“What a pity,” he said, his voice flat. His plate clean, he looked at his watch and frowned. “Oh dear, I fear I must move on. I have a thing or two to do before the auction. It’s been absolutely marvelous.”
When he rose, Coleman caught a whiff of a strange odor: hay or dried grass, barnish—horsey for such a citified guy. Had he been pitching hay? More likely rolling in it, like the ass he was.
She’d picked up a few good quotes, but she was leaving their meeting with more questions than answers. Who was the friend who’d introduced Simon to Bain? Why in the world was Bain letting this creep do all his buying? Had Simon known Jimmy La Grange? And why would Simon be angry about La Grange’s death?
Five
Wednesday morning, 9:45 a.m.
Fifteen minutes before the bidding would begin, Dinah was in her seat, paddle in hand. Grendle’s, the ancient auction house on First Avenue in the Fifties, was smaller and shabbier than Killington’s. The auction room was painted a muddy beige, and smelled of damp and mice. But it was jammed with people. The number of reporters and curators was even larger than it had been yesterday; the press wanted to see Bain, and the museum crowd wanted to look at Toulouse-Lautrec’s The Midget.
Dinah had seen the print at Grendle’s preview. It featured a cabaret actor, a tiny man in a top hat, white tie and tails, not an image the dwarf Lautrec might have been expected to find appealing. But the little man had great charm and the print was brilliant with splashes of scarlet against the vivid yellow background, sharply contrasting with the black and white of the figure’s apparel. It was an outstanding example of Lautrec’s Parisian nightlife series.
According to the auction catalog, only three impressions were believed to exist until this one—the fourth—emerged. No one seemed to know who was selling it. But even without a decent provenance, The Midget should fetch a great deal of money. She assumed Heyward Bain would buy it, but he’d have a lot of competition.
Coleman, in an olive-green shift and matching red-trimmed coat Dinah knew she’d designed and made, appeared minutes before The Midget was to come up. Her short blonde curls were carefully arranged in disarray, and she wore huge gold hoops in her ears. Dinah had never seen her looking better. She was sure Coleman had dressed to impress Bain.
Coleman sat down beside Dinah, and speaking in a low voice, said, “Fanshawe-Davies says he’s going to buy the Lautrec for Bain—price no object. Look, there he is now. But Debbi called just as I was leaving the office to say Bain won’t be here, damn it.” She was already scribbling in her notebook.
The early bidding had been desultory, with prices near the lower end of their estimates, and the crowd was restless and noisy. But the room became silent and tense when a Grendle employee brought out the Lautrec. The crowd sighed in near unison, while dozens of covetous curatorial eyes stared at the work.
Simon held his paddle up ostentatiously throughout the bidding. One after another the bidders dropped out, until only Simon and a telephone bidder remained. When the phone bidder faded, Simon bought The Midget for $1.2 million, a record. Most of the people in the room, including disappointed bidders from both the Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, left when the hammer went down on the Lautrec. Coleman raced after the departing curators to get their reactions to the price, while Dinah successfully bid with little competition on two prints that interested her.
Both went for a song because they were miscataloged, not unusual at a small, poorly financed auction house like Grendle’s. They couldn’t afford the large number of necessary experts to research and identify works correctly and completely. As Dinah had hoped, the museum curators who might have recognized the works were so distracted by the Lautrec, they didn’t see what she had spotted.
One of the prints was a lithograph of St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow, with an illegible signature. Dinah knew it was by a woman, Jolán Gross-Bettelheim, a Hungarian immigrant who had worked for the WPA in Cleveland. In 1933, she’d apparently made no prints, but she must have visited the Soviet Union. By 1934 she was back in Cleveland, and most of her work that year depicted Soviet scenes. She’d eventually returned to Hungary and died there, a committed communist, as were so many artists of the 1930s. Dinah wanted the print for its historical value, as a symbol of a particular time. She knew several collectors who would buy it from her.
The other print, a colorful still life with flowers, was described in the catalog as a watercolor, but Dinah knew it was a woodcut. Grendle’s had attributed it to Blanche Lazzell. If it were a Lazzell, it would have been a poor example of the artist’s polished work. But it was by Cora Boone, a 1920s–1930s California printmaker. Dinah was familiar with Boone’s primitive style, but she had never seen this image. This print, too, would be an easy sell.
Dinah should have been thrilled about her purchases, but she couldn’t get her problems with the gallery and Jonathan, or Jimmy La Grange’s death, out of her mind. She tried to think of something cheerful, and remembered her surprise for Coleman.
“I have a present for you,” she said on the short walk to the restaurant. “You’ll get it at the Red Dragon.”
Coleman smiled. “Well, that’s something to look forward to—and it’s not even my birthday. What did you think of the Lautrec price?”
“Incredible. I don’t like what’s happening in the print world: Heyward Bain comes to town and starts throwing money around, and print prices soar. I’m afraid all that money is going to open Pandora’s box and let greed out to ruin everything. It’s a world I love, and I hate to see it change.”
Coleman nodded. “I know what you mean. I’m sure money must have something to do with Jimmy La Grange’s death, but I can’t figure out what. Anyway, if there are changes in the art world because of Bain, at least they’ll be interesting to write about.”
“I guess it’ll be okay from your point of view, but not mine. I have a feeling of dread. Maybe it’s Grendle’s. The place looks and smells like a mausoleum.”
They descended the steps into the restaurant, sparkling with glass, mirrors, and red lacquer, and were seated at their usual table. Dinah ordered a glass of white wine, Coleman a Diet Coke, and they chose a selection of appetizers instead of a main course.
Dinah looked around for familiar faces. Famous artists frequented the Red Dragon. “Do you see anyone interesting?”
Coleman, who was seated facing the room, nodded. “Fanshawe-Davies and Carswell are here.”
Dinah glanced at them over her shoulder. There was no reason why the two shouldn’t have lunch together. Simon had just bought the Lautrec for Bain, and the Red Dragon was conveniently near Grendle’s. They could be talking about Bain’s business. Still, they looked—what?— conspiratorial. She turned back to Coleman.
“What do you think?”
“She’s in Chanel again—that suit is unmistakable. I wouldn’t have thought burgundy was her color, with that hair, but it looks good. Can those be rubies she’s wearing?”
Dinah shared Coleman’s interest in clothes, but sometimes it was annoying. Like now. “Coleman, I didn’t ask what she’s wearing,” said Dinah. “What do you think they’re up to?”
Coleman shrugged. “Who cares? He’s a creep, and she’s an empty expensive suit. They’re welcome to each other, whatever their relationship.”
Their food came, and Dinah served herself and Coleman. “Do you know anything about Simon’s love life?”
Coleman shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve seen him at art events for years, always with different women. He’s not my type, but other women seem to find him attractive.”
Dinah spooned minced chicken onto a lettuce leaf and passed it to Coleman. “What do you know about Simon?”
“Almost nothing. That’s why I want to talk to a Renaissance expert, to learn more about him and the Ransome Gallery. Breakfast was a waste of time—he spent every minute bragging about how important he is to Bain and the Print Museum, and trying to play kneesies—” she broke off, starin
g. “Wow, who’s that?”
Dinah looked up. “Oh, that’s your present. Hi, Marise,” she called, waving to the striking young woman at the top of the steps. Her short beige dress matched her tights and suede boots. Even her hair was beige, a shiny mane that hung straight to her shoulders, and her skin was a slightly lighter hue. She’d have looked monochromatic, but even across the room her slightly slanted eyes gleamed turquoise, and she wore a magnificent turquoise necklace.
“She looks like a Siamese cat,” Coleman murmured. “Did I want one?”
“You want this one. She’s your Renaissance expert,” Dinah said, standing to greet her friend. “Marise Von Clemmer, this is my cousin, Coleman Greene, editor of ArtSmart.” Dinah turned to Coleman. “Marise and I were classmates at the Institute of Fine Arts, and she got her PhD at Harvard. She’s writing a book on Catherine de Medici.”
When Marise had been brought a glass of Perrier—she said she wasn’t hungry and couldn’t stay long—Dinah said, “I really appreciate your coming, Marise. As I told you on the phone, Coleman needs background on the Ransome Gallery for a story she’s working on. Can you help?”
“Of course. Therein lies a tale,” Marise said in a soft, silky voice with an indefinable accent. “The Ransome Gallery—Rachel the heiress, and Simon the shill. Rachel was Henry Ransome’s assistant. You know who Ransome was, of course? Besides being the outstanding Renaissance scholar of his generation, he collected art, and he had millions, family money, plus what he got from book sales, lecturing, and authenticating works of art.
“When he died, he left everything to Rachel. I don’t remember her original last name, if I ever knew it. She changed her name to Ransome when she inherited, before she moved to London, and opened the gallery.”
According to Marise, everyone had expected Ransome’s estate to go to Harvard, but Ransome’s executor supported the will, and no one contested it. All of Ransome’s students and friends rushed to stand by Rachel. She’d been amazingly successful, producing brilliant catalogs and dealing in some astonishing objects, including the Bronzino the National Gallery in London had recently acquired.
Coleman nodded towards the couple in the corner. “What about Simon? What’s his role?”
“Oh, he’s a salesman. No one knows where Rachel found him, or understands why she keeps him around, except he’s good with old ladies of both sexes, and she prefers to deal with scholars. Some people say he’s Rachel’s lover, but I doubt it. I can’t imagine her in love with him. She’s older than he is, and much smarter. He knows almost nothing about art, but he can bone up when he has to. He claims to have gone to Harvard, but no one I know believes it. I keep meaning to check him out.”
“What’s Rachel like?” Dinah asked.
“She’s reserved, reclusive, and what? Old-fashioned, perhaps. Because of her, the gallery has a superb reputation. Her track record is spotless in a field where there’s a lot of greed, and some skullduggery—fakes, bad attributions, and the like. People say Rachel keeps Simon honest, probably with a big carrot and a bigger stick. Make no mistake, it is she who runs the gallery. I suspect she’d be a powerful enemy. She’s very elegant, imposing. She reminds me of a Medici.” Marise’s teeth gleamed in a slightly crooked smile. She sipped her Perrier and glanced around the room.
“Thanks, Marise. I owe you,” Coleman said.
“Anything for a friend of Dinah’s, even more for a relative. Now, tell me about Heyward Bain.”
Coleman tried to tell her the little she knew, explaining that she knew almost nothing about Bain, and wished she knew more. But they were interrupted by men coming over to pay homage to Marise. Simon was first, but Marise was icy, and he retreated. The last of the greeters was Mayor Bloomberg, who appeared out of nowhere, apparently to collect Marise. She stood up.
“I must get back to work,” she purred. “Thank you for lunch, Dinah. So nice to meet you, Coleman. Perhaps I will know more about Mr. Bain and the loathsome Simon when next we meet.” She disappeared up the stairs, the mayor at her side.
Coleman stared after Marise. “Who is she?”
“You know almost as much as I do. She was the Renaissance star in my class, and she knows everyone in her field. All I know about her personal life—and this won’t surprise you—is that she has two Siamese cats. She and the cats travel to and from Florence, where Marise has a flat. Changing the subject: when are you going to meet Bain?”
Coleman shrugged. “We’re having dinner tonight, an intimate affair: just me, Bain, the bodyguards, his secretary or assistant or whatever she is, and Debbi. He won’t talk to the press without Debbi and Carswell present.” She looked at her watch. “Will you take care of the check? I’ll pay you back. I’ve got to rush off. I have a date with one of the writers, and it’s probably going to be unpleasant. Thanks for setting up the meeting with Marise. The more I hear about Simon Fanshawe-Davies, the less I like the sound of him. And I don’t like him in person, either.”
“He does sound awful, but if Marise is right, Rachel Ransome keeps him under control,” Dinah pointed out.
“I doubt it. I think he’s a bad guy, and he may have escaped her when he came here,” Coleman said.
Six
Wednesday afternoon
Coleman, rushing to her date with Tammy, still hadn’t decided exactly how to approach her. It wouldn’t be easy; the woman had a sequoia-sized chip on her shoulder. She was in her mid-thirties and overweight. She could have looked voluptuous instead of fat if she’d dressed well, but she wore her clothes too tight, her skirts too short, and her blouses too low cut. Her dark hair was thin—too much color and teasing—and unbecomingly hennaed, and she’d had her eyebrows plucked into near nonexistence. Coleman wished there were a tactful way to suggest a week or two at the Golden Door for weight loss, followed by a new hairstyle and makeup, and then a clothes conference with Emily Cho, the best of the famous personal shoppers. It would never happen, but it was good to think about. Maybe it was because of designing and making clothes, which had helped pay her way through boarding school and college, that Coleman fantasized about makeovers. She’d spent a lot of time talking women into buying clothes that became them rather than the ones they coveted.
Coleman had hired Tammy from a public relations firm where she’d written press releases. She had little creativity and she wasn’t a great researcher, but she was energetic, hard-working, and ambitious. After a lot of training, she’d come a long way. Most important, she was dependable. She met deadlines and didn’t make mistakes. Those characteristics alone made her valuable, no matter how difficult her personality. She’d been grateful to Coleman initially, but recently she’d developed an unrealistic view of herself. She thought she deserved more—fame, money, men, everything. She complained that Coleman treated other writers better than she was being treated, and she snooped, trying to find out how much money others made. Her dissatisfaction with her role at ArtSmart might have led to betrayal. She was Coleman’s pick for the leak.
When Coleman arrived at Starbucks, she paid for and picked up two cups of black coffee, then sat down at one of the small tables. She was still thinking about how to raise the subject of the leak when Tammy bustled in, radiating Arpège. As soon as she sat down, Tammy announced, “I have big news—I’m engaged!” She extended her left hand to show off an enormous diamond.
Coleman was surprised. This was the first she’d heard of a boyfriend, let alone a fiancé. “That’s terrific. Who’s the lucky man?” she asked.
“He’s a very successful dentist in Chicago, where my family lives. We’re getting married in April, and I’ll move out there,” Tammy said.
Coleman tried hard to be pleased for Tammy, but unless the bride-to-be was the spy, the Chicago move was a nuisance. Either way, Coleman would have to replace her.
“It’s all been very sudden,” Tammy continued. “We just finalized our plans. At first I thought I’d get a job out there, but I’ve decided I’d miss ArtSmart and working with you, so I’d
like to stay on, and write from Chicago.”
Tammy was acting uncharacteristically smarmy. Maybe she was just trying to make sure Coleman would let her work out of Chicago. “Well, your intended is a lucky man, and I don’t see why you can’t work part-time from Chicago,” Coleman said.
“Thanks, Coleman. You’re a pal.”
For the next ten minutes Tammy babbled about her wedding plans, the reception—the live doves they’d release—and future babies. Coleman repressed a yawn, imagining infants with fat legs and bad hair.
Tammy and Coleman rode up together in the elevator to ArtSmart’s floor. Coleman had switched gears and was thinking about the afternoon and evening ahead, when Tammy, who’d been silent for at least thirty seconds, said, “How’s Zeke?”
Coleman stared at her. “Zeke Tolmach? He’s fine. Why?”
“Oh, we were an item once,” Tammy said, her tone airy. “I broke it off, though—I wasn’t ready to get serious, and he wanted to get married.”
Coleman didn’t comment, although she’d heard a different description of their relationship from Zeke. In the reception room, Coleman paused to let Dolly out of the pouch, and watched her stretch and shake herself.
Tammy picked up the topic again. “Didn’t you go out with him?” she asked.
“Who? Oh, Zeke? A few times in college, but that was a long time ago,” Coleman said. Why was Tammy bringing this up? And how did she know Coleman had dated Zeke? Their few dates hadn’t amounted to anything.
“And you’ve never dated him since?”
“No, why do you ask?” Coleman said, tapping her foot. She was bored with the subject, and she had work to do.
“I heard he was in love with you, and you were stringing him along,” Tammy said.
“Please. I hadn’t seen Zeke since Dinah’s wedding until yesterday at the auction—and before the wedding—when? Maybe last Christmas at a party.”
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