“I bet she works for Ellen Carswell, and if so, she’s part of the Fanshawe-Carswell alliance. Wouldn’t it be great if we could get Delia for the missing Rembrandt plates, and tie the theft to Carswell?” Coleman looked at Rob. “Rob, Jane Parker says the police haven’t questioned Delia about the plates because of who her father is. What can we do?”
“If necessary, I’ll go to Virginia and question her myself. But first I’ll talk to the police here and see if they have any ideas,” Rob said.
“You’d better warn them not to let the Virginia police know someone’s going to interview her. They’ll tell her father, and she’ll be gone in a flash, probably out of the country,” Dinah said.
“Right.” Rob was making notes and didn’t look up. “On the topic of loose ends, we found the man who made Simon’s aftershave lotion, and he swears it’s unique. The scent maker is very proud of it, says it’s the latest, with emphasis on grasses and herbs—not flowers. So masculine . . . . Which, of course, doesn’t get us anywhere, as Simon couldn’t have faked his alibi for your mugging, Coleman.”
“I think the information about the scent does get us somewhere. It’s a link to Simon. He must have shared that stuff with someone,” Coleman said.
“Simon must have an accomplice—the phone bidder,” Dinah said.
“The telephone underbidder would have used a false name, so that doesn’t take us much further,” Coleman said.
“I’d like to put a tail on Simon, and see if we can catch him at something. But it would be expensive, and we might not learn anything,” Rob said.
“Hire anyone you like,” Jonathan said. “I want to do everything possible to get this thing resolved—and a killer locked up.”
Rob got up. “Okay. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go arrange that tail. I know a guy who can probably get on the job immediately.”
Late that afternoon, Coleman listened to a message from Clancy on her apartment answering machine.
My friend says Delia Swain gets almost as much press in Virginia as the Duchess of Cornwall. She was Debutante of the Year when she came out, and goes to social events all over the state. He’s faxing clippings. I’ll get them to you.
A few minutes later, Coleman had copies of the newspaper clippings—parties, benefits, gatherings of all kinds. A gala ball at the Harnett—wait, was that Maxwell Arnold in the background?
Coleman picked up the phone and called Jane Parker. “Jane? Does the Arnold family have any connection to the Harnett?”
“Oh, yes. The Arnolds are patrons of all the Virginia museums. An Arnold in-law is on our board.”
Coleman thanked her and hung up. How could she have missed something so obvious? The Harnett Museum wasn’t far from Richmond, the social center of Virginia. Naturally the Arnolds would be involved. That link explained how Maxwell could have known she and Dinah were coming to the Harnett—Maxwell could easily have heard it from any number of people connected to the museum. All of his family would know how much he hated her. He’d never made a secret of it. But she still didn’t think he was her mugger. He couldn’t have access to Simon’s scent, could he?
Early Saturday evening, after a much-needed rest, Simon strolled over to Ellen’s apartment on East Seventy-Sixth Street, the only place where he could be sure of total privacy. No one had the address or her unlisted telephone number except Heyward and Simon himself.
He detested the apartment. It was bland and beige, but adequate for their present needs. They’d do better in time. He would insist on a decent New York apartment.
He leaned back on the sofa and thought about what he wanted Ellen to do. She had to call the print owners he’d found in The Record and persuade them to sell the prints to him way below their value, as he’d managed with the Lautrec. If they were as ignorant as Yvonne Jardin, they’d leap at the chance. Ellen wouldn’t want to make the calls, and in the end, she’d probably assign it to one of her minions. But he’d start with her. He enjoyed bullying Ellen, perhaps because Rachel was so bossy.
Rachel thought she was so smart. Little did she know. He’d deceived her from the very beginning. He’d known who she was when he sat beside her at Ransome’s lecture at Harvard and initiated a conversation with her: she was his ticket to enter the circle around the revered Ransome, a circle he could never otherwise have penetrated, especially since he wasn’t enrolled at Harvard.
He’d enjoyed the act he put on for Rachel that first spring. She hadn’t let him anywhere near Ransome, but he’d learned enough from her about the old man to convince others that he’d known him. Ransome’s name was a good one to drop, and Rachel had been ripe for the plucking. His relationship with her had been very lucrative. He’d cheated her in every conceivable way—money, art, lovers.
He’d begun to appreciate the thrill of secrets as a child on the Long Island estate where he grew up. He’d lived in the servants’ quarters, far from the big house. His mother, a housemaid, made him hide if a member of The Family approached: The Family must not be annoyed by his presence. Crouching behind the rhododendrons, he’d enjoyed eavesdropping and spying.
He valued secrets even more after he discovered The Record. He’d wondered what was on the fourth floor of Ransome’s house on Ware Street, and why Rachel wanted him out of the way when, after Ransome’s death, she went through the house. He’d sneaked back to Boston and, while she was out, made his own inventory. He was quick to see the value of the descriptions, locations, and valuations of the treasures Ransome had encountered all over Europe. He’d waited until Rachel completed her summary pages, and photocopied them.
He’d loved his acting classes in New York. He’d adored learning dialects and accents, and role-playing. Creating Simon Fanshawe-Davies was easy when he could afford the right clothes, the right barber, and to associate with the right people. He’d also discovered the pleasures of costumes and masks, and acting out sexual fantasies.
Rachel had been obsessed with him, and it had never occurred to her that he didn’t feel the same way about her. She’d assumed in him a gratitude he’d never felt. He thought he more than earned what she doled out to him; it was ridiculous that he should have only twenty percent of Ransome’s. He was confident that he was responsible for the gallery’s success. Anyone could read books, but sell? That required talent.
As the years rolled by, Rachel turned more and more to her studies. Her scholarly interests bored him, and he let it show. Their sexual relationship lasted less than a year, and after that, she treated him as if he were an indulged nephew to whom she gave treats: cars, a country house, the London flat. But he wanted far more than he was getting from the business, and he and Rachel quarreled frequently over money.
Even more than money, he wanted Rachel out of his life. She’d known him at twenty, and he could not forgive her for that. He’d long since discarded everyone else who’d known Jock McLeod. For years, he’d dreamed about getting rid of Rachel, but felt no sense of urgency until he met Ellen Carswell.
He’d found Ellen attractive in a chilly sort of way, but she’d never encouraged him, and he had plenty of other women. But one evening, while they were having dinner in his suite at the out-of-the-way hotel in Chicago where he always stayed, he had a fantasy about her. She was dressed in a nanny’s crisp white uniform, and bathing a naked little boy. She caressed the slippery little body, and he knew what Ellen wanted.
“Nanny, hug Simon, p’se,” he said, kneeling at her side, burying his face in her lap, and running a hand under her skirt and up her thigh. Her response to his caresses was as violent as Rachel’s had been many years earlier. He smiled. He had a flair for discovering weaknesses in women.
Later, when she lay next to him sipping champagne, she said, “How did you know, Simon?”
He’d turned on his side to look at her. Her glorious red hair was dark with sweat, and her normally theatrically made-up face was naked and damp. She looked younger and vulnerable. Her nude body was magnificent—all opulent curves and white, white skin.
“I didn’t, precisely. But there was something. And I’ve known others like you.” He touched her breast lightly with his fingertip. Her skin was almost transparent. He’d have to buy her some decent lingerie. That plain white cotton stuff didn’t do her justice.
“I’ve never told anyone, it’s not the kind of secret one is likely to confide.” She put her hand over his to stop his caresses. She wanted to talk. He sighed inwardly. They always wanted to talk.
“Tell me about it.”
Ellen Carswell had been the sexual toy of an uncle when she was young. His attentions had ceased by the time she was ten, but she’d never been able to respond sexually to adult men. To her, they were all reflections of that shadowy, disgusting old man who’d made her childhood a nightmare.
Before she’d discovered her taste for little boys, she’d taught nursery school. She hadn’t known why the occupation appealed to her until she’d nearly succumbed to her desires. She said she’d never given in to her passion—he wondered if that was true—but had resigned her job, and stayed as far as possible from children. She’d learned computer skills, and earned an MBA at the University of Chicago. With inherited money—ironically, from the uncle who’d abused her—she started Computer Art Research Services.
She was successful, but her social—and sexual—life had been nonexistent until she met Simon. All of her repressed emotions were released into their relationship. He satisfied her desires without harm to anyone. He’d extended her fantasies in ways she’d never thought possible. When she pretended he was her child, she could forget that he was an adult.
Ellen Carswell was beautiful and intelligent. She was avidly enthusiastic about their sexual games, and the partner of his dreams, both in business and in bed. She loved dressing up and role playing, especially the Nanny games. Best of all, she looked up to Simon in every way. After years of Rachel’s superior attitude, he delighted in Ellen’s humility, her dependence. At even a hint of Simon’s disapproval, she crumbled.
And joy of joys, Ellen had a remarkable knack for making money. She’d seen the possibilities of owning an art magazine, researched the field, and had selected ArtSmart as a takeover target. She’d buy ArtSmart for chicken feed—a slam dunk after the Artful Californian had taken over all of Coleman Greene’s advertisers—and merge the two magazines. She’d turn the new ArtSmart into a money machine.
As part of Ellen’s research on ArtSmart, she’d put together dossiers on Coleman, Jonathan Hathaway, who’d financed the magazine, and on the ArtSmart writers. One writer, Tammy Isaacs—jealous, resentful, and unattractive—had been an obvious target, and seen the benefits of switching sides. Ellen had also discovered Judy Nelson, Jonathan’s gorgeous and ambitious ex-wife, who always needed money, and disliked her ex-husband and his lovely wife intensely. Judy—Ellen’s loyal lieutenant—would run the new ArtSmart.
When Ellen had read about the Harnett Museum’s inheritance of the Rembrandt plates, and seen their money-making possibilities, she’d assembled her usual dossiers, looking for anyone connected to the Harnett who might be receptive to her approaches. Delia Swain had been in a bit of trouble—alcohol, drugs, a touch of shoplifting, an affair with a teacher (male) before she was sent away to school in Switzerland, where an affair with a teacher (female) had resulted in her abrupt return to Virginia. She was exactly what Ellen was looking for.
Delia had fancied a career in public relations, and Ellen had arranged for the PR people who represented Computer Art Research Services to offer the little idiot an internship in their Los Angeles office, followed by a stint at the Artful Californian. Delia became, if not a lieutenant—she wasn’t nearly bright enough—a loyal foot soldier in Ellen’s organization.
Delia’s greatest value was as an information source. She knew lots of people, talked constantly, and said whatever came into her feathery little head. She’d told Ellen all about the Arnold family scandal—how there was a secret oldest son, born illegitimate, but adopted.
Who was this mysterious heir—this “FitzArnold?” Delia didn’t know. His identity was a closely guarded secret. Delia had heard the Arnolds were embarrassed by him. Maybe he was locked up in an attic. Ellen had encouraged Delia to learn more. Delia had fancied playing Mata Hari and had picked up lots of scraps of information, including the fact that most of the adopted brother’s affairs were run by the famously impregnable and incorruptible law firm, the Boston-based Winthrop, Winthrop and Cabot.
That might have been the end of it, but Judy had pumped Jonathan Hathaway’s bitch of a sister, and identified a weak link at The Firm—a doddering old fool, senile and susceptible to a pretty face, retired from Winthrop, Winthrop and Cabot. He had a long memory, and with a few drinks and a little sex, Judy literally screwed what they needed out of him. The old man nearly failed to survive Judy, but they learned that “FitzArnold” lived in Big Sur. His name was Heyward Bain.
Bain was a recluse, but a gossipy neighbor hinted that, given a chance, “FitzArnold” might be more interested in boys than girls. Ellen had planned to send Judy to Big Sur, but sent Simon instead. The relationship with Bain had led to a major shift in Simon’s plans.
Judy and Delia had helped with the print project, and for a while, everything had gone well. Most of the works Simon had sold Heyward had been obtained legitimately—Heyward turned a blind eye to the exceptions—although, of course, everyone in the print world had raised prices when they saw Heyward throwing money around. A fool and his money were soon parted, and it was the fool’s own fault if he was cheated. Heyward didn’t care. He had so much money, no one could make a dent in it.
But La Grange got greedy and needed to be taught a lesson. Simon had told the police the truth: Jimmy asked Simon to call the Apemen for him, after Simon described the delights they were said to confer. He didn’t know them, but they were infamous and it was easy to make them sound exciting to naïve and inexperienced Jimmy. When Simon called them, he’d exaggerated the amount of roughness Jimmy wanted, but Jimmy wasn’t supposed to die, for God’s sake. His death was a considerable inconvenience. Why, thought Simon, did the police think someone else had delivered the fatal blows that killed Jimmy and Chick? Surely the police didn’t believe those lunatics’ story of another, later killer? Who came and went in a UFO, perhaps?
The nosy Greene women had interfered again and again. They found out that Jimmy was the “seller” of Skating Girl and The Midget, depriving Simon of a hefty sum. That money could never be recovered; Jimmy’s family would get it all. Simon would never forgive the Greene cousins. Revenge would be better than sweet.
Simon desperately needed to replace Jimmy. Judy had been the telephone bidder on his earlier transactions, but she was always looking for an angle, and it was Judy first, all the way. He didn’t trust her around money. And Delia didn’t follow orders. Delia wasn’t supposed to introduce herself to the Greenes, but she couldn’t resist showing off. She was jealous of Coleman, and she had to get in the act. Well, brains weren’t her strong suit.
Chick’s death was Coleman Greene’s fault. She’d sent him sneaking around, peering into things that weren’t anyone’s business. If only people would tend to their knitting. Simon hated blood. He wouldn’t harm a soul unless that soul got in his way.
Simon sat up. He had things to do, and places to go. He must call Ellen and get on with the evening ahead. “Hello, Nanny, dear.”
“Simon, darling.”
He explained what he wanted—the calls to the print owners, the low offers for their prints, and the need for a trustworthy seller.
“It’s riskier now that Rachel knows you have The Record. Won’t she anticipate your doing this?”
Simon laughed. “Absolutely not. Her head’s in the past. She might learn about it later, by reading about the sales in the art press. But if she finds out afterwards, who cares?”
“I’ll get Judy to make the calls,” she said.
“I want you to do it, Nanny dear,” Simon said, in the pouting c
hild voice he used when they were alone.
Her voice softened. “I’d like to do it for you, darling Simon, but I’m swamped. Moving all these bloody computers to Los Angeles is a nightmare. But the move is what you want, my love, and you shall have it.”
Simon couldn’t argue with that. He hated Chicago, and loved Los Angeles. In many ways, LA was even better than New York.
“All right. I’ll fax the details to you. Can Judy start making calls on Monday?”
“Of course. What would you think about my using Tammy, too? After she shot off her mouth to Ms. Greene, she lost her value to me, and she’s constantly after me to give her work,” Ellen said.
“Will she do it?”
Ellen laughed. “Oh, yes. She hates Coleman Greene, and she’ll do anything to hurt her.”
Simon yawned. “Well, dear Nanny, if you think she’s up to it, it’s all right with me. As long as I don’t have to look at her. She’s repulsive.”
“She is, isn’t she? Poor thing,” Ellen said, a smile in her voice.
Simon smiled, too. Ellen liked him to criticize other women, especially their looks. About Tammy, he didn’t even have to lie.
Over supper in Rob’s apartment, Coleman said, “Rob, I have something to tell you. It’s not about the Print Museum, or Chick. At least, I don’t think it is.”
He took her hands in his. “Tell me.”
She described the long-ago episode in Durham with Maxwell Arnold and his friends, and Bain’s asking Dinah about it. She told him about Dinah’s running into Maxwell at the Four Seasons, and her own encounter with Maxwell in Virginia, and learning today about the Arnold family’s connection to the Harnett. “I don’t know what to make of it all,” she concluded. “It’s like a spider’s web.”
Rob nodded. “I’ll sort this out. Don’t worry, Coleman.”
Sunday
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