Count Dracula appeared at her side. She jumped. “You are very silent. I am not amused. You are the Mr. Pinks?” She looked dubiously at his dark, sharp features.
“There is no Mr. Pinks. I am the owner. It pleases my employees to refer to me by that name. What do you want?” His voice was cold.
Amanda’s was colder. “Decent reproductions. I have come a great distance. Your young person showed me this.” She tapped the drawings with the back of her hand, dismissing them.
His sharp features began to soften. He looked Amanda over carefully. “My employee is inexperienced. Ordinarily I am made aware of special clients who may be coming to view what I have to offer. Please, this way.”
He led her to the back of the shop, waving the young woman away and indicating a chair for Amanda. With a small bow he disappeared and in moments returned with a folder which he untied with great ceremony. He spread the drawings on a table before her.
Her eyes glittered. The freshly-polished nails moved quickly from one piece of ancient vellum to the next, the emerald on her finger making streaks of gold lightning. At one particular drawing, she stopped, her hand to her breast, breathing deeply. She bent to observe the drawing more closely, stroking the edge of the paper lovingly, her eyes devouring the delicate pencil rendering of a female nude.
My God. It could be an Ingres.
She spoke quietly, intensely. “It is a foolish game I play. Hoping to find…” She caught herself and reassumed her imperious attitude. “Something that strikes my fancy. This is charming. How much?”
“Two-hundred thousand.”
Amanda smiled slyly and met his direct gaze. “American Express Gold?”
He laughed (she was sure she saw sharpened eye teeth) and held out his hand. “Who are you? Your taste is exquisite. Surely we have run across each other in our wanderings?”
She offered him a dead fish which he brought to his lips.
“Put this away now,” she commanded. “I will return, with…” She searched for the appropriate medium of exchange, “…dollars. And then perhaps we will… negotiate?”
He seemed to undergo a moment of conscience. It created frightening changes in his countenance. “You do know this cannot be… authentic.”
Her smile was deadly. “I know that is what you believe. Put it away… now. It will take a few hours.” She made a small chuckle of satisfaction. “Truly, I never expected… even when I was led to believe…”
The delighted Count Dracula slipped the drawing into an acid-free folder. “If Madam would allow me. There are others coming. At least one more. A- dare I say?- a Michelangelo. Would that be of interest? Are you in the city for a while?”
Amanda pressed her fingers tightly to her lips as if to seal in a cry. His eyes were glued to the emerald. “When?” The word barely escaped her lips.
His face clouded momentarily and then he spoke with determination. “Within the week. I will see to it.” He smiled his frightening smile. “It will be of the highest quality. Madam will not be displeased.”
Her breath came in short gasps. “I will see what I can arrange. In the meantime…” She pointed to the selected art work he held. “With your life…”
He smiled and bowed and she strode toward the front of the shop.
The large scowling man that she and Marc had come to know so well was entering the door.
Chapter 13
AMANDA’S mind shot into overdrive. She glanced quickly toward the back of the dark gallery. Dracula was disappearing into his secret lair. Her head snapped back. The nerdy young woman was already headed toward the incoming customer.
Entering from the bright outside into the dark interior of the shop, the dreaded large man was momentarily blinded.
Amanda dropped like a stone and hunched behind one of the display tables piled high with paintings. Cissy’s new pair of twelve dollar DKNY hose split over one of her elegantly uncovered knees. The Garbo slouch hat lurched lower and the Sophia Loren dark glasses dislodged and toppled toward the floor.
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.
What in heaven’s name is he doing here? Is he going to smash up the place? Is he in cahoots with Count Dracula? Dear Lord, did he follow me?
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.
“Au revoir,”the proprietor of Pinks called out as she moved in large, unhurried, exaggerated strides past the shop window.
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.