The Playboy Assignment

“The one who was so sensitive about causing speculation over his intentions that you couldn’t even tell Kit and me exactly who he was.”

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you,” Susannah pointed out. “Pierce was afraid if there was talk—”

“—That the mysterious collector wouldn’t donate his pretty pictures to Pierce’s museum after all.”

“They’re not pretty pictures.” Susannah saw the gleam of humor spring to life in Alison’s dark eyes, and she wanted to bite off her tongue. “Wait a second. Let me rephrase that.”

Alison was hooting with delight.

“Oh, all right,” Susannah admitted. “Some of them—most of the modern art pieces, in fact—are about as far from pretty as it’s possible to get. What I meant was they’re more than just random paintings. It’s a major collection, and it would mean the earth to the Dearborn Museum.”

“Plus putting a finger in the eye of all the other places who’d like to have it?”

“Chicago’s a big city,” Susannah said stubbornly : “Why shouldn’t it have another big art museum?” Her Danish had cooled, and the raspberry filling had congealed. She pushed the plate aside. “Of course, it’s a moot point now, unless Cyrus signed a new will since I talked to Pierce. He might have had time, I suppose, but ”

Alison sighed. “All right, I know better than to think your mind will settle on the week’s work schedule till after you’ve found out what’s going on at your precious museum.”

Susannah jumped up and gathered her purse and brief case. “Ali, thanks a million. You really are the anchor that keeps Tryad from drifting off, you know.”

“Cut out the poetic language and just go,” Alison said tartly. “Before I change my mind.”

Susannah grinned and flung an arm around Alison’s shoulders for a quick hug.

Alison shrugged her off, but she was smiling. “Keep me posted, all right?”

Susannah feigned a look of shock. “But of course. After all, the Dearborn is Tryad’s client—not just mine.” She hurried out to the street before Alison could return an acid answer.

Morning rush hour in Chicago was no time to be hailing a cab, but today she was lucky. The taxi was going the wrong direction, but that was only a minor problem; the cabbie screeched to a halt in the traffic lane and Susannah darted across the street and flung herself into the back seat. “The Dearborn Museum,” she gasped, “and hurry.”

Horns honked behind them, and the cab screeched off, flinging Susannah against the seat.

“You want me to make an illegal U-turn, or can I take a minute to go around the block?” the cabbie asked dryly. “What’s the rush, anyway? That place don’t open till ten.”

“I know.”

The cabbie muttered, “People watch way too many movies these days, that’s the trouble. Somebody’s always shouting ‘Follow that car’—and thinking he’s a comedian.”

Susannah smothered a smile and refused to let herself be drawn into a discussion. Instead she stared out the window at Lake Michigan as the cab sped down Lakeshore Drive.

Despite the hour, several sailboats were already on the lake, their bright sails billowing in the early morning breeze. Far out on the horizon she saw a freighter, its progress so slow and stately that it was hard to tell if it was moving at all.

The cab turned toward downtown, and soon they were in the worst of the morning rush, fighting their way block by block between the skyscrapers, through the dark cold caverns where sunshine never fell. It was several weeks yet till summer would officially arrive, but some of these streets would still feel chilly in the middle of August.

Finally the cab swerved almost onto the sidewalk in front of the converted warehouse where the Dearborn Museum had found a home. At street level were retail shops; on the upper floors were small apartments, and the Dearborn was sandwiched in between. This year’s goal would be to raise enough funds to improve access for the handicapped; Susannah’s proposal for organizing the appeal was lying on her desk.

The Dearborn Museum, named for the frontier fort which occupied what later became the city of Chicago, had been one of Tryad’s first clients. In fact, the tiny public relations firm and the struggling art museum had come to life at about the same time, both bravely taking on the challenge of competing with far larger and more established organizations.

Perhaps that similarity was the reason Susannah had so quickly taken the Dearborn to her heart. At any rate, Kit and Alison had been as delighted to leave the museum to her as Susannah was to take it on.

For three years now, she’d worked with the staff—which actually meant, of course, that she worked with Pierce Reynolds, the director. And she’d been as thrilled as anyone when Pierce had first made contact with Cyrus Albrecht and learned that the old man was considering the future of the collection he’d so painstakingly built.

Susannah paid the cabbie and walked around the warehouse to the unmarked back entrance. She pressed the intercom button and gave her name, and a moment later a buzzer sounded and the lock released. She frowned a little as she climbed the narrow steps to the museum floor, wondering if Pierce had considered the need for additional security. Though the Dearborn’s present collection wasn’t shabby, it also wasn’t the sort to draw the attention of thieves. But the Albrecht pieces would be different...if, of course, the Dearborn ever got them.

Pierce was in his office, a small, shabby, industrial-green room to one side of the stairwell, and the moment Susannah saw him she knew she didn’t have to be the one to break the news. His blond hair, normally so neat it almost looked as if it had been painted on, was wildly disarranged. Even more unusual, his tie was at an angle, and the collar of his shirt curled up at the back.

“You look almost like one of your artist friends.” She dropped into the rickety chair beside his desk. “The Bohemian kind who think that even owning a mirror is narcissistic.”

Pierce’s hand went automatically to his hair, even as he said, “That’s not funny, Susannah.”

“I know. I saw the newspaper.” She hesitated. “It was a shock to you, too, obviously.”

“Shock is hardly the word. Nuclear attack is more like it.” Pierce sank into his chair and rubbed his temples.

Susannah’s heart had dropped to her toes. “He hadn’t finished the will?”

Pierce shook his head. “If I’d only pushed a little harder! He was talking about the details last week when I saw him, and if I’d urged him to stop talking and get on with it—”

“If you’d pressed, he might have backed out altogether.”

“I suppose so. But if I could have just made him see that the fine points could be adjusted anytime—”

Susannah had stopped listening. The fact that they had lost the collection was settling cold and hard in the pit of her stomach. Only now that the prize had been snatched away did she realize how much she had come to count on it. For months she’d been tentatively making her plans around the Albrecht collection. The announcement would be a boost to public recognition of the museum. The visitor list would increase dramatically, and fund-raising would be a snap.

Of course, she admitted, not all of her motives were so entirely selfless as those. The renown would make her job instantly easier. And part of the glory of the museum’s success would reflect on Tryad, and therefore on Susannah...

She sighed. Back to the drawing board, she thought.

“It was odd,” Pierce said. “The way Cyrus was behaving last week, I mean. I didn’t realize it at the time, but—”

“Maybe he was already feeling ill?”

“No, that’s not it at all. It was like he was teasing me, holding something back.”

Possible, Susannah thought. And it was equally possible that Pierce’s perceptions were being colored by twenty-twenty hindsight. “Cyrus was a world-class wheeler and dealer. Perhaps he wanted you to offer him something else, something extra, in return for the collection.”

“Then why didn’t he just ask? Anyway, what else could he have wanted?”

Susannah shrugged. “More power to influence the museum’s future, perhaps.”

“We’d already offered him a seat on the board.”

“I know. Or maybe he was just playing out the game, for the fun of it and the attention it got him. He certainly liked having everybody dancing attendance on him.”

“And he waited just a little too long to get down to business?” Suddenly Pierce’s face brightened. “You don’t suppose Cyrus made that will anyway, do you? Maybe he didn’t tell me because he didn’t want the attention to stop.”

Susannah had her doubts, but this was the first positive note Pierce had expressed, and she thought it was hardly the time to discourage him. At any rate, before she’d gathered her thoughts, he’d picked up the telephone and was fumbling through his wallet. “Cyrus’s attorney—what was his name? I’ve got his card in here somewhere...”

The business card he eventually produced had once been crisp and elegant, Susannah was certain. Now it was dog-eared, the edges frayed and the type rubbed and blurred—but not so damaged that Pierce couldn’t read the phone number.