is because it's absolutely appropriate for just about any formal occasion. I mean, why just wear it the once?"
The words echoed in Kenzie's head, brought home just how empty and purposeless and devoid of meaning her life really was.
I'm twenty-eight years old and still single. I've devoted seven years to musty old paintings and foxed drawings. And what do I have to show for it? Two boy toys, neither of whom is ready for a real relationship.
She sighed to herself. What it came down to was that she had nobody.
Might as well face it, Kenz, she told herself. There's no house with a picket fence in your future.
She finished unpacking, put her suitcase away, and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of Earl Grey tea, another legacy from Zandra. While it steeped, she checked her answering machine.
The LED display indicated six messages. She punched the playback button.
Charley: "Hey-a you hot-a mama! It's-a me—" Fast-forward.
Hannes: "Kenzie, it is me. I was wondering—" Fast-forward.
Mr. Spotts: "Hello, Kenzie. This is A. Dietrich Spotts. I'm soaking up the rays down here in the Sunshine State, and just got through talking to somebody who talked to somebody ... well, to make a long story short, I heard there's an opening in the department. I know of a young woman named Annalisa Barabino who trained under Fiorentino at the Ambrosiana, and then worked at the Uffizi. I told her to contact you." Beep.
Woman with a thick accent: "Hello? Ms. Turner? This is Annalisa Barabino. I'm sorry to call you at home. Mr. Spotts said he would contact you—" I'll listen later. Fast-forward.
Voice from home: "Hi, sweetheart. It's Dad. How's my little girl? Just calling to wish you a happy birthday—"
Kenzie punched the pause button and frowned. What's with this happy birthday—?
And then she suddenly remembered. He was right.
Today was her birthday. She'd turned twenty-nine.
"The answerin' machine. The fuckin' telephone answerin' machine!" Charley steamed, angrily returning from the pay phone at Live Bait, on East Twenty-third Street. "All I get's the fuckin' telephone answerin' machine!"
He threw himself into his chair, took a swig from his beer, slammed the mug down, and glared broodingly at the gaggle of leggy young models clustered in front of the bar.
"You know what I'd like?"
"No," Hannes said, in an attempt to humor him. "What?"
"To go back in time." Charley nodded. "That's right. Just like in The Time Machine. Or Back to the Future."
"But why should you want do do that?" Hannes sipped his own beer slowly.
"Because that way I could get my hands on the dipshit who invented that infernal machine! I'd be able to strangle the livin' daylights out of him before he can invent it!"
Charley gulped beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"Come to think of it, same goes for the inventor of the car alarm. Yeah. How many times has their racket kept you awake? Huh?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Justifiable homicide," he growled, "that's what it would be. Isn't a jury in the country wouldn't acquit me!"
He finished off his beer and signaled the waitress for another.
"Why don't we leave," Hannes suggested. "It's late, and we've both had enough to drink."
"Oh, for cryin' out loud, don't start naggin'. I want another one for the road." Charley looked up at the waitress. "Two more. One for my buddy and one for me. With two chasers of—" He looked at Hannes. "What's that stuff you drink in Finland? Acquavit? Or is that Sweden?"
"Charley, we don't need—"
"Neh, neh, neh! Shit," Charley brooded. "You're startin' to whine like a goddamn wife!" His eyes narrowed. "Didn't you have a phone call to make?"
"Yes." Hannes got up. "Just a beer for me," he told the waitress.
"Two peppermint schnapps," Charley ordered. "Two."
Hannes threaded his way past the tables to the phone. He could feel Charley watching him and ignored the appraising eyes from several extraordinarily beautiful young women and at least two exceedingly handsome young men. He dug in his pocket for a quarter and dropped it into the phone and punched.
There was an explosion of breath behind him, and then a strong hand came around and depressed the cradle. The coin clinked and fell into the return slot.
Hannes turned around in surprise, receiver in hand.
Charley glared angrily. "You fuckin' bastard," he said tightly.
Hannes looked at him blankly. "What's the matter?"
"You wanna step outside?"
Hannes hung up the phone. "Why?"
"Why?" Charley's face twisted with rage. "You know very well why, you fuckin' son of a bitch!"
Hannes stared at him. "Actually, I don't," he said calmly. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me?"
"You were calling her!" The words tore from Charley's lips.
"Yes?"
"Who the fuck you think I called?" Charley shouted.
All around, conversation in the room suddenly fell silent. Two sturdily built men came slowly from the bar where they had been chatting with some girls.
Hannes could feel the momentary suspension of time as all eyes fixed upon him and Charley.
Not that Charley was aware of the audience. He was raging. His fiery Italian temper and chauvinistic possessiveness had him in its grip.
"Why the hell can't you find your own woman! Unless you get a special charge out of stealin' someone else's? That it? Guess it makes you feel more like a man?"
Hannes stared at him for a moment as everything suddenly fell into place. Then some of the tension went out of him. "Is that who this is about? Kenzie? You have been seeing her also?"
"Yeah," Charley snarled belligerently. "As if you didn't know!"
"I didn't," Hannes said quietly. "I thought it was over between the two of you. Why didn't you say something?" And with that, he turned and began to walk away.
But Charley wasn't finished with him quite yet. He spun him around and slammed him up against the wall.
"Listen, you cocksuckin' douche bag!" He had Hannes by the shirt. "You think I'm gonna let you get away with this?"
Hannes stared at him coldly. "I think you'd better get your hands off me."
Charley's right arm arced and his fist blurred, but Hannes intercepted it, grabbing Charley's wrist with his left hand and bringing it to a complete standstill in midair.
Only the quivering of both their arms showed the effort it took to still the blow.
"As you can see," Hannes said softly, "we are not evenly matched. Now, I suggest you settle down and I'll help you sober up. Afterwards, we can discuss this like gentlemen."
"Gentlemen!" Charley spat, eyes ablaze. "What would you know about bein' a gentleman?"
"Don't do it," Hannes warned, sensing that Charley was doubling up his knee to kick upwards. "I do not want you to get hurt."
"Me get hurt? By you? Don't make me laugh!"
The anger abruptly left Charley, and he let go of Hannes and stepped back.
"I'm goin'. But believe me—" He pointed a trembling forefinger at Hannes "—You haven't heard the last of me!"
Then he turned and stomped out. The crowd at the bar parted silently and let him pass.
There was a communal sigh when he was gone, and the patrons began to murmur. The two bouncers made their way back to the bar. Then somebody laughed, and conversations continued where they'd left off.
Hannes decided to leave also. He stopped at the table, tossed several bills down, then he made his way past the bar.
"Yo. Buddy." It was one of the bouncers.
Hannes looked at him.
"Nice work, blocking that fist. How'd you do it?"
"You don't want to know." Hannes turned away.
"Whoa, there."
Hannes looked back. "Yes?"
"Where's the fire? Whyn't ya give it a minute? You know." The bouncer nodded toward the front door. "Let him cool his heels out there some more?"
"I'll be fine," Hannes said.
But he wasn't fine. His nose was bloody and he had an ugly gash on his forehead when he staggered, doubled-over with pain, up the front steps of Kenzie's building.
He leaned on her doorbell.
"Who is it?" she squawked over the intercom.
"Hans."
"Can't it wait? I just flew in from Europe."
"Please. Something's ... happened."
There was a pause, and Kenzie buzzed him in. She was upstairs, leaning over the landing, barefoot and in her nightgown, when he stumbled in. The moment she saw the way he was staggering, she ran down to help him.
"My God!" She draped one of his arms over her shoulder and let him lean his weight on her. "What happened?"
"Just ... get me ... upstairs," he gasped.
She did as she was told, got him inside, and bolted all the locks. Then she looked at him. "Who did this?"
"You really don—"
"Cut the shit, Hans." She stared at him, gingerly touching his puffy eye. He was going to have quite a mouse. "It was Charley," she said quietly, "wasn't it?"
"Forget it," he muttered thickly.
"Come on. Let me get you into the bathroom and clean you up. You look like shit."
She gave him a level look.
"And then you've got some major explaining to do."
It was seven-thirty in the morning when Kenzie's alarm went off. She groaned and rolled over. She wasn't nearly ready to get up. Her head throbbed, and she was bleary and depressed from being up half the night playing Florence Nightingale.
That on top of jet lag.
I'm getting too old for this shit, she thought.
She was tempted to call in sick, but decided against it. Having taken Thursday and Friday off to attend Zandra's wedding meant that work would be piled up. And, with Zandra gone, the department was short- staffed. Arnold had been holding down the fort alone. It's not fair to expect him to carry the entire burden.
Sighing, she crawled reluctantly out from under the covers, took a quick shower, and somehow made it in on time.
Arnold swiveled around on his chair. "Ah so," he greeted. "Insider has finarry arrived with the scoop! I want to hear arr about oh-so honorabbe wedding!" He dropped his routine and said: "And that means dishing the dirt!"
"How about over lunch?" Kenzie begged weakly. "I'm only half alive, and there's tons I've got to catch up on."
"Lunch is fine, and I'll even buy, so long as you promise not to leave anything out!"
"I promise," Kenzie smiled. She washed two aspirin down with her coffee and got busy.
At ten-fifteen, Bambi popped her head into Old Masters.
"Hi guys!"
"Hi," Arnold mumbled, not deigning to look up.
Kenzie turned around. "Hi."
"I'm glad you're back," Bambi told her. "Personnel ran an ad in yesterday's Times to find a replacement for Zandra. The applicants are waiting out in reception. I'd interview them myself if I had the time, but I've simply got to get my hair cut. You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not." Kenzie smiled brightly, which wasn't easy. Time had only intensified her loathing for Bambi.
"Great. I knew I could count on you."
Couldn't you just, Kenzie thought.
"Oh. And one more thing."
Kenzie waited.
"One girl out there looks like a dog," Bambi warned. "Definitely not Burghley's material, if you get my drift?" She cast Kenzie a significant look.
Kenzie nodded and smiled until it hurt.
"It's all in your hands," Bambi said severely. "You may use my office."
And she breezed back out.
"It's all in your hands," Arnold mimicked archly as soon as she was gone. "I've simply got to get my hair cut."
Kenzie cracked up. "Arnold, will you stop," she pleaded. "I've got to be serious for this."
"All right, just so long as you don't hire any dogs," he guffawed. "We want Burghley's material!"
Kenzie dug through a stack of color photos and selected a handful.
"Arnold, where did you put the sample canvases?"
"They're down in the vault. I'll go get them."
Kenzie went to Bambi's office, waited until Arnold had brought the canvases, and then called reception. "How many job applicants are there for the Old Masters position?"
"Eight."
There goes lunch, Kenzie thought. I owe Arnold dinner.
"Okay," she said. "Send the first one in."
The interviews began.
On the surface, each of the first seven applicants seemed well-groomed, bright, articulate, and qualified. Their ages ranged from the mid-twenties to the late thirties.
The five women were attractive, appropriately dressed, and perfectly made up. The two men were handsome and wore expensive conservative suits. Each had worked at one of the other auction houses or a gallery, and while their resumes were impressive enough, Kenzie knew better than to trust in that alone.
She used the photos and sample canvases to test their expertise. All seven misidentified at least two of what should have been ten easily distinguishable works. That was bad enough. But it was the close-up photos of various artists' brushstrokes and techniques which proved everyone's undoing.
Not one of the seven passed.
Kenzie was aghast. Good Lord, she thought. I wouldn't want to have to rely on any of them! They're all hopeless!
She ended the seventh interview the same as all the others, with a brisk handshake, a smile, and the words: "Thanks so much for coming in. We'll be in touch."
To let you down easily, she didn't say.
She called reception. "I believe there's an eighth applicant?"
"That's right. Would you like me to send her in now?"
"Please," Kenzie said.
Before long, there was a loud crash outside the door. Kenzie gave a start and got up to investigate. When she opened the door, she found a woman on her hands and knees, retrieving a pile of dropped books.
"I'm sorry," the woman murmured, glancing up nervously.
Kenzie smiled. "That's quite all right. Do you need help?"
"No, no. Please." The woman bit her lip. "You are ... Ms. Turner?"
Kenzie groaned inwardly. Oh, no, she thought. Don't tell me. "Yes ... ?"
"I'm here about the interview."
So this is who Bambi meant. "Well, you'd better come in, then."
The woman tottered inside and put her books down on a chair.
She was, to put it generously, a frumpy plain Jane. She was of average height with a splotchy complexion. Mousey hair pulled back in a bun, little wire-rimmed granny glasses, and no makeup.
Her clothes were drab and two sizes too large. The cuffs of her cardigan were so long they hid all but the tips of her fingers.
The nails were bitten down to the quick.
Kenzie felt a wave of pity. Dear God, how do I handle this? I mustn't hurt her feelings.
"Please." She indicated a seat and smiled, she hoped reassuringly. "I take it you've brought a resume?"
"A ... resume? Oh. Yes. I have . . ."
The woman dug through a handbag which had been repaired with duct tape, and the papers she produced were wrinkled and grease-stained. She did her best to smooth them with her hands.
"Scusi." She smiled apologetically as she held them out.
Kenzie took them. "All right, let me just glance over this a mo—" Her smile froze. "It says your name is ... ?"
"Annalisa Barabino," the woman supplied.
"Right," Kenzie said weakly, wondering: Why does this have to be the woman Mr. Spotts called about? Why couldn't it be someone less clumsy and more presentable?
Yet despite its condition, the resume was highly impressive.
But then, it would have to be, for Mr. Spotts to recommend her.
At this point, Kenzie was beyond surprise. She simply presumed Annalisa would pass every test with flying colors, which she did. Her eye was superb, and her knowledge encyclopedic.
If only, Kenzie thought despairingly, she didn't look like a bag lady!
"Mmm," she murmured, drumming her fingernails on the desktop.
"Please? Is something wrong?"
Yes. Everything.
"Well, er, it has to do with your ... ah, image," Kenzie said tactfully.
"My—"
"I have an idea," Kenzie said. She snatched up the phone and pressed three digits. "Arnold? SOS."
"What's wrong?"
Kenzie glanced at Annalisa and smiled to put her at ease. "Eliza Doolittle requires Professor Higgins."
"Oh-oh. Sounds ominous."
"Well, it is a challenge. Tell you what. It's too late for us to have lunch, but if you can swing this, dinner's on me. Le Colonial, Daniel, Petrossian, you choose."
"Dinner! At Petrossian! Kenz, why do I smell snake oil?"
"You don't, but your flawless taste is desperately required. And do hurry, will you? Or don't you want to pull a fast one on Bambi?"
"What! Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? Be right there!" he sang.
When Arnold and Annalisa returned three hours later, Kenzie couldn't believe her eyes.
Gone was the frumpy wallflower.
In her place was a chic young woman in a navy blue skirt, blazer, white blouse, and a patterned silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her hair had been highlighted and was fashionably slant cut, and her face glowed like a palette. Even her glasses were gone.
"I'll be damned," Kenzie exclaimed softly.
Annalisa looked stricken. "Something is wrong?" she ventured anxiously.
"No, no. Not wrong—right. Arnold, how did you do it?"
He smiled hugely. "First, we took care of the essentials."
He indicated the shopping bags from Daffy's.
"As you'll notice, we bargain-hunted. Three suits, three blouses, four scarves, the bag, and the shoes. For—would you believe?—three hundred and fifty bucks. Including tax."
"Remind me to take you shopping the next time I need something," Kenzie said.
"Next stop was the hairburner," Arnold continued. "An old flame of mine owed me. So that was a freebie. Ditto the makeup, courtesy of waltzing through the first floor of Bloomie's. The perfume's tiny vials of giveaway samples. Add a set of press-on nails and—voila!"
He gestured grandly.
"What you see is what you get!"
"And the granny glasses?"
"Turns out she just uses them to read. However, I insisted upon picking out a tortoiseshelly-looking pair. But what do you think of the low black heels? Nice touch, isn't it? Really makes her that Burghley's girl. Hmm?"
Just then Bambi came sailing in. "Hi, guys! What's up?"
"This is Annalisa Barabino," Kenzie said. "Zandra's replacement."
Bambi gave Annalisa a hard once-over and nodded briskly. "You'll do." And to Kenzie: "Thank God. I wouldn't have put it past you to have hired the dog."
The voice on the telephone echoed from the soundtracks of countless late and late-late shows. "Mizz Tama?"
Kenzie felt a tide of goosebumps. That smoky, Eastern European accent was unmistakable. For a moment, she was unable to speak.
"Mizz Tarna?" The woman's tone grew louder. "Can you hear me?"
"Y-yes," Kenzie said faintly. She put a hand over the mouthpiece and quickly cleared her throat. "Yes," she repeated, more authoritatively.
"Good. Do you know who zis eez?"
"I ... I think so," Kenzie said. "You must be Miss Po—"
"Ah-ah-ah!" The voice cut her off. "Pliss. You are nefer, efer, to refer to me by name. 'Mizz P.' vill do nicely. Also, you must nefer bring up my former career." There was an imperious pause. "Eez zat clear?"
Kenzie swallowed. "Yes, ma'am. Perfectly."
"Good. I haff zome Old Mazterz I vish to have appraized."
"And when would you like to have this done?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. Zree o'clock sharp."
Kenzie began to reach for her Filofax, but then decided: What the hell. Lila Pons was the last great legend of the silver screen. It isn't as if she calls every day.
She said, "Yes, three o'clock tomorrow will be fine."
"Good! I vill be expecting you."
"I'm looking forward—"
But Lila Pons had already hung up.
"—to see you tomorrow," Kenzie completed softly as she replaced the receiver.