Fatal Impressions (9 page)

When Coleman arrived at Cornelia Street, Dinah, in a blue silk caftan that Jonathan had given her to wear for evenings at home, was telling Jonathan and Rob that she couldn’t understand why they were so worried about the police investigation into the death of Frances Johnson.

“So what if I can’t prove I was home all night? They can’t prove I was at DDD&W, because I wasn’t. Isn’t a person innocent until found guilty?” she said.

“Dinah, if we can’t clear this up, you’ll always be under suspicion,” Rob said. “This is murder, and so far, you’re the only suspect. If they don’t find the guilty person, this thing will hang over you for the rest of your life. We have to prove your innocence. That means proving you didn’t leave home after one a.m. when Tom took you home until he picked you up this morning a little before six, or discovering who the killer is. Or both.”

“But I had no reason to hurt that woman, or even Patti Sue,” Dinah insisted.

Coleman sighed. Reasoning with Dinah in a stubborn mood was like trying to teach a billy goat table manners. Luckily, she didn’t have these moods often. Coleman was sure Dinah was terrified and covering her fear with her obstinate denials.

“Yes, Dinah, but you and Patti Sue argued constantly, and she complained about you all over the office. Amy says she was trying to get you fired, or force you to quit.
We
know you wouldn’t kill anyone, but the cops can make a case that you had a reason to want her out of the way,” Coleman said.

“I
didn’t
want her out of the way. I don’t plan to be around that place more than another week or so. Why should I care whether she’s there?” Dinah said.

Coleman caught Jonathan’s eye, who, seeing that it was hopeless trying to make Dinah face the situation, changed the subject.

“Do you think Patti Sue was the target?” Jonathan asked. “Or was the killer after the Johnson woman?”

“If the killer meant to kill Patti Sue, it almost has to be about art, and an art-related murder wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Coleman said. “The missing Stubbs and whether the Prince Charles Stuart Museum received everything it was supposed to could be big problems. Maybe Patti Sue has been stealing art from the company and was afraid Dinah would find out?”

Rob nodded. “Yes, those areas have to be investigated. And there’s an art-related sales tax issue.” He summarized the suspicions at the DA’s office, and the role of Great Art Management, following up with the possible investigation by the SEC.

“I don’t know why you’re so sure it’s about art,” Dinah said to Coleman. She turned to Rob. “I’ve heard you say murder is usually about love or money. What about the woman who fought Patti Sue in the restroom? She sounded as if she’d like to kill Patti Sue.”

Rob nodded. “Good point. We need to get that story to the police. Who saw the fight besides you? I’d like to keep you out of it, if I can.”

“I heard it, I didn’t see it, and I didn’t see the woman who intervened, but I’m pretty sure it was Hunt’s secretary, Mrs. Thornton. She’s the only woman I’ve met there who speaks in that ladylike way. But Patti Sue knew the person she was fighting with—ask her,” Dinah said.

“But will Patti Sue talk? And if it
was
Hunt’s secretary, will
she
talk?” Coleman said.

“They’d have to be stupid not to cooperate in a murder investigation,” Rob said.

“Oh, Rob, get real. If their bosses tell them they’ll be fired if they talk, they
won’t
talk,” Coleman snapped. “Back to motive: if the intended victim was Patti Sue, could she have been killed over something to do with the art tax evasion scheme? She might know who was involved, and could testify against people.”

Rob shook his head. “I doubt if anyone would kill over that. If they’re guilty, Great Art Management is in trouble, but the law enforcers rarely go after individuals for that kind of crime unless they want to make an example of them. They’re after the art galleries or art consultants, the jewelers, the furriers. They rarely do more than make the buyers pay the tax they owe, plus interest, and maybe a fine. Anyway, I suspect more serious criminal activities are going on there, and that means there could be other motives for murder.”

“What could be ‘more serious’ than the theft of the Stubbs paintings? We’re talking
big
money here. Not to mention the income the firm will lose if the paintings are gone,” Coleman said.

Rob shook his head again. “We don’t know that any art
has
been stolen, or is even missing. Let’s summarize what we
do
know: the New York County District Attorney’s office is investigating whether some of the DDD&W people are avoiding sales tax on art. We think the SEC is investigating DDD&W for conflict of interest. The Stubbs paintings may be missing, and if they are, as far as we know, their disappearance hasn’t been reported, which could be fraud, since there’s a penalty attached to their disappearance. If the company has sold them, that’s illegal. But we don’t have a lot of facts about any of the art issues,” Rob said.

“How can we assist the investigators?” Jonathan asked.

“I don’t think we can contribute to the government investigations, but they could help us. We could try to persuade them to speed up their activities. They’re moving slowly, and we need answers
now
. Meanwhile, we can investigate all the people involved to see who needs money badly enough to steal. We can check to see if anyone has a criminal record. We should learn all we can about the art. Most of all, we have to do everything we can to prove Dinah wasn’t at DDD&W at the crucial time,” Rob said.

Jonathan took off his glasses and polished them. He put them on again and said, “I’d guess that the DDD&W people will shove Dinah down the throats of the police, trying for a fast solution that doesn’t involve anyone they employ. But won’t they know we’ll retaliate and expose any illegalities we can uncover at DDD&W?”

“I’m sure they know we could put a spotlight on their criminal activities, but if they can focus the attention of the police, their employees, their clients, and the press on Dinah, they might be able to buy enough time to cover up some of their nefarious doings. That’s why we have to move fast. We’ve got to see that they’re caught before they destroy evidence. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t already tried to convict Dinah in the press. That’s probably next,” Rob replied.

“I think so, too. Well, I’ll be damned if I’ll let them destroy Dinah’s reputation,” Jonathan said.

“I feel the same way,” Coleman said. “Let’s decide who’s going to do what. I’ll take care of the art side—check out the Davidson will, work with the museum on what they received, try to get a list of what they were supposed to get, see if there’s a big difference. See what I can find out about the Stubbs paintings. And I’ll work with Debbi on PR, planning what we can do to counter any bad publicity.”

“I’ll help Coleman with the art questions, and acquire the prints needed to complete the project,” Dinah said. “I want to be ready to go to work the minute I can get back in there.”

Jonathan frowned, but Coleman noticed he didn’t comment on Dinah’s plans to finish the job at DDD&W. She was surprised. She’d been sure Jonathan would prevent Dinah from returning to DDD&W. Maybe he planned to discuss it with Dinah privately. Dinah was already upset, and he might want to soften the blow.

“I’ll talk to our lawyers, any friends I think can help with the government investigation, and the Frys. We need the guards’ records—when Dinah came and went, anyone they thought was suspicious,” Jonathan said.

“I’ll take care of everything else,” Rob said, yawning.

Coleman considered him. He looked tired and worried. Well, she was too, but she’d never let Dinah see it, and Rob shouldn’t either.

“Oh, this is making my head ache,” Dinah said. “Let’s eat. We’re having spring specials: green pea soup with fresh mint—my own recipe—pasta primavera and strawberry shortcake.” She smiled, a hostess-y, Martha Stewart-ish smile, as if this were an ordinary dinner with family and friends.

Coleman, exasperated by Dinah’s refusal to admit that her situation was serious, rolled her eyes at Jonathan. They tacitly agreed to put aside the subject of Dinah’s predicament for the rest of the evening. But avoiding discussion of DDD&W, the murder, and the police investigation was a strain, and they broke up early, Rob and Jonathan pleading travel fatigue.

Rob offered to share a taxi uptown with Coleman, and she accepted. She was sure he wouldn’t bother her about their relationship while she was so preoccupied with Dinah’s problems. He didn’t speak until they were nearly at her apartment, then, “I wish Jonathan had come up with more tonight. I thought he’d have a lot of ideas about how he could help,” he said.

“Don’t worry about Jonathan,” Coleman said. “He’ll move heaven and earth to clear Dinah. I wish Dinah would wake up. She’s in a dream world.”

“Surely she’ll come to her senses after Jonathan’s had a chance to talk to her. God, I hope this doesn’t get picked up by the press.”

Coleman nodded, but she was only half-listening. She was still thinking about Dinah’s refusal to face her dangerous situation. Coleman had read books in which a person was convicted of a crime he or she didn’t commit. Surely something that terrible couldn’t happen to her cousin. But she knew all too well that there was truth in the saying that bad things could happen to good people.

Late Thursday night, when he finally had a few spare minutes, Rob telephoned a detective he employed for surveillance work and asked if the detective and a friend who worked with him could interview everyone living or working on Cornelia Street. Had anyone seen Dinah come home at one a.m. Thursday? Or seen anyone leave the Hathaway house between one and six a.m.? When did lights in the building go off or on? Did anyone see Dinah leave the house at five forty-five a.m.? Tom and the Fry guards could vouch for her, of course, but neighborhood witnesses would be impartial and convincing. The two detectives were available and would start Friday morning.

Coleman lay in bed listening to the pounding rain, waiting for the slap of Friday’s papers against the floor outside her apartment door. When she heard it, she rushed barefooted in her nightgown to bring them in. Back in bed with the papers and a fresh cup of coffee, she leafed through them to see whether anyone had picked up the story of the death at DDD&W. Thank goodness, the
New York Times
had nothing, and the two tabloids that mentioned DDD&W described the death as an accident. Still, it was only a matter of time till the murder became headlines. She’d call Debbi later today. They’d need to put their own spin on everything happening at DDD&W. There’d be no point in calling now; Debbi was a late riser.

She hurried through her shower, dressed in a St. John beige knit pantsuit and her Burberry, put on her Wellingtons, and fed Dolly. Dolly hated rain, so Coleman carried her in her pouch and walked with her at a fast clip to the office. Once there, Coleman checked the fax machine. Hallelujah, the list from the Prince Charles Stuart Museum had arrived. It was much shorter than she’d expected, given the amount of wall space at DDD&W. But the note with the list reported that this was everything. She stuffed the list in her carryall for closer study later and checked her e-mail.

Groan.
Rob had invited her to dinner at his apartment Saturday night. She’d try one last time to get him to back off, and if he didn’t—well, that was that. She sent her reply:

“Rob: I’d like to have dinner with you. We have a lot to discuss. But if I come, you
must
lay off the marriage talk. If we can’t be friends—and only friends—I can’t go on seeing you. Let me know if we have a deal.” Surely that was clear enough? If only he’d stop pushing her. She’d like to keep him as a friend.

Her first task of the day was to search the Internet for James Davidson’s obituary and for articles about him. Good, everything she needed was there. Davidson drowned at the age of sixty-four, while swimming in a lake near his weekend estate in Connecticut. His only child, a son, had been killed in a traffic accident many years earlier. Three years before Davidson died, he’d divorced and remarried. Twin daughters from his second marriage, Margaret and Elizabeth, survived him. What had become of them? And where was their mother? She wasn’t mentioned in the obituary. Was she dead? If both parents had died, someone must have been appointed their guardian until they were old enough to take care of themselves. Why hadn’t they joined DDD&W when they were old enough? Could the will have specified a male heir or heirs? Would that be legal? Oh good, here was Davidson’s New York address: 4 Sutton Place South. She’d need that information at Chambers Street.

She put the Davidson material aside and researched the Prince Charles Stuart Museum. Their endowment was tiny, but there wasn’t much to support; the director, three junior people, and a modest building housing a small, not very valuable collection—a few obscure paintings, a little furniture, old weapons brought from Scotland. She didn’t recognize the names of any of the staff, or of anyone on the board. She faxed the board list to Jonathan to see if he knew any of them.

She turned to the papers in her in-box, all of which related to
First Home
or
ArtSmart
, and started through them, making notations on some, writing instructions on others. She stacked the marked-up documents in her outbox for collection by the mailroom girl, who’d see that they reached their destination. She’d made a respectable dent in the piles when the offices downtown opened. She checked her e-mail again before heading out. Rob had replied: “Deal.” She hoped he meant it.

The helpful paralegal had warned Coleman about tight security at 31 Chambers Street, so Coleman left Dolly, sad but resigned, at
ArtSmart
. Inside the building, she showed the guard her photo ID and passed through a metal detector. The building was old and grand, and the lobby was lavishly decorated with beautiful Beaux Arts details, but the people guarding the doors and the machinery were serious, hardworking, and twenty-first century in appearance and attitude.

In Room 402, she spotted a smiling woman with waist-length brown hair and recognized Elaine, whom she’d been told to seek out—“a real person, not a bureaucrat,” the paralegal had said.

Coleman gave Davidson’s name, address, and the year he died to Elaine, who took notes. A few minutes later, she located the will and gave Coleman a form to fill in requesting it. When the form was completed, Elaine gave Coleman a blue cardboard folder. “Here’s your will. You can make a copy if you like—the copier’s on the wall to your right. If you need change for it, there’s a machine in the corner,” she said.

Coleman thanked Elaine, opened the folder, and flipped through the pages. There they were: Stubbs,
Portrait of Lady J
, and
Portrait of Lord J
. They were listed as part of the office suite. If the paintings were missing, DDD&W would lose them—a huge loss given their value—and forfeit the income from the trust, potentially disastrous for the firm. Who got the pictures and the money in the trust if the firm had sold them or had allowed them to be stolen? The will was clear: they’d go to Davidson descendants; if none existed, then to the Prince Charles Stuart Museum. Davidson’s heirs were his twin daughters, Elizabeth and Margaret. She copied the will and headed back uptown.

On the subway, Coleman studied the section of the will dealing with the Americana collection. As Amy had said, James Davidson had left the collection to DDD&W, conditional on a Davidson being employed there. The sex of the Davidson descendents wasn’t specified—they
could
have hired a woman or women. Since no Davidson worked at DDD&W, the Americana collection should have gone to the twins. Only if there were no surviving Davidsons should they have gone to the museum. The inventory list of objects in the Americana collection was several pages long.

She took out the list of the objects that had been sent to the Prince Charles. The two lists should be nearly identical, although DDD&W might have acquired or lost a few items over the years. Luckily the objects in both lists were numbered: 1,049 objects in the DDD&W list, and 414 objects sent to the Prince Charles Stuart Museum. Good grief, some shortfall! Surely DDD&W couldn’t have
lost
more than 600 works of art? She should compare the lists to determine what was missing, but a comparison would require hours of concentration, and she couldn’t do it in a subway car. Anyway, it was the kind of pernickety job she hated. Maybe one of Dinah’s assistants could do it.

Back in her office, she summarized everything she’d learned about the Davidson estate and e-mailed the summary to Jonathan, Dinah, and Rob. She also e-mailed copies of the two lists of the Americana collection to Dinah, asking her if she could arrange a comparison.

The next item on her to-do list was calling Debbi. She tried, got voice mail, and left a message: “Call me. Urgent.” She wracked her brain to see if there was anything else she could do to help Dinah but couldn’t think of anything. She sighed and returned to her day job.