Free Too Damn Rich by Judith Gould

Gaby eyeballed
him with a long hard look of her own before piling in after
her.
    "Home," Dina gaily instructed her chauffeur,
and within moments the limousine eased smoothly away from the curb
and merged into the dense uptown traffic.
     

Chapter 6
     
    Lunch was Mr. Spotts's treat. He insisted
upon La Caravelle.
    "My last cholesterol splurge," he sighed
sadly as the captain led them past the murals and seated them at a
red velvet banquette along the wall of mirrors. "Today, I say the
hell with those doctors! I am going to have my usual terrine de
foie gras followed by poularde rotie a l'ail doux, and top it all
off with a frozen cassis mousse in a ring of apple slivers, not to
mention a nice vintage bottle of Chateau Margaux. If my heart gives
out from all that pleasure, then so be it. At least I shall have
had the satisfaction of dying quite contentedly."
    When the appetizers came, Kenzie pushed her
chair de crabe Caravelle desultorily around on her plate. That the
mass of fresh crab meat with cognac dressing, caviar, and lobster
roe was a symphony for the taste buds made absolutely no difference
to her. She had simply lost her appetite at the news of Mr.
Spotts's forced retirement—all the more so, since on the way over
to the restaurant, he had dropped the bombshell that today would be
his very last day at Burghley's.
    She was still in a state of shock.
    Mr. Spotts frowned at Arnold Li, who was
picking at his truffle- studded foie gras with an equal lack of
enthusiasm.
    "Young man, the way you are eating that is
really quite, quite unforgivable," said Mr. Spotts with a gesture
of his fork. "Unless, of course, it is inedible, in which case I
shall have to summon the waiter and register a complaint."
    Arnold shook his head. "You know that's not
it," he said tightly, putting down his fork, the tines resting,
inverted, on the edge of his plate. He leaned across the table.
"It's just that we can't imagine the department getting along
without you!"
    "Well, you two had better get along without
me, Mr. Li." Mr. Spotts paused, smiling acidly, and righteously
lifted a stern, crooked pinkie finger in that learned way of his.
"Otherwise, that blonde nincompoop named for a Disney cartoon will
see to it that our department's most precious asset, its
reputation—in short, everything—will go right down the drain."
    Kenzie took a sip of her Margaux. "What I
want to know," she asked listlessly, setting down the wineglass and
running her moist finger around its rim, but too lethargically to
make it chime even feebly, "is now that you can't work, what are
you going to do?"
    "Do?" Mr. Spotts looked slightly taken aback.
"Why, I'm not supposed to do anything!" He sighed deeply. "Unless
you call retiring to the Sunshine State doing something?"
    His perfectionist eyes consulted theirs and
saw no reaction. He smiled grimly.
    "My widowed sister, Cosima ..." he murmured,
"has ... umn ... what I believe in Fort Lauderdale is referred to
as an ... umn ... 'Waterfront French Renaissance Estate' ... if you
can imagine such a contradiction in terms?" One eyebrow, the
precise color of silverplate, rose in distaste and he tutted his
tongue.
    "An abomination. Spun-sugar Tara meets Beaux
Arts on the Intra- coastal, as only a native Floridian could
design. But such is life. It could be worse, you know. I have a
generous pension and my not inconsiderable collection of Old
Masters, which, though second rate, are nonetheless still quite
superb. So you see, at least I'm not destitute." His lips broadened
into a smile. "However, enough of this depressing subject! The
reason I invited you both to lunch is not to talk about me, but to
discuss your futures."
    "Our futures?" Kenzie and Arnold chorused as
one.
    Mr. Spotts tucked his chin, tortoiselike,
down into his chest and gave them a severe look from over his half
glasses. "As of tomorrow, one of you shall have to take over the
reins as head of the department."
    Pausing again, he looked from one of them to
the