Restrike (6 page)

Coleman’s calendar was jammed: gallery and museum openings, book launches, auctions, interviews with artists and collectors, breakfasts, lunches, cocktail parties, and dinners. Much of what she did, saw, and heard had to be recorded for
ArtSmart.
When she wasn’t attending an event, she was writing about one, or editing an article someone else had written about it. Coleman loved New York in the fall—exciting, stimulating, full of new ideas, new art, new people.

But while only a week had passed since Bain’s appearance at Killington’s and La Grange’s death, she felt as if it had been months. Despite the brisk pace of her life, much of what interested her appeared to be bogged down. According to Clancy, the police remained confident that they knew how and why La Grange died, and saw no reason to look further. She hadn’t identified or plugged the leak at
ArtSmart.
Heyward Bain hadn’t called her, and Coleman had failed to learn anything about him despite dozens of phone calls, and hours on the Internet.

She’d pestered Debbi for information on Bain, but Debbi either didn’t know anything, or wasn’t talking. She dropped a few crumbs about the museum—Bain was hosting a series of group lunches for dealers, and Debbi had invited Dinah to the first one. Simon was selling contemporary prints acquired from artists or from other print dealers to Bain. He continued to buy older prints for Bain in cities outside New York, and at lesser-known auction houses. The most publicized purchases were four Dürers in Cleveland and a Rembrandt in Boston, all for record prices. Inexplicably, Bain continued to rely on Simon the creep.

The day of Dinah’s group lunch with Heyward Bain arrived, and at breakfast Jonathan was still trying to persuade her not to go. “I can’t imagine why you want to see this guy. God knows, we’ve met enough new-money people in New York in the last few years.”

“Oh, come on, Jonathan. Part of it’s the mystery: who is this man? Where did he come from? He must love prints. He wouldn’t be willing to commit so much time and money to them if he didn’t.”

“I don’t agree. I keep telling you, he’s using art to open doors otherwise closed to him. And as for who he is, I’m sure ‘Bain’ used to be an unpronounceable six-syllable name, and his money came from the entertainment industry, or real estate, or something illegal. After all, why should he try to hide his background if he isn’t ashamed of it?”

Dinah picked up their empty plates and took them into the kitchen. He followed her, and she couldn’t resist replying. “You’re boring when you’re so snobbish. Who cares how he made his money, unless it was illegally? Everyone can’t be a doctor or a lawyer, and some people think investment bankers are infra dig
.
Coleman says he’s fascinating.”

“Really? Well, tell me this: how is Bain going to acquire all these prints? Is he going to advertise what he wants? If so, he’ll raise prices dramatically, wreck the market, set new highs. Anyone who overpays is a fool asking to be cheated.”

She agreed with Jonathan about the impact of Bain’s activities on the print market—she wished it weren’t happening—but he was being insufferable. “How else? I mean, if he doesn’t say what he wants, how will dealers know what to offer him? And he has to outbid others, or he won’t get the prints.”

“There’s something suspicious about the whole project. Maybe he’s laundering money.”

Dinah, putting soap in the dishwasher, didn’t turn around. “I disagree, and so does Coleman. She had dinner with him and talked to him for hours, and she doesn’t think he’s a criminal. You haven’t even met him, and you think you know better?”

By the time Jonathan arrived at the offices of Hathaway and Associates at 140 Broadway he’d cooled off and was thinking clearly. He was a trained analyst who understood complicated financial deals. Surely he could figure out what Bain was up to, discover who he was. The source of all that money—if it existed—shouldn’t be a secret unless it
was
illegal.

Dinah was naïve, innocent. He had to shield her, to take care of her. Until she met Jonathan, Dinah had never had anything, and had never been anywhere except North Carolina, graduate school in New York, and that nowhere town in Connecticut where she worked before their marriage. She could get hurt dealing with a guy like Bain. No one was going to hurt Dinah. He would make sure of that.

He punched in the extension for the company library. “Hello, Jonathan Hathaway here. I’d like everything you can find about Heyward Bain, probably in his forties, probably American, around five feet tall, dark hair, gray eyes, and reputedly rich. I want family background, financial details, education, criminal record, anything. It’s a priority, okay? Thanks.”

That was a start, but not enough. He’d cancel his appointments and get on the telephone. He’d call the family lawyers, accountants, and money managers. If none of them knew anything about Bain, he’d go through his personal Rolodex and call all his friends.

Bain stood near the door of the private dining room at the Four Seasons Restaurant on Park Avenue, greeting his guests. His suit had to be Savile Row. He and Jonathan probably used the same tailor. He introduced Dinah to Ellen Carswell, today in navy blue, with a jade pin on the lapel, and matching earrings. The knit suit was sexy, outlining her opulent curves, but she was formal and distant, almost cold.

Dinah recognized the other guests, all print experts. The only person she hadn’t met was Simon Fanshawe-Davies. When Bain introduced them, the dealer acknowledged Dinah with an unflattering lack of interest. Dinah liked nearly everyone, but she was put off by Fanshawe-Davies. He was rude, and he had a lean and hungry look.

She sat on Bain’s right, and for the first time she got a close look at him. Coleman was right. He was extraordinarily handsome.

While the others ate their soup, Heyward Bain described his project. He was committed to building a great museum that would cover the history of printmaking and include examples of the best prints ever made. “I’ll need all the assistance I can get, both in deciding exactly what should be in the museum, and in finding the prints. I’ve invited each of you here to ask for your help.” He looked around, waiting for responses.

Dinah was trying to think of something to say when Simon Fanshawe-Davies spoke. “Do you have a list of the prints you want?”

His tone was annoying even when he asked an innocuous question. Coleman was right again. Fanshawe-Davies was awful. Dinah knew she was being irrational—she was judging him by the pricking of her thumbs. Why did Fanshawe-Davies make her think of Shakespeare? She sneezed. Oh Lord, it was Fanshawe-Davies’s aftershave. She could smell it across the table. Coleman had mentioned his peculiar scent—like the Straw Man in
The Wizard of Oz
—but who would have thought it would give Dinah hay fever? She reached in her bag for a tissue and an antihistamine pill. Her eyes were watering, too. She sneezed again.

“We have a preliminary list of the prints we want. When you leave, Ms. Carswell will give each of you a copy. It’s a beginning—it includes a lot of obvious choices, but we don’t want to confine ourselves to the obvious.”

Bain turned to Dinah. “For example, we’ll devote a large room to the history of US printmaking. We’ll want relatively unknown artists as well as the big names. I hope you have some nominations for milestones in your field. I understand you specialize in the history of colored printmaking?”

Fanshawe-Davies barged in. “But surely the most important prints will be Old Masters?”

“And, of course, contemporary prints—Jasper Johns, naturally,” another dealer said.

Fanshawe-Davies sneered at the Johns advocate. “Surely negligible in the total scheme of things? Johns’s prints are important, of course, but when you consider them in the context of the total history of printmaking—well! Here’s
my
list of recommendations for the museum,” he said, handing a sheet of paper to Ms. Carswell. He launched into what turned out to be a long monologue. He discoursed on quality, availability, auction prices, and priorities. He was articulate and well-informed and he never referred to notes. He didn’t pause in his speech through the service of swordfish, salad, poached pears, and coffee. When anyone else tried to speak, he overrode them, and Bain, who seemed mesmerized, did nothing to stop the flow.

Fanshawe-Davies ended his remarks just as Ms. Carswell looked at her watch, put down her coffee cup, and stood. Bain rose when she did, thanked them for coming, and Ms. Carswell ushered them out. Fanshawe-Davies was the only guest who’d said more than hello and goodbye. His timing was impeccable. He’d filled the available time exactly.

Dinah walked downstairs to the ladies’ room to wash her face. She was dripping mascara and her nose was tomato-red. Worse, she felt like a fool. She hadn’t said a word. Maybe the looming failure of the Greene Gallery, and hearing Jonathan tell her every day she was unsuited to running a big gallery, had sapped her confidence more than she had realized.

She blew her nose and powdered it, tidied her hair, put on fresh lipstick, and headed for the Fifty-Second Street door, looking forward to the haven of Cornelia Street, another antihistamine, and a long nap.

Before she reached the doors, someone grabbed her arm. She turned, ready to smile a greeting, and cringed.

“Maxwell Arnold! What are you doing here?”

The man smiled. “What are
you
doing here? I eat at the Four Seasons every time I come to New York on business. Whenever I’m here, I inquire about you and your adorable cousin Coleman. I’ve never lost interest in the two of you, my dear, and I never will.”

“Let me g-go!” Dinah whispered. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and ran for the door.

In the taxi she struggled for control, and by the time she reached Cornelia Street, she could talk to Coleman without stuttering. “I ran into Maxwell Arnold at the Four Seasons,” she said when Coleman answered her cell phone.

Coleman didn’t speak for a moment, then, “What did he say?”

“Nothing. Well, he said he came to New York on business and he always asks about us.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, but Coleman, it was the way he said it. He scared me.”

“He’s scary because he’s crazy, but he can’t hurt either of us unless he catches one of us alone in the dark, and even then he’d have to have some of his bully-boys with him,” Coleman said. “What did he look like? Have his evil ways caught up with him? Or is he a Dorian Gray?”

“There’s no justice—he looks pretty good. Still tall, of course, and not as heavy as lots of guys who played college football. He may have even lost weight since college. Sun and alcohol have roughed up his skin, but he still has good hair, and it’s still black. And Satan still looks out of those crazy no-color eyes.”“I’m sure that couldn’t change unless he was born-again. And pigs might fly. How was your lunch?”Dinah sneezed. “Oh, I came across like an idiot. I couldn’t think of anything to say fast enough to get a word in. Simon Fanshawe-Davies talked the whole time, and his ghastly aftershave or whatever it is gave me hay fever. The only good news is that Bain wants me to offer the museum a group of my kind of prints.”

“That’s what counts—you’re the expert in your field. You stand out wherever you are.”

Dinah sighed. “I didn’t today.”

“Forget it—it doesn’t matter. Did anyone mention Jimmy La Grange?”

Dinah blew her nose. “No, not a word. He died less than two weeks ago, but it’s as if he never existed.”

“I agree. No one seems to care how or why he died. It makes my blood boil. Speaking of blood boiling, are you going to tell Jonathan about Maxwell Arnold?”

“No. If he knew, he’d get me an armed guard, or two or three. I’d look like Heyward Bain.”

“You’ve got a point. But if Maxwell turns up again, you
must
tell Jonathan. It was one thing to keep all that a secret when he stayed in the South, but if he’s bringing his vendetta to New York—”

“We’ll see,” Dinah said.

Coleman was sorry Dinah had encountered Maxwell Arnold. She’d brought that hellhound into Dinah’s life, and she wished she could undo it. She’d gone over and over it in her mind, but she couldn’t see what she might have done differently—except, of course, never gone out with him. But that hadn’t seemed like an issue at the time.

In the spring of her freshman year at Duke, Coleman’s life was close to perfect. The weather in Durham was beautiful, and she was busy with school, with friends, and with her sewing. Boys lined up for dates, and she went out a lot—not just with Duke boys, but boys from North Carolina State College in Raleigh, and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She’d met Maxwell Arnold at a party. He was a Big Man On Campus at UNC, and he’d seemed okay. He’d asked her out several times, but she’d always been busy, until he’d invited her to have dinner with him on a Saturday night several weeks ahead. She was free, and accepted.

He’d told her they were going to Snyder’s, a famous steakhouse, so she dressed up in a blue silk dress. But when Maxwell picked her up, he didn’t take her to the restaurant. He drove her into the woods, where four of his fraternity brothers were waiting in a clearing. She’d dated all of them once or twice, and they’d been nice enough, so she was puzzled, but not frightened. They reeked of beer, but that wasn’t unusual.

But Maxwell shoved her out of the car, and said, “Okay, Ice Maiden, which one of us do you want to do first? We’ve had enough of your cock-teasing shit. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Coleman had felt a flash of fear, but fear affected her as it always did: she became furiously angry. With her rage came the certainty that if she showed weakness, they’d rape her. Her only hope was attack. She stood as tall as she could, which wasn’t very tall, and said in an ordinary conversational tone, “You’re great big strong men, and I’m not a very big girl, and I’m alone. I can’t stop anything you do to me. But hear me: if any one of you touches me, I’ll walk back to campus, and I’ll tell the world about you, and what you did. You’ll have to kill me to stop me.

“And you, Tommy, will
not
go to medical school, I promise you that. Tonight will end your hopes of a medical career. And you, Buddy—you told me you plan on law and politics. But not in
this
state, not if you hurt me. I’m Miss Ida Slocumb’s granddaughter, and don’t forget it. You’ll have to leave the Carolinas, maybe even the South, once people hear my story. And Henry, you’re practically a neighbor. I know your sister and your mother, we’re members of the same church. They think you’re a devout Christian. I’d hate to hurt them by telling them what you really are, but I’ll do it in a minute. Paul—your fiancée’s in my Spanish class. She’ll never marry you if she hears about tonight. She’s a decent girl and deserves better than you—and believe me, she
will
hear about you.

“I know that if I tell the world about you, my reputation will be gone, and I’ll have to leave Duke, and I’ll be infamous as the person who ruined all your lives. But a lot of people will thank me for telling the world what you are. I bet this isn’t the first time y’all have tried something like this. I promise every one of you: touch me, and your lives will be over starting tonight.”

Coleman stared at the boys, who seemed paralyzed, their faces gleaming pale in the twilight. She turned to Maxwell Arnold and said, “A lot of people saw me leave the dorm with you tonight. Everyone will know what a monster you are. You probably don’t care, and from what I know about your family, they probably wouldn’t care either. But touch me, and you’ll go to jail, so help me God.

“And that’s not all. If you ever come near me—if you ever even speak to me again, I’ll curse you such a mighty curse you’ll wish you’d never been born. I’ll devote the rest of my life to taking my revenge on you. I’ll stay after you until I die, and after my death I’ll haunt you.”

That night was engraved in Coleman’s mind forever—the words she spoke, the scent of the pinewoods and the honeysuckle, the soft night air, how the boys looked, and how she felt. Mostly she felt anger, but in the back of her mind was a tiny flicker of fear. They
could
have killed her, of course, and they were all drunk. Drunks were unpredictable.

But they got back in their cars, and she climbed in beside Henry. She knew his family best, and she certainly wouldn’t get in a car with Maxwell Arnold. She looked back, and Maxwell Arnold was standing in the clearing by himself, staring after her. He shook his fist at her as the car pulled away. Neither she nor Henry spoke on the way back to campus.

If only that had been the end of it. The boys—Tommy, Buddy, Henry, and Paul—begged for an opportunity to apologize to her, but she wouldn’t speak to them, so they turned to Dinah to plead for Coleman’s mercy. They blamed everything on Maxwell. He’d told them she was “willing,” it was a “party,” Coleman “wanted it.” After they sobered up, they knew how close they’d come to ruin, and that she still held their futures in the palm of her hand. But there was nothing they could do but get on with their lives, so that’s what they did.

Except Maxwell Arnold. The way Maxwell saw it, Coleman had humiliated him in front of his buddies, and he was determined to make her pay for it. He kept his distance from Coleman, but he bugged Dinah. Every time he saw her, he told her how much he hated Coleman and Dinah, too, because she was Coleman’s cousin. Coleman considered complaining to the authorities, but he never actually threatened her or Dinah, and she wasn’t sure he was doing anything illegal.

Anyway, the Arnolds owned one of the biggest tobacco processing companies in the South. Even with the decline of smokers in the States, they made a ton of money exporting their products to the third world, and they contributed to all the right politicians. She didn’t think anyone would do much about Maxwell, unless they caught him breaking the law. Even then, he’d probably get his hand slapped.

Arnold’s little “party” had put her off college dating. She never knew what trap Maxwell Arnold might set for her. And as much as she’d tried to reassure Dinah, Coleman thought Maxwell was dangerous. She’d received notes and cards from him several times a year ever since that long-ago evening. The notes were never overtly threatening, but they were ugly. She could handle it, but she wished he’d stay away from Dinah. Coleman kept hoping he’d forget about her and Dinah but he hadn’t changed, even after she’d read that he’d married. Seemed like he had some kind of grudge against her that was bigger than an episode in the pine woods outside Durham.

That evening in the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis Hotel, Coleman sipped a Diet Pepsi and told Zeke about her conversation with Tammy. “She’s so wrapped up in wedding plans she’s not thinking about anything else. And she doesn’t seem to need money. I can’t see why she’d do it.”

“Well, if you’re pretty sure it’s not Tammy, then it’s got to be Chick, right? What are you going to do?”

Coleman rattled the ice in her empty glass. “Talk to him, I guess. What else can I do? I’m writing the best stories myself, keeping my ideas secret so they won’t be leaked. I’m exhausted, it’s bad for morale, and time-wasting. I should be investigating Jimmy La Grange’s death, or at least the history of the prints he’s supposed to have owned, and how he got them. New subject: have you learned anything about the
Artful Californian
?”

“Damned little. I studied every issue, and I don’t recognize a single name on the masthead, or a byline. The major editorial difference between
ArtSmart
and the
Artful Californian
is that
Artful
takes very strong critical positions on contemporary artists—unknown California artists, Australian artists, Russians. They push the work. They aren’t touting the work of any East Coast artists, so they must not have staff here. I haven’t ever met anyone who works there, have you?”

“No, not a soul. I’ve noticed they publish puff pieces on certain artists. We don’t hype artists. I think it’s unethical for a magazine to do it, and most people in the business agree. It’s too easy to buy up paintings, run up the prices, and sell them. But if you’d stoop to stealing ideas from another magazine, what’s a little more slimy dealing?”

She paused. “Wait a minute. I have an idea. Suppose they want to damage
ArtSmart
enough to be able to buy it cheap? They could merge the two magazines, and they’d have a great entry into the East Coast art world. With
ArtSmart
’s
reputation for catching trends—if its reputation isn’t ruined by then—they could buy art, and then push it—they could make a fortune. Double, triple, quadruple their investment.”

Zeke leaned towards her. “Have you ever known anyone who did it?”

“Yes, a columnist for a now-defunct art magazine. He used to seek out little-known talented artists who were desperate for money. His secret partner bought up the artist’s work for next to nothing, and put it away. A year or so later, the columnist would ‘discover’ the work, and write a glowing review, and the value of the artist’s work would shoot up. Suddenly the artist was hot, and everybody was trying to buy his work,” Coleman said.

“What kind of money was involved?”

“An artist told me the critic’s partner bought five paintings from her for a thousand dollars. Two years later, he sold
one
of them for $50,000,” Coleman said.

“Good God! If a lot of artists were involved, we’re talking multimillions. How do you think
Artful
is working it?”

“Management might have several people buying art, several people writing rave reviews. That’s probably what they’re doing with the art they’re touting now—Russian, Australian, whatever. But if they could get
ArtSmart
, and get an in with New York artists, they could go big-time. Before readers caught on, the people behind the magazine would make a fortune.”

“I bet you’re right, Coleman. That’s got to be it,” Zeke said.

“We may know why, but we’re not any closer to knowing who. Who owns the
Artful Californian
?”

Zeke shook his head. “A holding company with an innocuous name—‘Art-All.’ I’m trying to learn more about it, but my lawyer says these holding company structures can be impossible to penetrate.”

“Well, let me know if you learn anything,” said Coleman. “Thanks for the drink, thanks for listening, and thanks for your help.”

Jonathan stayed in his office until after nine, talking to the West Coast. But he learned nothing. Heyward Bain had no school records, no employment history, no telephone listing, no credit rating, no social security number. Jonathan wouldn’t have dreamed it was possible to live forty years and leave no tracks. It was as if Bain didn’t exist. He
must
be a criminal.