Restrike (24 page)

“Do you have anything I can use immediately?” Clancy said.

“You have everything I have on the Print Museum, and on the two deaths. The only thing you don’t have is the story about the thefts of the Dürers from the Baldorean.” She filled him in and added, “Apparently some of the big deals in England don’t want the story published. I say to hell with them. They’ll let a murderer escape so they won’t be embarrassed about their bad security. If you want on-the-record confirmation, call Rachel Ransome at the Ransome Gallery in London, and use my name.”

“My piece will be in Tuesday’s paper,” Clancy said. “I’ll get the story about the Dürers in for sure. I’m with you about the Baldorean: it’s CYA time, and I’ll fix that. Thanks, Coleman.”

Jane Parker called Coleman early Monday morning. “Some Richmond detectives are on the way here to interview me and Delia. And reporters are calling. They want a list of every journalist who saw the plates since that Dutch scholar was here. There’s only one I don’t know: a reporter from
the
Artful Californian
, Jennifer Norris.”

“Blonde, brunette, or redhead? They’ve got at least one of each at
Artful
,” Coleman said.

“A gorgeous blonde, I’m told,” Jane said.

“Judy Nelson. That’s two of the
Artful
crowd who’ve kept their own initials when they use fake names. What dopes. I’ll see if I can find a picture of her, make a JPEG, and e-mail it to you, so we can be sure. Okay?”

“Yes, but who is she?” Jane said.

“She used to be married to Jonathan Hathaway, who’s now my cousin Dinah’s husband.”

“Why would she do this?”

“For the money. She’s a big spender,” Coleman said.

As soon as she hung up, Coleman called Debbi Diamondstein. “Debbi? Do you have any pictures of Bain’s date from the Print Museum opening?”

“Jennifer Norris? The blonde with the exposed breasts? Yes, indeed, but it wasn’t a date. I set it up as an interview. She said she was a freelance writer specializing in the arts.”

“She’s really Judy Nelson, who is (a) Jonathan’s former wife, (b) one of Simon’s girlfriends, (c) a serf for Ellen Carswell, and (d) probably a thief.”

“God, Coleman, how do you know all this stuff? Sounds like I threw Heyward to a lioness.” Her friend was joking, but Coleman could tell that Debbi was worried.

“Yeah, afraid so. Jonathan hired a detective to follow Simon, and he had girls stashed in two hotels over the weekend, one of whom was the gorgeous Judy. We know she’s Jonathan’s former wife because Jonathan says so, and we think she works for Ellen because we’re pretty sure she visited the Harnett Museum for the
Artful Californian
as Jennifer Norris. I want the pictures to send to the museum. If it’s Judy, she’s almost certainly a thief,” Coleman said.

“Oh, rats. I’ll messenger the pictures.”

“No, I’ll come to you. I’d like to get out of here for a while.”

“Your news has left me faint. I’m going to have some cool clear Evian, and maybe dampen a cloth to put on my forehead. See you soon,” Debbi said.

Half an hour later, Coleman sat on the white sofa in Debbi’s bright red office going through photographs. Debbi lounged in the chair behind her white lacquered desk, watching Coleman.

“She
is
fabulous-looking,” Coleman said.

“Oh, yes, she certainly is. Coleman, what the hell is going on? Is it true someone tried to kill you? After I spoke to you, a friend called, said someone sent you poisoned candy.”

“It’s true. Poisoned goodies for Dolly, too. It was nicotine, I’m told. Ironic, given how I hate the stuff.”

“Good grief! Are the police looking into it?”

“Yes, but they’re on the wrong track. They think the poisoner’s a crank, trying to get at me because of something we’ve printed in the magazine. They can’t come up with any other possible motive—no rejected lover, no jealous wife, whatever. But I know someone tried to kill me before—you remember my mugging? I was sure it was Simon, because whoever it was wore his ghastly aftershave, but he has an alibi.”

“I’ve always thought Simon was a creep, and I hate his aftershave, but I don’t think he’d hurt you physically. He’s a wimp,” Debbi said.

“I still can’t believe he’s making love to three women simultaneously—the two in the hotels and Ellen Carswell. What in the world do they see in him?”

Debbi gaped. “Wait, wait, you lost me when you mentioned three women, including Ellen. Are you telling me that she and Simon are an item? Are you sure?”

“She alibied Simon for La Grange’s murder. They were sleeping together.”

“Well, you could knock me over with a feather. I thought Simon was gay. He and Heyward Bain are at it constantly, but Simon is obviously very bisexual. Three women and Heyward—you’ve got to hand it to him,” Debbi said.

Coleman put the photographs down, and stared at Debbi. “Simon and Heyward are lovers?”

“You didn’t know? Heyward’s crazy about Simon. That’s how Simon’s managed to get so much out of the Print Museum. Simon is why I had to set Heyward up with all those models and socialites at Christmas. People were talking, and Heyward wanted to try to squelch the rumors. He’s a very private man, and didn’t want to see his sex life discussed in the tabloids.”

“I feel like a fool, and not for the first time since all this mess started. I kept asking myself why Simon was doing so much business with the Print Museum, but it never occurred to me that he and Bain were lovers, or even that Bain is gay. I had a crush on Bain for a while,” Coleman admitted.

“Heyward’s gorgeous, but I don’t think he swings both ways, so if I were you, I’d put that crush permanently to rest. Anyway, would you want to make love to anyone, no matter how handsome, who’d been with Simon? Ugh!”

Coleman stood up. “Perish the thought. I might get sick if I think too much about that. May I borrow these?” She held up four of the photographs.

“Sure. But tell me, is this going to be bad for Heyward and the museum? As you may recall, I
am
their PR person. I should be trying to figure out what I should do, if anything,” Debbi said.

“Well, if someone who’s part of Heyward’s little circle gets arrested, and I’d guess one or two of them might, he’s not going to look good. And if someone in that little circle is trying to kill me, that’s not going to be great press for him either. But I don’t think we’ve identified the key figure yet. We need a guy with a beard who’s close to Simon, or to Ellen. Don’t worry, it isn’t Heyward—he’s way too short. The guy we want is maybe six feet tall.”

Coleman paused in the door of Debbi’s office. “Debbi? If you mention any of this to Bain, and he tells Simon—well, it could mean trouble for you. Someone might think you’re involved, and you might even be accused of obstruction of justice. You’re my friend, and I’d like to see you out of the firing line, and definitely out of jail.”

Debbi stared at Coleman, her eyes even bigger than usual. “Amen.”

When Coleman left, Rob was waiting for Coleman in the elevator lobby of Debbi’s building. “What a nice surprise,” Coleman said.

Rob kissed her on the cheek. “May I walk you back to your office? Do you have time to stop for coffee?”

“Sure! Let’s go to the Starbucks in my building.”

He settled her at the table farthest away from other people and stood in line for their coffee. When he sat down and handed her a cup, Coleman said, “Did you know Heyward Bain is gay, and having a thing with Simon?”

Rob stared at her. “I certainly did not. I don’t see how Simon has time for everyone he’s sleeping with.”

“I know, it’s astonishing. What did you have to tell me?”

“First, tell me how you feel about Bain and Simon?” Rob asked.

“Oh, when Bain first came to town, I had a crush on him, and when he didn’t pay any attention to me, I convinced myself I was in love with him. If a man ignores me, I tend to fixate on him—just immature, I guess. Well, after a bit, I lost interest in Bain, and the truth is, I never knew him. I’ve hardly talked to him.” Coleman shrugged.

He took her hand. “Well, as long as you aren’t unhappy?”

She smiled. “Oh, no, I’m definitely not unhappy.”

“I’ve been thinking about Simon and his lady friends, and wondering how much they know about each other. We might be able to stir things up by arranging a conversation about Simon’s affairs for the bug,” Rob said.

“Great idea! Let me see if I can come up with a good storyline. Hey, take a look at these pictures. ‘Jennifer Norris’ was at the Print Museum opening. Jonathan saw her there, and Judy Nelson and Jennifer Norris are one and the same. I need to get one of these photos off to Jane Parker. Someone calling herself ‘Jennifer Norris,’ claiming to be with
Artful
, visited the museum. She could be the thief.”

“Good-looking woman. Can’t imagine why she’s interested in Simon. So, will you and Zeke work out a script for The Listener?” Rob prayed Zeke wasn’t the traitor Tammy had painted.

“Absolutely. I’ll keep you posted.”

Debbi called as soon as Coleman was back in her office.

“Coleman? You know this
Beaux Arts
ball tomorrow night? Simon just asked me to get him three tickets. Do you suppose he’s taking those two women he’s got stashed in hotels?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d forgotten about that ball. Are you going?”

“Oh yes, and you should, too. Do you want tickets?”

“Absolutely. Get me two, will you?”

“Sure. Keep in touch.”

Coleman hung up and thought about the ball. She’d read about it—guests would wear costumes. Maybe it was the opportunity she needed.

Quincy called Rachel on Monday to tell her he approved of her plan and the sample letter. After they’d discussed the letter, Rachel said, “Mr. Quincy, can you get a list of the Americans staying at the Randolph when the Swain woman was there?”

“I expect so, but why?” Quincy asked.

“Dinah said that Ms. Swain had an accomplice in the Dürer theft. The accomplice might have stayed at the same hotel. Americans would have to produce their passports, so we should be able to get a list of those who were at the Randolph. Dinah or that detective they’ve hired might recognize a name.”

“An excellent idea. I’ll get it for you right away.”

“I also recall a cheap hotel not far from the Randolph? Is that correct?”

“Yes, Pendleton’s, a shabby little place.”

“Will you ask the police for a list of the Americans staying there when Ms. Swain was at the Randolph? Just in case the accomplice was there?”

“Of course. I’ll fax both lists to you.”

Rachel glanced at the lists and asked Miss Manning to fax them to Dinah. A few minutes later, Dinah examined the sheets. “Well, for goodness sake!” she said to Bethany. “Delia was with a tour group at the Randolph, and Ellen Carswell was at a hotel nearby. Delia is Ellen’s protégé. I wonder why they didn’t stay at the same hotel?”

Simon, sleeping soundly at the Carlyle, was wakened by the telephone. He’d asked the hotel to hold calls, but had forgotten to shut off his mobile.

It was Ellen, in a rage. “Well, you were wrong about Rachel. She’s blocked you on the prints you wanted. Judy called four of the people on your list, and all of them said the same thing: the prices were too low, and Rachel had warned them that someone might try to cheat them. There’s no point in calling the others.”

Simon sat up. “Goddamn Rachel. I could kill that woman.”

“It’s over, Simon. Forget selling anything to the Print Museum,” Ellen said.

“What about—?”

Ellen cut him off. “Don’t say anything else on the phone. I’m at the airport, and I’ll catch the first available flight to New York. Grab everything you’ve got on the Print Museum—every scrap of paper—and take it all to the apartment. I’ll meet you there.”

When Heyward Bain telephoned Jonathan early Monday morning and asked if he could come to see him, Jonathan assumed Bain wanted to apologize for his behavior in London. But he raised a very different topic.

“How much do you know about Coleman’s parents?” Bain asked.

Why in heaven’s name did the man want to talk about Coleman’s family? “Not much. Dinah told me her father and Coleman’s were brothers, but Coleman’s father was a black sheep, drank too much, maybe drugged. Coleman turned up at Slocumb Corners when she was about five, an orphan, although I don’t know that I ever heard anything about her mother, nor do I know how her father died,” Jonathan said.

Bain took a deep breath and expelled it. “I wouldn’t be telling you anything about it, but the past is intruding on the present. Coleman’s father, Andrew Greene, had a childhood sweetheart, Angela Fairgrove, who lived on the plantation next to the Greene’s. She was a tiny blonde, a fairy princess, and they were together constantly. Everyone assumed they’d get married and live happily ever after.

“But the serpent entered paradise the summer Angela was fifteen.” Bain cleared his throat. “May I have some water, please?”

Jonathan poured him a glass from the pitcher on his credenza. Bain took a sip, then continued. “Angela was picking wildflowers on the road that passes the drive to her home one July day, when a man stopped to ask directions. He was only a little younger than her father, and she was probably disarmed by his age—she’d been taught to be polite to her elders.” Bain took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“He made friends with Angela, gave her her first drink, her first cigarette, her first marijuana, and her first cocaine. In a few weeks, he’d seduced her, and before school started in September, he’d abandoned her. When she learned she was pregnant, she telephoned him. He came and got her, and he told her they’d put the baby up for adoption. But the child was a boy, and he needed an heir. He’d been married for many years and had no children.

“Angela’s seducer tired of her before the baby was a month old. He kept the baby—that is, he kept me—but delivered Angela, my mother, to her parents’ door late one night. She’d been missing for months, and her family hadn’t heard a word from her. They were frantic with worry. They’d called the police, but the Fairgroves didn’t know the identity of her seducer, hadn’t even known of his existence until after she disappeared, when they learned she’d been seen with a stranger, an older man.”

Heyward took another sip of water. “The girl who returned was not the girl who’d left. Angela, at sixteen, drank, smoked cigarettes, and smoked dope when she could get it. She’d also acquired some sophisticated sexual tastes. But she still looked like a fairy princess, and Andrew still adored her. He already had a great thirst for alcohol, but it might not have become the dominating force in his life, if he hadn’t married Angela two years later.

“When her parents or Andrew asked about the time she was away, she said she’d been kidnapped and imprisoned, and had managed to escape. She claimed she didn’t know the identity of her kidnapper—he called himself ‘John Smith.’ She never told anyone she’d had a child. Coleman was born a little over a year after their wedding, when Angela was nineteen.” He wiped his forehead again. “May I have some more water, please?”

“Of course.” Jonathan refilled his glass. “Does Coleman know all this?”

“I doubt if she knows any of it,” Bain said.

“What happened next?”

“Angela died shortly before Coleman’s second birthday. She had lung cancer, but before it could kill her, she drowned in the river near her house—maybe an accident, maybe suicide. I don’t know much about Coleman’s life after that—her father took her away, and as you know, she reappeared at Slocumb Corners when she was five.”

Jonathan frowned. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Heyward looked at him, an odd expression on his face. “I’m Angela Fairgrove’s first child.”

Jonathan stood up, and began to pace. “Are you saying you’re Coleman’s half-brother? Same mother, different father?”

“Oh yes, but it’s more complicated than that. My father—he’s dead now—was also the father of Maxwell Arnold, who plotted to have Coleman gang-raped when she was at Duke. Maxwell’s my half-brother.”

Jonathan said, stunned. “Dinah never told me anything about a gang rape. Was Coleman hurt? Did Maxwell Arnold know who she was? Her relationship to you, I mean?”

“She wasn’t hurt, at least not physically. Maxwell
did
know who she was. My half-brothers hate me, especially Maxwell. Because of me, Maxwell’s not the eldest son. My father adopted me and gave me his name. I was christened Jefferson Davis Arnold.

“After my adoption, my father’s first wife died. He immediately remarried, and sired three legitimate sons, all football-types like him. When he realized I was going to be small, he regretted having adopted me. Coleman and I inherited our mother’s frame—she was small, like we are. In my father’s eyes, I was a freak. But it was too late to get rid of me. All of his legitimate children inherited money from a trust fund set up by his father, my grandfather, and as the eldest, I got the lion’s share. My father hated the sight of me, and he arranged for me to live with an African American couple in South Carolina, Heyward family servants. They were the only parents I ever knew. I started calling myself Heyward Bain when I was ten, and when I was twenty-one, I changed my name legally. Heyward was my father’s mother’s maiden name, and I’m the bane of the Arnolds.”

“The black family you lived with were Byrds?”

Bain smiled for the first time since he’d walked into Jonathan’s office. “Yes, Horace—you met him—worked for the Heywards. They lived on a plantation west of Charleston, and when the Heywards died out, I inherited the place. That’s where I lived as a child. Long before I was born, Horace married Irene, a North Carolina Byrd, and took the Byrd name. The Byrd telegraph is the source of some of my information about Coleman, and her mother.”

Jonathan sat down, and stared at his visitor. “I repeat: Why are you telling
me
? And why now?”

Bain sighed. “I had some enemies because of anti-tobacco activities, but when they lost interest in me, I decided to come to New York to introduce myself to Coleman. I’m not much older than she is, and I thought we might be friends. I decided to do something in the art world because of Coleman and Dinah—Dinah and I are not related, but since she and Coleman are like sisters, I wanted to get to know her, too. When Carswell’s outfit came up with the idea of a print museum, I was delighted. It meshed with Dinah’s interest in prints, and I thought it would make it easy for me to get to know her. I planned to tell Dinah about my relationship with Coleman, and to ask her to talk to Coleman. I tried to tell Dinah the story in December, but somehow Dinah became convinced that I was in love with Coleman, and I—well, I guess I lost it—I didn’t know what to say or do, and I retreated. I hope you’ll tell Dinah and Coleman,” Bain said.

“I’ll certainly tell Dinah. But don’t you think
you
should tell Coleman?”

“I feel too awkward, too guilty. I should have done something for Coleman as soon as I knew about her. I should have at least helped her financially. I haven’t had much practice with relationships, and I didn’t know how to approach her. I’m sure Coleman doesn’t even know I exist. I didn’t know
she
existed until a couple of years ago. I got access to the family papers when I was twenty-one, but I didn’t rush to look at them. I knew the Arnolds despised me, and my mother didn’t want me, so the papers weren’t likely to make pleasant reading. It was a mistake not to look at them. After Coleman’s experience with Maxwell, I hated to tell her that Maxwell’s my half-brother, and that I think he targeted her at Duke because she’s my sister.”

Jonathan considered him. It was irresponsible of Bain to ignore the family papers. And Bain’s excuses for not helping Coleman sounded lame. Given his great wealth and the extreme poverty Coleman—and Dinah—had endured, Bain should be ashamed.

But Jonathan kept his opinion to himself. Heyward had been in his office for more than an hour, and it seemed an eternity. Jonathan wanted him to finish his story and leave. He needed to talk to Dinah, and to figure out how to tell Coleman this incredible story.

“So once again, why are you telling me now?”

Bain hesitated; then, “Is it true someone tried to poison Coleman with nicotine?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve wondered if Maxwell could be involved.”

Jonathan frowned. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“He despises me. He hates Coleman, too. He thinks Coleman made a fool of him in college, and anyway, she’s my sister. I’m sure he knows that I’ve made over all the Arnold money I inherited to Coleman. It’s in trust, but she can collect the income immediately. You probably know the Arnold money came from tobacco, which I’ve fought my entire life. Nicotine is the kind of thing Maxwell would use to kill, especially someone close to me.”

Jonathan paced. “Is the money you’re giving Coleman a large amount?”

“Oh yes, quite a lot. I’ve made a great deal of money, mostly from anti-smoking inventions, and I don’t need or want the Arnold money. The Arnolds harmed Coleman, her mother, and her grandparents. I consider their money reparation, restitution, amends—whatever you want to call it. But because I inherited money Maxwell might have inherited, and he knows it’s now Coleman’s, Maxwell probably hates her even more. I’m sure he thinks the money should be his.”

“But if Coleman died, the money wouldn’t go to Maxwell Arnold, would it?” Jonathan asked, frowning. Could Coleman’s mugging have something to do with this inheritance?

Bain shook his head. “No, of course not. As things stand now, if something happened to Coleman, Dinah would inherit, but Coleman can make a will and dispose of it however she wants. But Maxwell is stupid and irrational; he wouldn’t think about it analytically. I suppose you know Maxwell accosted Dinah in November at the Four Seasons? And he threatened Coleman in Virginia the other day? I’ve wondered if he was Coleman’s mugger and attempted poisoner.”

Jonathan glared at Bain. Damn the man. He and his family were nothing but trouble, a threat to both Dinah and Coleman. “No, I knew none of that. If Coleman or Dinah had told me, I’d have arranged security for them, and reported Maxwell Arnold to the police. If he comes near either of them again, I promise you he’ll go to jail. But Coleman thinks her mugging and the poison attempts are linked to your museum, and that Simon Fanshawe-Davies is involved.”

Heyward stiffened. “Simon had nothing to do with it. I cannot understand why you are all so down on Simon.”

“Bain, I’m out of patience with you on the topic of Simon. He’s a cad. Last weekend he had two women who don’t know about each other stashed away in two New York hotels—he was running back and forth between them like a rooster servicing hens. He’s sleeping with Ellen Carswell, who doesn’t know about the other women. He’s cheating Ellen. He’s cheated his partner and benefactor, Rachel Ransome—”

Bain stood up, his face red. “That’s enough. Why are you telling these lies?”

Jonathan reached for a folder on his desk. “Look, Bain, Daniel Winthrop vouches for you, and he’ll vouch for me, too, if you ask him about me. I don’t lie. Here are the reports of the detective who followed Fanshawe-Davies all weekend.” He handed Bain the folder.

Heyward skimmed through the papers. “I grant you these two women, but not Ellen Carswell. I’ve asked him about her, and I assure you it isn’t true. As for Rachel Ransome, Simon was an inheritor under Ransome’s will, and helped build the Ransome Gallery, and now Ms. Ransome wants to take away what’s rightfully Simon’s.”

“Don’t be absurd. Ms. Ransome was Ransome’s housekeeper and assistant for many years. Simon never even met Ransome. He was
not
in Ransome’s will. Ransome left Rachel his entire fortune, and she used part of it to pay for everything for Simon, or Jock, as he was then—his teeth, his clothes, acting lessons—because she felt sorry for him. I can prove it: look at Ransome’s will. I have a copy—I got it when Simon’s name and that of the Ransome Gallery started cropping up.”