Restrike

by Reba White Williams

  Zeke smiled at her. “Me, too.”

  Bethany tossed a peanut shell at the cat. It opened a drowsy yellow eye and went back to sleep.

  She’d heard a lot about Zeke from Dinah. She’d said he was unavailable because he’d been in love with Coleman since college. Maybe he had been, but she knew the signs. He was definitely interested in Bethany. She’d test him. “You’ve known Dinah and Coleman since college? You used to date Coleman?”

  Zeke shook his head. “Oh, I took her out a few times. Nothing serious, just friends.”

  Bethany smiled. If that’s the way he saw it, so much the better.

  “What kind of a day did you have?” Zeke wanted to know.

  “Busy. We sold a lot of the Rist prints, and some other stock, too. And, guess what? Dinah’s goin’ to look at a space on Fifty-Seventh Street. If she likes it, and can get the money, she’s said she’ll move, no matter what Jonathan says.”

  “Wow! That’s big news. And I think it’s the right thing to do. As for the money—maybe I can help.”

  “Really? It could get expensive. The space has been advertised, so we know the rent, and it’s pretty steep. Dinah and I worked on some numbers—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I can handle it,” Zeke said.

  She stared at him. “You can make a commitment just like that, without even knowin’ the cost?”

  Zeke laughed. “Yes, ma’am. Only child, only grandchild. Lucky financially, but not so lucky in other ways. Neither my career nor my love life has gone too well.”

  Bethany smiled. “That could change.”

  Eighteen

  Thursday

  Coleman knew that her interest in Heyward Bain had distracted her from what was most important to her: Art-Smart. She had a long list of things she should have done, some of them way overdue. She wasn’t on top of the Print Museum story, and she hadn’t confronted Chick.

  She looked at Dolly, who was staring at her expectantly. “Dolly, I’m going to start a new chapter today—work, work, work. I’ll forget all about Bain, I promise.”

  Coleman poked her head in Chick’s office door, a Starbucks venti in her hand and Dolly at her heels. “Good morning! Have you got a minute?”

  Chick looked up from his keyboard. “Hey, Coleman! Come in. I’m trying to clear my desk and calendar of everything else, so I can concentrate on the Print Museum story.”

  She sat down opposite him and opened her notebook. “How about catching me up on what you’ve learned?”

  “Sure. It looks like La Grange not only was the seller of Skating Girl and The Midget, but also the four Dürers and Rembrandt’s Sleeping Kitten.”

  “I hadn’t heard about the Dürers or the Rembrandt, but I’m not surprised,” Coleman said.

  Chick, frowning, leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head. “I can’t understand how La Grange could have owned those prints. Where did he get the money? Why would any legitimate collector sell them to him? Why wouldn’t the collector sell ’em at auction, or through an established dealer? Why were the Dürers and the Rembrandt auctioned in cities other than New York or London? And in second- or third-tier auction houses? They’d have done a lot better at one of the majors in a big auction city. Last: in every case the underbidder has been on the telephone. That’s suspicious in itself.”

  Coleman, making notes, didn’t look up. “I think so, too. Have you checked the lists that curators and dealers suggested for the Print Museum? To see who recommended those particular prints?”

  Chick nodded. “Yep, Sleeping Kitten and The Midget were only on Simon Fanshawe-Davies’s list. They’re so rare no one else thought they could be bought. The Dürer prints were on several lists along with other Dürers—the print experts didn’t agree about which ones Bain should own. The four he acquired aren’t that rare, but they’re in perfect condition, and getting the four together was unusual. They must have been in a collection somewhere, but no one knows where.”

  Coleman tapped her pencil on the desk. “Are there any other prints on Simon’s list, and nowhere else? Prints Bain hasn’t bought yet?”

  Chick nodded again. “Two more Rembrandts, Seashells and Winter Landscape. Nobody thinks he’ll find those—they’re even rarer than Kitten. But no one’s betting against Fanshawe-Davies. He’s been amazingly successful at getting things for Bain.”

  Coleman leaned forward, her elbows on the desk, her head in her hands. “What do you think is going on?”

  Chick offered her his bowl of mints, and when she shook her head, took one himself. “Jimmy must have been fronting for someone, maybe several people, but we don’t know who or why. The lack of provenance for all those prints suggests some kind of illegal source, or sources, but nobody knows where they came from. I’m thinking the bidding was rigged; I think the telephone bidder was pushing up prices, probably in collusion with Simon.”

  “I agree. We have to try to find out everything we can about La Grange, including his death. We can’t go to press with all these loose ends hanging, and if we don’t tie ’em up, it looks like nobody will. But I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with this part of the story—La Grange’s death was pretty ugly, and definitely not the kind of article you signed up to do when you joined ArtSmart.”

  Chick’s freckled cheeks turned pink. “Oh, I want to do the whole thing. It’s potentially big.”

  “Okay, it’s yours. Keep me posted, will you?”

  Coleman trusted Chick. She knew it wasn’t rational—the evidence was against him—but her instincts kept telling her he was okay. And Chick’s bulldog tenacity and his deep digging were exactly what were needed for the story.

  Of course, if Chick was the leak, she might end up reading everything he discovered in the Artful Californian. It was a chance she was prepared to take. Coleman stood up and started to leave Chick’s office, but she paused near the door and turned back to face him. She’d try again.

  “Is there anything else?” Chick asked, his head cocked.

  “You’ve seemed—I don’t know—troubled in the past few months, not yourself. Is everything okay?”

  He fidgeted in his seat. “Yes, fine. Certainly nothing wrong about the job. I’d tell you if I had a work problem, I promise.”

  Coleman returned to her office, and Dolly jumped into her lap. Coleman stroked her, thinking about what Chick had said. “Nothing wrong about the job?” Could he and David have personal problems? Or did he have another job offer, and didn’t want to tell her until it was settled? It was possible.

  When she’d first met Chick, he was writing for Architectural Digest. She’d thought he was wasted describing rooms he’d seen only in photographs, rooms by the same old decorators, the same contemporary art on the walls of the modern New York and California apartments, the same tacky details in the traditional houses. Imagine painting walls or woodwork to match a color in a featured work of art. Yuck. She’d even seen an entire room painted the bubblegum hue of a squirrel’s genitalia in the painting by an Audubon wannabe over the mantle. Sick-making. Maybe someday she’d buy a decorating magazine and show everyone how it should be done. Yeah, and she’d wake up tomorrow looking like J.Lo.

  Chick had taken to ArtSmart like a cat to cream, and his writing had improved remarkably. She still thought he was her friend no matter how bad it looked, but today he’d hinted he had a problem, and he wouldn’t tell her about it. He was usually so open. In fact, he talked so much, it was hard to believe he could live a double life. Of course, as a gay man who had never told his family the nature of his relationship with his partner, he was doing just that. Oh, God, what a nuisance this leak was. It made her suspect everyone.

  Michael’s was packed, and many of the customers were celebrities, but Dinah wasn’t interested in the crowd. Even distracted as she was by her personal problems, and anxious about her lunch with Bain, she couldn’t resist pausing to look at the prints that decorated the walls. They were by famous contemporary artists, including Jasper Jo
hns, Frank Stella, and David Hockney. She promised herself she’d come in some day and seriously study them.

  Bain stood up and held her chair for her. “Do you know this restaurant? Some people think the Cobb salad is the best in New York. Have you tried it? No? Then you must—how about a glass of white wine?” Dinah nodded, and Bain gave their orders to the hovering waiter. “I’m so glad you could join me today. I have two topics I want to talk to you about. The first is business. Why aren’t you in a big gallery in a better location, with a much larger selection of prints?”

  Dinah started to reply, but Bain continued. “I’ve read your articles on Jackson Pollock’s and Lee Krasner’s prints—brilliant. And your pieces on young printmakers—artists I don’t know, but would like to—are really good. You should be handling more artists.”

  The waiter brought her wine and his iced tea. Dinah wanted to sip her wine—maybe it would relax her—but she didn’t dare delay replying, given his tendency to override her. “Thank you, I’d like to, but—” she began, but he cut her off before she could complete the sentence.

  “If it’s money, I’ll lend you whatever you need at current interest rates, with a bank as intermediary. As soon as the initial collection at the Print Museum is set up, I plan to give up an active role there, so it wouldn’t be a conflict for me to back a gallery. What do you say?”

  Dinah leaped in. “Well, it’s a little . . . complicated. You see, Jonathan, my husband—he’s my backer and—” Bain interrupted again. She wished he’d let her finish her sentences.

  “He’s a little short of capital? That’s easy to fix. If you’d rather I deal directly with him, I’ll call him.”

  Dinah winced. Jonathan would be furious if he knew Heyward Bain thought he needed money. “Oh, no, nothing like that! No, it’s just he thinks I ought to stay small—”

  “But wouldn’t it help if I talked to him? I’m confident you’re capable of handling a much bigger gallery.”

  Oh, God, Bain mustn’t talk to Jonathan, things were bad enough already. But she might need Bain’s backing, even though she didn’t like the idea of being indebted to another overbearing man. Could he be nervous, his tank-like qualities temporary? Or would it be frying-pan-to-fire if she took his money?

  “Thank you, but I don’t think your talking to him would help. But I do plan to expand, and if Jonathan doesn’t want to finance my expansion, I’ll consider your offer. I appreciate your confidence in me.”

  Bain smiled. “Just let me know. The other matter I wanted to talk about is, well, more delicate.”

  Dinah braced herself. He was going to—what? Proposition her? Tell her he was in love with her?

  Bain crumbled the roll on his bread plate. “It’s about Coleman.”

  She looked up, startled. “Coleman?”

  “I already know a great deal about her. How the two of you were brought up by your grandmother and your aunt. How you went to Miss Dabney’s and then Duke—how Coleman made your clothes and hers out of old clothes—”

  This man was way out of line. She didn’t like being reminded of her poverty. “How in the name of goodness can you know that?”

  Before Bain could reply, the waiter brought their food. Dinah tasted her Cobb salad and put her fork down. It might as well have been shredded cardboard.

  Bain had reduced his roll to stuffing mix. He looked up from the mess he was making and his cheeks flushed. He must have read Dinah’s expression, or noticed she wasn’t eating. “I haven’t been spying on you and Coleman. It’s—well, I have my ways.”

  Dinah considered him. Who was this man? His prying was unmannerly; he was a strange person. But something about him was familiar. “Sometimes you sound almost Southern. It’s not your accent—more the words you use: ‘I have my ways.’ Are you from the South?”

  “I probably pick it up from you. Anyway, I know a lot about Coleman. When she first arrived at Duke, I understand she dated a lot but then she stopped dating, except for a few old friends. Did something happen?”

  Dinah stiffened. Worse and worse. How dare he pry into their intimate affairs? His discussing their homemade clothes was bad enough, but this was beyond impertinent. “I think you know it did. I don’t know how you could possibly know, but if you do, you don’t need me to tell you.”

  “Dinah, I’ve heard the story, but I need to know how it affected Coleman.”

  Dinah now knew he wasn’t attracted to her, and in a way, she was relieved. It certainly made her life less complicated. He was interested in Coleman, and that made sense. Coleman was single, and she was the most attractive woman Dinah knew. “Are you in love with Coleman?”

  He blushed, and shook his head. “I can’t talk about how I feel about Coleman—it’s impossible to explain, at least right now. But I promise you I wouldn’t ask these questions if it weren’t important.”

  Dinah frowned. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I can’t. Please tell me. I swear my interest isn’t frivolous.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that. How do you know as much as you do?”

  “I heard the story indirectly from one of the boys who was there.”

  “I’m surprised you know that sort of person. Why do you need to know more?”

  Bain leaned forward. “I told you. I need to know what it did to Coleman. Do you think it’s because of what happened that night that she’s never married?”

  Dinah shook her head. “No, I really don’t. She quit dating in college because she decided most of the boys weren’t worth her time. But she was around some awful people before she came to Slocumb Corners. She’d stopped trusting men by the time she was five years old. With good reason. And we grew up in an all-woman household. She hardly knew any men after she came to Slocumb Corners—nothing happened to change her mind about men.

  “It was different for me. I never met men, good or bad, so I dreamed about storybook men—I wanted a Prince Charming or a Mr. Darcy to come and rescue me. Anyway, I think Maxwell Arnold and his buddies only confirmed what Coleman already knew: there are some terrible people in the world.”

  Bain frowned. “You think she got over it? That—that episode didn’t—I don’t know—prevent her committing? Ruin her life?”

  Dinah shook her head. “I don’t think Coleman will ever marry. Not because of anything that happened at Duke, but because she has other priorities. She made up her mind a long time ago to dance to music only she can hear. Did she get over that little episode? Oh, yes. Coleman is the most resilient person I’ve ever met. She had to be, living through what she did. Some people are damaged by terrible childhood experiences, others are strengthened. Coleman is very strong.”

  “You keep mentioning the years before she came to live with your grandmother. What can you tell me about her life then?”

  “Oh, if you want to know about that, Coleman will have to tell you. And lots of luck. She never talks about it.”

  They seemed to have nothing more to say, and neither of them wanted dessert or coffee. When they rose to leave, Dinah looked at her barely touched salad, and around the bright room, full of exciting art and people enjoying themselves. Some contrast with her lunch.

  Oh well, it had been interesting. It would be even more interesting to tell Coleman about it, especially Bain’s curiosity about her.

  “I don’t suppose I can persuade you not to tell Coleman what we talked about,” Bain said, as if he’d read her mind.

  Dinah shook her head. “No, you can’t.” She’d tell Coleman everything as soon as they had some private time. But she wouldn’t confess that she’d thought Bain was attracted to her. She felt like a fool, and it would be too humiliating to tell anybody, even Coleman. He must be in love with Coleman. Why didn’t he ask her out?

  Nineteen

  Thursday

  Paris

  Rachel Ransome had finally reached Yvonne Jardin. Jardin, a famous actress since she was twenty and now in her sixties, was still beautif
ul, still imperious, and the former owner of The Midget. She was in great demand socially, but when Rachel hinted that the meeting she proposed would be financially advantageous, Jardin’s calendar miraculously cleared.

  They met for lunch in the dining room of the Bristol Hotel on the Rue du Faubourg. But before they ordered, Rachel explained why she was there. “Yvonne, I paid you far too little for that Lautrec poster. It sold at auction for $1.2 million.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Yvonne asked, the famous velvet voice tight with fury. “Have you come to gloat? I am an actress, not an expert on these matters. I trusted you to treat me fairly because you were Ransome’s friend, and you paid me $30,000 for that print! So much for trust!” Even angry as she was, Yvonne was careful not to frown; Rachel was sure that injections kept her fair brow smooth. Yvonne was as mindful of her beauty as her bank account.

  “I am here to make amends,” Rachel said. “I have brought you a check. I had no idea the print would sell for so much, but you should not suffer for my ignorance.”

  Yvonne curled her lip. “And how much of your profit will you share? For what paltry amount is this check?”

  “You misunderstand me. Ransome’s is giving up its entire profit. We are not taking a commission. We regret that we erred so badly,” Rachel said.

  “Let me see this check.”

  Rachel held it out so that Yvonne could see the amount, but did not release it when the actress reached for it. “I would like you to sign a release. You will understand that I am concerned about the gallery’s reputation. I do not wish anyone to think I would ever cheat a buyer or a seller. If I should unknowingly do so—as in this situation—I make restitution, as you see. I want you to trust me again.”

  Yvonne skimmed through the brief letter Rachel handed her. “Give me a pen,” she said, and signed her name in big, sprawling letters, keeping one eye on the check.