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Authors: Reba White Williams

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BOOK: Restrike
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Fourteen
Monday
New York

Dinah scrambled to put together the portfolio of colored woodcuts and screenprints she planned to offer Bain. She wrote an essay explaining her choices and how they fit into the history of color printmaking in the United States, and she enclosed color photocopies of each of the images.

When she handed the package to the messenger who would deliver it to Bain, she knew she’d done a good job. Now all she had to do was to wait. That was the hardest part. Luckily, she was busy with the Rist exhibition.

Dinah jumped every time the telephone rang, hoping for a call from the Print Museum. When an envelope bearing the museum’s return address arrived, her heart stopped, but it was an invitation to the opening of the Print Museum for the first Sunday evening in January. That was something to look forward to, but it didn’t relieve her tension about the possible sale to the museum.

Dinah was also anxious about the Rist opening. Suppose no one—or just a few people—came? Coleman had promised to arrive early to support her during the first half hour or so, but Dinah wouldn’t relax until the gallery was crammed with people and she could see that they liked the prints. Maybe she’d sell some at the opening—maybe even a lot. She mentally crossed her fingers.

She was thrilled when she received a letter from Ellen Carswell, accepting the prints Dinah had offered for the museum, and enclosing a handsome check.

Bethany jumped up and down, shouting “Go girl!” and when Dinah called Coleman, her cousin said, “I told you it would be okay. You’re good at what you do.”

But Dinah didn’t tell Jonathan. He’d only rant about Bain and the Print Museum, and she didn’t want to spoil the moment.

Fifteen
Monday evening
London

When her solicitor arrived, Rachel offered him a drink, and put a tray of nuts, olives, and cheese straws on the table near his chair. She sat opposite him in front of the fire, her back erect and her head held high.

“Mr. Quincy, I recently paid far too little for a Toulouse-Lautrec poster, and the gallery profited unduly from its sale. It was tantamount to cheating the client. I wish to reimburse the person from whom I bought it. The gallery will keep neither the profits nor a commission, and will absorb the auction commission on it as well as what we originally paid for it. I should like you to draw up an agreement that the woman who sold it to me will sign, accepting the money and indemnifying the gallery. Can you do that?”

“Of course, Mrs. Ransome. When do you want it?”

“Immediately. As soon as I can arrange an appointment with the owner, I shall fly to Paris. But that is not all. I want to dismiss Simon. How can I do it?”

Quincy shook his head. “Mrs. Ransome, that would be almost impossible. Our firm drew up the agreement under the terms you specified. The only grounds you have for severing the partnership are criminal activities. You must prove he has done something illegal.”

“I think I can, after I settle the Lautrec affair. Meanwhile, I may need cash. He has not deposited funds for works sold—the Lautrec, for instance—in the gallery account. I assume the money is in his personal account in the United States. There’s a great deal of money missing for his expenses in the United States, far more than I authorized. I shall have to pay the seller for the Lautrec out of funds set aside to buy art objects. Luckily, I keep a sizable amount in that account in case I have to act swiftly, but it will leave me short.”

“If necessary, our firm will be glad to arrange bridge financing,” he said.

“Thank you. I have already begun to liquidate assets used by Simon, which he said were necessary to generate sales—entertaining prospective clients, and so on. But selling everything will take time.”

“If you’re going to sever all connections with Simon, you should also change your will,” Quincy said.

“I agree. I shall leave everything to Harvard. It is what Professor Ransome originally intended. Can you revise my will as soon as possible?”

“Certainly. Now, tell me what proof you have of Simon’s criminal activities. If it’s ironclad, he forfeits everything. His twenty percent of the Ransome Gallery reverts to you. In any case, we can claim the money in his accounts in New York, but that, too, will take time.”

“It began with the Lautrec. Last summer Simon told me an American named Bain was starting a print museum in New York. Simon said the gallery could make a great deal of money selling Bain prints for the museum. He wished to start the print business—Ransome’s has never dealt in prints—and if he had an important print to offer Bain immediately, his success was assured.”

“You helped him obtain such a work?”

“Yes. I knew of the whereabouts of a rare Lautrec poster—I had mentioned it to him long ago—and he asked me to see if the owner would sell it. He said he had researched the market, and he told me what I should pay for it. I spoke to the owner by telephone, she agreed to sell it, and I sent a courier to pick it up. I later read Simon had sold it at auction for more than ten times the amount I had given the owner. Simon arranged to have someone else sell it in that person’s name, and Simon bought it for Bain and charged Bain a fee for bidding for him. I’m not entirely sure of the legalities, but, of course, everything he did was unethical.”

“I’m not certain that’s sufficient for our purposes. It will require—”

She interrupted him. “I am also certain he has stolen four Dürers from an English museum. But before I pursue this, I must settle with the woman who sold the Lautrec to me. I called Simon when I read the story about the Lautrec, and I pointed out that both the seller and the buyer had been cheated. He replied that the gallery had made huge profits, and as I was the one who had paid so little for the print, if anyone was guilty of unethical conduct, it was I. Of course, since no money has been deposited to the gallery accounts, the gallery hasn’t made any profit—but he was right. I had no idea of the value of the print, I know nothing about the print market, and I accepted what Simon said about its value. But I could never prove it, and I should not have been so naïve.”

Rachel sipped her sherry and continued. “I have brooded about the Lautrec for weeks. When I concluded that Simon had stolen the Dürers, I made up my mind: he has to go. His actions could ruin everything I have built. Nothing must touch the gallery, or in any way affect Professor Ransome’s reputation. His integrity was unquestioned throughout his life. It must remain unimpeachable.”

“Are you certain you can prove Simon has stolen art from a museum?”

Rachel understood his doubts. Art theft was notoriously difficult to prove. Once a work was removed from a museum, and had traded in the marketplace or had been bought by a secretive collector, it was difficult to tie the theft to an individual.

“Yes, you and I will prove the theft together, but first I must settle the Lautrec matter. If the former owner of the Lautrec learns what has occurred before I talk to her, she will take legal action against me and the gallery. She will seek publicity, and she will certainly get it. I cannot allow that to happen.”

Sixteen
Tuesday evening
New York

True to her promise to arrive early, Coleman, chic in a leopard-print tunic over black leggings and black boots, was one of the first at Dinah’s opening. A waiter handed her a glass of Perrier just as Marise Von Clemmer, exquisite in a turquoise long-sleeved wool dress and silver jewelry, appeared.

“Marise, so nice to see you,” Coleman said.

“I’m glad to see you, too. I have information for you: no one named Simon Fanshawe-Davies ever attended Harvard,” Marise said.

Coleman smiled. “So he really is a phony. It’s a relief to be sure. I’d hate to think I was so wrong about him. Someday I’ll have to go to press with the print issue of
ArtSmart
, and till now I haven’t had anything about Simon, much less Heyward Bain.”

“You now know everything I know about Simon. I also have a tidbit for you about Bain. A child prodigy named Heyward Bain worked with Professor William Laramie at MIT. Laramie’s still there. I cannot promise that the child prodigy grew up to be the art billionaire, but it seems probable.”

Coleman wrote Laramie’s name in her notebook. “I bet that baby genius is my mystery man. Thanks, Marise. I really appreciate your help.”

“I hope it is he. While we’re speaking of mysteries, what does Dinah know about Jonathan Hathaway’s first marriage?”

Coleman had questioned Dinah about Jonathan’s former marriage and divorce, but Dinah’d been so starry-eyed, she apparently hadn’t asked him anything about it, or if she had, Jonathan had ducked her questions. “As far as I know, absolutely nothing. Why?”

“Jonathan’s dreadful sister Alice is talking about Jonathan’s past, and Dinah shouldn’t hear the gossip from a stranger. I think you should decide what to tell her. Jonathan’s marriage and divorce were a scandal, widely known in Boston, but Boston is such a closed society, the news may not have traveled to New York.

“The woman’s name was Judy something. She was a secretary at the Harvard Business School and had a lover in every class for four or five years in a row. When she became frayed around the edges, she looked around for a husband and chose Jonathan—rich, nice-looking, and naïve—and cut him out of the MBA herd like a sheepdog. He was wild about her. He married Judy while he was still at the business school because he thought she was pregnant. She wasn’t, of course. Then, I guess she couldn’t help herself and fell into bed with another MBA, and he caught her.”

“Was the divorce scandalous, too?” Coleman asked.

Marise shook her head. “No, Jonathan moved to New York, and the Hathaways paid Judy off. I think she lives in California. Alice said he told his mother that any future bride would be young and innocent as Princess Diana was, and if necessary, he’d lock her up in a tower to make sure she stayed that way. He made a joke of it, but Alice thought he was halfway serious.”

“Dinah fills the bill. Her nickname in college was Sleeping Beauty. She waited a long time for her prince. She said she’d know him when she saw him. She thought college boys were clumsy and crude. I agreed with her, but after we came to New York, I tried to persuade her to go out and have a little fun, and get to know some men as friends. But Jonathan was the first man she dated.”

Coleman had been worried when Dinah decided to marry Jonathan. Dinah was so inexperienced, she had so little basis for comparison. How could she be sure Jonathan was right for her? Coleman felt responsible because she’d introduced Jonathan to Dinah. He had a great reputation as an investment banker, and she’d been thrilled when he’d backed her, but Coleman hadn’t thought of him as a prospective date. He was too serious and too Wall Street for her—boring. But Dinah had come to the celebration dinner after the deal was finalized, and it had been love at first sight for both Dinah and Jonathan.

Coleman tried to check Jonathan out, but no one in New York seemed to know him. He’d been a loner after his move to New York until he met Dinah. Jonathan fit all of Dinah’s specifications—gentlemanly, thoughtful, mature, adoring. He’d seemed perfect for her until recently, when, if Zeke was right, they’d begun to quarrel over the gallery. They’d had a long courtship—nearly three years—so Dinah had had lots of time to get to know Jonathan. But maybe you never knew a person till you’d lived with him. And theirs had been an old-fashioned and proper courtship. No living together before marriage for Dinah and Jonathan.

Marise was looking across the room at Dinah. “Well, it’s a fairy story, but it may not be
Sleeping Beauty
, it might be
Rapunzel.
I think he
is
keeping her locked up, although it’s obviously a gilded cage. She should be famous by now. She made the highest grades in our class at the Institute of Fine Arts, and she’s very talented. This little out-of-the-way gallery is no place for her.”

Coleman nodded. “Dinah was a star in high school and at Duke, too. She deserves a much bigger stage. But back to Jonathan: why is his sister talking about all this now? The divorce was years ago.”

Marise made a tiny moue
.
“Something’s got her stirred up. Maybe she’s seen Judy recently. She’d hate anyone Jonathan married, but I think she has a sneaking admiration for Judy, who’s said to be beautiful, and wicked. I went to Miss Porter’s with Alice, and I saw her at a school function last week. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t spend five minutes with her—she’s ghastly—but I’m fond of Dinah, and I thought you should know what her sister-in-law is saying. She loved telling me all about Jonathan and Judy, and didn’t care who heard. It’s bound to reach Dinah eventually—Miss Porter’s has lots of alumnae in New York.”

Zeke Tolmach, color high, eyes sparkling, pushed through the crowd towards them. Marise saw him coming and excused herself to look at the exhibition and to congratulate Dinah.

Marise was barely out of earshot when Zeke said, “I’ve found the link between
ArtSmart
and the
Artful Californian.
You were right—the spy is Chick O’Reilly!”

“Oh, hell. How do you know?” Coleman had continued to hope against reason that the leak wasn’t Chick. She didn’t want to lose him as a writer or a friend.

Zeke glowed with pride. “It’s Chick’s partner, David Edwards. You told me he sells paper, so I called the
Artful Californian
’s purchasing department, pretending to be a salesman with Great Mountains Paper. They said they buy their paper from Johnson and Gray, and I called J&G, and asked for Edwards, and he works there. He’s bound to know everyone at
Artful
, and everything Chick knows.

“It’s a link, but not proof that Chick’s done anything wrong. Maybe Chick confides in David, and David is selling the information,” Coleman argued.

“I’m afraid you’ll never get proof, but if you ask Chick about it, you might be able to learn something from his reaction,” Zeke said.

Coleman sighed. Zeke was determined to prove he was a great detective. Well, she’d asked for his help. It was irrational to be annoyed because she didn’t like what he’d discovered.

“Oh, I’ll talk to him. He should be here tonight. He’s working on the Print Museum story, and Heyward Bain—” she broke off, and stared towards the door. Zeke followed her gaze to where Heyward Bain stood. Bain caught Coleman’s eye, smiled, and moved through the crowd towards them.

“Hello. I hoped I’d see you here,” he said.

“Hi,” Coleman said. “You know Zeke Tolmach, don’t you?”

“Of course.” They shook hands, and Bain looked at the prints on the wall nearest them. “You know, these really are beautiful prints. I must look at them, and congratulate Dinah. Nice to see you both.” He nodded, and moved away into the crowd.

“You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” Zeke said.

“I think he’s very attractive. Does it show that much?”

“To me it does. But I’ve known you a long time. I doubt if anyone else has noticed. How does he feel about you?”

“He’s never asked me out, and you saw how much he wanted to talk to me just now. Listen, Zeke, I’ve got the miseries because of this business about Chick. I think I’ll turn in early. But I better look at the prints before I go, or Dinah will never forgive me.”

When Bain completed his circuit of the gallery, he joined Dinah, who was still greeting newcomers. “Congratulations! It’s a wonderful show, and the catalog is excellent,” he said.

“Thank you! It’s been great fun—I’m thrilled with the size of the crowd, and I’m so pleased you’re buying the prints I proposed. Thank you again.” She heard herself babbling. She wished Bain didn’t make her nervous.

“Will you have lunch with me tomorrow or Thursday? I’d like to talk to you privately.”

His brilliant gray eyes were fixed on hers, and she looked away. Why should he want to see her alone? If he wanted to talk about prints, why privately?

“Well, sure, I mean—I’d like that. Thursday would be best. Where would you like to m-meet?”

“How about Michael’s at twelve thirty?”

“Yes, I know it—West Fifty-Fifth Street, right?”

“Good. I’ll see you there!” He lifted her hand in his, kissed the air slightly above it, and was gone.

Dinah stared after him until she became aware that both Coleman and Jonathan were waiting to speak to her. Oh, God, had they overheard Bain inviting her to lunch?

“What was that about?” Coleman said.

“He was congratulating me on the proposal I put together for the museum, and on the show—polite platitudes. You’re pale. Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired—I’m on my way to an early bed. Congratulations on the show—it’s great. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Coleman said, and headed towards the door.

“We’ll talk later,” Jonathan said, his tone frigid. The muscle in his cheek twitched. Dinah had a horrible feeling he
had
heard her make the lunch date with Bain.

Bethany, smiling, took a break from working the room to whisper to Dinah. “We’ve sold more than half the prints already, and Ted Wolfe says he’s goin’ to review the show for the
New York Times.
We could sell out the show.”

“That’s great! Thanks, Bethany.”

“Some of the clients are tellin’ me they’d like to come in extra early tomorrow to look at the Rists that haven’t sold. Can we open at eight?”

“Sure. We can’t afford to miss any opportunity.”

Bethany moved back into the fray, and Dinah greeted Zeke, hovering nearby. “Who’s that?” he asked, staring at Bethany. Dinah followed his gaze. Bethany wore a long slender dress in a golden brown, a few shades darker than her skin. Her earrings were tinkly golden bells, and she wore armloads of thin gold bangles, and gold sandals.

She turned back to Zeke, who looked dazed. Dinah wasn’t surprised. Men—except Jonathan—found Bethany devastatingly attractive. “That’s my assistant, Bethany Byrd. Do you think she’s pretty?”

“Gorgeous. Maybe I’ll ask her out for supper.”

“I think you’d enjoy it. She’s great fun.”

It would be wonderful if Bethany and Zeke hit it off. She was tired of Zeke mooning over Coleman. He’d had a crush on her since college, and it was time he got over it.

*

Coleman unlocked the door of her apartment, unzipped Dolly’s pouch and set it on the floor. She kicked off her boots and flung herself on the sofa. Dolly scrambled out of the carrier and onto Coleman’s chest. She licked Coleman’s ear, and Coleman rubbed her head. “Oh, Dolly, Heyward Bain is the most attractive man I’ve met in years, and not only is he totally uninterested in me, I think he’s fallen for Dinah, and Dinah for him.”

Dinah must really like Bain. She not only hadn’t told Coleman about Bain’s invitation to lunch, she’d lied about it. And Dinah never lied to Coleman. Why would her lunch with Bain be a secret if it were business?

Coleman got up to look in the refrigerator, which, as usual, was empty of everything but vegetables and low-fat yogurt. Just as well. If there’d been anything tempting available, she’d have gobbled it down. She settled for a cup of diet cocoa, gave Dolly a dog biscuit, and went to run a hot bath. She needed to do some serious thinking.

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