Fatal Impressions (4 page)

Dinah woke up Wednesday morning still worrying about her failure to tell Jonathan what she’d seen on the thirty-first floor. She didn’t believe in keeping secrets from him—she intended to tell him everything—but not until she’d finished hanging the prints. Meanwhile, she’d never set foot below the thirty-second floor again.

When Jonathan left without breakfast or a goodbye kiss, she was annoyed, but she mentally shelved their quarrel and thoughts of Oscar Danbury. She had work to do. She rushed through her morning chores and was in the gallery by eight o’clock, working through her checklist to make sure everything was on track for the print installation that night. Gambling that she’d win the job, she’d bought hundreds of prints she hoped to hang at DDD&W. She’d acquired all the works she needed to complete the decoration of the reception areas and the dining room. If DDD&W hadn’t hired her, she could have sold the prints elsewhere, but it would have taken time she didn’t have, given the gallery’s financial situation. Thank goodness her bet had paid off.

At eight thirty, she packed her bag with the papers she needed and had started out the gallery door, when she remembered the Stubbs photocopies. She turned back to give them to the senior graduate student and asked her to find out everything she could about their ownership, location, and history. Then she hurried down to the street to grab a cab to DDD&W to meet the movers.

But when she reached the freight elevators near the storage room on thirty-two, Patti Sue awaited her, clipboard in hand. Dinah raised her eyebrows. “Good morning. How may I help you?”

“I’m here to check on the art when it’s delivered,” Patti Sue said, her voice and manner declaring that she was in charge and intended to stay that way.

“That’s kind of you, but I already have an assistant—she’s videotaping the unpacking. It’s standard procedure—my insurance requires it,” Dinah explained.

As if on cue, Bethany, carrying a video camera, appeared. “Good mornin’,” she said.

“Why? I never heard of such a thing,” Patti Sue said, ignoring Bethany.

“Let me introduce you to Bethany Byrd, who works at the gallery with me,” Dinah said. “Bethany, this is Patti Sue Victor.”

Bethany smiled. “How do you do? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Patti Sue continued to ignore Bethany and glared at Dinah. “Why are you filming the prints?”

“As I said, it’s standard procedure. We check to see that everything we stored arrived, that nothing went missing in the warehouse or in transit. We’ll photograph the installations, too.”

Patti Sue shook her head. “We don’t do that here,” she said. “Gimme the list of prints you’re gonna hang. I’ll check ‘em off.”

“Sorry—no checking by anyone except my staff,” Dinah said. “It’s in my contract.”

“I’m sick and damn tired of hearin’ about your contract!” Patti Sue shouted. “I don’t believe a word of what you say about it, or about your insurance. I got a right to do this: I’m art curator—this is DDD&W’s art!”

Dinah put her hands over her ears. “Keep your voice down,” she said. “People are coming out of their offices to see why you’re yelling.”

“I don’t give a damn who hears me! This is
my
job!”

“Patti Sue, this nonsense must stop. I can’t get my work done with you having tantrums all the time. Why don’t you ask Mr. Douglas for a copy of my contract? If you read it, you’ll understand and stop arguing with me.”

Without warning, Patti Sue threw the clipboard at Dinah. Bethany reached out and caught it on the fly. She got a baleful look from Patti Sue, who trotted down the corridor at a fast clip. Before she disappeared around the corner, she looked back and shouted, “I’ll have both of you outta here before the end of the week!”

Dinah and Bethany exchanged exasperated glances. The arrival of the elevator with a load of prints gave them a chance to turn their backs on the spectators who’d come out of their offices to enjoy the action. Bethany began filming, while Dinah checked off the prints on her lists. The curious returned to their offices.

Soon after seven Wednesday evening, Dinah and her three helpers arrived on DDD&W’s thirty-third floor. They hung the architectural prints—bridges, skyscrapers, Manhattan-skyline views—in the reception area first: a great improvement. The river and harbor scenes, ferries, tugs, and ships transformed the nearby dining room, softening its starkness and complementing the magnificent water view. After the last print went up on thirty-three, they took the elevator to the thirty-second floor reception area. When the nineteenth-century landscapes and seascapes were on the walls, Dinah could scarcely recognize the depressing room where she’d waited so long. The area was welcoming and gracious, despite the uncomfortable chairs and the unpleasant odor of scorched coffee.

When everything was completed, Dinah photographed the three rooms. Tonight they’d hung nearly one hundred and fifty prints, about fifty in each room. They were off to a great start. If Jonathan hadn’t gone to California, she couldn’t have remained at DDD&W so late—he wouldn’t have allowed it—and she would have had to devote two nights to what they’d accomplished in one. As it had worked out, she would be able to join him in Los Angeles on Thursday. She’d bought her plane ticket as soon as she realized they’d be able to finish tonight. Jonathan would be pleased, and she’d enjoy the weekend with a clear conscience.

They’d begin hanging the next six hundred prints in the corridors next week. Arranging them would be challenging, because the prints would vary in theme, image, and size. Still, she had plenty of time, and she’d already acquired about half the needed works. To avoid Patti Sue and other bystanders, she’d decided to continue hanging at night, although the silent office was eerie. She heard a faraway clock strike midnight. She shivered, glad for the company of the hangers, gladder still to leave the place. Its emptiness and all the dark offices were intimidating.

By five thirty Thursday morning, Dinah had eaten a light breakfast, dressed, and packed. At 5:45, Tom, Jonathan’s driver, picked her up in the Lincoln Town Car. Tom would drive her to the DDD&W office in the Fry Building, wait while she made a final check of last night’s installations, then take her to the airport in time for the nine a.m. flight to Los Angeles.

They dropped Baker at his vet’s for the weekend and were on their way uptown by a few minutes past six. Dinah mentally checked everything she should have done. Her suitcase and carry-on bag were in the trunk, and she was dressed in a favorite travel outfit, a navy blue pantsuit and a crisp white shirt. Her ticket was in her bag, as were her sunglasses,
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
, and cash in small bills to buy newspapers or magazines, and for tips. She’d remove the jacket when the plane arrived in warm LA. The New York weather was typical for March: cold, damp, and overcast. She smiled. In a few hours she’d be in sunshine, surrounded by the beautiful Bel-Air gardens, enjoying a loving welcome from Jonathan. Making up after a quarrel could be fun.

At the Fry Building, she took the elevator to the thirty-third floor. She paused to admire the prints in the reception area, then hurried toward the dining area. But before she reached it, she noticed the door to the anteroom of the managing director’s suite was open. Hunt Frederick must be in. She’d invite him to join her for a tour.

The door to his office was ajar. Dinah called his name but got no reply. Maybe he was on the telephone and couldn’t hear her? She tapped on the door and pushed it open. The carnage jumped up at her, a vision in a nightmare, and the smell was horrific—blood, urine, feces, and—oh, God—a whiff of Jungle Gardenia. The heavily carved bookshelves on the left had pulled away from the wall, and shelving and books lay all over the floor. Beneath the jumble of dark wood, red leather, and white pages splattered with blood: a body—and more blood, black against the red carpet. Blonde hair soaked in blood. A bloodstained beige platform shoe. A hand with purple painted nails.

Dinah tiptoed into the room, avoiding the blood, and touched a white wrist: no pulse, and the skin was cool. Nothing could help the poor woman.

Fighting nausea, she backed into the corridor and called 911 on her cell phone. “There’s b-been a f-fatal accident,” she said.

Told to wait at the scene, she leaned against the wall. What should she do? She didn’t know anyone’s extension at DDD&W, and the telephone operators wouldn’t arrive until eight. She didn’t know how to reach the security people in the lobby. There was no point in calling Jonathan—it was the middle of night in California, and he couldn’t be here for hours, even if he left immediately, even if he could get a plane so early.

She’d call Coleman. Her workaholic cousin was always in her office at
ArtSmart
by six.

“Coleman,” she whispered to herself, listening to the phone ring on the other end of the line, “it’s Dinah. Please p-pick up, it’s an e-emergency.” Oh, hell, she was stammering. She’d stuttered as a child when she was upset but rarely since. Well, she had good reason: she was alone with a dead body.

When Coleman answered, Dinah explained what had happened and begged her cousin to come to the DDD&W offices as soon as possible. “I’m in a st-state, I’m not th-thinking st-straight, I m-might throw up. I don’t know what to d-do. P-please, please c-come quick as you c-can.”

Coleman, predictably calm and controlled, promised to hurry. Dinah felt as if she’d been on the thirty-third floor for hours, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock. She wished she’d gone downstairs to call 911 from her office. At least she’d be able to sit down. If only Hunt Frederick would turn up. Or his assistant. Anybody.

She heard the sound of the elevator and looked down the corridor. Ellie McPhee hurried toward her. “Ellie, I’ve n-never been so g-glad to see anyone,” Dinah said.

Ellie, wide-eyed, whispered, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Something awful’s h-happened. The b-bookcases in Hunt Frederick’s office c-collapsed and fell on—k-killed—s-someone.”

Ellie’s face paled. “Have you called for, like, uh, security?” she asked.

“I called 911, but I d-don’t have n-numbers for p-people here. You don’t have your cell phone with you? No? Would you g-go d-downstairs and phone s-security, and anyone else you can th-think of? I have to w-wait here.”

Ellie nodded and raced off. Dinah leaned against the wall again and closed her eyes. Time passed, but Ellie didn’t return.

When Dinah began to think no one would ever come, all at once people were everywhere—two building security men, medical technicians, uniformed police, and the Lord be thanked, Coleman.

At the sight of her cousin, Dinah was so relieved she nearly lost it. She forced herself to maintain control, promising herself she’d collapse later. With Coleman there, she could get through this. She wouldn’t let these people see her faint or go into hysterics, and damn it, she wouldn’t cry and she wouldn’t stutter.

Hunt Frederick appeared with Theodore Douglas and a short bald man Dinah hadn’t met. They were trailed by a chesty woman whose teased black beehive, stiff with hairspray, looked like a bowling ball.

“What are you doing here, Coleman?” Douglas asked. “And Dinah? You look awful. Are you ill?”

“I’d like some answers, too,” Hunt Frederick said, glaring at Coleman.

“Good morning, Teddy,” Coleman said to Douglas, before turning to Hunt Frederick. “Dinah came in early, and your door was open. The bookshelves have collapsed, and there’s a dead body beneath the rubble.”

Hunt Frederick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right, and there’s an elephant in the dining room. Are you covering the—uh—events for your magazine?”

Coleman stared at him. “Dinah is my cousin, and after she called 911, she called me. Excuse me, but aren’t you the CEO here? I repeat: there’s a corpse in your office. Shouldn’t you be attending to your duties instead of interrogating me?”

Hunt Frederick flushed and addressed the security guards. “What do you know about this ridiculous story? Why are you here, anyway?”

“When the ambulance and the cops got here, we come upstairs with ‘em,” the senior guard said, tugging his Groucho Marx moustache. “We got a call, too, but it didn’ make sense. We’d of come anyway, but these people got here first.”

The medical team reappeared. “Nothing for us to do here; the woman’s been dead for hours. No one should go in there until the detectives arrive,” one of them said as they departed.

The policemen and the security guards exchanged glances. “The detectives should be here any minute,” a cop said.

“Detectives?” Hunt Frederick asked, frowning. “What are you talking about? There really is a body in there? Who is it? What happened? An accident of some kind? A heart attack? What’s going on?”

“We had a call from a dame there’d been a murder here,” the senior security guard said, still tugging his moustache. “We told the cops.”

Hunt Frederick glared at Dinah. “Were you the idiot who made that call?”

“I did not. I called 911, and Coleman. That was it,” Dinah said. Thank goodness she’d managed to speak without stuttering. Hunt Austin Frederick had called her an idiot, and was treating her like a criminal. Well, he could go to the devil! It wasn’t her fault she’d discovered the accident. She wouldn’t mention Ellie. She wouldn’t subject that child to Hunt Frederick’s bullying. If Ellie had misunderstood and thought someone had been murdered, so what? It would be cleared up when they learned why those bookcases fell.

“They’ll have tapes of those calls,” Hunt Frederick warned Dinah.

Dinah sighed. “Yes, I know. I watch television, too. I was in your office for seconds. I saw the collapsed shelves, and the body. I have no idea what caused the shelves to fall. I assumed it was an accident,” she said.

“Did you recognize the—uh—person?” Ted Douglas asked.

Dinah shook her head. “I can’t be certain, but I thought it was Patti Sue.”

Hunt Frederick, still scowling, said, “What made you think so?”

“Purple nail polish, platform shoes, bleached hair,” Dinah said.

Coleman intervened. “I think Dinah should sit down, have something warm to drink.”

The bald man spoke. “I quite agree. I’m Mark Leichter, the office manager. And you are?”

Douglas looked at Hunt Frederick, apparently expecting the managing director to make the introductions. When Hunt, who looked dazed, didn’t speak, Douglas said, “Oh, sorry, Mark. Dinah Greene, our art consultant, and her cousin, Coleman Greene. This is Mark Leichter and his assistant, Naomi Skinner.”

“I regret we weren’t introduced earlier, Ms. Greene,” Leichter said. “I’m so sorry you’ve had this terrible experience. If I can be of assistance, let me know. You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a great deal to do, as I’m sure you can appreciate. This sad death will create a lot of problems.” He departed, trailed by Hairspray Woman.

“Why don’t we go in the dining room?” Douglas said. “There should be coffee by now. The—uh—detectives can talk to Dinah there.”

“I’d like to go to the restroom first,” Dinah said.

Coleman nodded. “I’ll go with you.”