Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(15)

“Maurice Vilnius, the abstract expressionist painter,” Pendergast murmured. “One of many beneficiaries of Grove’s ministrations.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I recall a review Grove wrote of Vilnius’s paintings some years back. The phrase that best sticks in my mind is: These paintings are so bad they inspire respect, even awe. It takes a special kind of talent to produce mediocrity at this level. Vilnius has such talent in abundance.”

D’Agosta swallowed a laugh. “That’s worth killing over.” He hastily put his face in order; Vilnius had turned to see them approach.

“Ah, Maurice, how are you?” Pendergast asked.

The painter raised two very black eyebrows. As a fellow sufferer of bad reviews, D’Agosta had expected to see anger, or at least resentment, on the flushed face. Instead, it wore a broad smile.

“Have we met?”

“My name’s Pendergast. We met briefly at your opening at Galerie Dellitte last year. Beautiful work. I’ve been considering acquiring a piece for my apartment in the Dakota.”

Vilnius’s smile grew broader. “Delighted.” He spoke with a Russian accent. “Come by anytime. Come by today. It would make my fifth sale this week.”

“Indeed?” D’Agosta noticed Pendergast was careful to keep surprise from his voice. In the background, the director’s voice droned on: “. . . a man of courage and determination, who did not go gently into that good night . . .”

“Maurice,” Pendergast continued, “I’d like to speak with you about Grove’s last—”

Suddenly, a middle-aged woman came up to Vilnius, her cadaverous figure draped in a sequined dress. In tow was a tall man in a black tuxedo, his bald head polished to gemstone brilliance.

The woman tugged at Vilnius’s sleeve. “Maurice, darling, I just had to congratulate you in person. That new review is simply wonderful. And so long overdue.”

“You’ve seen it already?” Vilnius replied, turning toward these new arrivals.

“Just this afternoon,” the tall man replied. “A proof copy was faxed to my gallery.”

“. . . and now, one of Jeremy’s beloved sonatas by Haydn . . .”

People continued talking, ignoring the man at the podium. Vilnius glanced back toward Pendergast for a moment. “Nice to have met you again, Mr. Pendergast,” he said, drawing a card from his pocket and handing it to the FBI agent. “Please drop by the studio anytime.” Then he turned back to the woman and her escort. As they walked away, D’Agosta could hear Vilnius saying, “It’s remarkable to me how quickly news spreads. The review isn’t even due to be published for another day.”

D’Agosta looked at Pendergast. He, too, was watching Vilnius walk away. “Interesting,” he murmured under his breath.

They drifted back into the crowd. De Vache had concluded his speech, and the noise level had risen once again. The harpischord had resumed but was now completely inaudible over the drinking, eating, and gossiping.

Suddenly, Pendergast took off at high speed, arrowing through the crowd. D’Agosta realized his aim was the director of the Met, stepping down from the stage.

De Vache paused at their approach. “Ah, Pendergast. Don’t tell me you’re on the case.”

Pendergast nodded.

The Frenchman pursed his lips. “Is this official? Or were you perhaps a friend of his?”

“Did Grove have any friends?”

De Vache chuckled. “True, very true. Friendship was a stranger to Jeremy, something he kept at arm’s length. The last time I met him was—let me see—at a dinner party. I recall he asked the man across from him—a perfectly harmless old gentleman with dentures—to stop clacking his front incisors while he ate; that he was a man, not a rat. Someone later dripped sauce on his tie, and Jeremy inquired if perchance he was related to Jackson Pollock.” Sir Gervase chuckled. “And that was just one dinner party. Can a man who routinely talks this way have friends?”

Sir Gervase was called away by a group of jewelry-laden matrons. He apologized to Pendergast, nodded at D’Agosta, then turned away. Pendergast’s eyes went back to roaming the room, finally locking on a group of people near the harpsichord. “Voilà,” he said. “The mother lode.”

“Who?”

“Those three talking together. Along with Vilnius, whom you just met, they were the guests at Grove’s last dinner party. And our reason for being here.”

D’Agosta’s eye landed first on an unexceptional-looking man in a gray suit. Beside him stood a wraithlike elderly woman, covered with powder and rouge, dressed to the nines, manicured, coiffed, and no doubt Botoxed in an ultimately failed attempt to look less than sixty. She wore a necklace of emeralds so big D’Agosta feared her scrawny shoulders would tire carrying their weight. But the standout among the group was the figure at her other elbow: an enormously fat man in a gorgeous, dove-gray suit, replete with silk waistcoat, white gloves, and gold chain.

“The woman,” murmured Pendergast, “is Lady Milbanke, widow of the seventh Baron Milbanke. She is said to be a poisonous gossip, a drinker of absinthe, and an indefatigable séance organizer and raiser of the dead.”

“She looks like she needs a little raising from the dead herself.”