Chapter One --

 

“You have just over twenty four hours to get here. If you’re not here by four tomorrow, consider yourself fired.”

“But I haven’t found an available flight,” I protested. “I’m still stuck here in Florida!”

“It doesn’t matter, Kelsey. Be here or don’t bother showing up at all. This exhibition should have been ready Wednesday. Prudence made a very big mistake giving out worthless promises she couldn’t keep. I’m not going to tolerate any more delays. And if I don’t see those last two canvases installed on the wall by noon on Sunday, I’m cancelling that bank check. You tell that to Walter.”

Those were the last words Warren Fripp ever spoke to me. I found out later that they were probably the last words the much-hated art collector ever uttered to anyone, other than his killer. If I had known the bloody horror of what was going to happen to him, could I have altered the outcome? Could I have saved his life? I asked myself that question over and over again. To tell the truth, I honestly don’t know if I could have done anything to change the outcome.

At that moment in time, however, I was almost a thousand miles away, desperate to find a way back to DC. I folded my flip phone shut, cursing the jerk. Here I was, stuck in the amusement park Mecca of Florida, finishing up my work for Uncle Jack. The local realtor I hired on his behalf had sold the third-floor unit at the Costa del Sol in nine days, thanks to an aggressive marketing effort and Uncle Jack’s willingness to drop the price by five thousand dollars. I had packed his things into boxes over the last three weeks and arranged for them to be sent to Merriweather Woods, the assisted living paradise where he was now comfortably ensconced with his lady friend, the lovely Leonora. None of this would have come about if it hadn’t been for the serious fall Leonora had out by the condo pool. She shattered her knee cap on the cement, leading her son and daughter-in-law to decide that it was time for Leonora to move back to New Jersey, closer to them. Heartbroken, Uncle Jack decided to follow his lady, and that’s when he enlisted my help. I finally took that vacation time I had been saving for a big trip, and instead of lying on a beach in Fiji, coconut drink in hand, I had spent the better part of a month in Celebration, Florida. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t really mind helping out. Uncle Jack has been good to me and I knew he was desperate to be with Leonora as she recovered. Her injury had been serious enough to warrant three surgeries, with a lengthy physical therapy program planned as soon as she was able to endure it. I focused myself on the positives. Once Uncle Jack was settled in New Jersey, I’d be able to visit him more often. Uncle Jack was a guy who deserved happiness. He had cared for Aunt Amelia, my mother’s sister, for six long years as she slipped into the black hole that is Alzheimer’s. Leonora brought him out of the darkness and back to life, filling his days with joy and kindness, not to mention golf and fishing. I wanted what they had, that lovely companionship and true delight in each other. I’m a sucker for a real romance, even late in life. I was hoping the magic of their relationship would rub off on me. Call it Kismet, but I wanted to believe that if I helped these star-crossed lovers to be together, I would be rewarded for my goodness with my own version of true love. It’s just that all this work for my uncle complicated the work I did for the ever-demanding, abrasive Warren Fripp.

The moving van, loaded with all of Uncle Jack’s worldly possessions, had been on the road exactly six minutes when I called Warren to tell him I was working on travel arrangements. And now I had twenty four hours to get myself to St. Michaels, where my boss was entertaining friends and business acquaintances at the opening of his new gallery, Bliss Redux, on the Chesapeake Bay.

“Son of a....” I sputtered as Warren hung up on me.

“Easy, girl!” It was Mr. Wilfred, Uncle Jack’s neighbor. “You look like you’re going to blow a gasket. What gives?”

I gave him the short version of my woeful tale, ending with the fact that I would soon be out of a job. There was no way I was going to find a flight on such short notice, not without filing for bankruptcy to afford the ticket. The fact that Warren was insisting that I come back early from my vacation just sent me over the top. If it weren’t for the fact that I had just bought a new condo in Arlington, and used almost all my savings for the down payment, I’d have told him to go pound sand.

“I am totally screwed,” I sighed heavily. “No way out.”

“Nonsense. Take the auto train. You can even bring your car with you,” he told me. “It takes about seventeen hours, so you could be there by tomorrow.”

“But I don’t have a car,” I confided.

“You definitely need a car to ride the auto train,” Mr. Wilfred admitted. “What about Jack’s car?”

“I’m supposed to sell it when I come back in two weeks for the closing.”

“Why don’t you take the car today? Uncle Jack won’t mind.” Mr. Wilfred reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I have the number for the auto train in here somewhere. If you hurry, you should be able to make it there on time.”

“But I’m not even packed,” I groaned. “There’s so much to do!”

“No problem,” said the friendly neighbor. “Let me get the car all ready for you. I’ll gas it up and check the oil. You just get packed.”

“Great,” I said. It took me half an hour, but I managed to pull it all together. I gathered my clothes and shoes from the walk-in closet, stuffing everything back into my suitcases. I took a last look around Uncle Jack’s condo. It looked presentable for the closing.

Since I was going to use his car, I decided to stop at a local gallery on my way to the station. I had seen a couple of prints of street scenes done by a local artist with a decent reputation the week before, planning to ship them up to Merriweather Woods. Now I could just bring them with me. I knew Uncle Jack and Leonora would enjoy them as a reminder of the start of their romance in Celebration.

“Any chance you could wrap these for me now? I’m kind of in a rush,” I explained. “I’m taking the auto train to Lorton.”

“No problem,” said the older man behind the counter. “Anything else?”

“That gecko over there -- is that papier-mâché?”

“You like it?” He walked over and picked it up to show me. “I can let you have it for fifty bucks.”

I hesitated, wondering if I really needed it, especially at that price. Nearly three feet tall, it was bright green and blue, comical and fun. Warren’s show was contemporary and I thought it made a nice accent piece for the lobby of the gallery, to greet visitors as they walked in. The uplifted claws on one of the gecko’s hands might allow me to add a sign.

“How about forty?” the man suggested.

“Forty? That sounds good. I’ll take it. Can you wrap that, too?”

Another customer came in as the gecko was whisked into the back for wrapping. Tall, good-looking, he sported a Florida tan and an intensity that was disconcerting.

“Raul, is my sculpture ready?” he demanded as the gallery owner returned.

“Oh, Mr. Cañizo, I am so sorry. I wanted to let you check it before it’s wrapped, to make sure it’s what you wanted. Let me go get it.” As he turned to leave, I called out.

“Excuse me. I hate to interrupt. I just want to pop into the drugstore for a couple of things. I’ll be right back.”

“No problem, miss,” was the reply.

Dashing up and down the aisles, I searched for the things I needed for the trip and the gallery opening. Pantyhose, sugarless mint gum, a diet soda, and a pack of pretzels would tide me over. I plunked everything down on the checkout counter, swiped my debit card, and signed on the dotted line. I took the bag from the clerk and tucked it into my oversized purse before returning to the gallery. The owner was still talking to his customer. I could see an employee working with boxes and brown paper in the back room as I stood off to the side. He carried out a rather large box for the man who was waiting and put it down on the counter. He left momentarily and returned with my three packages. “These are for you, miss. Let me carry them to your car.”

“Thank you.” I smiled at the gallery owner and his customer. Only one of them returned my farewell.

When we got to Uncle Jack’s car, I popped the trunk and the young man loaded my packages in beside my suitcases.

“Going on a trip?” he wondered.

“Auto train,” I explained.

“My auntie took that last year. She said it was great. Enjoy,” he told me.

An hour later, I was sitting in line at the Sanford station, waiting to load Uncle Jack’s 2002 blue Camry on the train. Thanks to a last-minute cancellation and Mr. Wilfred’s negotiations with the clerk in the ticket office, I booked a coach seat for the ride to Lorton.

Once I checked Uncle Jack’s car in and the attendant a large number 248 on the side of the Camry, I grabbed my two bags out of the trunk, and climbed aboard the passenger car of the auto train. I found my seat and settled myself down. Moments later, I hooked up to the Wi-Fi and sent off a couple of emails, trying to convince Walter that it was imperative he deliver the two canvases to Bliss Redux personally. I contacted my assistant, Bella, and gave her the priority to-do list for tomorrow. I went over issues that needed resolving, including arrangements for the two of us to be in St. Michaels on time. She emailed me back five minutes later and shared some of the more insidious incidents with Warren that occurred in my absence. I made a note to give her a bonus as soon as I was paid for this job.

Warren Fripp was a wealthy man. Of that, there was little question. Retired in 2010 from one of the biggest lobbying firms in Washington, he had amassed a personal fortune by the age of fifty, and he then transformed it into a large, impressive multi-million-dollar art collection that provided him with a second career, as owner of Bliss, the Georgetown gallery. He was well-respected as an art collector because he spent a great deal of time and money to obtain what was considered the best, and as a gallery owner, he made sure that his clients had access to the finest available canvases, sculptures, and collectibles he could find in the global market. Not only did Bliss attract Washington power brokers, it appealed to international investors and art collectors. Warren’s expertise as a lobbyist was in natural resources, and he had a lot of clients in the Middle East, including a couple of Saudi princes and at least one despot with a reputation for brutally shutting down a popular uprising.

As a man, Warren was arrogant, self-serving, and cantankerous. I avoided dealing with him as much as I could. Prudence was his right-hand, and if she was now out of the picture, even temporarily, I didn’t want to take her place in the shooting gallery. Warren was known for using powerful weapons against enemies and friendlies in his quest to get what he wanted.

As his agent for acquisitions, it was my job to locate artists and pieces. Warren lived for the excitement of deal-making. There was nothing that stoked his fire like beating down a competitor or undercutting an artist. He was genetically wired to come out on top, so he never held back in the effort to close any deal. That was what made him a dangerous man to cross. It was also what made him a reprehensible, thoroughly unlikable human being.

Of course, I had no idea of all this when I naively joined Bliss. Warren had been a client of mine when I worked for Mathilda Rothschild at Dockersby, the art auction house, and over the years, he had often invited me to dinner to discuss artists and artwork he wanted to acquire.

At the time, I was married to Tarkington Pilker and living in Westport. Tark was focused on building his career as a sportscaster for WNYT, working long days and nights at the studio and on the road. That left me with a lot of hours to fill, and when Mathilda offered me a part-time position at Dockersby, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. She was a decent person and I flourished under her tutelage, building up client services for the auction house. I would travel into the city to meet with Warren and show him pieces I thought he might want to buy, based on his taste in art. I was heartbroken when she was forced to retire because of ill health. When he found out Mathilda was stepping down, Warren offered me a job. It came on the heels of my divorce, and at the time, I saw it as a lifeline.

It’s not hard to choose the final straw that broke the camel’s back. I felt like I had been carrying too big a load for too long. Tark was challenging as a husband, outspoken and opinionated by day, insatiable by night. I often felt like I was the period at the end of Tark’s sentence. We met in college. I was the artist and he was the jock. It was a mismatch from the start. Over the years, we drifted apart as he rose through the broadcasting ranks and I found an outlet for my passion in the art world. Some months he was gone more than he was home. By the third year, it felt like we were two ships passing in the night. Two years later, I sat alone on my birthday, waiting for Tark to arrive home from a trip to Atlanta. When he didn’t come home or call, my heart hardened a little.

We talked about having kids -- anything to fill the growing void between us. For a year, we tried naturally to have a child. For the next six months after that, we visited a fertility clinic. Nothing seemed to work. After a while, I started to think it was a sign, that it wasn’t in the cards for us to have a child together. We played around with the idea of adopting a child, but every time we started the paperwork for that, something came up. After a series of missed appointments with the adoption agency, we put the plan on hold.

By our tenth wedding anniversary, we were ready to call it quits. That effort was halted when Tark broke his back in a snowmobiling accident in Provo, Utah, while he was out there covering a ski championship. I flew out and took charge of his care. I got him a medical evacuation flight to New York once he was stable enough to be moved. When he was released from the hospital, I set him up in the guest bedroom, in a special medical bed. That really began the end of our physical relationship. Over the next several months, he recovered at home. I drove him to his daily physical therapy appointments and his monthly doctor visits. By the second month, his assistant, Mandy, came to the house and he was able to keep his hand in the game at WNYT, staying in the major sports loop. The third month at home brought more changes. He called in favors and was soon interviewing major sports figures in our living room, once it was transformed into a makeshift studio. From pro-golfers to basketball superstars to legendary baseball and football coaches, Tark created a new style of sports interview. “Tark Talk” became a hit, with my husband, corseted in his back brace, in one leather club chair, and his guest of the week in another.

My big mistake was in letting down my guard, in going back to Dockersby under the assumption that all Tark and Mandy were doing was working. Three years later, I was blindsided by the announcement that Mandy was now pregnant with Tark’s child. Within days, the gossip columnists had picked up the story. We were constantly barraged by phone calls seeking comments. Tark moved out of our Westport home and into Mandy’s pokey little Manhattan walk-up. It turned out that Tark found sex with Mandy a healing experience, good for what ailed his back.