Restrike (21 page)

Quincy called Rachel early Saturday morning. “Your American friends telephoned me last night—it was late, and they didn’t want to disturb you but they wanted you to know they’re leaving this morning. They may have already left,” he said.

Rachel frowned. “Did something happen?”

When Quincy described the gift meant to harm—perhaps kill—Coleman and her dog, Rachel was horrified, but not surprised. She had been sure Coleman was in danger. “How dreadful! Thank God no one was hurt.”

“Yes, quite. I gather the group also quarreled. Mrs. Hathaway was unhappy about some of the things Heyward Bain said earlier in the evening, and she criticized his behavior. As she should have, in my opinion. The Hathaways expect to be in New York by lunchtime.”

“I’m concerned about Coleman Greene. I hope they’re protecting her. On another topic, I have devised a scheme to prevent Simon from repeating his Lautrec trick. I will fax you material to your office today. Could you telephone me on Monday, and let me know what you think?”

After her guests left, Rachel had combed
The Record
, and had identified twenty-six people who owned prints that Simon might attempt to acquire at low prices and sell for multiples of what he’d paid. He would try to implicate her and the gallery, of that she was sure. She would block his efforts.

Miss Manning, who did not usually work on Saturdays, had come in at Rachel’s request to type letters to the people she thought he’d approach, and to help Rachel reach the experts to estimate values for the works Simon might try to buy. When Rachel had done all she could, she asked Miss Manning to fax Quincy a copy of the letter to a woman who owned many valuable prints, including three by Degas and one by Mary Cassatt.

Rachel’s letter explained that the prints’ values had increased greatly in the last few years, and included an evaluation for each. The letter warned the recipient that she might be offered very low prices for the prints, ostensibly on behalf of the Ransome Gallery, and ended by saying that she, Rachel, was the only person authorized to acquire prints or any other art objects on behalf of the gallery. Rachel advised her to refuse any offers for less than the evaluation.

Coleman fed and walked Dolly, drank two cups of coffee and checked her e-mails. She read Rob’s first.

Coleman smiled, and turned to the e-mail from Jane Parker:

Chicago and Los Angeles were the two cities where Ellen’s companies were located. Could Ms. Swain have worked at the
Artful Californian
, or at Computer Art Research Services? Or both? Coleman couldn’t follow up on most of the information in Jane’s letter until Monday, but there was one thing she
could
do.

She dialed Clancy at home. “Clancy? Do you know anyone at the major newspaper in Richmond?”

“The
Times-Dispatch
? I do know someone. Why?”

“I’m investigating a woman whose name has come up a couple of times in connection with art thefts. Would you call your friend and check her out for me?”

“Sure, fax me her name and anything else you’ve got on her, and I’ll get back to you. If this is a story, we’ll share, right?”

“You bet. Thanks, Clancy.”

Coleman leaned back in her chair and thought about everything that had happened in the art world since the October auction at Killington’s. Dinah had predicted it: Heyward Bain’s money had unleashed greed, and some person—or persons—had come up with a number of ways to get Bain’s money. If she listed all the print-related and other art-related cons, scams, and crimes that she knew or suspected had occurred, maybe she could detect a pattern.

Coleman tapped her pencil on the desk. She had no way to prove or disprove that anyone had sold overpriced objects to Heyward Bain. They probably had, but if they had, it wasn’t a crime. It was caveat emptor, and Bain apparently didn’t care. She crossed it off her list.

Cheating owners, persuading them to sell too low, as Simon had done with
The Midget.
Sharp practice, but not illegal. Caveat
venditor.
She crossed that off, too.

The false seller issue was an auction house problem. The rule that the seller must swear he or she owned the work was to provide the auction houses with recourse if the work turned out to be problematic. It wasn’t a big deal to anyone else. Of course, Jimmy’s “selling” all those important works when he obviously didn’t have the money or the contacts to have bought them—and at off-beat auction houses—raised red flags. But the victims were the auction houses and Bain, and Jimmy was dead. She crossed that off, too.

The theft of the Dürers and the theft of the Rembrandt plates were crimes. Selling the contemporary restrike without identifying it was stealing, too, or, at least, selling it under false pretenses. If exposed, the seller would have to refund the money to the buyer. Same with the Dürers; jail was a possibility, too. But the value of the stolen objects, while huge to the likes of Coleman, was small as art thefts went. They were surely
too
small to be associated with murder? If one dared pun over something as serious as murder, the murders were “overkill.” But if the killings
weren’t
associated with the print thefts, what was the motive for them? Was it possible, as the police had thought from the beginning, that La Grange’s death was not connected to the art world? And that poor Chick was killed because he stumbled on La Grange’s killers?

Taking over the Ransome Gallery (“Get rid of Rachel”) could involve real money: The Ransome Gallery had to be very lucrative. And if the espionage at
ArtSmart
was part of a plan to take
it
over (“Get rid of Coleman”?) for the reasons she and Zeke had concluded, that could produce big money, too. But were the amounts large enough to inspire murder? Murder didn’t come easily to most people, thank God.

Forgetting alibis, who had the ability to do all these things? Simon? Coleman didn’t think he was smart enough. Bain? Bain had the brains, and his recent behavior was suspicious. Suppose he turned out to be a crook after all, as Dinah now believed, and Jonathan had thought all along? Ellen? She had the ability, but the print stuff seemed too petty to interest someone as successful as Ellen. That went for Bain, too, in spades. Why would a billionaire involve himself with penny-ante crime?

Rachel Ransome? She had the ability, but no motive. She might be a little too eager to identify Simon as the culprit—but then, so was Coleman. That reminded her of the Baldorean photo. Why had Rachel been so sure it was Simon?

She printed out the JPEG and put the picture of the bearded man on her desk, tilting her desk lamp so the image was brightly lit. She laid beside it a photo of a grinning Simon—the
ArtSmart
photographer had caught him at his moment of triumph when he’d bought
The Midget
—from the Print Museum file. The two figures were about the same height. The face of the Baldorean figure was so covered with hair it was difficult to compare the two, but the heads were about the same size, and both figures had long horsy faces. But that was as far as she could go.

Coleman threw her pencil on the desk and stretched her arms over her head. God, what a mess! She felt as if she were comparing apples and oranges. The items on her list were incongruous, from the grand designs—the plans to take over the magazine and the gallery—to the petty print crimes. And the vicious killings and her mugging and attempted poisoning were another kind of crime entirely. There must be a motive behind the violent crimes she hadn’t considered.

Oh hell, her head was splitting, and she hadn’t come up with anything new. She stood up and grabbed her coat, and Dolly’s pouch. “C’mon, it’s time to go to Cornelia Street.”

Dinah and Jonathan arrived at their apartment a little before one and were greeted by Coleman and Rob, who had bought a dozen pots of daffodils to bring a touch of spring to the empty apartment. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace and Rob had made spaghetti sauce, redolent with garlic, basil, and tomatoes. Under his direction, Coleman had put together a salad. Best of all, the vet had called, and Baker was better—not out of the woods yet, but definitely better. He could have visitors tomorrow.

Rob and Coleman served lunch, while Dinah and Jonathan described the trip to London, including Rachel’s revelations, Heyward Bain’s reactions, and the unpleasant scene at Richmond’s.

“To me, the oddest thing you’ve told us is Heyward Bain’s behavior. I can’t understand it,” Rob said.

“Bain’s behavior was peculiar, but
I
think the most interesting information you turned up is the fact that Delia Swain rented the car that was driven to the Baldorean. I’ve started making inquiries about her. I wish I’d trusted my instincts and done it earlier. I’ve learned a few things already,” Coleman said, and repeated everything Jane had told her.

“I bet she works for Ellen Carswell, and if so, she’s part of the Fanshawe-Carswell alliance. Wouldn’t it be great if we could get Delia for the missing Rembrandt plates, and tie the theft to Carswell?” Coleman looked at Rob. “Rob, Jane Parker says the police haven’t questioned Delia about the plates because of who her father is. What can we do?”

“If necessary, I’ll go to Virginia and question her myself. But first I’ll talk to the police here and see if they have any ideas,” Rob said.

“You’d better warn them not to let the Virginia police know someone’s going to interview her. They’ll tell her father, and she’ll be gone in a flash, probably out of the country,” Dinah said.

“Right.” Rob was making notes and didn’t look up. “On the topic of loose ends, we found the man who made Simon’s aftershave lotion, and he swears it’s unique. The scent maker is very proud of it, says it’s the latest, with emphasis on grasses and herbs—not flowers. So masculine . . . . Which, of course, doesn’t get us anywhere, as Simon couldn’t have faked his alibi for your mugging, Coleman.”

“I think the information about the scent
does
get us somewhere. It’s a link to Simon. He must have shared that stuff with someone,” Coleman said.

“Simon must have an accomplice—the phone bidder,” Dinah said.

“The telephone underbidder would have used a false name, so that doesn’t take us much further,” Coleman said.

“I’d like to put a tail on Simon, and see if we can catch him at something. But it would be expensive, and we might not learn anything,” Rob said.

“Hire anyone you like,” Jonathan said. “I want to do everything possible to get this thing resolved—and a killer locked up.”

Rob got up. “Okay. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go arrange that tail. I know a guy who can probably get on the job immediately.”

Late that afternoon, Coleman listened to a message from Clancy on her apartment answering machine.

A few minutes later, Coleman had copies of the newspaper clippings—parties, benefits, gatherings of all kinds. A gala ball at the Harnett—wait, was that Maxwell Arnold in the background?

Coleman picked up the phone and called Jane Parker. “Jane? Does the Arnold family have any connection to the Harnett?”

“Oh, yes. The Arnolds are patrons of all the Virginia museums. An Arnold in-law is on our board.”

Coleman thanked her and hung up. How could she have missed something so obvious? The Harnett Museum wasn’t far from Richmond, the social center of Virginia. Naturally the Arnolds would be involved. That link explained how Maxwell could have known she and Dinah were coming to the Harnett—Maxwell could easily have heard it from any number of people connected to the museum. All of his family would know how much he hated her. He’d never made a secret of it. But she still didn’t think he was her mugger. He couldn’t have access to Simon’s scent, could he?

Early Saturday evening, after a much-needed rest, Simon strolled over to Ellen’s apartment on East Seventy-Sixth Street, the only place where he could be sure of total privacy. No one had the address or her unlisted telephone number except Heyward and Simon himself.