Restrike

by Reba White Williams

  After breakfast, pleased with life and with himself, he took a cab to 110th Street and Broadway.

  She was waiting for him in the back of the coffee shop on the corner in what they’d come to think of as their booth. She was gorgeous, delicious, fabulous. He sat down opposite her. “Black coffee,” he said to the waiter, and turned back to her with a smile.

  “Did Ellen get off all right?” she asked.

  He added sugar to his coffee, and took a sip. “Oh, yes. We’ve spoken on the phone several times, and all is well with Ellen.”

  “I’m going to be here a week,” she said, and puckered her lips, as if for a kiss.

  “I know, my dear Kestrel. What would you like to do tonight?” He smiled, longing to touch her hand, her hair, to kiss her, but that was against the rules. He could do none of those things in public. He stepped out of a Gucci loafer and rubbed his stockinged foot against her leg.

  “You know exactly what I’d like to do.” Her voice was low and throaty, and her eyes widened as his foot moved up her leg. “I can’t get enough of you. Every time I’m near you, I want you.”

  “Where, then? Not at the Carlyle, of course.” It was important that he and Kestrel avoid being seen together.

  “I took a room in Soho. It’s the kind of place you like—very decadent. Here’s the address.” She handed him a card. “Why don’t you bring food and drink? We don’t want to go out, do we?” Under the table, she rubbed her foot against his.

  “Not at all. And we don’t want to talk business tonight. Bring me up to date.” He continued the movement of his silk-covered toes. He’d never met anyone who enjoyed sex as much as Kestrel.

  “Well, for a while we stopped getting much out of ArtSmart—Ms. Greene has been holding her cards very close to her chest—but I’ve made some alternative arrangements. Taking over ArtSmart is essential to our plans. But best you know nothing, dear one. Did you hear Her Highness Coleman Greene was mugged?” She was crumbling her blueberry muffin into tiny pieces. Her breathing had quickened and her lips were parted. She was hot, but he could tell that she was also excited about Coleman’s injuries. Kestrel hated Coleman and her cousin Dinah.

  “Good God, no! When? How? Was she badly hurt?”

  “I don’t know the details. It happened Monday night. I don’t think it was serious. Are you worried about her?” He could see that she was annoyed that her news hadn’t thrilled him. She was jealous of Coleman Greene. He’d leave her now. He wanted her on edge, hungry.

  “Of course not. Just curious. I’ll see you tonight, Kestrel. Unless there’s anything else?” He slipped his foot back in his loafer and smiled at her.

  “I look forward to our meeting,” she said.

  Simon took a taxi to the Metropolitan Museum at Eighty-Third and Fifth and walked the few blocks south to the Carlyle, enjoying the clear crisp day, the bright blue sky. He’d miss Manhattan when he was living in California, but he’d be back often. He’d never give up the joys of New York, no matter how many attractions California offered.

  He stopped at the desk to collect his mail and messages. Manning, Rachel’s pet poodle, was trying to reach him—probably to nag him about money. He’d like to ignore the call, but Rachel could always cut off his allowance, and pathetic as it was, he couldn’t do without it. But he’d postpone calling Manning. He had a more important call to make. He was ready to invoke the criminal clause in his agreement with Rachel. Ransome’s would soon be his.

  In his suite, he dropped his mail on the desk and glanced at his watch. It was late afternoon in Paris, a perfect time to reach the person he wanted. He sat down at the desk and placed the call.

  “Good evening, Madame Jardin,” he said in his rich, plummy voice. “I understand that you recently sold a Lautrec poster, The Midget, to the Ransome Gallery for $30,000. Did you know Ransome’s sold it at auction in the United States for more than a million dollars? You were cheated out of a great deal of money.”

  “You are misinformed, monsieur,” she said, her beautiful voice icy. “I asked the Ransome Gallery to dispose of the poster for me, and I received the full amount of the sale. Good evening.” She hung up.

  Simon, four thousand miles away, was stunned. Why was this woman lying? No one knew better than he that she wasn’t telling the truth. Should he question Rachel? Raising the topic of the Lautrec with Rachel would be no joy. She’d been furious when she’d heard how he’d sold it, and at what price. He’d managed to shut her up by telling her that Yvonne Jardin would blame Rachel—of course! That was it! Rachel had reimbursed Jardin. Damn, damn, damn! She’d managed to wriggle out of the trap he’d set.

  He’d better call the gallery. He punched in the familiar Ransome Gallery number and asked for Miss Manning.

  When she answered, he was deliberately rude. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “Mrs. Ransome has asked me to inform you that it has been necessary to cut expenses. The country house, the cars, the horses are being sold. And the flat. All staff who don’t work for her or for the gallery have been dismissed.”

  She’d hung up before he could respond. This was terrible. Rachel had every legal right to dispose of the properties, of course. They were all owned or leased by the Ransome Gallery, and she was the majority owner of the gallery. But Rachel had always consulted him about such decisions, and after all, everything she was selling, he used. He was angry, but he was also frightened.

  He dialed Rachel’s private number.

  “Rachel, what’s this I hear? How dare you sell—?”

  “Do not say another word,” she interrupted. “I know about the Dürers. I have proof that you stole them. Our partnership is ended. I am invoking the criminal clause, and you are—or soon will be—wanted by the police.” She hung up.

  Beads of sweat dampened Simon’s forehead. She was bluffing. She couldn’t have proof. That was impossible. But she must have something. By now, Rachel would have gone through his flat. Oh, hell, she’d have found his copy of The Record. Why hadn’t he brought it with him? He had a duplicate in California, but he’d rather she hadn’t learned that he’d copied it. He had plans for The Record, and she might interfere. Still, she wasn’t likely to anticipate what he had in mind. She never took her head out of her books.

  He had to calm down. He took a Xanax and drank a hefty slug of scotch. Within minutes, he felt in control again. How much money had he? He began to calculate. Luckily most of his money was in Ellen’s name, where Rachel couldn’t find it. The company was safe—it, too, was in Ellen’s name. He even had a little money tucked away for his secret pleasures. Not even Ellen knew about that nest egg.

  The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Rachel couldn’t have evidence against him—nothing solid, nothing that would give her the ability to invoke the criminal clause. He’d planned for every contingency.

  He poured himself another drink and sat down. He should call his lawyer, but more important, he needed to come up with another way to get rid of Rachel: that should be at the top of his to-do list. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, considering possibilities.

  Thirty-Six

  Wednesday evening

  London

  Rachel stood up, her hand gripping the receiver so tightly her knuckles were white. “Please repeat that, Mr. Quincy. I cannot have understood you properly.”

  “Well, as I explained, Lord Gresham—he owns the Baldorean collection, after all—thinks—and he spoke to others—very important people, all concerned with museums—who agree with him—that the Baldorean situation should be handled quietly. It’s Lord Gresham’s hope that Heyward Bain will return the Dürers to the Baldorean, and that Bain will try to get his money back from Fanshawe-Davies privately, without attracting the attention of the press. I told Lord Gresham that Fanshawe-Davies had not deposited the money in the gallery accounts, and that we’ll cooperate with Bain in his—uh—endeavors. He hopes that Bain will not prosecute. Lord Gresham will not.”

 
; “How do you know Bain is not involved? And are you saying that Simon will walk away from this unpunished?” Rachel said.

  “There’s no reason to think that Bain knew the Dürers were stolen, or that he was a party to the theft. As for Fanshawe-Davies, if we can prove that he stole the Dürers, he will lose a great deal,” Quincy said.

  “If no one will prosecute Simon, how can I invoke the criminal clause in the partnership?”

  “If we have sufficient proof of his criminal activity—evidence that would stand up in court if presented—we’ll be able to invoke the criminal clause. But those who could prosecute him will not do so. Publicity about this kind of theft inevitably attracts imitators. We could have a rash of thefts in private museums and country houses all over England. Remember, it would mean bad publicity for Ransome’s, too.”

  “I would risk the publicity. Simon should not be allowed to walk away from this. I want him in prison,” Rachel said.

  “Oh, but Mrs. Ransome, you want vengeance, and that’s not what the law is about.”

  “Nor is it about justice,” she said. She hung up the telephone and began to consider her options. She was determined to rid herself of Simon. He had become a major liability.

  Wednesday afternoon

  New York

  From: Rob Mondelli

  To: Coleman Greene, Dinah Greene,

  and Jonathan Hathaway

  Subject: Simon’s Alibis

  Simon has an alibi for Monday night and couldn’t have been your mugger, Coleman. He was on Heyward Bain’s plane returning from Santa Fe, and arrived at Teterboro airport around two a.m. Tuesday. The police questioned Bethany. Her sighting on the night La Grange died was between 2:20 and 2:40, so the doctor could have been the person who struck the fatal blows. Simon has an alibi for that night, too. He claims he spent the night with Ms. Carswell, and she has confirmed it.

  Coleman was re-reading the e-mail when Dinah telephoned. “Can you believe it? They’re lovers after all. I never thought they were. It still seems incredible,” Dinah said.

  “I’m not as astonished about that as I am that he has an alibi for my mugging. I was positive he did it,” Coleman said.

  “Since it couldn’t have been Simon, something about the mugger must have been Simon-like, or reminded you of Simon,” Dinah said.

  Coleman slapped the desk in front of her. “Yes! That’s it! It was that weird scent of his—the mugger reeked of it! I’m going to call Rob right away.”

  “I remember that horrible scent. It’s unmistakable. I can see why you thought it was Simon, but some other idiot must wear it. Rob wants to meet again this evening. Are you free at six? Can you come to Cornelia Street?”

  “Yes, sure. Are you permanently back in residence?”

  Dinah laughed. “So far, so good. We’re still working out the details, but I think it’s going to be okay.”

  Coleman remained skeptical—she had known a number of Jonathan-types, and none of them were capable of learning new tricks—but it was Dinah’s business. “Whatever you say, dear heart. See you tonight.”

  Coleman punched in Rob’s number. “Rob? Thank you for this morning. It’s a relief to have that woman out of here.”

  “I was pleased to be of service,” he said.

  “I’ve remembered why I was so sure Simon mugged me: he wears this peculiar perfume, maybe an aftershave, and my mugger wore it, too.”

  “Do you know anything about the scent? The name or where he gets it?”

  “Not a thing, except I don’t like it. It smells like dead grass or hay, or something like that.”

  “Okay. I’ll look into it. Will I see you later on Cornelia Street?”

  “Oh sure, I’ll be there,” Coleman said.

  “Would you like to have dinner afterwards?”

  Coleman was speechless for a moment. Then, “Oh—uh—sure, that’d be great,” she said.

  “Do you know Leopard? Where Café des Artistes used to be?” Rob said.

  “I haven’t been there, but I’ve heard it’s great.”

  “Okay, we’ll go there. See you at six. But if you have any problems between now and then, call me. I can be in your office in half an hour or less,” Rob said.

  His invitation had caught Coleman by surprise. She hadn’t thought of going out with Rob. But why not? He was intelligent, not bad looking. She’d disliked him initially, but he’d acted okay since they’d met again. And just because she was interested in someone else didn’t mean she couldn’t have dinner with Mondelli, especially when that someone else had never even called her, never mind asked her out.

  But dinner was hours away. She stared at the piles of paper on her desk, wondering how she was going to cope. She was killing herself trying to keep up. She should have hired another writer long ago. Now she was short two writers, not counting the one she’d planned to hire before Chick died and Tammy left.

  Bethany had a cousin in North Carolina who sounded good and was interested in the job, but she wouldn’t be available for a couple of months. Coleman would just have to keep looking, and meanwhile use freelancers. She sighed and began to sort through the papers on her desk.

  Her cell phone rang. It was Zeke, asking if they could get together.

  Coleman groaned. “Is this about the bug? I thought we were through with that.”

  Zeke laughed. “No, nothing to do with the bug. I want to talk about ArtSmart, but I’d rather do it in person.”

  She’d have liked to put him off, but Zeke had listened to her problems when she needed him, even though he’d been busy. “Would you mind coming here? I’m swamped. I’m up against deadlines. But I can always take a coffee break. If this won’t take too long?”

  “No, not long. When should I come?”

  “Now, if you like.”

  Coleman looked again at the stacks of paper on her desk. Fifteen minutes with Zeke wouldn’t matter. She’d be here all night anyway.

  She’d read only two pages when the receptionist announced Zeke’s arrival. She went out to greet him, Dolly at her heels.

  Zeke sat down in her guest chair and passed her a cardboard Starbucks cup. “Cheers,” he said. “I’m here on business. I’d like to work for you.”

  “My stars! Doing what?”

  “I’d merge Print News into ArtSmart. You’d get a mailing list and me and a couple of clerical people—we could let them go if you don’t need them. I’d write all your print stories, and any other assignments you give me, plus a monthly piece or at least an occasional story, on art scams. I’d like to work closely with IFAR—the International Foundation for Art Research—as you know they track art thefts—their stuff is interesting, and no one is covering it. Anyway, I think I have a lot to offer,” he concluded.

  Coleman considered him. Zeke’s proposal seemed too good to be true. But she probably couldn’t afford him, and she didn’t want to buy Print News, if that’s what he had in mind. “What would you expect to make?” Coleman asked.

  “To begin with, whatever you paid Chick, and I’d like to buy stock in the magazine, if you’re willing to sell.”

  Glorious heavens, he wanted to put capital in Art-Smart, and he’d work for much less than she’d expected. Zeke was turning into the Greene family banker. “I think that sounds like a good deal for me, but not so great for you. Why do you want to do it?”

  “I’m bored and restless. I’m tired of Print News. I need a change and a challenge. I’ve watched what you’ve accomplished here, and I’d like to be a part of it. You’ve made ArtSmart the best art magazine in town, fun and exciting.” He paused, looking sheepish, and added, “I’ve been in a rut for a long time, and carrying a lot of old baggage. But I’ve developed new interests, and I feel like a new person.”

  Coleman smiled. “I’ve noticed one new interest. What does Bethany think about your working here?”

  “It was her idea. I wouldn’t have thought of it—just not smart enough, I guess. But I leaped into action when she suggested it. She know
s how bored I’ve been, and she’s a great fan of yours,” Zeke said.

  “Frankly, Zeke, you’re the answer to my prayers. I was feeling at the end of my tether. There’s so much to do, and I’m so far behind. When could you start?”

  Zeke looked at the piles of paper on her desk and grinned. “How about now?”

  “You’ve got a deal. I’ll show you to Chick’s office. His partner came in yesterday and cleaned it out. It’s all yours. Here’s a stack of manuscripts to go over—they’ve been edited, but they need a final look by an educated eye. That’s you. I’ll get the lawyers working on the agreement and tell Jonathan you’ll be in touch to set up an appointment to talk about stock.”

  Coleman escorted him to Chick’s office, which had been stripped of his belongings and personality. It was just an empty room, but it still smelled faintly of peppermint.

  “Did you ever find out what was on Chick’s mind?” Zeke asked.

  Coleman sighed. “Yes. David told me when he came in to clear out Chick’s office. David wanted to move to California—his family’s there, and he thought his career prospects would be better. Chick thought it was disloyal to me to even consider it.”

  “He was a good friend to the end. You can count on me, too,” Zeke said.

  She smiled. “I know I can. Thanks, Zeke.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Wednesday evening

  New York

  “Well,” Rob said, “we started off with the hypothesis that Simon Fanshawe-Davies might be a thief, could have been involved in two murders, and was probably a mugger. But he’s alibied by Ms. Carswell for La Grange’s murder, Bain alibis him for Coleman’s mugging, and he was clubbing with a large group when O’Reilly was killed. We can’t tie him to the theft of the Rembrandt plates—we have no clues as to how or when they were taken—and there’s nothing to suggest Simon has ever been anywhere near the Harnett Museum.”

  Coleman, seated opposite Rob, groaned to herself. Simon Fanshawe-Davies was slippery as a water moccasin.