Too Damn Rich (49 page)

Four paintings alone accounted for nearly a
quarter of that grand total:

Lot 160, the Francesco Guardi, which had gone
for $6.75 million.

A small Titian, which had brought in $2.64
million.

A Gericault, which had commanded $2.42
million.

And a Joachim Wtewael, which went for $1.8
million.

"Goodness, Arnold!" Zandra said. "How ever
did we do it? Kenzie, you really must look!"

"No, thanks," Kenzie said weakly. "I don't
think I can bear it."

"Balls! Course you can!" Zandra declared
stoutly. "In all, we've totaled fifty-six-point-six million
dollars. Can you believe it? Fifty-six million, Kenzie! Darling,
you should be thrilled!"

"Fifty-six ... ?" Kenzie repeated dully.

"Darling, do snap out of it. I mean,
honestly. I know it's somewhat below the presale estimate, but you
have to admit the estimates were on the steep side ... Darling? Did
you hear me? We fared tons better than Christie's or Sotheby's.
See? You were absolutely right about the show going on."

Kenzie blinked. "I ... was?" she said in a
tiny, hesitant voice.

"I'll say. You're vindicated—to the tune of
fifty-six million. Arnold— shouldn't we drink to this, or
something?"

"Definitely," he agreed, and launched into
his Chinese takeout routine. "Come on, radies. We workeee, now
starvee. Join me in a rate runch?"

Kenzie shook her head. "Why don't you two go?
I couldn't possibly keep any food down."

"So?" Zandra wouldn't take no for an answer.
"Have a liquid lunch, darling. That's the antidote. Nothing like a
good stiff drink."

She took Kenzie's hands and pulled her to her
feet.

"You're coming, and that's that. No argument
now. That's a good girl!"

When they got outside, a snowplow was
scraping noisily past on Madison. Kenzie turned her face up to the
sky.

"Wouldn't you know it? Now that the auction's
over, the snow's stopped."

Becky V set out for the country at eleven
o'clock in the morning. For anonymity's sake, she drove an
unassuming, dark gray Chrysler Le Baron hardtop, and wore big round
sunglasses and had an Hermes scarf tied around her head. Lord
Rosenkrantz, with his pink baby face and Dickensian paunch, sat
beside her in the passenger seat. They were followed by a dark blue
Ford Taurus, driven by her Secret Service detail, which in turn was
followed by a black Chevrolet Astro minivan.

The van was driven by Becky's Pritikin chef,
and was loaded down with baskets of fresh black and white truffles,
cases of 1988 Duque de la Vila Rioja, bottled on Becky V's own
Spanish estates, five-kilo tins of Beluga Malossal caviar packed in
dry ice, and coolers filled with fresh seafood bought that very
morning at the Fulton Street fish market.

With Becky in the lead, the three-car
motorcade took the Holland Tunnel under the river and were soon in
the famous New Jersey hunt country: unspoiled woods, rolling
pastures, and farmland. The winding country roads, though plowed,
were treacherous, and the going was slow.

Half an hour later, they turned into a
private, unmarked lane which cut through white-fenced,
snow-blanketed pastures. This lane, too, had been cleared.

A quarter of a mile later, there it was.
Becky V's equestrian estate. A sprawling compound, to say the
least.

The main house was a handsome, white,
thirty-room mansion said to be one of the finest examples of Greek
Revival architecture in America. Then there were the outbuildings.
The guest house, which she'd put at Lord Rosenkrantz's disposal.
Twin brick stables with cupolas facing each other across a cobbled
courtyard—one for horses, the other used as a multicar garage. A
blacksmith shop. Glass hothouses. Barns and sheds.

For recreation, there were indoor and outdoor
pools. A tennis court. A 40,000-square-foot indoor riding arena.
Plus two outdoor arenas.

And, last but not least, a caretaker's house
and staff building.

As soon as Becky arrived, she and Mrs.
Wheatley, the housekeeper, made the rounds of both the main house
and the guest house. Accompanied by Mr. Wheatley, the estate
manager, she then inspected the barns, sheds, garages, and indoor
riding arena and swimming pool. Next came a tour of the hothouses
with the head gardener, where Becky inspected the plants, fingered
the moistness of the soil, talked fertilizer, and selected the
out-of-season flowers and blooming potted plants she wanted brought
into the house and guesthouse.

Horses being her passion, she left the
stables for last. There, with the head groom in attendance, she
unhurriedly examined her fifteen beloved thoroughbreds and fed them
cubes of sugar.

Her inspection over, she decided a ride was
in order. She loved the thrill and freedom of a gallop over
snow-covered pastures and rolling hills.

"Saddle up Sparky," she said, naming her
favorite horse, a nine-year- old gelding. "I'll be taking him out
in a few minutes."

Then, secure in the knowledge that everything
in the compound met her impeccable standards, Becky returned to the
house, where she changed into jodhpurs, boots, down-filled blue ski
parka, helmet, shawl, and fleece-lined gloves.

When she returned to the stable, the two
Secret Service agents were waiting. Both had changed into jeans and
bulky, fleece-lined suede jackets.

"Is this really necessary?" she asked. "I'm
only going for a short ride."

"Afraid so, ma'am," the one in charge said
politely. "It's for your own protection."

Becky nodded and told the groom to fetch
Sparky. "And then saddle up Moonbeam and Firefly for these
gentlemen, would you?"

The groom looked at her in surprise. "Ma'am?
Are you cer—"

Becky cut him off. "Just do it."

"Ma'am!" He hurried away and returned leading
Sparky, who breathed plumes and pranced friskily in place. He was
magnificent—big and shiny black, with sculpted muscles and white
points, excellent head, long sturdy legs. The groom held the reins
and gave Becky a leg-up.

She waited until Moonbeam and Firefly were
saddled up and brought around. Moonbeam was a skittish, willful
white stallion; Firefly, a recalcitrant, elderly mare.

Becky watched in amusement as the two men
struggled to mount. Then, once they were in the saddle, she said,
"Giddy-yap!" and shook Sparky's reins.

And she was off.

A glance backward made her burst out
laughing. Moonbeam, rearing and bucking, threw his rider, and
Firefly refused to move faster than a sedate trot.

Which of course was exactly what she'd been
counting on.

The ride through the crusty snow was
beautiful; the air, though stingingly cold, was bracing and pure.
Sparky jumped fences with ease. Raced gracefully up sloping
hillsides. Surprised a family of deer and sent them leaping for the
shelter of the nearby woods.

An exhilarating hour later, Becky returned to
the stable. The Secret Service men were waiting. One was obviously
angry. The other looked sheepish. She dismounted Sparky, who was
lathered with sweat, and tossed the reins to the groom.

"Gentlemen," she told her bodyguards. "I seem
to have lost you."

Both their faces turned red.

Returning to the house, Becky had a maid run
a hot bath. Then, sliding into a tub for the second time that day,
she reflected on the delights of country life.

Afterward, dressed in sweater and slacks, she
pondered the weekend ahead.

Zandra and Karl-Heinz. They seemed a match
made in heaven. Whether the same held true on earth remained to be
seen.

Still, one thing was for certain. It promised
to be an interesting weekend ...

... a very interesting weekend indeed.

The Sheldon D. Faireys set out for the
country at noon. New England Wasps to the core, they drove an
appropriately sensible vehicle—a much- dented, decade-old Country
Squire station wagon.

Likewise, they were suitably attired for a
commute to the country. Sheldon had on a red and black flannel
shirt, olive corduroys, and an old shearling jacket. Nina was in
oatmeal (oversize cowl-necked sweater) and tobacco brown (sueded
twill pants and lace-up lugger boots). You couldn't tell by looking
at them, but they had more money than Ivana Trump— only they knew
how to hold onto it.

Offspring of New England bankers (Nina), and
New England brokers (Sheldon), both had been raised to believe in
God, country, the almighty dollar, and Yankee understatement—not
necessarily in that order—and each could recite the Five Wasp
Commandments by heart:

I. Thou shalt never touch the Principal, no matter
what Thou might covet.

II. Thou shalt live off a portion of the Principal's
interest—the remainder to be automatically reinvested so that the
Almighty Principal shall multiply fruitfully.

III. Thou shalt not display thy wealth for all the
world to see.

IV. Thou shalt practice thrift and be frugal.

V. Thou shalt under no circumstance touch the
Principal.

Which was why the casual observer could be
forgiven for not guessing that the Faireys lived on a six-figure
salary (his), plus the six-figure interest generated by blue chip
investments (hers).

And so off they drove in their rusty,
ten-year-old station wagon. The only baggage which did accompany
them was in the form of garment bags, and even those were an
exception, entirely due to receiving a dinner invitation from Becky
V for them and their houseguests.

Taking the Lincoln Tunnel to New Jersey, they
hooked up with 1-95, then changed to 1-78, and got off at North
Plainfield. A prudent stop in a nearby shopping center ensued,
where they thriftily stocked up on staples and discount liquor
(Jersey prices and sales tax being a lot lower than pricey
Manhattan's). Afterward, they drove the familiar country roads
through snowy woods and pastures. Five miles after Middlebush, they
passed the lane leading into Becky V's estate. A quarter of a mile
farther, and they made a sharp left onto their own modest but
sufficient ten acres, Cedar Hill.

A short gravel drive, recently plowed, led
straight up to the house, which had been built atop a cleared
incline, so that it seemed to dominate its setting. As always, the
sight of it gave the Faireys a warm rush of pleasure. It was red
brick, two stories, authentic Federal. Perfectly proportioned and
symmetrical. There was a steep, snow-laden roof, a stately
two-storied central portico, and tall brick chimneys at either end.
On both sides, short one-story wings had been added at a later
date.

The one on the left functioned as a one-horse
stable and two-car garage. The other had been converted into a
small caretakers' apartment.

Halfway to the house, the station wagon was
intercepted by two golden retrievers, which barked joyfully while
bounding circles around the now-creeping vehicle.

The Faireys drove carefully around to the
back, where they parked beside the kitchen. Mrs. Pruitt, the
caretaker's wife, opened the door, wiping her hands on her apron,
to say she would unload the car.

Nina and Sheldon spent the next few minutes
fussing over the dogs. Long slavering pink tongues licked faces;
giant paws made snowy prints on clothes.

Looking around, Sheldon sighed wistfully. The
sky was a pellucid blue, the sun shone brightly, and the air was
crisp and clean. All in all, it promised to be the perfect winter
weekend.

Only one dark, ugly cloud smudged his
pleasure's horizon. The Goldsmiths.

Prince Karl-Heinz also set out for the
country at three-thirty, but he eschewed driving by car. He simply
went to the East Side heliport and boarded the lush comfort of a
waiting executive helicopter.

It took off at once and the pilot vectored it
southwest, heading down over the East River and its quartet of
bridges—the Queensboro, Williamsburg, Manhattan, and Brooklyn—past
the towers of Wall Street, and zoomed out across the choppy gray
waters of Upper New York Bay.

Karl-Heinz gazed out as they flew south along
the coastline of Sta- ten Island.

Below, set among trees, were low apartment
buildings, stately old Victorians, developments of tract houses.
Suburbia-in-the-City, the American Dream alive and well—and within
sight of Manhattan.

The juxtaposition was discombobulating.
Across the water, the needlepoint skyline. Here, another world
entirely.

Neat gridworks of snowy lawns. Curving drives
among rows of ranch houses, split levels, Colonials. And residents
who sneered at their sophisticated sister borough across the bay,
who were middle-class proud, wore their provincialism like a badge,
and regularly made noises to secede from New York City.

Next came the familiar, industrial wasteland
of New Jersey. Perth Amboy and Metuchen. Docks, refineries, oil
storage tanks. And finally, the Raritan River, where once again
suburbia flourished before giving way to true countryside. Forests,
farmland, rolling hills—

—and the helicopter roared in low over the
rooftops of Becky V's compound, hovered in midair above the front
lawn of the Greek Revival mansion, and then set down, the wash of
its whirling rotors whipping up great blizzardlike flurries of
snow.

The hinged door of the main cabin opened, the
boarding stairs were lowered, and Karl-Heinz exited, suitcase in
hand. From force of habit, he half ran, hunched forward, until he
cleared the rotors, to where a Secret Service agent wearing dark
aviator shades was waiting.

The agent stared at him for a moment, then
raised his arm and murmured, Dick Tracy-like, into his sleeve while
covering an ear with his other hand. Only afterward did Karl-Heinz
notice the tiny earphone.

"You're expected, sir." The agent had to
shout to make himself heard. "If you'll follow me—" He pointed
toward the mansion.