Amanda’s hand shot out and grabbed the glasses before they clattered onto the wooden planks. She held her breath.
The chirping young assistant’s voice was counterpointed by the gruff, deeper tones of inquiry.
Amanda strained to hear what the pair was saying as she slipped out of the Ferragamos and flipped the silk scarf around her neck to keep from tripping.
“Gee. They just disappeared. I guess the other customer is in the back with Mr. Pinks. You should wait here. He doesn’t like people in the back unless he asks them.”
There was no answer, but the thumping tread of his feet and his heavy breathing as he followed the young woman indicated he had no intention of remaining in the front. Their footsteps approached Amanda and passed by the other side of the table.
“Oh. Well, okay. But you have to stay out here while I go in the back.” He grunted. Hidden from their sight by the massive table, Amanda imagined his steely eyes following the young woman opening the door of the Inner Sanctum.
Now was the time make a break for it. Crouching on tip-toe, she scuttled from behind the table, her calves screaming, clutching the shoes and her Mark Cross bag. The door was mere feet away. She rose to dash out.
“Aaagh!” The scarf caught in a dusty Rococo frame and yanked her head upright.
“Oh, you’re still here,” Count Dracula called out, emerging from his back room lair. Amanda breezily waved her hand in a grand farewell gesture and swooped out the front door shoving her collapsed Garbo hat out of her face just in time to avoid plowing into the doorframe. She had seen the large man turn and squint against the outside light.
And then took off like a shot.
She was half way up the block, her bare feet crying out in pain, her eye on the cracked sidewalk when she ran smack into the large man’s chest! He must have dashed out a back door and taken out after her. Amanda screamed bloody murder.
MARC COULDN’T concentrate. He wasn’t all that comfortable in museums anyway. Probably something left over from the art world making his brother’s life hell, which in turn made his life hell. And the guy in charge of the Metropolitan’s exhibition was an imperious prig.
Marc knew Cambiare had used its influence to get David hired. The auction house did seem to be doing everything in its power to treat his brother fairly and give him every opportunity to redeem himself. It had been, what? About ten years. David had proven himself in small attributions and as a respected teacher. Now all he needed was a major coup like nailing an international forger to put him back on the fast art world track.
Or getting the last laugh on the international art community by pulling off the forgery himself. Not a pretty thought. But a possible one.
Marc explained David’s absence to the arrogant curator and gave him David’s number. The hospital had said it was perfectly acceptable for David to receive calls and visitors.
“I’m sure we will be able to manage.” The curator looked over his half-glasses with a faint smile. “We do wish him a speedy recovery.” David’s young female assistant nodded earnestly, her lips pinched tight in distress.
Marc asked her to show him through the rooms so that he might inform David how the installation was progressing and suggested she might give his brother a call and stop by after work to fill him in more completely. She eagerly agreed.
Nodding obsequiously to his favorite Metropolitan guard, Marc left the exhibition area. He was amazed at the rebuilding of walls and resculpting of display space that was taking place. Mounting a major exhibition was a big deal. He was impressed big brother had been asked to participate.
“WE WERE only too glad to do whatever we could to assist in solidifying Mr. Parkerson’s reputation.” The head of Cambiare’s New York office offered Marc a coffee.
“And calling me in to spy on my brother was an efficient and practical way of backstopping your decision, right?” Marc noted.
The elegant man smiled coolly. “If anyone had the motivation to prove him innocent of these absurd charges…”
“Yeah, we’ve been over that ground. Where the hell is the insurance guy from the London office? I’ve got better things to do with my time…”
“I’m truly sorry. I was told he would be available today. He’s been a bit under the weather.”
“What does he look like?” Marc’s voice was sharp and his look intense. He had a sudden, startling thought.
“Wh… I… I’ve never met the man myself. We’ve only spoken on the phone. Short, compact, I understand. The London office sent a description ahead. I’m sure we could ask for more detailed information.”
Marc shook his head. “No, no. That’s fine. Have him get in touch with me as soon as he can. It’s important that we compare notes. Another factor seems to have entered the case and it’s getting a bit heavy.”
The director’s eyes grew large and his back stiffened. “Heavy? Do you mean violence? Perhaps it’s time to get the police involved.”
“And they will inform you they can do nothing until they are given more definite leads. The break-ins could be coincidence.”
“Break-ins? You didn’t inform us…”
“I’m informing you now. Somebody’s really hot to get his hands on something.” He gave a short derisive snort. “The cops would be thrilled to hear those specifics.” Marc stuck his hand out to leave. “Don’t worry. No, as a matter of fact, do worry. Tell your staff to keep particularly on the alert. I wish I could be more definitive, but I don’t really know more than that. I was hoping the insurance investigator might be able to add some information from his end.”
He shook the worried looking executive’s hand and left.
It was late afternoon Friday. The streets were crowded with chic Madison Avenue types hurrying to get away early for the weekend.
Marc zigzagged easily though the sidewalk throng as he moved quickly toward Rockefeller Center. The insurance investigation firm was an international one. He should have thought about contacting the New York office before.
He was in front of Tiffany’s. He needed to get away from all the rushing bodies to think. Marc wandered aimlessly among the spare, elegant showcases. In front of a particular one, he stopped and stared blankly.
“May I show you some engagement rings?” The smartly dressed saleswoman tilted an elegantly coifed head toward the array of sparkling jewelry.
Marc bolted from the store.
“MISS EMERSON, for heaven’s sake, pull yourself together. It is I!”
Amanda shoved herself away from the thug clutching her, ready to let loose with another bloodcurdling scream. She blinked. It was Mr. Wilde.
“I hardly recognized you,” he noted, stepping back to admire her appearance. He chuckled, quizzically. “And you obviously didn’t recognize me.” He caught sight of the shoes clutched in her hand and the expensive bag. And then the yellow emerald. “Good heavens, is that real? This is not the neighborhood…”
