Restrike (25 page)

Heyward slapped the papers down on Jonathan’s desk. “I’ve heard enough of this defamation. I want no part of your attempts to destroy an innocent man.” He stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him.

Jonathan shrugged. Bain was crazed on the topic of Simon Fanshawe-Davies. He wanted to speak to Dinah, but she was out, and her cell phone was off. Jonathan left word with Bethany to have Dinah call him, and asked his assistant to make a copy of Ransome’s will and have it hand-delivered, faxed, and emailed to Bain. He’d stuff the truth down Bain’s throat, whether he wanted to learn it or not.

Unable to reach Dinah, he called Rob. He described his conversation with Bain and concluded, “Heyward’s crazy. What is it with him and Simon?”

“He’s in love,” Rob said.

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Heyward won’t believe anything bad about Simon, because they’re lovers—he’s in love with Simon. Simon is using him, of course, but Heyward Bain can’t see it.”

“Oh, my God. That damn Simon would—would—fornicate with a goat. Is there anyone in New York he isn’t having sex with—present company excepted?”

Rob laughed. “Debbi Diamondstein told Coleman this morning about Simon and Heyward. I haven’t heard anything about a goat, but the day’s young.”

Jonathan wasn’t amused. “Is there anything we should do about Bain’s relationship with Coleman? How do you think Coleman will take it?”

“Who knows? We’ll have to leave that up to her, and get on with our investigation. We should meet tonight, if you’re free.”

“What about eight at Cornelia Street? Dinah and I’ll arrange for some sandwiches or something.”

Dinah made Jonathan repeat Heyward’s story three times. She didn’t know how Coleman would react, but she had to be the one to tell her, and as soon as possible. She wouldn’t call ahead. She’d appear at Coleman’s office. Coleman hated being interrupted at work, but that was too bad. This was an emergency.

Dinah started talking as soon as she entered Coleman’s office.

“Coleman, you remember when Heyward Bain took me to lunch before Christmas? He’d planned to tell me something, and it wasn’t that he was in love with you.”

“I know. You told me. Stop worrying about that. I don’t give a hoot about Heyward Bain. I can’t imagine why I was ever interested in him,” Coleman said.

“Brace yourself: Heyward is your half-brother, born to your mother, but by a different father.”

Coleman stared at Dinah. “Are you out of your mind? I don’t have a brother—you know that.”

“You
do
have a brother. Your mother had a child before you, and it was Heyward. That makes him your half-brother,” Dinah said.

Coleman shrugged. “I suppose anything is possible. Given my parents’ alcohol and drug history, I might have several half-brothers or -sisters. Where does Heyward fit in?”

Dinah repeated the story Bain had told Jonathan about the Arnold connection, including Bain’s relationship to the Arnolds, especially the awful Maxwell.

Coleman looked thoughtful. “Even if it’s true, I’m not sure it matters, except it may explain Maxwell’s coming after me. I wonder if he’ll turn out to be my mugger? If so, how’d he get Simon’s scent?

“But Coleman—you have a
brother.
”

“So what? I hardly know him, let alone feel sisterly love for him. I’ve never understood about loving people just because they’re kin. Kids who’re separated from their mothers at birth don’t love some woman who comes out of nowhere when they’re grown up and claims to be their ‘birth mother.’ Kids love the women who raised them—took care of them, fed them, cuddled them. When I came to live with you and Miss Ida and Aunt Polly, no one had ever loved me, and I’d never loved anybody. Most adults hadn’t treated me well, and I didn’t trust them. It took a while for me to recognize Miss Ida and Aunt Polly as family. Even longer to love them. It was different with you—quicker, because you were a child.”

Dinah nodded. She remembered the filthy five-year-old: precocious, stubborn, independent. Coleman had eventually learned to love Dinah and their grandmother and great-aunt, but she had formed few other intimate attachments.

“You and Miss Ida and Aunt Polly and the Byrds became my family, the only family I ever had, and it’s been enough,” Coleman said.

“You can’t turn your back on Heyward Bain. Don’t you want to get to know him? And don’t you feel terrible about the story of your parents?”

“I’m sad about my parents. I wish fate had been kinder to them. But I was around my father long enough to understand that he was an alcoholic and an addict—and after I moved to North Carolina, I learned how my mother died, and about
her
drinking. As for Bain—it would have meant a lot when we were so poor and alone after Miss Ida and Aunt Polly died, to have had a loving—and rich—older brother. But after all these years? Where was he when I needed him? I’m not going to cut him dead or anything. I’ll be polite when we meet, and maybe if I get to know him someday, it’ll be different, but right now, I just don’t care.”

“Are you angry with him?” Dinah asked.

“No, not a bit. When I’m not so busy, I’ll try to figure out how I feel, and what I think. I’ll try to make an effort to get to know him, and look for common interests, like hating the Arnolds and tobacco, and being interested in art. Maybe we can be friends.” She paused. “Can I change the subject? Rob and the troops and I have been busy. We’re close to getting these creeps. Wait till you hear what I’ve planned.”

Dinah stared at Coleman. She’d expected anger, resentment, sadness, but not lack of interest. Still, why should Coleman be interested in Bain, just because he was a relative? He was a stranger. Everything would have been different if he’d appeared earlier in their lives.

She interrupted Coleman. “We can’t leave the topic of Heyward Bain yet. You may not care about having a new half-brother, but how about this: you, Coleman Greene, are unbelievably rich.”

Coleman eyes widened. “Now I know you’re crazy.”

Dinah explained about the trust that Bain had set up for her. “It’s guilt money, partly because of how the Arnolds treated your mother, and how Maxwell treated you, and probably because Heyward’s so rich, and you’ve always had to worry about money. Please don’t say you’re going to reject it.”

Coleman laughed. “Reject it? Are you kidding? No way! I’m going to love having money. How rich am I?”

Dinah smiled. “You’ll have to ask Bain. Or maybe Jonathan can find out.”

Simon had a splitting headache. Rachel had blocked him getting the prints he’d staked out in
The Record
, and even worse, Ellen was on her way to New York. She was going to pull the plug on the Print Museum project. He’d fight it, but he knew she’d made up her mind. Anyway, he couldn’t come up with an argument for staying with it. She was right; there was no money in it. He could get the money from Heyward, but not enough to buy a gallery. Anyway, he didn’t want any gallery. He wanted Ransome’s. Most of all, he wanted Rachel out of his life. Damn, damn, damn.

Ellen was acting so bossy. All that bossiness reminded him of Rachel. He could understand Ellen’s ending the print project, but he needed space. How could he have a private life if he couldn’t get to New York? He couldn’t bear living in Ellen’s pocket.

Her timing couldn’t be worse, either. Kestrel and Owl were psyched for the ball, and he’d hinted at what he had in mind for afterward. He was sure they both knew what was up. He’d rented a suite at the St. Regis; everything was set. What would he tell Ellen? He had to think of a story about where he had to be Tuesday night. Since he’d be in costume, and so would Kestrel and Owl, even if people saw him at the ball, no one would know who he was. What Ellen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, or him, for that matter. But he wished she’d stayed in Chicago.

“So much information is pouring in, I thought we ought to get together,” Rob said. “But there’s no good news. Delia Swain has been interviewed by a capable detective, and she swears she was with Jennifer Norris—a.k.a Judy Nelson—every minute Judy was at the Harnett Museum, and that the plates were there when Judy left. Nobody believes Swain, but that’s her story, and she’s sticking to it. Nelson’s story is the same, and she says that Jennifer Norris is her
nom de plume.
There was no intent to deceive.”

“So, we can’t get either of them for the missing plates?” Jonathan said.

“No, and they’re not going to break—they’re two tough cookies. That’s not all. Swain was interviewed again about the trip to Oxford. She was with her tour group the whole time she was in Oxford. The group backs her,” Rob said.

“Ellen Carswell says she visited Oxford to investigate it as a possible site for a Computer Art Research Services office. She stayed at Pendleton’s to avoid Swain and her friends; she had work to do, and didn’t want to be distracted. She was in London shopping the day the Dürers were stolen—went up the night before with a car and driver, stayed overnight at Brown’s Hotel, came back to Oxford late the next day with the driver. Brown’s and the driver confirm everything she says. Maxwell Arnold has an alibi for the time of the theft at the Baldorean. He was in Virginia with other people all day. He also has alibis for both La Grange’s and Chick’s deaths, and he was dining with a big group at the Virginia Country Club the night you were mugged, Coleman. He’s apparently not a part of any of this,” Rob continued.

“We traced Jock McLeod back to his childhood, and during the years he spent in Boston. He didn’t go to Harvard using that name either. In fact, he didn’t go to Harvard at all. When he was in Cambridge, he worked odd jobs, and wandered around pretending to be a student. He has no criminal record. He’s a phony, but doesn’t seem guilty of any crime. His family stopped hearing from him long ago, and they think he must have died.”

The group was silent. Finally, Coleman spoke. “Your idea about stirring the crowd up, putting the cat among the pigeons, is our only hope. Ellen seems to be in love with Simon. I think she’ll go wild when she hears about his other women, especially since they work for her. Maybe she’ll turn on the women, and even on Simon. If we can split the gang up, maybe one of them will talk. Zeke and I are going to stage a show in the conference room early tomorrow morning, and talk about the
Beaux Arts
ball for the bug. We’ll say we’ve heard Simon will be there with both of his cuties.”

“Have we heard that?” Dinah asked.

“Debbi thinks he’s taking them—he asked her for three tickets. Debbi’s going to the ball, and I’m going, too. If there are fireworks, I don’t want to miss them,” Coleman said.

“Does anyone know where Ellen is?” Jonathan asked.

“Debbi says Ellen’s on her way to New York, or maybe already here. She told Debbi she might stay till Friday,” Coleman said.

“Does Ellen know about the ball?” Dinah wanted to know.

“If she does, she hasn’t mentioned it to Debbi,” Coleman said.

“If Simon’s taking those two to the ball, he’s not telling Ellen. The first she’ll hear about them will be through you tomorrow, and she’s sure to react—maybe at the ball. I don’t think you should go, Coleman. It could be dangerous,” Rob said.

Coleman smiled at him. “I’m taking my guard dog, and you, too, if you’ll come.” She stroked Dolly, lying in her lap.

“On the topic of Simon, what do he and Ellen get up to?” Dinah said. “Since Rachel wrote about the stuff in his apartment, I’m dying to know what goes on between them.”

“I’d like to know, too,” Coleman said. “Cross-dressing, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” She looked at Rob.

“It’s a fairly unusual perversion. Jerry Springer stuff. She’s the nanny, and Simon’s the baby, hence the oversized diapers. She does to him what a nanny would do for a baby: bathes him, changes him. That fires them up, and nature takes its course,” Rob said.

“Yuck,” Coleman said. “If Ellen is Simon’s only alibi for the night of Jimmy’s death, isn’t it likely that she’s lying? If she’s in love with him, she’d give him a false alibi.”

“Maybe so, but again, if they both stick to the story, there’s nothing we can do,” Rob said. “The police don’t have any evidence against Fanshawe-Davies, so they can’t get a search warrant. That means there’s no chance we’ll turn up the Rembrandt plates, even if he has them. If the doctor is his accomplice, Fanshawe-Davies may have hidden the weapon used to kill Jimmy and Chick, but we can’t get at that either. I don’t think Simon would keep anything incriminating at the Carlyle. Too many people have access to a hotel room.”

“Where would he keep stuff? Her apartment?” Coleman said.

Rob shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Has anyone investigated her background? I’ve always wondered if Carswell is her real name. Computer Art Research Services owned by someone whose name starts off ‘Cars’ is too good to be true,” Coleman said.

“It is her name, though—she’s exactly who she says she is, complete with a widowed mother in Chicago,” Rob said.

“Oh, well,” Coleman said, “I guess it’s up to the
Art-Smart
Acting Company. Now, how many tickets for the ball do we need?”

“Six,” Dinah said. “The four of us, and Zeke and Bethany.”

“Good plan,” Coleman said. “We need all the help we can get. They’ll be a big crowd at the ball, and all of us need to be alert and looking around us. With everyone in costume, it would be easy to miss someone or something.”

Coleman was up at five thirty, and had finished her second cup of coffee when she heard the
New York Times
hit the doormat in the hall outside her apartment. She grabbed it and turned to the Arts section.

Hurray for Clancy! He reported that Bain was returning the Dürers to the Baldorean, and that Simon had bought them for the Print Museum. He wrote that Coleman and Dinah had discovered that the Rembrandt plates were missing from the Harnett Library, and that
Sleeping Kitten
, bought by Simon for the Print Museum, was thought to be a restrike, made from one of the stolen plates. He mentioned Jane’s and Delia’s names as receiving the people who’d come to see the plates, and that Jane had been exonerated by a visiting Dutch scholar. He didn’t say anything bad about Delia, he just didn’t cite a witness who’d cleared her. A perfect job.

Coleman turned to her computer. The
Artful Californian Online
had taken the bait: the rats had devoted the entire issue to the art climbers she and Zeke had discussed. The writer hadn’t used real names, but the descriptions and nicknames were so explicit that few readers would fail to recognize the climbers. The newsletter was going to infuriate a number of people—some of them pretty influential—but more important, there was no longer any doubt: The bug belonged to the
Artful Californian
, replacing Tammy the Spy. Could anything happen at that organization without Ellen’s knowledge and involvement? Not likely. Ellen
must
be the mastermind behind the plot to steal Coleman’s ideas and damage
ArtSmart.
She’d probably expected Coleman’s backers to have ousted her by now. But her plan had been thwarted, and tonight could lead to her total defeat.

“Are you ready?” Coleman whispered to Zeke in the hall outside the conference room. He nodded. When they were seated at the big table, Coleman said, “Let’s talk about the
Beaux Arts
Ball at the Sorcerer’s Club tonight. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Zeke said.

“Keep your eyes open for anything we can use in the magazine. We’ll have a photographer there, but if people keep their masks on, we won’t necessarily recognize anyone. Try to spot celebrities.” Coleman’s instructions were not just window dressing; the ball would be featured in
ArtSmart.
If she hadn’t been so preoccupied, she’d have long ago arranged to have it covered.

“Do you know what anyone is wearing?” Zeke said.

“I heard Simon Fanshawe-Davies is going as a raven.” Coleman held her hand up so he could see her crossed fingers. “And we know he’ll have both his secret loves with him.”

“Why would he want both of them there?” Zeke said. “Sounds like a ticklish situation to me.”

“Oh, he’s showing off. Now that we know he’s the unattractive Jock McLeod from Long Island, who didn’t go to Harvard or a top-notch English boarding school, it’s easy to understand why he needs all the signs of sexual prowess he can get. He has to reinforce his pathetic self-image,” Coleman said.

“I feel sorry for Ellen and Rachel. Rachel Ransome supports him, pays to have his teeth fixed, pays for acting school, and he cheats her every chance he gets. Ellen Carswell finances him, does who knows what for him, and he cheats her with her friends and employees,” Zeke said.

“I wonder if Judy and Delia would find Simon attractive if they knew he wore diapers so Ellen can put on her nanny outfit and change him? Wait—I have an idea. You know that guy who does caricatures, the Al Hirschfeld wannabe? Let’s get him to make cartoons of Simon and Ellen as a baby and nanny for the magazine. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? We won’t explain that we’re making fun of their sex life. People will think it’s the obvious—he’s a mama’s boy, and she takes care of him.”

“Simon’s sex life could take up an entire issue
.
Now that we know that he and Heyward are lovers, are you going to use it in the Print Museum story?” Zeke asked.

Coleman shook her head. “I can’t see why it would be relevant, or even news. Debbi says Bain’s sexual preference is widely known, thanks to Simon’s big mouth. Apparently
ArtSmart—
yours truly
—
was the last to know. I didn’t understand until she explained that all that publicity Debbi arranged at Christmas was a cover-up for Bain’s being gay—he prefers privacy, but didn’t know Simon would brag about their relationship. I’m not usually that dense, but I had a lot on my mind.

“Okay, I think that’s everything. I’m due at another meeting in a few minutes. Is there anything else we need to talk about before the ball tonight? No? Okay, see you later.” Coleman was longing to bring Rob up to date on
Artful Online
, and to let him know that there was no longer any doubt about who placed the bug. So much that had happened remained inexplicable, it was good to have proof of a solid fact.

Simon, exhausted after a night of wrangling with Ellen, dragged himself back to his suite at the Carlyle. She had, as he’d expected, shut down the print project. Worse, she’d
ordered
Simon to come to Chicago to help with the move to Los Angeles. Well, Ellen could go to hell. He’d tell her so, too, if she weren’t holding all the money. He was even more financially dependent on her than he’d been on Rachel. He wished he hadn’t let it happen, but for the moment, he couldn’t figure out what to do about it.

At least he’d escape from her tonight. He’d told Ellen he was spending the evening with Bain and a print dealer. He had to make sure Heyward would confirm his story. He lay down on the bed and picked up the phone. When Horace put him through to Bain, he said, “Heyward, love, Ellen is after me to do some truly tedious things tonight.”

“Like fucking her?” Bain said. His voice had an unfamiliar edge.

“Of course not. Why do you say that? I’ve told you there’s nothing sexual between Ellen and me. Why do you keep bringing it up?” Heyward was a jealous and possessive bore, but Simon had to keep him sweet.

“Everyone says you’re lovers, and that you both admit it.”

“Heyward, you
know
Ellen gave me an alibi for the night La Grange was killed. She told the police we spent the night together—but as you very well know, I spent that night with you. You didn’t want people to know that, remember?” Simon was constantly having to say he was someplace he hadn’t been. Pretty soon he wasn’t going to remember where he was supposed to have been, or when he was supposed to have been there, never mind with whom.

“Oh, is
that
the night they meant? I thought—well, never mind Ellen. What about the two women you’ve been visiting in their hotel rooms? Weren’t you with them either?”

Heyward was far too well-informed about Simon’s activities. Where was he getting his information? “Business, all business,” Simon said. “Both of the women are Ellen’s employees and they’ve helped get prints for you. You know a great deal about my tedious little life. Have you had someone following me?” His tone was deliberately arch to mask his fury.

“No, the Greene crowd has,” Heyward said.

“
They’ve
had someone following me? Whatever for?” What could they have learned? They’d have discovered Kestrel and Owl, but he wasn’t hiding them from anyone but Ellen and Heyward. Ellen still didn’t know; if she did, she’d sure as hell have brought it up last night. Fortunately, Heyward would believe anything Simon told him. The fool was besotted.

Simon was proud of his seduction of Heyward. Until he met Simon, the poor idiot hadn’t admitted, even to himself, that he was attracted to men. Heyward was in love with Simon, which was handy for getting money, but Bain wanted to be with Simon all the time, and that was a drag. He acted like a teenaged girl. On the other hand Ellen, insanely jealous of other women, was tolerant of his relationship with Heyward. She saw it as a “boys will be boys” kind of thing and chalked it up as a leftover from the English boarding school Simon had told her he’d attended.

“They’re sure you’re up to something, and they’re trying to find out what.
Are
you guilty of anything?” Heyward said.

Simon sighed. “Good Lord, no. Well, let them follow me. All they’re doing is wasting their money. But back to why I called: I told Ellen I’d be with you tonight. Will you back me up?”

“Do you mean we can spend the evening together? Shall we go out to dinner? Where would you like to go?”

Heyward was so thrilled at the prospect of an evening with Simon, it was a shame to have to deflate him. “No, no, you misunderstand me. I have another commitment. I’m investigating the possibility of some outstanding prints for you.”

“Why would Ellen object to that? I don’t see why you don’t tell her the truth.”

Simon took a deep breath and exhaled. “She
does
object. I’m a part-owner of her business, and she wants me to work on projects that are important to
her.
She says there’s not enough money in your project to justify the time.” At least that part was true.

“Shall I speak to her? There could be much more money in it, if you can find the right prints.”

“No, no, leave it for the moment. Let’s have dinner tomorrow night. It’s been too long since we’ve had private time together. We can talk about it then.” Making a date with Heyward would keep him quiet for a few hours, and Simon wanted nothing to ruin the evening ahead.

“Debbi, it’s Coleman. I need four more tickets for the ball. Dinah and Jonathan and Bethany and Zeke want to go. Possible?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Yes, would you offer a ticket to Bain? Tell him Simon will be there with two guests. And offer a ticket to Ellen, too. Tell her the same story.”

“Blood might flow,” Debbi warned.

“I kind of hope it does. I’d like to see this thing blown wide open, and have it over.”

Rob was relieved to get Coleman’s message about the
Artful Californian Online
, but furious with Ms. Isaacs. What the devil was the woman playing at? Zeke must know why she’d lie about him. He dialed Zeke’s number. “Zeke, why would Tammy Isaacs try to incriminate you?”

“Oh God, is she still bad-mouthing me? Rob, this is so embarrassing—”

“Never mind that. What’s going on?”

“A while back she decided I was a good matrimonial prospect, and pursued me like a man-eating tiger,” Zeke said. “I took her out a couple of times just to be polite, and I told her we could be friends, but there was nothing else going. She wouldn’t listen, so I leveled with her: I told her I was in love with Coleman. She went crazy. She’s hardly spoken to me since.”

“Aha. A woman scorned. I suppose that’s why she hates Coleman?”

“Part of it, maybe. But I think she’s always detested Coleman. She’s jealous of Coleman’s talent, her success, her attractiveness,” Zeke said.

“Okay. Got it. Thanks.”

“Wait. What did she do? What did she say I did?”

“Another time. See you later.” Rob hung up and dialed Isaacs’s number. “Ms. Isaacs? We have proof that the listening device at
ArtSmart
belongs to your erstwhile employer and has nothing to do with Zeke Tolmach. Don’t call me again, or anyone connected with Coleman Greene, or
ArtSmart.
If you do, I’ll come after you for harassment. And I’ve told that idiot receptionist at
Art-Smart
if she talks to you again, she’s out of a job. Have a good life—ideally in some other country!” Rob slammed down the phone. He rarely allowed himself the luxury of that kind of explosion, but if anyone deserved it, that woman did.

Coleman was going to the ball as Bo Peep, with Dolly as her sheep. Rob, annoyed because Coleman wouldn’t stay away from the ball, had reluctantly agreed to attend as a New York City cop, wearing his old uniform.

Bethany was Cleopatra, in a slinky cloth of gold outfit she’d made herself, with a fake asp around her neck. Zeke was Mark Antony in a toga and wreath. Dinah was a swan, in a slim white evening dress with a swansdown jacket and a swan half-mask. Jonathan was wearing a matching black swan’s mask, with black tie. They hired two cars with drivers—parking would be a nightmare—and planned to arrive about ten.

Simon picked up the nestlings at their hotels in a stretch limo. They were wearing the costumes and masks he’d ordered, and they looked exactly as he’d fantasized. He’d asked that neither of them speak in the car, because he didn’t want them to reveal their identities to each other until later. They knew each other, but they were unrecognizable in their costumes, and he was sure they didn’t know that he was involved with both of them.

Kestrel didn’t mind being quiet, and she loved being told what to do. But Owl was sulking. That woman loved to talk. Well, she could shut up or ship out. He had to put up with Ellen, but not Owl. When she’d argued with him, he’d told her if she said one more word, he’d shove her out of the car, and she could find her own way to wherever she wanted to go. Ellen had exhausted his patience, and although he was looking forward to his late night activities with the nestlings, until then they’d better mind their p’s and q’s. He’d cancel the entire evening before he took any more backtalk from a woman.

“My goodness, what a mob,” Dinah said.

“Debbi says they sold over a thousand tickets. The Sorcerer’s Club can handle the crowd because they have three ballrooms. One of them is set up with tables for supper, and another is reserved for under-thirties with less expensive tickets. But this one, where Peter Duchin is playing, is where the people who interest us will turn up.” Coleman was already taking notes.

The vast room was alive with floating red, yellow, blue, and green balloons, and the ceiling was draped in sails and banners in the same colors. The orchestra played at one end, and the dance floor swirled with vividly dressed figures. Bars, manned by bartenders in clown costumes in the colors of the decorations, were set up at intervals along the walls.

“How will we find anyone in this crowd?” Zeke asked.

“If Simon comes as a raven, he’ll be conspicuous,” Coleman said. “I can’t imagine anyone else wanting to wear an ugly black costume. Everyone’s wearing bright colors.”

“I see a raven,” Jonathan said, who was looking towards the ballroom entrance.