Restrike

by Reba White Williams

  “We’ll look into it,” Rob said. “There’s another question: where’s the money? You bought at auction—with Simon bidding for you—the Dürers, the Rembrandt, the Lautrec, and the Homer. The checks for the Homer and the Lautrec hadn’t been sent out when Jimmy was killed, so they’ve been held up. But the other auction houses mailed the checks to box numbers rented in Jimmy’s name. They’ve also been endorsed in Jimmy’s name—forgeries, of course—and the checks have been cashed. So someone has the money. But who? Obviously, you can’t recover the money you paid for the Dürers and the Rembrandt unless they can find it.”

  Coleman leaned forward. “There are lots of unanswered questions, but we may be about to get some answers. Dinah and Jonathan are going to London tonight. Rachel Ransome wants to talk to them about Simon, and she warned Dinah that she thought I could still be in danger.”

  Rob frowned. “Did she explain why?”

  “She wouldn’t say anything on the phone.” Coleman turned to Bain. “I can’t go to London—I have too much work to do—but Dinah and Jonathan wanted to know whether you and Rob will join them.”

  Rob shook his head. “If you’re not going, I’ll stick around. I think you need me here.”

  “I’ll go with Jonathan and Dinah,” Heyward said.

  Coleman smiled to herself. Heyward Bain certainly didn’t act as if he were in love with her, never mind what Dinah said. Rob, on the other hand…but maybe Rob saw guarding her as part of his job? No matter, it was comforting having someone thinking about her safety. The mugging, the encounter with Maxwell, Tammy’s furious attack, and Chick’s death had shaken her more than she would admit to anyone, even Dinah. Having Rob around was like having a big warm St. Bernard watching her back.

  Coleman and Zeke shared an early Chinese take-out lunch in Coleman’s office, while they plotted how to use the bug to trap The Listener.

  “I have a lot of ideas I can never use because they’re too way out, too dangerous, and they’d make us too many enemies,” Coleman said. “I thought we might pass them on as stories we’ve decided to run. If it’s the Artful crowd listening in, maybe they’ll be dumb enough to use them.”

  “You think the bug was installed by the Artful Californian people?” Zeke asked.

  “Yes. I think they put it in when I stopped telling the staff my ideas, and Tammy wasn’t coming up with anything they could use.”

  “Wouldn’t they have told Tammy about the bug?”

  “Who’d tell her? Never trust a traitor,” Coleman said.

  She stacked the empty food cartons and put the used plates and plastic utensils in the wastebasket. She tossed Dolly—who had watched her every bite—a piece of raw carrot she’d brought from home. Dolly retreated to her basket to gnaw her treat.

  “What stories should you and I discuss in the conference room?” Zeke asked.

  Coleman grinned. “We’ll do an ‘Arts Climb,’ the worst examples we’ve encountered of social climbing in the art world. We’ll talk about them as truly imaginative steps, as if we admire these people. I’ll tell you some, you take notes and organize the material, and then we’ll go through it again for the tape. We’ll work out a little script.” She leaned back in her chair.

  “Let’s see. The funeral as social event. A Wall Street mogul—let’s call him the Squeaking Head—whose art collecting activities opened a lot of doors to him, but not as many as he’d expected, was leaving his office to attend the funeral of a member of a prominent family, when a business associate said to him, ‘I didn’t know you knew the Engleharts.’

  “‘I don’t,’ said he, ‘but it’s an important funeral at which to be seen. Rockefellers will be there.’”

  Zeke was wide-eyed. “No, not really! Can you imagine pushing your way into the funeral of somebody you don’t know?”

  “Wait: the most unattractive couple in New York—I call them Tank and Dank—take turns promoting each other. He approached the president of a New York college and offered to buy Tank an honorary degree. He opened the bid at $50,000 and kept raising it. The president—someone I know well, he’s a honey and top drawer—told me he practically had to shove Dank out of his office.”

  “Wow!”

  “And there’s the place-card shuffle. There are two women in art circles who are notorious for that—let’s call them Missy and Prissy—they go to parties early and sneak into the dining room to rearrange the seating, making sure they’re in the best places . . .”

  Zeke was laughing. His laughter was so infectious that Coleman joined in, despite herself. She’d never found these people amusing—more like disgusting—but Zeke was right to laugh at them. People kept telling her to lighten up. Maybe Zeke—and Rob?—would help make it happen.

  “Wait, wait,” Zeke sputtered. “What will we call these people? We won’t use their real names, will we? Or the names you just gave them?”

  “We’ll give them thinly disguised names, so even the Artful dopes will know who they are. If they’re the idiots I think they are, they’ll use the names we give them, or even their real names. If Tammy is a sample of their brain power, I’m sure they’ll take the bait. Carswell’s smart, but she must turn the magazine over to morons while she concentrates on the Chicago company.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Thursday

  Simon slept until nearly two, but even so, he woke feeling jaded. Kestrel was a ferocious and demanding lover. He’d been up until nearly three satisfying her rapacious appetite. He didn’t know how he’d manage without Viagra. And now there was this other pill—the one that advised you to call a doctor if you kept an erection for four hours. Not a chance: he’d call Kestrel.

  He ordered breakfast and glanced through his messages while he waited for room service. Ellen. He’d call her as soon as he’d had his coffee. It was important to keep her happy. And my God—a message from Owl, from a 212 number. What was he going to do with her in New York when Kestrel was here? He wasn’t sure he had the stamina to deal with both of them.

  There’d be hell to pay if Ellen found out about his relationships with Owl and Kestrel. He shuddered at the thought. He was going to have to marry Ellen, and probably soon, too. Marriage was the only way he could protect himself financially. Ellen had her own special sexual tastes and inclinations. They were a part of his hold over her. But her sexual desires were so much less athletic than those of Kestrel and Owl. Sex with Ellen was downright restful.

  Kestrel had taken her sexual model from The Story of O. He’d never heard of the book until she gave it to him—it had been published in the 1950s, well before his time. Because of it, Kestrel had a hankering for being whipped, which he found too tedious for words. But he liked some of the other tricks she’d picked up from the book. She’d abandoned tights, girdles, bras and panties. She said it made her “accessible.” Provocative, too. Like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

  He’d been only mildly interested in the activities described in the book until the end, with its descriptions of the animal and bird masks made of feathers and fur. Those masks sounded more appealing than those stupid leather things some of the sadomasochist crowd wore. They were ugly, uncomfortable, hot, and stiff. Anyway, that group was ridiculous. Imagine excluding females: why eliminate half the available sex from one’s games? He’d found a like-minded crowd, more attractive, more eclectic, and definitely higher class than the Apemen and their zoo-mates.

  In the book, O’s animal name was Owl, but Kestrel didn’t want to be called Owl. She’d chosen Kestrel because she liked its picture in Peterson’s Eastern Birds. So Simon had given his latest bird the name Owl. She was up for everything; she was a game little owl, and very useful, too, although not as wise as her name suggested, and certainly not as wise as she thought she was.

  He and Kestrel had a lot in common. For one thing, she liked both female and male lovers. He longed to arrange a threesome with Owl and Kestrel, but he’d have to move gradually, and make a ménage à trois seem glamorous, especially to Owl. She was, a
fter all, very young. Tonight he’d see Owl early and meet Kestrel later. Too exhausting. But needs must when the Devil drives.

  A tap on the door. Room service had arrived. He’d postpone his phone calls until after breakfast.

  The waiter also brought him a package, and Simon opened it right away. It was a duplicate of his California copy of The Record, sent him by Ellen. He’d use it to set another trap for Rachel. The bloody bitch had threatened him, but his lawyer said she could do nothing. Simon still owned twenty percent of Ransome’s, and she couldn’t take it away, not for anything he’d done that she could know about. One day Ransome’s would be his.

  Coleman and Zeke, scripts in hand, walked noisily into the conference room, rattling papers and coffee cups, and speaking loudly to alert the bug. When Coleman signaled, Zeke said, “Coleman, I really appreciate your letting me write this story. I know how important it is, and I promise to have it finished tomorrow to make the March copy deadline. But I’d like to go over a few details with you, just to make sure I’ve got it right.”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  “Well, this is the introduction of a new monthly feature, ‘ArtsClimb.’ We’ll use it to talk about people skillfully using the arts as an entry to social life in New York, and discuss some of the very imaginative ways they’ve moved up the social ladder?”

  Coleman smiled. “That’s right. How are you doing on the story?”

  “This is my lead sentence…”

  Forty

  Thursday night

  Dinah was too excited to sleep. She wanted to talk to Jonathan, but he put his “Do not disturb” sign on the back of the seat in front of him, reclined his seat, covered himself with a blanket, turned out his light, put on his sleep mask, and blew her a kiss. “Sleep tight,” he said.

  She leaned across the aisle to chat with Heyward, saying how sorry she was that Coleman hadn’t been able to come. She thought he wouldn’t be able to resist discussing Coleman, but he smiled and kept reading.

  She wracked her brain for a way to engage him, and came up with the vacancy Carswell had left in his life. “I guess you’ll be needing to replace Ms. Carswell,” she said. He looked up and asked if she knew anyone.

  “Bethany Byrd, my assistant, could find you one of her cousins. I bet she could have someone there by next week,” she said.

  He stared at her, an odd expression on his face. “Good idea. I’ll look into it when we get back to New York. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll try to get some sleep.” He put his book aside, switched off his reading lamp, and turned away.

  Dinah was left alone with her thoughts and Agatha Christie’s At Bertram’s Hotel, which she was rereading to get in an English frame of mind. But she couldn’t concentrate, and she, too, fell asleep.

  Friday morning

  London

  After the travelers checked into Claridge’s and cleaned up, they took a long walk. London was warmer than New York, and the sun was shining. Brilliantly colored flowers filled the window boxes, pedestrians jammed the sidewalks, and the shop windows displayed so many beautiful things, Dinah hardly knew where to look. Just as she was beginning to feel tired, Jonathan led them into Fortnum & Mason’s, and downstairs to the food and wine department.

  Dinah craned her neck, trying to see everything at once. She was nearly overcome by the aromas—Stilton, lilies, fruit cake, Madeira, coffee. The counters were crammed with tea and coffee; jams and jelly and honey; chocolates; fruits, fresh and dried; bottles and bottles of wine; and boxes and tins of cookies, or biscuits, as they were called here. Refrigerated glass cases displayed meat and cheese and other perishables. She longed to go over to the cases to look more closely—the cook in her was nearly bursting with excitement and curiosity—but Jonathan herded her and Heyward back upstairs and to the back of the street level floor, past candies and baked goods, and down some steps into a bright dining room, full of small tables.

  Jonathan’s office had made a reservation, and they were seated immediately and given menus. Dinah’s head was whirling, and she felt a little dizzy and disoriented, but she was hungry. She asked Jonathan to order for her; she felt too confused to choose. He ordered Welsh rarebits and small salads for them both, and Heyward chose fish and chips. She and Jonathan ate every bite, but Heyward barely made a dent in his meal, which looked big enough to serve a family of eight.

  Although Fortnum & Mason’s was a short walk from Claridge’s, Dinah begged to take one of the big black London cabs, so different from New York’s cramped yellow taxis, back to the hotel. To Dinah’s delight the driver said “Where to, guv?” just as they did in the movies.

  When they were in their room, Jonathan insisted she rest. She was still protesting that she wasn’t tired when she fell deeply asleep. She didn’t wake until she heard the insistent ring of the telephone.

  “Wake up call,” Jonathan said. “The bathroom’s yours.” He leaned over and kissed her, and handed her a huge terry robe. When she put it on, tall as she was, it came nearly to her ankles.

  Dinah longed for a soak in the big tub, but she didn’t have time. She showered and put on her blue velvet pantsuit and the sapphires that went with it, remembering what Marise had said about how elegantly Rachel dressed. She piled her hair up and pinned it in place. Jonathan beamed at her, and told her she was beautiful.

  Rachel was waiting for them in a room full of treasures. The pictures, the furniture, the rugs—everything was exquisite, including Rachel. She wore a plum-colored suit with an ankle-length skirt and matching suede shoes. The tailored jacket fit perfectly—Dinah was sure it had been made for her. It closed—how? Maybe with an invisible zipper. The collar rose up around her throat and was stiffened so it stood away from her neck. On her lapel, Rachel wore an ancient-looking spiral-shaped gold brooch, and smaller spirals in her earlobes.

  Rachel introduced George Quincy, her solicitor, and explained that he was helping her deal with the problem of Simon.

  A maid in a black uniform and white ruffled apron served drinks and passed cheese biscuits. When she’d left the room, Rachel said, “Even Mr. Quincy has not heard what I am about to tell you.” She paused, and began again, as she had when she spoke to Dinah on the telephone.

  “It is very difficult for me to talk about my personal life, but I feel that I must tell you the whole story if you are to see what we face.” She paused again and seemed to gather her strength. “I may be the only person alive who knows who Simon really is—I’m not even sure he knows anymore. And I believe these problems—crimes—center on Simon.”

  She told them of meeting Jock McLeod when he was a student at Harvard, after she’d worked for Ransome for about ten years. She described his poverty, his horrible teeth, his unpopularity and inability to fit in at Harvard, her pity of him, their involvement, the fact that he was younger than she.

  “It was briefly a physical relationship, but mostly I needed a friend, especially after Ransome died. I also needed someone to help with the gallery I planned to open. I thought Jock would go on for further study in art history, but in the end, he was not interested. First he had his teeth fixed—they were a great handicap, a disfigurement—and then he took acting lessons. I agreed to the expenses. I thought the lessons would give him poise and confidence, and those teeth definitely needed work.”

  She took a sip of her sherry and continued. “He took to acting. Perhaps he should have been an actor. He said he wanted to stay in New York to learn more about art dealing. I did not object, as I was busy here. I did not see him for nearly two years, and when he arrived in London, he was Simon Fanshawe-Davies.”

  Quincy gasped, and Jonathan and Heyward Bain looked surprised. But Dinah had anticipated the bombshell. She now understood why Simon made her think of Shakespeare’s plays. He was always acting. He was self-created. He had been reborn when he was in his early twenties.

  Rachel continued. “I was astonished, but he was unwilling to discuss the new Simon. He wanted me to pretend that the past we
shared had not taken place. It seemed harmless, so I acceded to his wishes. It was as if Jock McLeod had never existed.” She took a deep breath before continuing.

  “In retrospect, that was a mistake. I believe he hates me because I remember him as he was when we met. At first he was useful in the gallery—he bid at auctions, he did most of the traveling and all the customer wining and dining. He can be a good salesman. Over time, I gave him twenty percent of the gallery. I thought he had earned it.” Rachel paused again. “More recently he has spent far more than he brings in.”

  “Didn’t—uh—Jock—ever refer to his former life, his past?” Jonathan asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “Never.” She reached for a sheet of paper lying on the table beside her. “I found this in his flat. The original is in my safe. I may be the only person in the world who knows that Jock McLeod and Simon Fanshawe-Davies are the same person, and if he were to ‘Get rid of Rachel,’ as this list suggests, no one alive would know. Perhaps that is one reason he wishes me gone. But now the four of you know.”

  Jonathan took the paper from her hand, and read aloud, “ ‘To-Do’s—Get rid of Rachel.’ I’ll see that copies of this are put in the right hands in the United States. I assume that’s been done here?” He looked at Quincy, who nodded. “Tell me again what his name was—Jock McLeod? Born on Long Island? Went to Harvard? We’ll see what we can learn about him.” Jonathan made a note on the paper, folded it, and put it in his inside breast pocket.

  “What about his family? His friends? Do you know any of his associates?” Dinah said.