Restrike

by Reba White Williams

  Rachel and Yvonne did not remain to eat lunch. Yvonne, caressing her handbag where the precious check awaited her attention, made it obvious that she’d like to be alone with her money. Rachel wanted to get back to London.

  In the car on the way to the airport, she lay back against the seat, drained. She longed to return to her studies, to leave the contemporary world to others. But a retreat into her beloved sixteenth century was not possible. The war with Simon had begun.

  Friday

  New York

  Dinah and Bethany made an appointment to look at the space on West Fifty-Seventh, and when Dinah saw it, she fell in love. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, her cheeks flushed, her eyes starry. “But Bethany, where am I going to get the money?”

  Bethany smiled. “Zeke says he’ll lend it to you.”

  Dinah shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to impose on Zeke, and anyway, I don’t think he has that kind of money.”

  “It wouldn’t be an imposition. He told me he’d like to help you. And he has the money. He said it wasn’t a problem.”

  Dinah’s face lit up again. “Really? I’d rather owe Zeke money than just about anybody I can think of—I’ve known him forever, and he’s always been a good friend. What should I do?”

  “Call him, and tell him you appreciate his offer to help.”

  Dinah made the call, and Zeke said he’d have the papers drawn up right away. He’d wire her the money to put a hold on the gallery space. She also called Coleman, who thoroughly approved of the new location, and the loan from Zeke. After talking to Coleman, Dinah was almost able to forget how Jonathan would react when he heard her plans.

  Coleman worked her way through a pile of manuscripts awaiting final editing. Later, needing a change of pace, she looked at her to-do list. “I think it’s time to call MIT,” she said to Dolly. “By noon even the most important professor should be in, right?” She spoke to a series of operators, but when she finally got the right extension, a machine answered: Professor William Laramie was on leave until early January, and couldn’t be reached.

  She cursed silently. She could eat six Snickers bars. She’d take Dolly for a walk, maybe the fresh air would clear her head, and she could forget her candy craving. But when she looked out the window, a mixture of rain and sleet was falling. Dolly would refuse to go out in this. She returned to her desk, and her calendar caught her eye. Oh hell, Thanksgiving was only a week away.

  She preferred to ignore Thanksgiving. She refused all invitations for the feast. “Too much fattening food,” she told Dinah. “I’ll work, and if I eat turkey, it’ll be in a sandwich at my desk.” Holidays made her think about things she’d like to forget. Like eating Thanksgiving dinner in a church community hall, surrounded by the homeless.

  *

  Zeke invited Bethany to his parents’ house on Long Island for Thanksgiving weekend, or for the day if she’d prefer a shorter visit. But she’d said she had to go to North Carolina; everyone in her family came home for Thanksgiving. He’d settled for a dinner on the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving, and she’d requested Italian food. They went to Orso and ate mushroom risotto and drank red wine. While they were eating, he told her about the leak at ArtSmart.

  “I’ve been trying to help Coleman figure it out. It’s a secret from Jonathan, because he’s Coleman’s backer, so she hasn’t told Dinah. But we’re bogged down, and a fresh approach might be useful.” He described the investigation that led to Chick. “But Coleman doesn’t believe it’s Chick, and I sort of agree with her. It just doesn’t fit, somehow. In mystery books, things are black and white, not like this. I love mysteries, and I’ve always thought how great it would be to be Lord Peter Wimsey—”

  “Oh, I do, too! I’d like to be Harriet Vane. I love Lord Peter, and I’ve always wanted to solve a mystery. But tell me again, slower. Maybe I can spot something you missed.”

  He repeated the story, adding details he’d omitted the first time.

  Bethany leaned forward. “And the leaks stopped after Coleman stopped tellin’ the group her ideas?”

  Zeke nodded. “Yep, normally she’d discuss them with the writers—”

  Bethany interrupted. “Could the office be bugged?”

  “Bugged!”

  “Yeah, well, I know it sounds silly, but I’m readin’ this guide to bein’ a detective—it says buggin’ is illegal, but lots of people do it, and detectives should know how to check a place for bugs. And there’ve been a bunch of magazine articles lately about people scannin’ offices for bugs, because there’s so much industrial espionage going on.”

  “Bugged!”

  Bethany laughed. “Oh, Zeke, get over it. It’s not impossible. She could hire somebody to check for her, but wouldn’t it be fun to get the equipment, and do it ourselves? If there’s a bug, the listener is someone outside the office, and the leak isn’t Chick.”

  Zeke shrugged. “Well, yeah, I suppose. But do you think we can persuade Coleman to let us do it?”

  “I think so. She’d like it to be an outsider, somebody who’s not a friend.”

  “Where do you get the equipment?” Zeke asked.

  “Probably lots of places, but there’s a store on West Fourth Street called ‘The Spy Shop.’ I’ve never been in it, but I’ve looked in the window, and they’ve got the stuff.”

  “Let’s check it out when you come back.”

  She beamed at him. “Okay. What should we have for dessert?”

  Twenty

  Dinah and Jonathan spent Thanksgiving Day in Boston, where they shared an elaborate dinner in a private dining room at the Ritz Hotel with his cold, aloof father, his alcoholic mother, his acid-tongued sister, Alice, and a dozen more distant connections. Alice seemed especially vicious this year, and before they sat down to eat, Dinah kept moving around the room to avoid her.

  But she couldn’t avoid Jonathan’s father. As the wife of the son and heir, on these occasions Dinah had to sit beside Father Hathaway. Talking to him was work. She started dreading a Hathaway family Christmas before she’d finished eating her Thanksgiving turkey.

  Chick and David spent Thanksgiving Day with Chick’s family in New Jersey, but before he left for the holiday, Chick wrote a long e-mail to Coleman describing his activities and discoveries in the days before Thanksgiving. He’d found Jimmy’s accountant, who had Jimmy’s financials, but they contained nothing of interest. The accountant said Jimmy had discovered Skating Girl in a thrift shop in Maine. It had been a bargain, but Jimmy had needed—and found—a backer to pay for it.

  The accountant said that Jimmy was sure he was on his way to becoming a real dealer. He wouldn’t tell his accountant who his backer was. He said Jimmy loved being mysterious, acting the big shot. Jimmy, according to the accountant, was just an overgrown kid.

  Chick had tracked down some of Jimmy’s neighbors, and now knew who he was looking for, or at least what they looked like. Several people described the two huge brutes who’d been with Jimmy the night he died. They said that the police thought they were prostitutes, hired through one of the bars; that the tough guys needed a place where they could connect with customers, a place where they could receive messages.

  Chick had put together a list of Greenwich Village bars he planned to visit. He’d slog his way through them till he found someone who knew the men. He’d be in touch.

  Twenty-One

  December

  Months earlier, Dinah and Jonathan had made reservations to go to Canyon Ranch in Arizona for Christmas. They’d invited Coleman to join them, and told her she could bring Dolly. Canyon Ranch welcomed dogs. But Coleman didn’t want to be a third wheel, and she had a lot of work to do, so she decided to stay in New York. She would avoid Christmas parties and catch up at the office. If she had time, maybe she’d design some new clothes.

  She’d made a few Christmas dates, including a holiday drink with Debbi before her friend left for a two-week stay in Florida. They always met at Bemelmans Bar in the Carlyle Hotel. Coleman
was enjoying a Virgin Mary, and Debbi’s vodka on the rocks was waiting on the table when Debbi arrived.

  Coleman grinned, watching Debbi sashay towards the table. Debbi, who didn’t mind being conspicuous, had style. Her orange Brillo hair stood out like a halo, and her big round glasses magnified her heavily made-up eyes. She bought her colorful and original outfits at vintage clothing stores. Tonight she wore a beautifully cut bright red suit in nubby wool, with the briefest of skirts, revealing an amazing amount of leg. Coleman reached out to finger the fabric and raised her brows.

  “Ancient Blass,” Debbi said. “Happy Holidays.” She took a swallow of her drink and put two small packages on the table. “These are from Heyward for you and for Dinah. You can deliver hers, can’t you? You should open yours now.” She looked at Coleman’s black satin jump suit, nodded her approval. “Trendy.”

  “Thanks. I was strolling through Saks looking for ideas, and saw several jumpsuits. They inspired me to try something new.”

  Coleman opened her package. “Wow! They’re fabulous.” She held the big black enamel hoops studded with tiny multicolor stones against her ears. “How do they look?” Bain had probably given Dinah earrings, too, making the gifts seem impersonal business tokens. Oh, well, they were wonderful earrings. Debbi probably selected them.

  “They’re perfect with that outfit.” Debbi searched for a cigarette, seemed to remember she couldn’t smoke here, and reached for a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table. “Well, I’m out of here, thank God, but Simon, Ellen, and Heyward will all be in New York for the holidays. I’ve set Heyward up at dozens of parties. He’ll be seen with models, starlets, all the usual tricks of the trade.” She raised a finger to let the bartender know she was ready for a second drink.

  Bain’s presence in New York wouldn’t make any difference to Coleman. She couldn’t get another interview with him, and he obviously had no interest in seeing her socially. “Maybe I’ll try to get together with Carswell or Simon over Christmas. How do I reach them?” Coleman asked.

  “Simon’s staying here at the Carlyle. You can reach Ellen at the office in Heyward’s house, you have that number. You’d better hurry if you want to interview Ellen. She won’t be around much longer. She plans to stay through the January opening of the museum, but after that, she’ll go about her business.”

  Coleman frowned. “What business? I thought she was Bain’s assistant.”

  “Yes, for getting the museum underway, but that’s not her real job. She owns a company in Chicago called Computer Art Research Services. They did the research for Heyward that led to his establishing the Print Museum. She left an associate in charge of the company and came to New York to help Heyward get started.”

  Coleman’s frown deepened. “You’re kidding! Why didn’t I know that?”

  Debbi shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not a secret.”

  “I guess I misjudged her. She’s not exactly friendly, and she never says anything. I thought she was just a cold, efficient bimbo. I didn’t see her as brainless, just boring. I never thought of interviewing her.”

  “Cool and efficient, yes, but she’s also smart and interesting. You should talk to her. Here, I have a present for you. Open it, and then I’ve got to go. I have a few more stops to make tonight, and I can’t go much longer without a cigarette,” Debbi said.

  “I appreciate your suffering for me as long as you have, but remember, every cigarette you skip probably prolongs your life.”

  Coleman ripped the gold paper, opened the box, and lifted out a filmy sea green scarf, glittering with pale green sequins. “God, this is lovely—thanks! This is for you.” She handed Debbi a shiny green package.

  Debbi tore open the package and held up a vest made of red and gold brocade, patterned with small dragons. The label was Coleman’s. “Fabulous! I’ve always wanted something you designed, and this will remind me of you. No one but you calls me Dragon Lady, thank God.”

  Coleman laughed. When they’d first met, she’d nicknamed Debbi the Dragon Lady because she constantly puffed smoke, and because she wore dark red polish on her long nails—dragon claws. “I didn’t know at the time that your specialty is putting out fires,” Coleman said.

  Simon interpreted Coleman’s call as an invitation to come on to her, and he bragged that he could get them into Le Cirque whenever she wanted to go, despite the crowded holiday calendar. Coleman was so sickened by the conversation, she claimed to be busy at the times he suggested. Fingers crossed, she promised to call him after New Year’s. But Carswell was all business, and they arranged to meet for lunch at the Creedmore Club the following day.

  When they’d ordered, Ellen said, “I’m very pleased that you invited me to lunch. I’ve heard so much about you.” Her voice was low and husky.

  Coleman smiled. “Nice of you to say so.”

  “Not at all. Even before I came to New York I read Art-Smart and admired what you did with the magazine.”

  Ellen’s eyes were light brown, lavishly made up with thick black mascara and brownish eye shadow. Her suit was rust colored—a great color with her red hair—and she wore less jewelry than usual—just a simple gold E on her lapel, and plain gold earrings. Maybe she’d dressed down for lunch at a women’s club—or lunch with a woman. She wasn’t wearing perfume, and she didn’t smoke, or if she did, not enough for the odor to cling to her hair and clothes. Seeing all that eye makeup, Coleman would have expected her to wear an old-fashioned and heavy scent. Tabu, maybe, or Shalimar.

  Coleman gave silent thanks. She detested heavy perfume almost as much as second-hand smoke. “Tell me, how did you meet Heyward Bain?”

  “Through my company in Chicago. Heyward asked us to look for a gap in the art world that he might fill. When he learned there wasn’t a print museum in the United States, he jumped at the idea, and his plans for the project sounded so interesting, I came along to help,” Ellen said.

  “But you’re going back to Chicago to stay?”

  “Yes. My business is there, and my mother lives there, and she’s not very well. Incidentally, I introduced Simon Fanshawe-Davies to Heyward.”

  That was a useful tidbit. “How do you know Simon?”

  “He was considering opening a Ransome Gallery branch in the United States, and trying to decide what its focus should be, so he consulted my company. I thought Simon and Heyward would get along.”

  Did Ellen look amused? At that moment the waitress served their grilled tuna, and Coleman was uncertain of exactly what she’d seen. “Yours is an unusual business. How’d you get into it?” It was a clever concept, and Coleman suspected it had made Ellen rich, that the business—not a lover—paid for Ellen’s clothes and jewelry.

  Ellen said she’d joined a high school drama club and become starstruck. After graduating, she’d moved to New York to study acting, but it hadn’t worked out, she just didn’t have the talent. She’d returned to Chicago, graduated from Northwestern, and then from the University of Chicago Business School. After a couple of computer-related jobs, she’d come into a small inheritance and used it to start her company. She lowered her eyes, toying with her food. “It’s done pretty well,” she said.

  Coleman smiled to herself. Nice understatement, the antithesis of Simon the braggart. She liked Ellen more than she’d expected. “So I’ve heard. Back to the Print Museum: tell me how everything’s going.”

  “Right on schedule. Heyward is organized and efficient, and the dealers, especially Simon, have been immensely helpful.”

  Ellen couldn’t seem to resist bringing up Simon’s name; she dropped it at every opportunity. Maybe they were an item. Coleman decided to push that button and see what reaction she got. “Yes, Debbi’s filled me in on how helpful Simon’s been. He’s sold the most to the Print Museum, especially if you include the works that Bain has asked him to bid for. How do you account for that? Simon’s a newcomer to the print world—he’s moved ahead mighty fast.”

  “Well, he works hard, he’s intelligent,
and he’s very attractive. Don’t you agree?” She was watching Coleman like a chicken eyeing a June bug.

  Coleman pressed harder. “Yes, very. He asked me to have dinner with him at Le Cirque next week.”

  Ellen’s brown eyes narrowed. “How very nice for you. I understand it’s a wonderful restaurant. I haven’t been there.”

  Coleman teased Ellen a little more about Simon before getting back to business, but couldn’t provoke any further reaction. Ellen’s answers to questions about the Print Museum were interesting, though, especially her explanation of the Computer Art Research Services survey for Bain, how the research had been done, and Heyward’s endorsement of the outcome.

  “The only surprise was his decision to open the museum in New York. He could have located it anywhere in the United States, but he was determined to come here,” Ellen said. She offered the information as if it should have special significance, but Coleman didn’t get it: why shouldn’t he come to New York? New York was the art center of the world.

  Bethany arrived at the gallery early every day in December, and settled down to drink her coffee and check out the tabloids until opening time, unless there was something pressing to be done.

  Good Lord, the Star was running a reprise of the Jimmy La Grange story. It emphasized the gory way Jimmy died. It also contained startling new information: Jimmy had lived—and died—in one of the tenements almost directly across the street from Bethany’s building on Charles Street. She shouldn’t be surprised. A lot of people in the art world lived on her block. They couldn’t afford anything better.

  Something tugged at the back of her mind, and she pulled her detecting notebook out of her carryall. There it was: her doctor sighting the early morning of Jimmy’s death. Was the doctor visiting Jimmy’s apartment? Had the old lady who found him called him? Or Jimmy himself?