“Fanshawe-Davies told the police that Jimmy was very talented—he’d spotted Homer’s Skating Girl, and knew it for what it was, while most people would have missed it. He said it was a shame La Grange was killed. It was a waste of that ‘rare instinct for recognizing quality.’”
“Yeah, right,” Coleman said.
“I bet they can’t pin the theft of the Rembrandt plates on Simon, either,” Dinah said.
Rob nodded. “I was coming to that. After you left the museum, they had a staff meeting to make sure the plates weren’t in the museum, misplaced somehow. But they didn’t turn up. The people at the Harnett Museum don’t know when or how the plates were stolen. There’s no record of Simon flying to Virginia or renting a car since the museum acquired the plates, and he never telephoned the museum on his cell phone or from the Carlyle.”
Coleman scowled. “I still think he used the Apemen to kill La Grange, and set Chick up to be killed by them. You don’t have to have an alibi if you pay someone else to do the dirty work. But when he mugged me, I’m sure he did it himself.”
“So far we haven’t been able to place the Apemen at either of the murder scenes at the right time, or with weapons at any time, and there’s no evidence that Fanshawe-Davies was involved, other than what he’s told us. And I have to advise you to be careful about what you’re saying, Ms. Greene. As I’m sure you know, you could be sued—”
Coleman interrupted. “Oh, I know. I know nobody believes me, either.”
Dinah started to speak, but Mondelli beat her to it. “Tell me why you’re so sure Fanshawe-Davies mugged you.”
“I know it was Simon, but I can’t explain why. It’s almost as if I recognized him somehow,” Coleman said. “Oh God, the policeman I saw last night said I should make a report today, and I forgot about it. I was in Virginia.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Rob said.
After a moment of silence, Jonathan changed the subject. “Does anybody believe that the Apemen are telling the truth—that they didn’t kill La Grange or O’Reilly? That they didn’t use some kind of weapon? As Dinah said, that implies someone else came along after the Apemen and struck the killing blows after the Apemen had beaten La Grange and O’Reilly—which, frankly, seems fantastic.”
“I agree, it seems improbable, but there’s no getting around the fact that no weapon has been found or seen. Also, the Apemen are known to the Vice Squad, and they confirmed that the brothers don’t use weapons,” Rob said.
Coleman leaned forward, her green eyes bright. “Bethany’s doctor,” she said.
“Of course!” Dinah said.
“What doctor?” Rob said.
Dinah turned to Rob. “Bethany, who works with me at the gallery, saw a doctor on Charles Street the night Jimmy La Grange was killed. She knows exactly when he was there, and she can describe him. She doesn’t know if he was in Jimmy’s building, but he went in one of the brownstones in Jimmy’s row. It was long after one, when you say the Apemen left.”
Mondelli didn’t move, but Dinah thought he seemed more alert, like a bird dog that had picked up a scent. “Did she tell the police?”
“No, they never questioned Bethany. Anyway, she didn’t know where La Grange lived until right before Christmas,” Dinah said.
“And I told my friend with the Times, who passed it on to the cops, but they weren’t interested,” Coleman added.
“About the doctor: how can Bethany remember exactly when it was? That was a couple of months ago,” Mondelli said.
“She kept a diary—she was playing detective—reading a book about how to be a detective. Why don’t I have her call you? You should get the story directly from her,” Dinah said. Mondelli nodded and made a note in his notebook.
“I’ll tell you somebody else you ought to talk to,” Coleman said. “That weirdo what’s-her-name at the Harnett Museum.”
“Goodness yes, Delia Swain. She is strange! She treated us as if we were Martian invaders. I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody who detested both Coleman and me on sight and didn’t bother to hide it,” Dinah said.
Mondelli looked up. “She acted suspiciously?”
“We don’t know. We never laid eyes on the woman before. Maybe she’s always rude and obnoxious,” Coleman said. “She works at the museum. She came uninvited into our meeting with Dr. Parker and jumped on us like a lion on a zebra. Maybe she had something to do with the disappearance of those plates, and was angry that we drew attention to their absence. If it hadn’t been for us, they might not have been missed for months.”
“Okay. I’ll look into that, too,” Mondelli said.
After the door closed behind Mondelli, Coleman stood up, assuming she and Dinah would share a taxi uptown. But Jonathan said, “Coleman, I wonder if you’d excuse Dinah and me? We have some things to discuss.”
Coleman looked at Dinah and raised her eyebrows. Dinah nodded, and walked Coleman to the door. “Thanks for everything, cuz. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Dinah said, smiling.
In the taxi, Coleman thought about Dinah and Jonathan. The lamb had returned to the fold, which was probably good news. Only time would tell. Dinah’s problems with Jonathan were a reminder—not that Coleman needed one—of why Coleman would never marry.
Thirty-Four
Wednesday
New York
Coleman overslept, and awoke aching even more than she had the day before. She raced through her shower and pulled on a black knit turtleneck and matching slacks. The bruises showed above the turtleneck. She knotted a red and black silk scarf around her throat, making sure the marks were covered. She fed Dolly, gulped a cup of coffee, ate some lemon yogurt from the carton, and set off at a fast clip for the office, Dolly bouncing ahead of her.
Coleman usually arrived around six, but it was nearly seven thirty when she stepped off the elevator near the door to ArtSmart’s office. Her absence the day before meant she’d find lots of problems waiting, and she had to finish the piece she was writing about poor Chick for the March ArtSmart. The copy deadline was Friday. It would be a busy day.
She was not pleased to find Zeke and Bethany sitting on the floor in the corridor outside the locked door to the ArtSmart reception area. They were drinking coffee from cardboard cups, reading newspapers, and looked very much at home.
“What in the world—” she began.
“We’re here to check the office for bugs,” Zeke said. He stood up and pulled Bethany to her feet.
Coleman scowled. “Why so early? And why didn’t you call first?”
“I tried to call you last night, but your machine wasn’t on. We’re here early because Bethany has to be at the gallery by ten. Anyway, you were worried about bothering the staff, so we thought early was better.”
“Sorry, Coleman. Should we come back another day?” Bethany said.
Coleman was too busy for this foolishness. But now that they were here, she couldn’t send them away. “No, go ahead, but try and not disturb anyone.”
“We’ll work as fast as we can. But remember, you’ve cleared everyone who works here, right? The only possibility remaining was Chick, and he’s dead. If Chick didn’t do it—and you keep saying you don’t think he did—it has to be someone who doesn’t work here. If so, there’s only one way it could be done: with a listening device. I know it sounds strange, but as Sherlock said, ‘When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
“All right, all right,” Coleman said. “Let’s get it over with.” She unlocked the outer doors and headed towards her office, talking over her shoulder. “Do me a favor, will you? No progress reports. If you find a bug—and I can’t believe you will—tell me. If you finish checking and find nothing, tell me. But no blow-by-blows, okay? I’ve got an enormous amount to do today.” She went in her office and started to close the door, thankful that not many of the staff were in yet. Most of them rarely turned up before nine.
“Wait,” Zeke said. “We’ll check
your office first, and we won’t have to bother you later.”
“Oh, my God! I’ll be in the conference room.” She grabbed a pile of papers from her desk and disappeared down the hall.
A few minutes later Zeke appeared in the conference room door. “Your office is clean,” he said.
Coleman sighed. Zeke was having a wonderful time playing detective. Bethany should have more sense than to fool around with this business, but she looked excited, too. Maybe they did have a future, despite their disparate backgrounds. They could open a detective agency together. Or write detective fiction.
She returned to her office and closed the door behind her. She soon finished her short, sad article on Chick’s career and his contributions to ArtSmart, and had started through the piles of mail and manuscripts on her desk, when her door crashed open.
“How dare you bring Zeke Tolmach and his slut in here to spy on me!” Tammy shouted. “I’m quitting, but not before I tell you how despicable I think you are. You and your damned sneaks can go to hell.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t make so much noise,” Coleman said, covering her ears. “Come in, and close the door. They’ll hear you in Queens. Zeke isn’t spying on you—”
Tammy’s face was beet red. “You’re lying. You can’t deny you’ve been checking up on people here.”
“Yes, to some extent I have,” she said. “I didn’t like having to do it, but—”
Tammy interrupted again, still at the top of her lungs. “And you found out I was leaving, didn’t you? And you pretended not to know, you sly bitch. You’re jealous. Some of us can have marriage and a career—I don’t have to be an old maid like you. You think you’re so terrific. Well, when I’m gone, you’ll see just how much of this magazine I’ve been carrying.” Her voice shook with rage.
“You told me you wanted to keep writing for ArtSmart from Chicago,” Coleman said, struggling to keep her voice level. “I gather that you don’t wish to continue writing for ArtSmart?” She didn’t like being shouted at, and she was appalled by Tammy’s rage. What had she done to incur Tammy’s wrath? She began to recite “If” in her head. “If you can keep your head when all about you…” It was one of her best calming tricks, but it wasn’t working. She was going to lose it, if only she could get a word in.
“You’re damn right! I told you that to buy a little time! I was going to wait another month to tell you to fuck off, but I can’t stand it any longer. I’m leaving today. And, for your information, I’m going to be Senior Editor of the Artful Californian.”
Coleman gave up trying to keep a lid on her anger, and stood up. “Ah! All is explained. You won your new job with my ideas. How long do you think you’ll keep it when your employer learns you don’t have ideas of your own? You haven’t had an original thought since I met you.”
“Oh, really? Ellen Carswell thinks I have good ideas—and with Ellen and me running the Artful Californian, we’ll bury ArtSmart.” Tammy stormed out.
Coleman picked up Dolly and sat down with the little dog in her lap. So Tammy was the spy, and Ellen Carswell the spy mistress. Ellen had certainly fooled Coleman. Coleman was irritated with herself for not seeing through Carswell’s nice girl act, but her strongest emotion was relief. She’d thought from the beginning that Tammy was the most likely person to be the spy, and now that Tammy had confessed, she had one less problem. But Coleman was sad, too. She’d never dreamed that Tammy hated her so much. This, after the attacks by Maxwell Arnold and Simon the mugger. Why was this happening?
Well, she could tell Zeke to drop the de-bugging operation. She was about to go in search of him when he appeared in her office door, Bethany at his side. They were both beaming. Could hearing Tammy’s confession have brought that glow to their cheeks? More likely they’d been canoodling in an empty office.
“Holmes and Watson, I presume,” Coleman said. “Did you hear two-timing Tammy scream her confession? She admitted she’s the leak, and she’s leaving, so the bug detection team can retire.”
Bethany’s smile broadened, and Zeke laughed. “We heard Tammy—who could help it? But we were on our way to tell you: the conference room is bugged,” he said.
Coleman stood up. “You’ve got to be kidding! Tammy admits she was the leak to the Artful Californian. And now you’re telling me there’s a bug besides? Why would the Artful crowd have installed a bug when they had Tammy on their payroll?”
Zeke shrugged. “Maybe there’s another spy.”
“Two spies? I can hardly believe in one. Who else could possibly be interested?”
“Why don’t I ask Tammy?” Zeke said. “After I’ve questioned her, I’ll escort her out and get her keys to the office. She shouldn’t be allowed to take anything. If she’d steal your ideas, she’d steal your property, too.”
“Oh no, I don’t want you and Bethany involved in this. It’s all too ugly, maybe dangerous. Two people are dead, and now this. I’m going to call Mondelli, the guy Jonathan hired to investigate Chick’s death and everything else that’s been going on. He’s a pro, has a police background, he’ll know what to do. Meanwhile, I guess you should keep checking—if there’s one bug in the place, we might have more.”
She called the number Rob had given her the night before. “Rob, it’s Coleman Greene. Could you possibly come to the ArtSmart office right away? One of the staff has gone as crazy as a peach orchard pig. She’s leaving, and could be stealing ArtSmart property, and her departure involves Ellen Carswell. What’s happening here might be a piece of the mess you’re investigating.”
Mondelli arrived in less than twenty minutes. By then Coleman had calmed down and wished she hadn’t called him. She should have been able to deal with this herself. She hated having to ask others for help.
Coleman introduced Bethany and Zeke to Rob, and explained what had just happened.
Rob smiled. “I’m sure you have work to do. Why don’t you go in your office, close the door, and let me handle this?” His voice was gentle, soothing, and comforting.
Coleman looked at Mondelli, and, as if hypnotized, went into her office. The door closed quietly behind her. Before it closed, she heard Zeke speak. “Wow,” he said. “That was awesome. How’d you do that?”
Coleman was as surprised as Zeke was. Why had she followed Mondelli’s instructions without arguing? She didn’t like bossy men, and usually rebelled when they started ordering her around. Mondelli certainly had a way about him. Anyway, he was right. She had work to do.
Rob turned to Zeke. “Is this the device you’re using? Nice equipment, keep at it. Leave anything you find in place, and I’ll look at it later. But before you go back to work, what’s the name of the woman who admits being the leak, and where is she?”
Zeke explained who Tammy was, and pointed out the closed door of her office. Mondelli entered without knocking. “Ms. Isaacs, I’m Robert Mondelli, an attorney representing Coleman Greene and ArtSmart. I’ll escort you downstairs. Don’t take anything but your purse. If you leave any personal belongings here, we’ll deliver them to you.”
Tammy, surrounded by piles of paper, Bloomingdales bags, and file folders, glared at him. “You can’t do this.”
“Watch me. I’m going to empty your purse on the desk. I’ll take your ArtSmart keys and your key card. Do you keep all your ID in your billfold?”
She stared at the floor, and didn’t answer.
“I’m taking your ArtSmart ID, your business cards, this ArtSmart American Express card, and your cell phone,” Rob said. “If the phone turns out to be yours, not the company’s, I’ll return it. Put your other things in your purse, get your coat, and let’s go.”
In the hall outside her office, he locked the door behind them. “Within a few days, you’ll receive a termination agreement from Ms. Greene and ArtSmart. Sign it and return it promptly.
“Your response to my next few questions will influence how we’ll treat your offense. How long have you been giving the Artful Californian ideas? You were giving them, n
ot selling, I assume?”
She nodded.
“For how long?”
“More than a year, since before the Artful Californian started publishing.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Who approached you about working for the Artful Californian?”
“Ellen Carswell.”
“Do you still claim they were your ideas? Remember, we can interview the other writers who were at the meetings when Ms. Greene presented them.”
“No, they were Coleman Greene’s ideas,” she said. “So what? I have plenty of ideas—she just wasn’t interested in any but her own. And Ellen wanted stuff that had already been assigned to ArtSmart writers.”
“Did you bug the place?”
Tammy shook her head. “No, I don’t know anything about any bugs, and I don’t believe there are any. Zeke and his crazy bitch probably made it up. Why would anyone bug the place? The Artful Californian didn’t do it. They were getting everything they wanted from me.”
They rode down in the elevator in silence, and left the building together. He hailed a taxi, and opened the door for her. When she was inside he said, “Ms. Isaacs, I urge you to get a lawyer. I taped our conversation,” he held up a pocket recorder, “and, in any case, I’m told you shrieked your confession loud enough for the entire office—maybe the entire building—to hear. Ms. Greene may decide to take legal action against you.
“One more thing: you should be very careful. Two people involved with the Print Museum, where Ellen Carswell worked until recently, have been killed.”
Thirty-Five
Wednesday
New York
Simon slept late and called room service for croissants and coffee. He had breakfast in bed. The luxurious suite at the Carlyle had been home for months, and he would soon be giving it up. He already felt nostalgic about it. Fortunately, Ellen had tons of money, and he’d make sure she arranged comparable living space for him. And, he had much to look forward to.
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