“Can you describe the mugger, miss?”
“Long hair and beard, and a rough, scratchy coat. That’s all I saw, or felt. But I have a feeling there was something else, something I should remember and can’t.” She rubbed her forehead.
“You get some rest, miss,” the policeman said. “You can make a report tomorrow. Maybe you should see a doctor, too.”
Coleman fed Dolly, took an Aleve, and heated some apple juice to soothe her throat. She was trembling with shock and cold, but she had to change the message on her answering machine. She hoped her hoarse voice sounded sexy, and not as if she’d just been strangled.
“Hi there! I’m a pussycat looking for fun. Pictures would be delicious, and when I’m a bad little kitten, I need punishment. My favorite playmates come in pairs. Want to play?” She prayed no one in her professional life called while the new message was in operation. God forbid Clancy should hear it; there’d be no end to the ribbing.
She took a hot shower, keeping an ear peeled for the phone, and put on the green cashmere robe Dinah had given her for Christmas a year ago, and fleece-lined slippers. She lay down on the sofa, with Dolly, a furry hot-water bottle, snuggled beside her. She’d check some galleys, and she wouldn’t think about the mugging.
A little after midnight the phone rang, and her message played. A gruff voice said, “Hi there, Pussy Cat. We’re the Apemen, and we’re ready and willing. But you gotta put your money where your mouth is if you want photos, and you gotta pay to play rough. You tell us where and when, and we’ll be there. Cash up front, we get two hundred an hour apiece, two-hour minimum, so eight hundred before playing or pictures. Leave a message at Blackbeard’s.”
“Got ’em,” she whispered to Dolly. “These guys must be idiots. I bet they could get in trouble for that little message alone.” She removed the tape from the machine, and replaced it with a new one, but she was too tired and too hoarse to record a new message. She turned the machine off, and put the tape with the Apeman’s message on her bedside table. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Thirty-One
Tuesday morning
Virginia
When the alarm went off, Coleman leaped out of bed before she realized how sore she was. She was a wreck. Groaning, she limped into the bathroom and examined herself in the mirror. She’d have to cover her bruised neck with a turtleneck and a scarf.
She felt better after another hot shower and two cups of coffee. The thought of Chick’s death hovered at the back of her mind, but sad as she was about poor Chick, she was happier than she’d been in months. A few of the clouds hanging over her seemed to be floating away.
She chose a lightweight gray pantsuit—it should be warmer in Virginia, and anyway, they’d be inside—and a white silk turtleneck. She tied a gray-and-blue-paisley silk scarf over the turtleneck and checked her image in the mirror again. No one would know she’d been injured.
“Listen, Dolly,” she said huskily—her throat was still sore, and she was hoarse—“You’ll have to stay here. I’m flying to Virginia, and as much as I hate to say it, you can’t come.”
Dolly stood on her hind legs and stared at Coleman, her eyes pleading.
Coleman melted. “Oh, all right,” Coleman said, “but make so much as a squeak when we’re in that museum, and we’ll probably go to jail. We’ll take a short walk, and then you have to stay in your pouch till we land in Virginia. I’ll call the airline and make your reservation.”
The plane was halfway to its destination before Coleman could tell Dinah about the Apemen or her mugging. Dinah was bubbling over about a letter from Jonathan dropping his opposition to the gallery’s move to Midtown, and Coleman wasn’t able to get a word in.
“He thinks we should live in Midtown, too, so I won’t have to travel back and forth from home to the gallery. He’s being incredibly considerate,” Dinah said, her face glowing.
Coleman doubted that Jonathan could make such a dramatic change so quickly, and she was sure that Dinah would encounter the overbearing, unreasonable Jonathan again. Still, since this particular issue was resolved at least temporarily, Coleman wouldn’t say anything to bring Dinah down. Let her enjoy life with Dr. Jekyll while she could.
She smiled at Dinah. “That’s terrific. I’m really happy for you. Can I tell you my news?”
“Oh, sure. Did Bain call?”
“No, but an Apeman did.” Coleman told her what he’d said, and added, “I left the message tape with my doorman, with the telephone pad from Chick’s desk in an envelope addressed to Jonathan. That pad’s the link that led us to Blackbeard’s and the Apemen. If we can persuade the police to think of Chick’s death as an art-related murder, they might want it. I asked one of the assistants at ArtSmart to have the package picked up and delivered to Jonathan to put in his office safe.”
Coleman pulled the turtleneck aside to show Dinah her bruises. “More news: I was mugged last night. At least, that’s what the police think. But I’m sure it was Simon. I think he tried to kill me.”
Dinah paled. “Are you okay? Why do you think it was Simon?”
“My neck’s sore, but I’m fine. The mugger definitely wasn’t a bum: he didn’t have BO, he didn’t smell unwashed, or like booze or tobacco. He didn’t try to steal my bag or my jewelry. He just choked me. It had to be Simon. Who else could it have been?”
“But why would Simon want to kill you?”
“He must know we’re investigating his connection to La Grange. I’d swear on the Bible it was Simon, but I haven’t got a shred of evidence, and I know nobody will believe me.”
Dinah said nothing, but Coleman knew her cousin didn’t think Simon had been the attacker. Coleman was not surprised. Simon was revolting, but he was too effete to come across as a mugger.
“Do you remember that professor at MIT Marise told you about—the one who taught a child genius whose name was Heyward Bain?” Dinah said.
Coleman made a face. “Sure, my big lead—a dead end.”
“A researcher at Jonathan’s office came up with the same story and Jonathan used Hathaway pull to get in to see him yesterday. It was our Heyward, and when he was a kid he invented all this anti-smoking, anti-tobacco stuff—that’s where his money came from.”
Coleman took out her notebook. “Funny how confidentiality goes out the window when a Hathaway calls. May I use that in my story about Bain for the magazine?”
“Jonathan didn’t say it was a secret, but you better ask him. The other thing he told me was that Heyward had to have all that security because of threats from the tobacco kings. He’s given a lot of money to anti-smoking causes, as well as inventing the stop-smoking stuff. They see him as an enemy.”
Coleman frowned. “Good Lord! Given his problems with security, I wonder why he wanted all that publicity at Christmas? Why did he come to New York and hire Debbi? Or start the Print Museum? That doesn’t jibe with being threatened or in fear for his life. Nothing about that man makes any sense.”
At the little regional airport that served Harnett College, Dinah dealt with Hertz while Coleman walked Dolly in a nearby grassy area. The weather was clear and balmy, the temperature in the high fifties. Chick’s murder, the Apemen, and Simon seemed much further away than the few hundred miles they’d flown from snowy New York.
Still, this part of the country had its own special dangers: it was Arnold territory. The family plantation was less than twenty miles from the airport, and the headquarters of Arnold Tobacco even closer.
As if thinking of him had summoned him, like an evil genie, Maxwell Arnold appeared.
“How’s Miss Ida’s granddaughter, the iceberg? I always knew you’d come back to Dixie to get what you always wanted.”
Dolly, who’d been sniffing the grass and enjoying the unfamiliar smells, bared her sharp little teeth and growled. Arnold looked down at the little dog. “Shut that bitch up, or I’ll kill her,” he said, tensing as if to kick Dolly.
Coleman’s residu
al anger about the attack of the night before surged up and joined a tidal wave of fury at Arnold. How dare this monster threaten Dolly?
She leaned over and grabbed the dog. “Help!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, ignoring the pain in her throat. “Help! Help! Help!” Dolly, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, loosed her glass-shattering bark. Everyone in the car rental area looked their way, and rushed across the grass to assist her, Dinah among them.
“I’m coming, Coleman!” Dinah yelled.
A uniformed security guard idling on the sidewalk outside the arrival area trotted towards them, pulling his gun out of its holster. Arnold saw the guard, shook his fist at Coleman, and sprinted for the car park.
Coleman, surrounded by worried faces, cuddled and stroked Dolly. The little dog was trembling with fright and anger. Coleman wished the security guard had shot Maxwell Arnold, but she remembered she was back in the South and a ladylike reaction would be expected of her. She glanced at Dinah, and whispered huskily in a heavy Southern accent to the group who gathered around her, “I’m so sorry for makin’ such a fuss. He scared me. He was so big, and he said—he said—he’d kill my dog.” She covered her eyes with one hand, holding Dolly close with her other arm.
The crowd buzzed like a swarm of angry yellow jackets. Threatening that little blonde girl and that precious little dog. What was the world coming to?
“Anyone recognize him?” the guard asked.
“I certainly did,” said a well-dressed portly gentleman. “It was Maxwell Arnold. That vicious cad should be in jail. This isn’t the first time he’s threatened a young lady. It’s time someone did something about him. I’m going to call the governor.”
“This is my cousin,” Dinah told the guard and the crowd. “I’ll take care of her. Thank y’all so much for your help. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.” Dinah sounded even more Southern than Coleman. She put her arm around Coleman and led her towards the car. The crowd dispersed, but the security guard followed them.
“Did he touch you, miss?” he asked.
“No, no, just scared me,” Coleman whispered.
“I wish we could charge him with something,” the guard said. “He’s a real bad guy.”
“I know you’ll do everything you can,” Coleman whispered. “We surely thank you, suh.”
In the car at last, with Dinah driving rapidly towards Myrtle, Virginia, Coleman was quick to snap back from the encounter with her old enemy, but she was feeling the strain of her shouting, and sucked one of the peppermint lozenges she’d taken from Chick’s office. The familiar scent, so evocative of Chick’s presence, nearly brought tears to her eyes. She sat up straight and turned to Dinah. “Maxwell was waiting for us. How did he know we’d be here? Someone at the Harnett Museum must have told him.”
“Or someone at ArtSmart?” Dinah said.
“No one at the office knows where I am. I left word I’d be out all day, reachable on my cell phone. I’d think Maxwell Arnold was my New York mugger, if I weren’t so sure it was Simon. God, I can’t believe I’ve been threatened twice in less than twenty-four hours. It’s hard to believe two people hate me that much.”
“I started to suggest that the mugger could be Maxwell Arnold, but you seemed so sure it was Simon—”
“Maxwell was scary today. Maybe I should carry mace or hairspray or something. I feel like I’m surrounded by nuts.” She looked out the window at the passing landscape, mostly pine trees, and took out her cell phone. “I can’t sit here doing nothing. I’m going to call Clancy.
“Clancy? Coleman here. I have some information for you. I’m pretty sure the killers the police are looking for call themselves the Apemen and hang out at Blackbeard’s on Christopher Street.”
“Thanks, Coleman. I’ll pass it on to the police and to the right people here. I owe you,” Clancy said.
“Let me know how it comes out. I’m out of town today. Leave a message for me at the office, or e-mail me. If you get a story out of it, you can take me out to dinner, and I get to pick the restaurant.”
“You got it. Thanks again.”
“That should do it,” Coleman said. “With the New York Times on the case, the police will have to check out the Apemen. If they arrest them for killing La Grange, they’ll get them for Chick’s death, too.”
“Do you think Simon’s involved with the Apemen?”
Coleman nodded. “I’m sure of it, but if I can’t prove it, he’s going to get away with everything. Right now it looks as if we can prove he did anything—and that’s doubtful—it’ll be some kind of art fraud. But even Simon’s not as bad as Maxwell Arnold. He pollutes this whole area by living here. I’ll be glad to get away from this part of the world.”
“He comes to New York, too, and he doesn’t ‘pollute’ it. He can’t ruin New York or the South for me. If I could persuade Jonathan, I’d buy a house near Wilmington.”
“Go right ahead. But I’m not coming to visit,” Coleman said.
Dinah laughed. “You may have to. Since I’m your boss, I might decide to make you come south for a meeting.”
Coleman scowled at her. “What do you mean? Just when did you get to be my boss?
“Well, after I got his letter last night, I called Jonathan, and asked him about the ownership of ArtSmart. I didn’t mention your spy, of course. He says I’m the owner of our interest in your magazine. He put it in my name when we married. Apparently I signed all the papers. He said you and I knew all about it. I don’t think he told us—he probably didn’t think it was that important—but we wouldn’t have forgotten. He says the agreement is standard, and investors hardly ever intervene in the management of a company unless the manager gets arrested, or something. You don’t have to worry about that any more, unless you plan to go to jail. And even then, I wouldn’t take ArtSmart away from you.”
Coleman took a deep breath and let it out. “Well, that’s one problem I can forget about. I wish I’d had the gumption to ask Jonathan about it a long time ago—I’d have saved myself some worries. When I think how I’ve stewed over the spy, scared to death of losing ArtSmart. Poor, poor Chick. I feel worse than ever about him. That reminds me, I owe Zeke a call.”
She picked up her cell phone again. “Hey, Zeke, how are you?”
“Coleman, I know you won’t want to do this, but I think you ought to have the ArtSmart offices checked for bugs,” he said.
Coleman rolled her eyes. “Hold on, I want to put you on speaker. Dinah’s with me. She’ll want to hear this. Now start over.”
“Hi, Dinah! Well, it was Bethany really. I told her about your leak and she suggested maybe ArtSmart’s office is bugged. We talked about it before Christmas, but I kept thinking the problem might get resolved. Then the holidays shut everything down, and Chick died. If there’s a bug in the office, it would clear him. So we were thinking of checking the office for listening devices. What do you say?”
“Don’t you think it will upset the staff?”
“After Chick’s murder, why should a little thing like having somebody sweep for bugs bother anybody? We thought you’d want to prove Chick wasn’t the spy. You’ve always said it couldn’t be him. Maybe you’re right. As Reginald Hill wrote, ‘Elimination is the better part of detection.’ ”
“Would it be very expensive?”
“Well, I’m kind of interested in the process, and the truth is, Bethany and I’d like to do it so it won’t cost anything,” Zeke said.
“I suspect it’s a waste of your time and money, but go ahead if you want to. I can see you’re well on your way to becoming a detective,” Coleman said.
“Don’t laugh. I’m so bored with the newsletter, I might become a detective. We’ll get on it right away.”
After Coleman hung up, Dinah said, “The office being bugged would never have occurred to me.”
“Me either. But I’d never have dreamed Chick would be killed. I’ll do everything I can to learn what’s going on, no matter how ridicu
lous it seems.”
They passed through two stone pillars to reach the grassy, tree-lined Harnett College campus. The museum, not far from the campus entrance, was a modern one-story red brick building. When Coleman told the guard at the desk in the lobby that Dr. Parker expected them, he spoke briefly on the telephone, and a tall, fortyish woman in a dark blue dress, her fair hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, came out to greet them.
“I’m Jane Parker. Welcome to the Harnett College Museum. Come on in, I’ll get the Rembrandt plates out. We keep them locked up, of course.”
Dr. Parker left them in a study room to wait while she fetched the plates, but when the door opened a few minutes later, a different woman appeared. She looked to be in her early twenties and was extremely pretty, with shiny brown hair and big brown eyes. Coleman couldn’t believe the powder pink twinset and skirt, the perfectly matching lipstick and nail polish. The girl was a 1950s throwback.
“I’m Delia Swain,” she said. “I handle press and public relations for the college and the museum. Which one of you is Coleman Greene?”
Coleman raised her eyebrows: the pink magnolia’s words were innocuous, but despite her syrupy Southern accent, her tone and manner were rude.
“I’m Coleman, and this is my cousin, Dinah Greene.”
Delia sat down at the table and, ignoring Dinah, stared at Coleman. “Are you writing about the plates?”
“No, not necessarily,” Coleman said. “ArtSmart is doing an article about the Print Museum, and the museum recently acquired an impression of Sleeping Kitten. We thought it would be interesting to see the plate for the print.”
Ms. Swain raised her eyebrows. “Really? The two of you flew all the way down here just for that?”
She sounded skeptical. Coleman didn’t blame her. She wished she’d thought of a better explanation for their visit, but she wasn’t expecting an inquisition. She was relieved when Dr. Parker, carrying a metal box, returned.
“Y’all have met, I see,” Dr. Parker said. She unlocked the box, and opened it. It was lined with fabric, and the plates were in individual brown envelopes, labeled with the name of the print made from the plate.
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