Mrs. Marsden is Lady Cynthia’s housekeeper and a confidant of our Ursi’s. Do you begin to see how Thomas Appleton got the message?
“As a matter of fact, Archy, Sabrina Wright was one of the reasons I wanted to see you today.”
“Really? And I thought you were pining to see me. Don’t tell me you want an autographed book.”
“No. Madam wants to meet her,” she said.
“So does half the world, I would imagine. What’s Lady C’s interest?”
Connie rolled her eyes toward the Pelican’s ceiling, which was in need of a paint job. “It’s got to do with her latest project.”
Lady Cynthia Horowitz had two passions in life: young, handsome, male proteges (and she’s a septuagenarian) and projects. She has championed the cause of nesting plovers, humpback whales, bald eagles, and hirsute violinists. Her last brainstorm was an ingenious scheme to install Art Nouveau pissoirs on Worth Avenue. Really!
Cartier, Tiffany, Hamilton, and Verdura, among other local merchants, were appalled at the idea, but I understand many older gentlemen who spend countless hours trailing after their wives on that boulevard of expensive and useless merchandise joined Lady C’s committee in earnest.
Priscilla breezed by and asked us if we were having the special. We were and I ordered a bottle of cabernet sauvignon to go with the meal.
Then I said to Connie, “Okay, let’s have it. What has your boss got the wind up over this week?”
“She’s going to write her memoirs,” Connie announced unhappily. “She thought she might get some helpful hints from Sabrina.”
Her memoirs, was it? The lady had lived a long life, had had at least as many husbands as fingers on her right hand, all rich and one titled.
She was a living Sabrina Wright novel. Did she imagine a book-signing party at the Classic Bookshop on S. County Road where the couturier and graphic artist Michael
Vollbracht recently appeared to push the reissue of his book Nothing Sacred? The dishy primer is famous for Vollbracht’s sketch of the late Marjorie Merriweather Post holding up a box of Grape-Nuts.
No one knew more about sex, money, and manipulation than Lady Cynthia Horowitz and I said as much. “There’s nothing Sabrina can teach the Madam, Connie. She’s been there, done that, and lived to tell about it. Besides, I’m off the case.”
“So soon?” Connie seemed surprised.
“Yeah. I found her daughter and the guy she ran off with.” It was a slight exaggeration, but who… found whom was now a moot question and when in doubt, take the credit, I always say.
“Madam doesn’t believe the man that got away was Sabrina’s daughter’s lover,” Connie said. “Nor do I.”
Nor do Thomas Appleton, do he? I kept that to myself, however. With Connie I often share and confide, but given the dramatis personae of this charade I immediately decided to play my hand close to the vest.
Besides, I still was not sure what Thomas Appleton wanted to see me about. Not contemporary art, that’s for sure.
“And who does Madam think the guy is?” I asked.
“Sabrina’s young and gorgeous lover,” Connie gushed.
That figures.
Eight
The next morning I called upon Sofia Richmond once again to get some background information on the Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art.
When I’m able, I like to do a little homework before meeting with a new client, if indeed Thomas Appleton would become a client. As he was a patron of the museum it wouldn’t hurt to bone up on its history so as to appear smarter than I am. Who knows, the guy might ask questions.
I didn’t have to delve into the Appleton family closet as its contents were more or less in the public domain. If it contained a skeleton, as I now suspected it did, its name was Sabrina Wright.
The PBICA, as it’s familiarly referred to in print, owes its existence to the philanthropists, Robert and Mary Montgomery. He is a noted attorney. The Montgomerys renovated the Lake Theater, a landmark art deco movie house that now houses the PBICA, after purchasing it from the Palm Beach Community College. The facility formerly held the contemporary art and design collection of J. Patrick Lannan. When the Lannan Foundation relocated the collection to Los Angeles, they donated the building to the college.
The PBICA purports to be a venue for major national and international art in all media and a meeting ground for the diverse populations who live in and visit the Palm Beach region. Who could find fault with that?
I got there minutes after it opened its doors to the public and wondered whom I could bill the three-buck admission charge to Appleton or Sabrina? It was most likely to show up on my expense report as a miscellaneous disbursement, a category that often comprised fifty-five percent of my expenditures, much to Mrs. Trelawney’s chagrin. I ambled around, fascinated with what I looked upon, before making my way to the second floor and the New Media Lounge.
Thomas Appleton was already there, seated before three television screens. He rose when I entered and came to meet me.
“Mr. McNally, thank you for being prompt.” He offered his hand and we shook.
“I glanced at the exhibits before coming up and was most impressed,” I said. “I intend to come back when I can give them more attention.”
“Shall we sit?” When we did Appleton pointed to the screens. “Each shows a video presentation by a current artist. As you can see there is no audio.” Pointing to the earphones on an ultramodern glass-top table, he instructed, “One must use these, which allows for a private viewing. The two computer stations you see are connected to the Internet. With them, visitors are able to surf Web art sites worldwide via a list provided by the museum. The Lounge is the concept of our new director, Michael Rush.”
“The medium is the message,” I quoted.
Thomas Appleton looked like Kriss Kringle, clean shaven and out of uniform. Round face, ruddy complexion, and a shock of white hair combined to give the impression of a jolly gent more inclined to be an insurance salesman than a multimillionaire bon vivant, sportsman, and sidekick of presidents and kings. I had heard he was usually under par on the golf course, but judging from his waistline I would imagine he was more a devotee of croquet than tennis. In Palm Beach, croquet is taken quite seriously with teams competing from other states as well as the land-of-the-game’s origin.
Being early, the New Media Lounge was empty except for us and knowing Appleton wanted to conduct our business as quickly and as privately as possible, I thought it prudent to get down to the particulars before he changed his mind or was spotted by someone he knew, in which case I would have to play the guy who came to service the earphones.
“It’s all very interesting, Mr. Appleton, but not the reason for our meeting,” was how I approached the delicate subject.
“Very true, Mr. McNally, and I respect your directness. Time, as they say, is money.”
I could have said that not being officially in his employ, time was bleeding my wallet, but one didn’t talk that way to an Appleton without being blackballed from places that didn’t solicit my business. It was a no-win situation and one in which I felt very much at home.
“I understand that you represent the author Sabrina Wright,” he finally stated.
“Represented, sir. My business with her has been concluded as of yesterday.”
Was it my imagination or did those ruddy cheeks lose their glow? “Are you saying Sabrina, that is Ms Wright, has found what she came here looking for?”
“I am, sir.”
I knew what the guy was thinking, but did he know I knew? For a moment I thought about putting that heretofore jolly face at ease by telling him he was among friends, but I didn’t know how much Appleton was ready to ‘fess up to, and, more to the point, I had not forgotten my prediction that knowing the identity of Gillian Wright’s father could be dangerous. He had invited me here, therefore the onus was on him to say why he wanted to see me.