What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One by Mara Purl Page B

University, Zelda—she wasn’t called that then—had changed her name and moved as far away as possible.
Ohio is a good place to be from… but I wouldn’t want to admit it unless I must
. Los Angeles had seemed fairly distant geographically, but it was light years away morally, and therein lay its appeal.
    When she’d first arrived, she’d done museum collections acquisition work, but that had been laughable in the culturally deprived Los Angeles of the 1960s. There’d seemed no point in pursuing such a career unless one were at the Met or the Modern in New York. Instead she found a way to combine and exploit the best and the worst of L.A.: the extraordinary freedom of expression, which bred good artists, and the hunger for status and success, which corrupted artists and patrons alike. At first, becoming a corporate art consultant, she partnered with a fabulously intelligent and well-connected older man. Then, when she no longer needed her mentor, she competed with him by opening her own firm.
    Like so many things in the fast-paced and materialistic lifestyle of which she was the perfect exemplification, life was mostly about acquisition. What had once been the dignified pastime of the highly cultured, was now the competitive bidding war of the upwardly mobile. What collectors of yesteryear had taken decades to amass, acquisitors nowexpected to gather in mere days. And that was where Zelda came in.
    Corporate Art Professionals succeeded from day one, winning clients faster than Zelda could list them in her Rolodex. CAP was eventually successful enough to go public, but Zelda never wanted that, and kept the company tightly held. It placed over a million dollars in corporate art the second year, and continued up from there.
    She’d gradually developed a stable of artists she liked working with regularly, and later branched into managing the careers of a few of the most promising—like Miranda Jones, whose success as an artist had been no surprise. Zelda knew and trusted both her own eye, and her own ability to market a good product. What she hadn’t counted on was liking the girl.
    Zelda thought for a moment about their phone conversation a short while ago. Miranda’s concern that Zelda not sacrifice by sending her a large check had been almost touching. But Zelda didn’t let that worry her. This was strictly business. As she thought about her next call, she flipped open her amethyst leather Filofax address book and, with a short, polished nail, scanned down the page for the number.
    “Hello, this is Russell Clarke.” The man’s voice sounded dignified, but clipped.
    “Oh, hello, Mr. Clarke.” She spoke with deliberate warmth. “It’s Zelda McIntyre. I have wonderful news for you. I’ve been able to talk Miranda Jones down to $10,000 for the painting you liked,
Elephant Seals Take the Sun.”
    There was no reply.
    Before the silence grew too awkward, Zelda continued. “Isn’t it marvelous? Of course, I know you’re in Philadelphia,but I could have the piece delivered to your Morro Bay office this week.” She knew when to close a sale. “Would that be convenient?”
    “Yes. Fine.”
    “And you’ll instruct your office to have the check ready?”
These nasty little details might be unpleasant to some, but I rather enjoy them
.
    “Yes,” said Clarke. “Should the check be made out to you?”
    “It can be made out to my company: Art Placements & Artist Representations.”
    “It’ll be ready.”
    “Good. Well, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Clarke.”
    There was again no reply, except for the click of Mr. Clarke’s phone. But Zelda was unperturbed. She replaced the receiver.
It’s just that simple, if you know what you’re doing. And what poor little Miranda doesn’t know can’t possibly hurt her
. Zelda would pick up the check for $10,000, send $5,000 to Miranda, and make a nice little deposit at her own bank.
Even if Mr. Clarke ever met the artist, Miranda would have no