'You have something for me?" Echo said, baffled.
Another nod from Taja. She looked appraisingly at Peter, then returned to her purse and withdrew a cream-colored envelope the size of a wedding announcement.
Peter said, "Echo tells me you've been following her places. What's that about?"
Taja looked at the envelope in her hand as if it would answer all of their questions. Peter continued to size the woman up. She used cosmetics in almost theatrical quantities; that overload plus Botox, maybe, was enough to obscure any hint of age. She wore a flat-crowned hat and a long skirt with large fabric-covered buttons down one side. A scarlet puff of neckerchief was Taja's only concession to color.
That, and the rose flush of her cheeks. Her eyes were almond-shaped, creaturely bold, intelligent. One thing about her, she didn't blink very often, which enhanced a certain robotic effect.
Echo took the envelope. Her name, handwritten, was on it. She smiled uncertainly at Taja, who simply looked away—something dismissive in her lack of expression, Peter thought.
"Just a minute. I'd like to ask you—"
The Woman in Black paused on her way to the stairs.
Echo said, "Pete? It's okay. Taja?"
Taja turned.
"I wanted to say—thank you. You know, for the subway, the other day?"
Taja, after a few moments, did something surprisingly out of character, considering her previous demeanor, the rigid formality. She responded to Echo with an emphatic thumbs-up before soundlessly disappearing down the stairs. Peter had the impression she'd enjoyed intimidating the cholo kid. Might have enjoyed herself even more if she'd used the knife on him.
Echo had a hand on his arm, sensing his desire to follow the Woman in Black.
"Let's see what this is," she said, of the envelope in her other hand.
"She looks Latin to me, what d'you think?" Peter said to Echo as they returned to the front room.
Rosemay and Julia began talking at the same time, wanting to know who was at the door. "Messenger,"
Peter said to them, and looked out the windows facing the street.
Echo, preoccupied, said, "You're the detective." She looked for a letter opener on Rosemay's writing table.
"Jesus above," Julia said. "Sounded like a ruckus. I was reachin' for me heart pills."
Peter saw the Woman in Black get into a waiting limousine.
"Travels first class, whoever she is." He caught the license plate number as the limo pulled away, jotted it down on the inside of his left wrist with a ballpoint pen.
Rosemay and Julia were watching Echo as she slit the envelope open.
"What is it, dear, an invitation?"
"Looks like one."
"Now, who's getting married this time?" Julia said. "Seems like you've been to half a dozen weddings already this year."
"No, it's—" Echo's throat seemed to close up on her. She sat down slowly on one of a pair of matched love seats.
"Good news or bad?" Peter said, adjusting the blinds over the window.
"My . . . God!"
"Echo!" Rosemay said, mildly alarmed by her expression.
"This is so . . . utterly . . . fantastic!"
Peter crossed the room and took the invitation from her.
"But why me?" Echo said.
"Part of your job, isn't it? Going to these shows? What's so special about this one?"
"Because it's John Leland Ransome. And it's the event of the year. You're invited."
"I see that. 'Guest.' Real personal. I'm overwhelmed. Let's play." He took out his cell phone. "After I run a plate."
Echo wasn't paying attention to him. She had taken the invitation back and was staring at it as if she were afraid the ink might disappear.
Stefan Konine's reaction was predictable when Echo showed him the invitation. He pouted.
"Not to disparage your good fortune but, yes, why you? If I wasn't aware of your high moral standards—"
Echo said serenely, "Don't say it, Stefan."
Stefan began to look over a contract that one of his assistants had silently slipped onto his desk. He picked up his pen.
"I confess that it took me literally weeks to finagle my way onto the guest list. And I'm not just anyone's old hand job in this town."
"I thought you didn't like Ransome. Something about art on a sailor's—"
Stefan slashed through an entire paragraph on the contract and looked up at Echo.
"I don't worship the man, but I adore the event. Don't you have work to do?"
"I'm not strong on the pre-Raphaelites, but I called around. There's a definite lack of viability in today's market."
"Call it what it is, an Arctic chill. Tell the appraiser for the Chandler estate that he might do better on one of those auction-junkie internet sites." Stefan performed strong-arm surgery on another page of the contract. 'You will want to appear in something singularly ravishing for the Ransome do. All of us at Gilbard's can only benefit from your reflected glory."
"May I put the gown on my expense account?"
"Of course not."
Echo winced slightly.
"But perhaps," Stefan said, twiddling his gold pen, "we can do something about that raise you've been whining about for weeks."
FOUR
Cyrus Mellichamp's personal quarters took up the fourth floor of his gallery on East 58th Street. They were an example of what wealth and unerring taste could accomplish. So was Cy himself. He not only looked pampered by the best tailors, dieticians, physical therapists, and cosmeticians, he looked as if he truly deserved it.
John Ransome's fortune was to the tenth power what Cy Mellichamp had managed to acquire as a kingpin of the New York art world, but on the night of the gala dedicated to himself and his new paintings, which he had no plans to attend, he was casually dressed. Tennis sweater, khakis, loafers. No socks. While the Mellichamp Gallery's guests were drinking Moet and Chandon below, Ransome sipped beer and watched the party on several TV monitors in Cy's study.
There was no sound, but thanks to the gallery owner's expensive surveillance system, it was possible, if he wanted, to tune in on nearly every conversation on the first two floors of the gallery, swarming with media-annointed superstars. Name a profession with glitter appeal, there was an icon, a living legend, or a luminary in attendance.
Cy Mellichamp had coaxed one of his very close friends, from a list that ran in the high hundreds, to prepare dinner for Ransome and his guests for the evening, both of whom were still unaware they'd been invited.
"John," Cy said, "Monsieur Rapaou wanted to know if there was a special dish you'd like added to his menu for the evening."
"Why don't we just scrap the menu and have cheeseburgers," Ransome said.
"Oh my God," Cy said, after a shocked intake of breath. "Scrap—? John, Monsieur Rapaou is one of the most honored chefs on four continents."
"Then he ought to be able to make a damn fine cheeseburger."
"Johnnn—"
"We're having dinner with a couple of kids. Basically. And I want them to be at ease, not worrying about what fork to use."
A dozen of the gallery's guests were being admitted at one time to the room in which the Ransome exhibition was mounted. To avoid damaged egos, the order in which they were being permitted to view the new Ransomes had been chosen impartially by lot. Except for Echo, Peter, and Stefan Konine, arbitrarily assigned to the second group. Ransome, for all of his indolence at his own party, was impatient to get on with his prime objective of the evening.
All of the new paintings featured the same modeclass="underline" a young black woman with nearly waist-length hair.
She was, of course, smashing, with the beguiling quality that differentiates mere looks from classic beauty.