A Cruise to Die For (An Alix London Mystery) by Aaron Elkins, Charlotte Elkins

final quarter of the nineteenth century. From the catalog she recognized the Degas, the Manet, the Renoir, the Cézanne, the Gauguin, beautiful paintings all.…
    “Wow,” she breathed, taking a step toward them without consciously intending to, almost as if the pictures were powerful magnets and she was an iron filing that couldn’t help itself. On her second sleepwalking step she came smack up against a distinguished-looking man who had stepped into her path from the side.
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t—”
    “No, don’t apologize. My fault entirely. I should have been watching where I was going.”
    “Distinguished looking” didn’t begin to do him justice. In his fifties, slim and elegantly tuxedoed, very erect, with a pencil-thin mustache that belonged on a thirties’ matinee idol, his longish but carefully styled dark hair made even more perfect by the wings of silver that swept back from his temples, he radiated civility and good breeding. His accent, much like her father’s but more la-di-da, completed the picture.
    “You’re Alix London?” he asked.
    “I am, yes. And you’re—?” There was something familiar about him, she thought.
    “My name is Edward Reed.” Nope, nobody she’d met before. “I’m curating the auction—”
    “Of course, “she said, holding out her hand. “You’re an art dealer in Manhattan.”
    “A gallerist, yes,” he said, gently correcting her.
    She’d heard that some high-end dealers, feeling that the term “dealer” implied that they practiced a low form of trade or were in it for the money (
surely not!),
now preferred to be called “gallerists,” but this was the first one she’d actually met. Until now it had struck her as a silly affectation, but on Edward Reed it was a good fit.
    “Miss London—”
    “Alix.”
    He acknowledged this by dipping his chin. “Alix, I was just in the process of looking things over down here. The hordes were driven through earlier and left only a few minutes ago, and I wanted to make sure everything was in order, which it seems to be. But while we’re both here, it would be my privilege to introduce you, shall we say, to the collection.” He smiled invitingly.
    And the smile made her realize why she’d thought she knew him. Edward’s smile, his aristocratic bearing, his flawless grooming, his polite,cultivated speech—all brought back memories of the patrician collectors and connoisseurs she’d met through her father in the pre-
Venezia
, pre-prison days when Geoff was a welcome regular at society events, at the Met, at the Frick, and in the elite condos of the Upper East Side. These people were cordial, considerate, perfectly mannered, and unfailingly polite. And yet, without their being openly supercilious or condescending, you were always aware of a subtle dismissiveness just below the surface, a cool, objective distance they preserved between themselves and others who were not of their own exalted breed. It was a type that sometimes fascinated, sometimes repelled her. Which it would be with Edward she didn’t yet know, but so far she found him agreeable enough.
    “Oh, I’d like that,” she said. “I’m very eager to—” She suddenly remembered Artemis, who was standing politely by. “But Artemis was just taking me to my room, and I don’t want to hold her up.”
    Edward flashed his smile at Artemis. “Oh, but I’m sure the lovely Artemis would allow us a peek. Just the gem of the collection, its shining jewel, perhaps?” His eyebrows lifted. “Yes?”
    Artemis glowed. “A few minutes won’t hurt.”
    “No more than five, I promise. I want the pleasure of being there when Alix sees it for the first time.”
    The gem of the collection (she wondered uncharitably if he might be referring to the super-high estimated sale price that had been set for it) hung at the front of the room. Edward smiled at it as if at a precocious child of whom he was particularly proud. “
Luncheon at the