Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 47

Cara spread out the San Francisco Sunday papers on the bed. "This is wonderful," she said. "Listen." She read aloud. "'A bomb was detonated in the San Francisco art world last week when a lawsuit was filed against a prominent local art dealer, Peter Martindale, whose gallery specializes in nineteenth-century English paintings. The suit was brought by New York wine merchant and Napa Valley vineyard owner Alexander Kinsolving, who, when he bought the Larsen Vineyard, also acquired with the vineyard a painting, ostensibly an oil by John Wylie. The painting had been sold by Peter Martindale to the vineyard's previous owner, Lars Larsen, and, according to a certificate supplied with the picture, had been certified by Martindale as being a genuine Wylie.

"'After Kinsolving had bought the vineyard, a visitor to his property, the abstract painter, Saul Winner, saw the picture and proclaimed it a fake. Kinsolving then contacted San Francisco attorney Harry Keller who has long had the sobriquet Killer Keller, and Keller sent an independent expert, said to be an official of the San Francisco Museum, to Napa to view the painting. This expert, according to Keller, described the picture as a forgery, and not even a clever one.

"'Keller, interviewed in his office on Friday, said that his client would decline to settle out of court, unless Peter Martindale is willing to publicly admit that he deliberately sold a forgery.

"'Martindale, contacted at his gallery yesterday, said, "This gallery is in the business of dealing in fine paintings, genuine ones by eminent artists, and we would never stoop to such an action. I expect to be fully vindicated."

"'Keller, in response, said, "If Mr. Martindale wishes to have a swift opportunity to defend his reputation publicly, then my client and I will waive depositions and go straight to trial at the earliest possible moment. We have no interest in what Mr. Martindale has to say, unless it is in front of a judge and, if he likes, a jury"'"

Sandy laughed. "Keller has a way with him, doesn't he?" He held up another newspaper. "The New York Times has a piece, too, though a smaller one. The good news is it comes in an issue that has a feature on art galleries, so it will be widely read." The phone rang, and Sandy picked it up. "Hello?"

"Sandy? It's Saul Winner."

"Saul, you kept your promise; it's a perfect piece."

"Isn't it? Listen, a sculptor friend of mine, Martin Cage, is throwing what sounds like a very good party early this evening. Can I tempt you and Cara into town for it? I'd love to show you both off."

"Hang on." Sandy turned to Cara. "Saul wants us to go to a party this evening at Martin Cage's house. You up for it?"

"You bet I am," she replied.

"Saul, we'd love to." He wrote down the address. "See you sixish." He hung up.

"This," Cara said, "is going to be fun."

Martin Cage's house was on a low hill overlooking San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Valet parkers sprinted to and from the street, disposing of the guests' cars, and waiters stood by the front door, dispensing drinks from trays. Cara took a glass of champagne and Sandy asked somebody to make him a bloody mary.

Saul Winner grabbed them before they had gone a dozen steps and stepped between them, hooking their arms in his. "You're mine for the duration of this party," he said sweeping them through the house and onto a large rear lawn, which also served as a sculpture garden for the works of their host.

At least two hundred people were standing, drinking, and, as Saul began to work the crowd, Sandy thought he had never before met so many artists, dealers, collectors, and curators in one place. Saul was introducing Cara, to the few people she didn't already know, as "the former Helena Martindale, whose friends call her Cara." Sandy discovered very quickly that he did not like the name Martindale attached to her in any way, and he resolved to do something about it.

He was astonished at the number of people who, upon being introduced, uttered encouraging words about his lawsuit. Apparently, everybody had read the Sunday papers.

A slender young man carrying a notebook and accompanied by a photographer planted himself firmly in their path and shot Saul a look. "Saul, you must introduce me."

"Ah, Simon," Saul said. "Allow me to introduce Sandy Kinsolving and-"

"And Cara," Sandy interrupted.

"Sandy, this is Simon Teach, who, you may remember, wrote the article in this morning's paper."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Teach," Sandy said, shaking the man's soft hand. "I hung on your every word."

"Oh," Teach replied, "I should think Peter Martindale is more likely to hang, don't you?"

Cara spoke up. "From your lips to God's ear."

"Ah, yes, Cara," Teach said, pumping her hand. "I believe you were once something more than friends with the aforementioned, were you not?"

"Will you pillory me for my past errors in judgment, Mr. Teach?"

"Why no, dear lady; just getting the facts straight."

A waiter turned up at Sandy's elbow with a large bloody mary, and Sandy accepted it gratefully. He toasted Teach. "Your continued good health," he said.

Teach raised his own glass. "And good sources," he replied. They clinked glasses.

"Ah," Saul cried, "our host!"

Sandy looked up to see a small man with shoulder-length hair making his way toward them.

"Sandy, Cara," Saul said, "may I present Martin Cage?"

"You are very welcome," Cage said with relish, "and may you always bring with you such good news. It's about time somebody nailed the bastard."

"Many of your guests have expressed similar sentiments," Sandy said, shaking the man's hand.

"Martin," Cara said, "your work is very striking. I wish there were fewer people to block my view of it."

"On another occasion, Cara, I will bring you here alone, so that you may drink in its every nuance."

"Oh, Martin!" Saul exclaimed suddenly. "You are wicked!"

Sandy and Cara turned and followed his gaze up the lawn, to see Peter Martindale striding confidently toward them, resplendent in a white linen suit.

Simon Teach was very nearly jumping up and down. "Oh boy, oh boy!" he was muttering under his breath. He turned to his photographer, a young girl. "Miss this and I'll strangle you with that camera strap." The girl began clicking off shots with her machine-driven camera.

"Well, Helena!" Martindale crowed as if in triumph, "what a great surprise to see you here!" He turned and looked narrowly at Sandy. "And this must be the fabled Mr. Kinsolving. Allow me to introduce myself."

Sandy looked him in the eye. "Your reputation precedes you," he said.

Martindale reacted as if he had been spat upon. He turned his attention to Cara again. "And where did you pick up this thing?" he asked. "Down by the docks?"

With no hesitation, Cara tossed her champagne into his face.

Martindale blinked, then took a silk pocket square from his breast pocket and dabbed at his damp white suit.

"Don't worry, Peter," Cara said. "It's only champagne; it won't stain your suit."

Sandy spoke up. "This should do it." He threw his entire bloody mary at Martindale's head.

For a moment there was a great silence, except for the whirring of the newspaper photographer's camera. Everyone waited expectantly for Martindale's response. When it came it was disappointing.

"Another time," he sputtered, then he turned and strode back toward the house.

Everyone seemed to let out a breath at once, a tiny moan of disappointment, then the babble of conversation resumed.

Simon Teach turned to his photographer. "Go!" he said. The young woman sprinted toward the street. "If you'll forgive me," he said to the others, "I have a deadline." Then he, too, was gone.

"Martin," Saul Winner breathed, "you really know how to throw a party."

"Thank you, Saul," Cage replied, beaming.

"Well, that was certainly fun," Cara said as they left the waning party.

"I thought so."

"It was brilliant of you to order a bloody mary," she said. "I've never seen you drink one before. What made you do it?"

"Fate, I guess."

"While we're in town, let's pick up my car at my friends' house," she said, "then we can drop off the rental car at one of the hotels.

"Good idea. Your car is certainly classier transportation."

"Yes," she said, "it is."

"Cara," Sandy said, "we have to do something about your name."

"My name?"

"Yes. How long does it take to get married in California?"

She leaned over and kissed him on the ear. "Not long."

"Let's see how fast we can do it"

"You're on."