McNally's Gamble (7 page)

She admitted the dividend from her common stock was less than the yield from her Treasury bonds. But then Fred had urged her to buy a very inexpensive stock not listed on any of the exchanges. It was issued by a new company with a unique product: a palm-sized vacuum cleaner, battery-powered, to be used for removing loose hair from cats and dogs. Less than a month after her purchase of 25,000 shares at a cost of about $30,000 (it was a
very
cheap stock) Fred told her he had sold the shares for more than $50,000, almost doubling her investment.

“I was absolutely stunned! I had no idea there was so much money to be made so easily. Then Fred put my investment funds in shares of a Bolivian tin mine and two oil well projects in Texas. The wells haven’t been drilled yet but last week Fred told me the shares of the tin mine were up forty percent. He wants me to hold them. He’s convinced their value will continue to increase. He estimated I may be able to double or even triple my money by the end of the year. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Incredible,” I said. “Mr. Clemens certainly seems to have the Midas touch.”

“Oh, he does! Definitely. Did your mother tell you about the Fabergé egg Fred wants me to buy?”

“I believe she mentioned something about it but didn’t go into detail.”

“Well, right now it’s owned by this man in France who needs money desperately to pay off a note that’s coming due. Otherwise he wouldn’t sell it because it’s very rare and very valuable. Fred says it was one of the last two eggs made by Fabergé for Czar Nicholas in 1917. But it was never delivered because of the Bolshevik Revolution, you know.”

Clemens had told her the egg was smuggled out of Russia in a diplomatic pouch carried by a courier from the French embassy in St. Petersburg. The bijou ended up in Paris but then, during the chaos at the end of World War I, the Fabergé Imperial egg had unaccountably disappeared. Whether it was mislaid, stolen, or destroyed, no one knew. Now, suddenly, it had reappeared in the art collection of a former banker who had made some rash investments and was cash-poor.

“Isn’t that an amazing story, Archy?”

“It is indeed, but no more amazing than some of the other happenings during those turbulent times. Tell me, Edythe, has Mr. Clemens actually seen the egg?”

“Oh yes. He flew to Paris immediately when his agent over there told him about it. Fred says it is an exquisite piece studded with diamonds. He gave me a color photo and it’s just gorgeous! How I’d love to own it. I’d be tempted to keep it and not put it up for auction. Of course it would mean sacrificing an enormous profit, and I’ll have to cash in some of my Treasury bonds to pay for it. Fred is very understanding and says it’s my decision to make.”

“Edythe, I’ve seen a few Fabergé Imperial eggs in art galleries and museums, and they all open up to reveal a ‘surprise’—like a party favor. Or a very expensive prize in a box of Cracker Jack! Did Mr. Clemens happen to mention what this egg contains?”

“Why, no, Archy, he didn’t. I must remember to ask him.”

“Do that—just for the fun of it.”

She glanced at her jeweled wristwatch. “Oh dear, it’s getting late and I must run. I’ll call Natalie to show you around my beautiful estate.”

“Before you do that, Edythe, may I ask if you’d have any objection if I contacted Mr. Clemens and used you as a reference?”

“I’d have no objection whatsoever. But I should warn you Fred is very particular about the clients he takes on. I mean he doesn’t just accept everyone. Why, I had to talk a long time to persuade him to invest my money.”

“Well, all I can do is try. Thank you for a delightful luncheon and answering all my questions. I do appreciate it.”

“It has been fun, hasn’t it? And you’re a very charming young man. I must tell Madeleine how fortunate she is to have a son like you. Now come and meet my lovely daughter, Natalie.”

She pulled me out to the hallway. Standing at the foot of a graceful staircase, she tilted her head back and bellowed, “Nettie! Come down this instant!”

There isn’t a hog caller in Iowa who could have equaled her decibel level.

W
E WAITED A MOMENT
on the portico steps until Mrs. Westmore drove out in her new white Caddy. She waved to us and I lifted a hand in response. But Natalie just stood there stolidly, head lowered.

I turned to her. “Well...” I said and gave her my Supercharmer smile—100 watts. I thought it best to save the Jumbocharmer (150 watts) for emergencies. “Well, Nettie, shall we take a look around? I may address you as Nettie, mayn’t I?”

“If you like,” she said indifferently.

Her apathy didn’t disturb me because I was delighted with her voice: low, soft, almost timorous. What a welcome relief from her mama’s manic bray.

We wandered out onto the grounds and passed the open garage. There was still one car within: a six-year-old Toyota Corolla that looked as if it had been cruelly mistreated.

“Yours?” I asked idly.

She nodded. “I inherited it from my sister-in-law,” she said, and I heard the bitterness in her tone. “Helen has a new Buick Riviera in a special color. Lavender.”

“Nice,” I said. “Nettie, would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?”

“Yes, I would,” she said. “You shouldn’t smoke. You’ll get lung cancer.”

“I know. I also drink, which will give me cirrhosis. And I breathe even though the air is horribly polluted.”

She made a small noise and I turned to look at her. I hoped she might have laughed. It would be gratifying from such a somber young woman. I paused a moment to glance around. “Wonderful trees,” I commented. “The old banyan is magnificent.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s the tree daddy fell out of and then he died. Should we go back to the house now?”

She was hurrying me and I resented it. “In a moment,” I said. “The small structure back there in the foliage... What is that used for?”

“You wouldn’t be interested.”

I stared at her. “Nettie, we seem to be having a slight problem communicating. I
am
interested.”

“Well, it’s my studio. Where I paint.”

“May I see it?”

“If you like,” she said, totally impassive again.

She walked a step or two ahead of me. She was wearing a long bleached denim skirt, almost to her ankles. And above was a knitted sweater in a heathery green. It was sleeveless but the cool breeze didn’t seem a bother. Her bare arms were muscled and I couldn’t decide if she had a deep suntan or if her skin was naturally tawny.

She had her mother’s height but, fortunately, not her girth. In fact she was quite slender. And flat. Boardlike would be a fitting adjective. But she moved gracefully with a floating stride. Her blond-ish hair was cut short and so ragged I wondered if she barbered herself.

As for her features, my mother’s verdict, “not pretty but interesting, almost foreign-looking,” was close to the mark. I had seen her narrow face before in Modigliani portraits. Natalie had the same curious mixture of mystery and passivity Amedeo had caught on canvas.

The door to the studio was closed with a padlock so old and rusty it looked as if a strong yank might spring the shackle. Natalie fished a key from her skirt pocket and, after several ineffective tries, succeeded in opening the lock and then the planked door. She stood aside and motioned me in.

“It isn’t much,” she said.

Correct; it wasn’t. I stepped into a square room scantily furnished. I saw none of the scattered paraphernalia usually found in an artist’s workshop. Instead of an easel there was a wooden drafting table, tilted upward, and a high stool with a rattan seat. A tall cupboard with closed doors sagged crazily. I assumed it held brushes, watercolors, and supplies.

A cot was planted in the center of the floor. It was covered with a single sheet and light cotton blanket. The small pillow was soiled. I could see no plumbing, not even a faucet. The most attractive feature was a skylight: two big hinged windows opened by hanging chains.

“Plenty of light for your painting,” I observed.

She suddenly became talkative. “And for two or three hours a day I get the direct sun. I can suntan naked on the cot. After locking the door from the inside of course. See the bolt? I’ve slept here a few nights when the weather is nice. Then I look up and see the stars.”

She stopped talking as abruptly as she had started and bowed her head as if embarrassed by her outburst. I turned my attention to the walls. The interior of the cabin was lined with cheap wall-board which bore a number of Natalie’s watercolors of imaginary flowers. A few were framed and hung. The others were simply pushpinned to the wall. Again mother had been right: “Some are pretty and some are just blah.”

I stepped closer to examine her work and sensed her coming up behind me, possibly to observe my reactions. I thought her brushwork was merely serviceable but her sense of color was admirable. The subject matter turned me off—all those buds, blooms, and leaves that never existed in nature but were products of her imagination or dreams. What surprised me were the blossoms with an undeniable resemblance to sexual organs, male and female.

“Well?” Nettie said at my shoulder. “What do you think?”

“Striking,” I said. “Unique. Are you familiar with the work of Georgia O’Keeffe?”

“No.”

“Take a look,” I advised. “I think you’ll be amazed at what she did.”

“I don’t want to study other people’s work. I want to be me. Original.”

“Surely you went to art school to learn technique, perspective, composition. Didn’t you study the work of other artists then?”

“I never went to art class. I bought a book and taught myself.”

“Remarkable,” I said.

“A lot of hard work but I enjoy it. It’s my escape.”

“From what?”

“Oh...” she said vaguely. “Things. People.”

“All people? Surely you have friends.”

She lifted her chin. “A few,” she said defensively, and I guessed she was lying.

Perhaps I looked at her pityingly—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t—but what happened next astounded me. She looped her bare arms about my neck, careened into me, thrust her head forward and attempted to kiss my lips. But in her frantic haste her aim was bad and she kissed my chin. She tried again and this time succeeded. Her mouth was hot.

She pulled away and gasped, “Archy?” It was an entreaty and the first time she had used my name. Then she kissed me again, her assault so ravenous I staggered back a step. But she would not let me escape and in the blink of a gnat’s eye I found myself clutching her as tightly as she embraced me. I am not made of cedar shingles, you know.

It was I who had the sense to close the inside bolt on the door before we fumbled away our clothes. We then attempted to determine if a folding cot could bear the weight of two bodies and the demented thumping of our naked pas de deux. It couldn’t, but fortunately it collapsed slowly and I do not believe either of us was aware of our descent to the floor.

Lordy, her body was magnificent and I recant all those snide comments made previously about its boardlike appearance. Spring steel was more like it; the overall suntan was bronzy rather than tawny. But I wasted little time taking inventory, set to work, and elicited a series of low sounds: sighs, moans, and one muffled sob. Of bliss I hoped. I was, I admit, more vocal than Nettie but I do not believe she was affrightened by my repertoire of yelps, whinnies, and yodels.

Eventually the game ended of course. Score tied: 1 to 1. We lay there on the ruins of the cot, both of us breathing as if we had just completed the sixty-meter hurdles. She raised her eyes, coughed a short laugh, the corners of her mouth went up. But it was a trompe l’oeil smile given, I guessed, because she thought I expected it.

“Wonderful,” she said.

“Ecstasy,” I said. “From the movie of the same name.”

Then she glowered. “Can’t you be serious?” she demanded.

“No, I cannot,” I told her. “I am a frivolous scatterbrain. I want you to know that from the start.”

“The start of what?”

I shrugged. “Whatever may ensue from our delightful introduction. But if you desire a solemn, profound bloke, I am not he. If you can be satisfied with an ardent nincompoop I shall do my best to oblige.”

She sat up, hugged her bare knees, regarded me gravely. “I don’t think you’re as dizzy as you say, Archy.” Then, suddenly: “What did you and mother talk about at lunch?”

“This and that.”

“I’ll bet you talked about money.”

“The subject may have come up,” I acknowledged.

“She wants to spend a mint on a stupid Fabergé egg,” she said wrathfully. “There goes my inheritance.”

I grinned. “Selfish,” I said, “but honest. Are you acquainted with Frederick Clemens, her financial adviser?”

“I’ve met the creep. I can’t stand oily men like him.”

“Oily?”

“You know what I mean. He puts oh the smoothy act and both mama and Helen think he’s God’s gift to women. I think he’s a fake.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He insisted on buying one of my paintings. He said it was a masterpiece, which was a lot of hooey. He just wanted me on his side so I wouldn’t object to mama giving him money for the Fabergé egg.”

“I gather from what you say that your sister-in-law is already on his side.”

“Wait’ll my brother gets back,” she said. “He’s supposed to arrive this week. I’m going to tell Walter what his dear wifey has been up to.”

“And what has she been up to?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Natalie,” I said, laughing, “I haven’t heard that expression since nursery school.”

“I know what I know,” she said darkly, then abruptly switched gears on me. Very mercurial, our Nettie. “Do you want to see me again, Archy?”

It was a challenge and stopped me. Did I want to see her again? Well... yes. I knew I was risking Connie’s wrath if she learned I was playing ring-around-a-rosy with a certified ding-a-ling who performed aerobics in gym bloomers. But when lust comes in the door prudence goes out the window—or something like that.

Also I sensed Natalie might prove a valuable source of skinny relating to the internal conflicts of the Westmore family. She had already revealed much and hinted at more. Surely I would be a fool to reject such assistance. But the specter of Ms. Garcia lurked, my very own avenging angel. And so I dithered.