her hand.
“Not me,” Mac Smith said, withdrawing his hand from reach. “I left my papal ring home.”
“Pitty,” said Pims. “I need dispensation tonight from—from something.”
“The food?” Annabel suggested lightly.
“Oh, no,” Pims replied. “The food is heavenly. Like the crowd.” He made a face as if a foul smell had wafted into the room.
M. Scott Pims was Washington’s most visible artistic gadfly. He wrote extensively on the arts, his articles and reviews appearing in a wide variety of publications. His books, although never reaching best-seller status, enjoyed splendid reviews and were staples in local bookstores. A weekly program on public television station WETA drew a large audience because of his flamboyant, irreverent, often choleric trashing of the art world. Pims’s reputation as a gossip monger and trivia lover was without peer.
“Braced for the big announcement?” Pims asked.
“Big announcement?” Annabel said, glancing at Mac.
“I admire that in a woman, Annabel,” Pims said. “Practicing discretion until told it is all right to be indiscreet. Of course you know about it, being in the position you enjoy with the insiders.” He laughed and included the room in a sweep of his hand. “And we’re surrounded by insiders, aren’t we? Ah, well.I shall play along with your admirable façade and pretend you don’t know. You won’t hear it from me. Excuse me. Must circulate. Somewhere in this drove of pretension is a juicy story of lust, love, perhaps murder, or more. And, of course, I must be the one to reveal it. Pleasant evening, Smiths. And Annabel, congratulations on your new role as ambassador-at-large for the White House. Good luck with the Italians. And keep your eye on Luther. He may seem benign here at home, but once abroad he turns into a carnal beast. Ta ta.”
“ ‘Drove of pretension’?” Mac said, laughing as they watched Pims embrace a woman who seemed to be made of jewelry. “He’s a drove of pretension unto himself.”
“I like him,” Annabel said. “He’s fun.”
“I suppose.” Mac leaned close to her ear. “Obviously, the big surprise about the lost Caravaggio isn’t such a big surprise.”
“Which comes as no surprise in this town, or where Pims is concerned. With his network, he probably knew about it before Court Whitney. Besides, he and Luther are very close friends. Court did his best to keep it under wraps, but you know how those things go, especially in D.C., with its committees, networks, people who ‘need to know.’ It’s a wonder it hasn’t been in the papers.”
“Or on Pims’s TV show. There’s Billie and Roy heading into that gallery. Let’s catch up with them. I need to ask Roy something.”
As Mac and Annabel pursued their friends, Roy and Billie Kramer, and while other guests smacked and snacked and enjoyed the Italian wines, National Gallery director Courtney Whitney looked out over the Capitol from the terrace outside his seventh-floor East Building office. He was alone. Down the hall, in the seventh-floor boardroom, Luther Mason and Father Pasquale Giocondi were going over final details of how news of the
Grottesca
would be presented to those gathered.
Whitney’s remarkable meeting with a bedraggled Luther Mason at Dulles Airport almost a month ago had spawned an equally remarkable series of events at the National Gallery.
Upon returning to his office that day, and in violation of his commitment to keep those in the know to a small number—heknew that if he didn’t bring in the trustees from the start, he might not be around for the Caravaggio show—Whitney convened a meeting that night. Joining him in the boardroom were seven of the Gallery’s nine trustees. The two absent members comprised half of the four-person contingent decreed to come from government; the other five had no government connection. Whitney preferred dealing with the government faction, because not being collectors, they tended to defer
“Not me,” Mac Smith said, withdrawing his hand from reach. “I left my papal ring home.”
“Pitty,” said Pims. “I need dispensation tonight from—from something.”
“The food?” Annabel suggested lightly.
“Oh, no,” Pims replied. “The food is heavenly. Like the crowd.” He made a face as if a foul smell had wafted into the room.
M. Scott Pims was Washington’s most visible artistic gadfly. He wrote extensively on the arts, his articles and reviews appearing in a wide variety of publications. His books, although never reaching best-seller status, enjoyed splendid reviews and were staples in local bookstores. A weekly program on public television station WETA drew a large audience because of his flamboyant, irreverent, often choleric trashing of the art world. Pims’s reputation as a gossip monger and trivia lover was without peer.
“Braced for the big announcement?” Pims asked.
“Big announcement?” Annabel said, glancing at Mac.
“I admire that in a woman, Annabel,” Pims said. “Practicing discretion until told it is all right to be indiscreet. Of course you know about it, being in the position you enjoy with the insiders.” He laughed and included the room in a sweep of his hand. “And we’re surrounded by insiders, aren’t we? Ah, well.I shall play along with your admirable façade and pretend you don’t know. You won’t hear it from me. Excuse me. Must circulate. Somewhere in this drove of pretension is a juicy story of lust, love, perhaps murder, or more. And, of course, I must be the one to reveal it. Pleasant evening, Smiths. And Annabel, congratulations on your new role as ambassador-at-large for the White House. Good luck with the Italians. And keep your eye on Luther. He may seem benign here at home, but once abroad he turns into a carnal beast. Ta ta.”
“ ‘Drove of pretension’?” Mac said, laughing as they watched Pims embrace a woman who seemed to be made of jewelry. “He’s a drove of pretension unto himself.”
“I like him,” Annabel said. “He’s fun.”
“I suppose.” Mac leaned close to her ear. “Obviously, the big surprise about the lost Caravaggio isn’t such a big surprise.”
“Which comes as no surprise in this town, or where Pims is concerned. With his network, he probably knew about it before Court Whitney. Besides, he and Luther are very close friends. Court did his best to keep it under wraps, but you know how those things go, especially in D.C., with its committees, networks, people who ‘need to know.’ It’s a wonder it hasn’t been in the papers.”
“Or on Pims’s TV show. There’s Billie and Roy heading into that gallery. Let’s catch up with them. I need to ask Roy something.”
As Mac and Annabel pursued their friends, Roy and Billie Kramer, and while other guests smacked and snacked and enjoyed the Italian wines, National Gallery director Courtney Whitney looked out over the Capitol from the terrace outside his seventh-floor East Building office. He was alone. Down the hall, in the seventh-floor boardroom, Luther Mason and Father Pasquale Giocondi were going over final details of how news of the
Grottesca
would be presented to those gathered.
Whitney’s remarkable meeting with a bedraggled Luther Mason at Dulles Airport almost a month ago had spawned an equally remarkable series of events at the National Gallery.
Upon returning to his office that day, and in violation of his commitment to keep those in the know to a small number—heknew that if he didn’t bring in the trustees from the start, he might not be around for the Caravaggio show—Whitney convened a meeting that night. Joining him in the boardroom were seven of the Gallery’s nine trustees. The two absent members comprised half of the four-person contingent decreed to come from government; the other five had no government connection. Whitney preferred dealing with the government faction, because not being collectors, they tended to defer
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