Like her sister, she was a big moon-faced blonde in her mid-fifties who favored false eyelashes and cocktail dresses in colors like champagne and chartreuse. Unlike her sister, however, she worked for a living. Selling real estate. “He’s rejected the bid,” she said, looking up from the sheaf of papers in her lap. “Son of a bitch.” Depeyster Van Wart rose from his chair, and when he spoke again, his voice was pinched to a yelp. “You kept this strictly confidential, right? He had no idea it was me?” Marguerite pressed her lashes together in a coy little blink and gave him a look of wide-eyed rectitude. “Like you told me,” she said, “I’m bidding on behalf of a client from Connecticut.” Depeyster turned away from her in exasperation. He had an urge to pluck something up off the sideboard—an antique inkwell, a china bibelot—and fling it through the window. He was a great flinger. He’d flung Lionel trains, music boxes and croquet mallets as a boy, squash rackets, golf clubs and highball glasses as he grew older.
