Marked Masters (12 page)

"Precisely why I didn't. I couldn't predict
where our path may lead last night, nor how long we might have been
held up at various places, and I didn't want the poor chap bored
out of his skull."

Yeah, with satellite television and radio in
the vehicle and personal phones that can do practically everything
short of time travel. Jack may not have been able to recognize my
evasions, but I had become a pro at spotting his attempts at same.
No matter.

"Next time?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Definitely." He nodded.

Nico was obviously following the GPS signal
on my phone, because he was at the curb and waiting when we pulled
up. It didn't take much coaxing to get Jack to hand me off to my
associate and go investigate on his own. I think Mr. Hawkes had
already had enough of me for the day, and I can't say I didn't
return the feeling.

My right-hand geek was dressed in
summer-weight Armani and looking good enough to eat. "Nico, I swear
I'm going to lose you today to one of the gallerinas."

His beautifully sculpted black brows rose
closer to his curly hairline. "If it does not happen, I will feel I
have wasted my time coming today."

Hand to my heart, I said, "I feel
slighted."

He snorted. "Until the first of your many
admirers comes up to reacquaint themselves with the beautiful and
talented Laurel Beacham."

"Thank you for mentioning beautiful, but
only you know my true talents."

"Not all your talents." His smile was
nothing short of a leer and made me laugh. Oh how I'd missed his
humor in the past week.

He already wore a pass around his neck and
pulled another from his pocket. "They were in the file, exactly as
you told Cassie," Nico said, draping my pass on its gold lanyard
over my head. "I also have this for you to carry with you at all
times." He handed me a flat packet, deceptively lighter than its
appearance implied.

"What is it?" In that weird way crowds
develop, we were suddenly surrounded by people, and I felt almost
claustrophobic.

"Your personal escape hatch. Keep it in your
purse," Nico said. "We will talk about it later."

"Okay." My curiosity was aroused, but I knew
better than to open something when Nico said to wait. I pointed
toward the gallery. "I need to use the restroom for a second. Why
don't you circulate, and I'll find you in the tents."

He nodded, then moved to join the surging
crowd, his dark curls disappearing into the throng.

It was quick work to make my face once more
presentable. The patch up I did in the car had been enough to
cover. Having a few moments alone in the ladies' room not only
helped my appearance but boosted my self-confidence too. Long ago,
I'd recognized the value of stealing a few minutes alone to simply
breathe, and this day was no exception. However, all good things
come to an end, and when Melanie stepped through the door, I
realized it was my cue to depart.

"He's out of your league. You know that,
don't you?"

My hand was on the pull bar. I was almost
out the door. I told myself,
Leave, don't look back.
Then my
mouth started moving, and I turned to face her. "Melanie, I don't
take anyone's leftovers, least of all yours. If you think you have
any chance with him, go for it. But I honestly believe he has
better taste."

She raised her throwing arm as I ducked out
the door. An instant later I heard her lipstick case shatter when
it hit the tiled wall where I'd been standing.

In the tents and enclosures, we could hear
the wind, but Mother Nature wasn't slowing down this party.
Champagne and caviar flowed like water, and I grabbed a mimosa from
a circulating waiter. The glass was simply a prop. I needed to keep
a clear head today to see what I could learn about Tina's death and
where the snuffbox may now have traveled.

"Have you seen the event planner?" I asked
one of the gallery employees circulating among the guests.

The woman, whose name tag read Kendall,
pointed to a glassed-in corner at the top of the Browning. "Last I
saw of her, she was heading for the top of the building. There is a
little set of corner offices where she can keep a birds-eye view on
things as she makes phone calls and fields questions. You might
check there."

Overnight, the courtyard had been covered
with a high dome top to protect the artwork from the direct effects
of the sun. This was the New Artists area, and I would be back to
check things out, especially since crews were pumping in cool air
via several strategically placed portable AC units. The now
probable storm was making the day sticky already, though it wasn't
even noon.

As I again approached the Browning's front
door, I turned to scan the crowd on the off chance I would see Jack
or Nico. Neither man came into view, but as the old saying goes, "A
good time was had by all," or at least the event was in the process
of getting that appellation. Beautiful people were laughing,
mingling, talking, and drinking as well as eating. Inside, a small
band played a mix of chamber and Latino music in the main lobby,
the sound faint but pleasing.

I waved away another waiter, this time
sporting some kind of artichoke heart hors d'oeuvres, and pushed
through the crowd to the Deco railed staircase. Everything on the
ground floor was new art, some by established contemporary artists
and a good number by new fledglings who had somehow come up with
the entrance fee, and still more who had been asked to participate.
None of this was going to get me any answers about my friend's
death or a seventeenth-century snuffbox, so it wasn't worth my time
unless new information surfaced. I hoped Jack was making progress
in our joint mission, because I'd pretty much put all thought of it
aside as my plans shifted toward coordinating horizons that
included this new murder.

The stairs were covered in a custom runner,
unpadded to keep people from tripping. The pattern of the carpet
was that of lush flowers and vines, blending well with the Deco
motif of the building. However, I wondered at how the Browning
justified the cost of this kind of extravagance. I didn't have to
see the backing to know the exquisite rug was handmade. It might be
worth Cassie's time to do a little checking on the Browning's
finances and donors. Can never be too careful or too well
informed.

I didn't plan to storm the castle, so to
speak, but moved ever upward in a casual yet efficient manner. The
second floor housed the beginning of the Browning's art collection,
and the works stretched to the fourth floor as well. The elevator
was going to get a workout that day. At the point of rounding the
curve in the staircase, I glanced over to the queue for the single
elevator, a device as slow as any utilized in this type of setting,
and figured the wait at the end was probably now past two in the
afternoon.

The fourth floor also held an artist's
studio, soundproofed, of course. This was the space I had planned
to check out yesterday, but a certain set of car thieves thwarted
those good intentions. I made a pretense of interest now, but only
to lend credence to my seeming exploratory jaunt before I headed
for my true destination on the top floor. Instead, a woman in a
severe black suit with a cell phone to her ear nearly bowled me
down on the stairs. The phone flew out of her hand and arced over
the railing, executing a nosedive before exploding into a handful
of pieces as it hit the parquet floor.

"Damn!" The woman moved past me to recover
the plastic and electronic pieces. I recognized her as the person
who had signaled Tina when we'd left the tent the day before, and
assumed I'd found my quarry.

"You're the event planner, right?" I walked
back down to the fourth floor.

She gave me a weary nod and a wary look,
most likely over her limit on complaints and problems already.

I offered my practiced handshake. "Laurel
Beacham, of the Beacham Foundation."

"You're based in New York." The Brooklyn
accent was still strong in her voice, so I knew she was either
commuting in her business endeavors or was a recent transplant to
the Florida sun. The basic black business outfit she wore put an
even stronger point on my assumption.

"Well, I'm based in the London office." I
stooped to retrieve a small square piece that probably covered the
back of her phone. She scrambled to pick up the rest of the
scattered parts. "But I've been in Orlando and wanted to stop into
the event today while I was in the neighborhood, so to speak.
You've truly done an outstanding job."

The woman smiled and suddenly showed her
vulnerability. "I'm Alice Lawson. I can get you a card—"

I had already pulled one of mine from the
Fendi and offered it to her. "You can mail one to me here. Or
e-mail me a JPEG file. I'll forward it along to the events planner
in the New York office."

"Oh, I will." She unceremoniously shoved the
pieces of her phone into a too-small pocket in her skirt, making
the fabric bulge. I handed over my small contribution.

She thanked me, and I moved on to what I
really wanted to ask her. "I was here yesterday in the late
afternoon and ran into a friend of mine. Tina Schroeder. She said
she worked for you, but I haven't been able to find her today. She
was going to meet me earlier about an item she was passing along
from a friend. Do you have any idea where I could find her?"

Alice's face turned as pale as the marble
statue on the floor behind her. She stuttered, "No…n-no…Tina…Tina
failed to show this morning. Probably got bored." She attempted to
laugh, but the effort came off as lacking. "You know how she
is."

Now the big question, what made her so
nervous? The fact she thought she was hiding Tina's death from me?
Or because I'd said the girl was bringing something to give to me
today, before she was murdered? I probably shouldn't have taken the
risk of saying that last bit, but I'd wanted to see what it got me.
I figured this was the kind of thing Jack had been warning about
earlier.

I waved a hand. "Oh, no matter. It was just
a perfume sample a friend wanted me to try. Starting a new business
and trying to beat the bushes for customers, and friends are the
first asked to try the new scent."

Alice seemed to relax a fraction, and she
faked a little laugh as she said, "Yes, we all have those kinds of
friends. Don't we?" But her dark eyes still held a hard look.

"Isn't that the truth?" I put a hand on her
forearm to imply solidarity. "You've saved me looking all over for
nothing. I'm sure you need to get back to work."

"Nice meeting you."

"You too. And remember to send me your
business card." I smiled one last time at her, then quickly made my
way back down the stairs. The third floor was full of experimental
art, my least favorite, so I headed to the second floor, drawn to
the area featuring Sebastian, an artist who'd been well established
for the past fifty years. It was rumored he still lived somewhere
in Italy, but no one had seen him for decades. A few people quietly
walked and talked in the area, but most on the floor stayed engaged
with the art. There was nothing second class about this
gallery.

The oversized landscape of a Tuscany
vineyard was exquisite. Done in oils, the work reminded me why I'd
gotten into this business. Daydreaming over a picture had been my
modus operandi as far back as I remembered. For that fragile
second, I was lost in the Tuscan countryside, searching for the
elusive Sebastian. A voice near my right ear startled me.

"Does it speak to your heart?" said Anthony
Berintino, otherwise known as Tony B. He stood too closely behind
me and was clad in confidence and a thousand-dollar Italian suit.
He was such a stereotypical hood, I didn't know whether he had no
imagination or actually set the bar for every other low-thinking
thug with visions of grandeur. Long suspected of being connected to
some of the "families" and the acting front man for a dozen
corporations, Tony B had never been convicted of or even charged
with anything in the twenty or more years his name had been
active.

Slick, cool, with a powerful physique and a
smile that dropped women at thirty paces—and there had been plenty
of those over the years—I knew he was always in evidence at
Browning celebrations. I'd also noticed him and Melanie with their
heads together when I was checking out the line to the elevator, so
I figured nothing had changed recently. The man was one of the
reasons my grandfather had started disengaging himself from the
Browning right before he died.

In his early forties, Tony B's confidence
matched his physique, and I knew he was building a reputation few
people discussed. And as long as no one discussed it, he felt free
to increase his influence through monetary gifts and celebrity
attendance at events such as this one.

Looking past Tony B's shoulder, I saw his
too-thin, too-blonde wife of fifteen years also present and holding
court nearby, but as usual they worked the room separately. I had
run into both him and his long-suffering bitch of a spouse many
times over the past few years, usually at only the most prestigious
events. I had even sat next to him at one of the less prestigious,
and ultimately more infamous, parties held on a private yacht
anchored on the Strait of Gibraltar. We'd had to stop our host from
diving headfirst into the dangerous waters because he'd had too
much to drink. He had "wanted to swim naked with the fishies." As I
recalled, Tony B had been the one most often getting the poor man
refills.

"Tony B, it's lovely to see you." He moved
in for a hug, but I stepped back and offered a hand.

"You look terrific, Laurel, but fawn really
is too understated a color for you. Think about a bright red or a
peacock-blue next time."