Restrike

by Reba White Williams

  Heyward stiffened. “Simon had nothing to do with it. I cannot understand why you are all so down on Simon.”

  “Bain, I’m out of patience with you on the topic of Simon. He’s a cad. Last weekend he had two women who don’t know about each other stashed away in two New York hotels—he was running back and forth between them like a rooster servicing hens. He’s sleeping with Ellen Carswell, who doesn’t know about the other women. He’s cheating Ellen. He’s cheated his partner and benefactor, Rachel Ransome—”

  Bain stood up, his face red. “That’s enough. Why are you telling these lies?”

  Jonathan reached for a folder on his desk. “Look, Bain, Daniel Winthrop vouches for you, and he’ll vouch for me, too, if you ask him about me. I don’t lie. Here are the reports of the detective who followed Fanshawe-Davies all weekend.” He handed Bain the folder.

  Heyward skimmed through the papers. “I grant you these two women, but not Ellen Carswell. I’ve asked him about her, and I assure you it isn’t true. As for Rachel Ransome, Simon was an inheritor under Ransome’s will, and helped build the Ransome Gallery, and now Ms. Ransome wants to take away what’s rightfully Simon’s.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Ms. Ransome was Ransome’s housekeeper and assistant for many years. Simon never even met Ransome. He was not in Ransome’s will. Ransome left Rachel his entire fortune, and she used part of it to pay for everything for Simon, or Jock, as he was then—his teeth, his clothes, acting lessons—because she felt sorry for him. I can prove it: look at Ransome’s will. I have a copy—I got it when Simon’s name and that of the Ransome Gallery started cropping up.”

  Heyward slapped the papers down on Jonathan’s desk. “I’ve heard enough of this defamation. I want no part of your attempts to destroy an innocent man.” He stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him.

  Jonathan shrugged. Bain was crazed on the topic of Simon Fanshawe-Davies. He wanted to speak to Dinah, but she was out, and her cell phone was off. Jonathan left word with Bethany to have Dinah call him, and asked his assistant to make a copy of Ransome’s will and have it hand-delivered, faxed, and emailed to Bain. He’d stuff the truth down Bain’s throat, whether he wanted to learn it or not.

  Unable to reach Dinah, he called Rob. He described his conversation with Bain and concluded, “Heyward’s crazy. What is it with him and Simon?”

  “He’s in love,” Rob said.

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Heyward won’t believe anything bad about Simon, because they’re lovers—he’s in love with Simon. Simon is using him, of course, but Heyward Bain can’t see it.”

  “Oh, my God. That damn Simon would—would—fornicate with a goat. Is there anyone in New York he isn’t having sex with—present company excepted?”

  Rob laughed. “Debbi Diamondstein told Coleman this morning about Simon and Heyward. I haven’t heard anything about a goat, but the day’s young.”

  Jonathan wasn’t amused. “Is there anything we should do about Bain’s relationship with Coleman? How do you think Coleman will take it?”

  “Who knows? We’ll have to leave that up to her, and get on with our investigation. We should meet tonight, if you’re free.”

  “What about eight at Cornelia Street? Dinah and I’ll arrange for some sandwiches or something.”

  Dinah made Jonathan repeat Heyward’s story three times. She didn’t know how Coleman would react, but she had to be the one to tell her, and as soon as possible. She wouldn’t call ahead. She’d appear at Coleman’s office. Coleman hated being interrupted at work, but that was too bad. This was an emergency.

  Dinah started talking as soon as she entered Coleman’s office.

  “Coleman, you remember when Heyward Bain took me to lunch before Christmas? He’d planned to tell me something, and it wasn’t that he was in love with you.”

  “I know. You told me. Stop worrying about that. I don’t give a hoot about Heyward Bain. I can’t imagine why I was ever interested in him,” Coleman said.

  “Brace yourself: Heyward is your half-brother, born to your mother, but by a different father.”

  Coleman stared at Dinah. “Are you out of your mind? I don’t have a brother—you know that.”

  “You do have a brother. Your mother had a child before you, and it was Heyward. That makes him your half-brother,” Dinah said.

  Coleman shrugged. “I suppose anything is possible. Given my parents’ alcohol and drug history, I might have several half-brothers or -sisters. Where does Heyward fit in?”

  Dinah repeated the story Bain had told Jonathan about the Arnold connection, including Bain’s relationship to the Arnolds, especially the awful Maxwell.

  Coleman looked thoughtful. “Even if it’s true, I’m not sure it matters, except it may explain Maxwell’s coming after me. I wonder if he’ll turn out to be my mugger? If so, how’d he get Simon’s scent?

  “But Coleman—you have a brother.”

  “So what? I hardly know him, let alone feel sisterly love for him. I’ve never understood about loving people just because they’re kin. Kids who’re separated from their mothers at birth don’t love some woman who comes out of nowhere when they’re grown up and claims to be their ‘birth mother.’ Kids love the women who raised them—took care of them, fed them, cuddled them. When I came to live with you and Miss Ida and Aunt Polly, no one had ever loved me, and I’d never loved anybody. Most adults hadn’t treated me well, and I didn’t trust them. It took a while for me to recognize Miss Ida and Aunt Polly as family. Even longer to love them. It was different with you—quicker, because you were a child.”

  Dinah nodded. She remembered the filthy five-year-old: precocious, stubborn, independent. Coleman had eventually learned to love Dinah and their grandmother and great-aunt, but she had formed few other intimate attachments.

  “You and Miss Ida and Aunt Polly and the Byrds became my family, the only family I ever had, and it’s been enough,” Coleman said.

  “You can’t turn your back on Heyward Bain. Don’t you want to get to know him? And don’t you feel terrible about the story of your parents?”

  “I’m sad about my parents. I wish fate had been kinder to them. But I was around my father long enough to understand that he was an alcoholic and an addict—and after I moved to North Carolina, I learned how my mother died, and about her drinking. As for Bain—it would have meant a lot when we were so poor and alone after Miss Ida and Aunt Polly died, to have had a loving—and rich—older brother. But after all these years? Where was he when I needed him? I’m not going to cut him dead or anything. I’ll be polite when we meet, and maybe if I get to know him someday, it’ll be different, but right now, I just don’t care.”

  “Are you angry with him?” Dinah asked.

  “No, not a bit. When I’m not so busy, I’ll try to figure out how I feel, and what I think. I’ll try to make an effort to get to know him, and look for common interests, like hating the Arnolds and tobacco, and being interested in art. Maybe we can be friends.” She paused. “Can I change the subject? Rob and the troops and I have been busy. We’re close to getting these creeps. Wait till you hear what I’ve planned.”

  Dinah stared at Coleman. She’d expected anger, resentment, sadness, but not lack of interest. Still, why should Coleman be interested in Bain, just because he was a relative? He was a stranger. Everything would have been different if he’d appeared earlier in their lives.

  She interrupted Coleman. “We can’t leave the topic of Heyward Bain yet. You may not care about having a new half-brother, but how about this: you, Coleman Greene, are unbelievably rich.”

  Coleman eyes widened. “Now I know you’re crazy.”

  Dinah explained about the trust that Bain had set up for her. “It’s guilt money, partly because of how the Arnolds treated your mother, and how Maxwell treated you, and probably because Heyward’s so rich, and you’ve always had to worry about money. Please don’t say you’re going to reject it.”

  Cole
man laughed. “Reject it? Are you kidding? No way! I’m going to love having money. How rich am I?”

  Dinah smiled. “You’ll have to ask Bain. Or maybe Jonathan can find out.”

  Simon had a splitting headache. Rachel had blocked him getting the prints he’d staked out in The Record, and even worse, Ellen was on her way to New York. She was going to pull the plug on the Print Museum project. He’d fight it, but he knew she’d made up her mind. Anyway, he couldn’t come up with an argument for staying with it. She was right; there was no money in it. He could get the money from Heyward, but not enough to buy a gallery. Anyway, he didn’t want any gallery. He wanted Ransome’s. Most of all, he wanted Rachel out of his life. Damn, damn, damn.

  Ellen was acting so bossy. All that bossiness reminded him of Rachel. He could understand Ellen’s ending the print project, but he needed space. How could he have a private life if he couldn’t get to New York? He couldn’t bear living in Ellen’s pocket.

  Her timing couldn’t be worse, either. Kestrel and Owl were psyched for the ball, and he’d hinted at what he had in mind for afterward. He was sure they both knew what was up. He’d rented a suite at the St. Regis; everything was set. What would he tell Ellen? He had to think of a story about where he had to be Tuesday night. Since he’d be in costume, and so would Kestrel and Owl, even if people saw him at the ball, no one would know who he was. What Ellen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, or him, for that matter. But he wished she’d stayed in Chicago.

  Monday Night

  “So much information is pouring in, I thought we ought to get together,” Rob said. “But there’s no good news. Delia Swain has been interviewed by a capable detective, and she swears she was with Jennifer Norris—a.k.a Judy Nelson—every minute Judy was at the Harnett Museum, and that the plates were there when Judy left. Nobody believes Swain, but that’s her story, and she’s sticking to it. Nelson’s story is the same, and she says that Jennifer Norris is her nom de plume. There was no intent to deceive.”

  “So, we can’t get either of them for the missing plates?” Jonathan said.

  “No, and they’re not going to break—they’re two tough cookies. That’s not all. Swain was interviewed again about the trip to Oxford. She was with her tour group the whole time she was in Oxford. The group backs her,” Rob said.

  “Ellen Carswell says she visited Oxford to investigate it as a possible site for a Computer Art Research Services office. She stayed at Pendleton’s to avoid Swain and her friends; she had work to do, and didn’t want to be distracted. She was in London shopping the day the Dürers were stolen—went up the night before with a car and driver, stayed overnight at Brown’s Hotel, came back to Oxford late the next day with the driver. Brown’s and the driver confirm everything she says. Maxwell Arnold has an alibi for the time of the theft at the Baldorean. He was in Virginia with other people all day. He also has alibis for both La Grange’s and Chick’s deaths, and he was dining with a big group at the Virginia Country Club the night you were mugged, Coleman. He’s apparently not a part of any of this,” Rob continued.

  “We traced Jock McLeod back to his childhood, and during the years he spent in Boston. He didn’t go to Harvard using that name either. In fact, he didn’t go to Harvard at all. When he was in Cambridge, he worked odd jobs, and wandered around pretending to be a student. He has no criminal record. He’s a phony, but doesn’t seem guilty of any crime. His family stopped hearing from him long ago, and they think he must have died.”

  The group was silent. Finally, Coleman spoke. “Your idea about stirring the crowd up, putting the cat among the pigeons, is our only hope. Ellen seems to be in love with Simon. I think she’ll go wild when she hears about his other women, especially since they work for her. Maybe she’ll turn on the women, and even on Simon. If we can split the gang up, maybe one of them will talk. Zeke and I are going to stage a show in the conference room early tomorrow morning, and talk about the Beaux Arts ball for the bug. We’ll say we’ve heard Simon will be there with both of his cuties.”

  “Have we heard that?” Dinah asked.

  “Debbi thinks he’s taking them—he asked her for three tickets. Debbi’s going to the ball, and I’m going, too. If there are fireworks, I don’t want to miss them,” Coleman said.

  “Does anyone know where Ellen is?” Jonathan asked.

  “Debbi says Ellen’s on her way to New York, or maybe already here. She told Debbi she might stay till Friday,” Coleman said.

  “Does Ellen know about the ball?” Dinah wanted to know.

  “If she does, she hasn’t mentioned it to Debbi,” Coleman said.

  “If Simon’s taking those two to the ball, he’s not telling Ellen. The first she’ll hear about them will be through you tomorrow, and she’s sure to react—maybe at the ball. I don’t think you should go, Coleman. It could be dangerous,” Rob said.

  Coleman smiled at him. “I’m taking my guard dog, and you, too, if you’ll come.” She stroked Dolly, lying in her lap.

  “On the topic of Simon, what do he and Ellen get up to?” Dinah said. “Since Rachel wrote about the stuff in his apartment, I’m dying to know what goes on between them.”

  “I’d like to know, too,” Coleman said. “Cross-dressing, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” She looked at Rob.

  “It’s a fairly unusual perversion. Jerry Springer stuff. She’s the nanny, and Simon’s the baby, hence the oversized diapers. She does to him what a nanny would do for a baby: bathes him, changes him. That fires them up, and nature takes its course,” Rob said.

  “Yuck,” Coleman said. “If Ellen is Simon’s only alibi for the night of Jimmy’s death, isn’t it likely that she’s lying? If she’s in love with him, she’d give him a false alibi.”

  “Maybe so, but again, if they both stick to the story, there’s nothing we can do,” Rob said. “The police don’t have any evidence against Fanshawe-Davies, so they can’t get a search warrant. That means there’s no chance we’ll turn up the Rembrandt plates, even if he has them. If the doctor is his accomplice, Fanshawe-Davies may have hidden the weapon used to kill Jimmy and Chick, but we can’t get at that either. I don’t think Simon would keep anything incriminating at the Carlyle. Too many people have access to a hotel room.”

  “Where would he keep stuff? Her apartment?” Coleman said.

  Rob shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Has anyone investigated her background? I’ve always wondered if Carswell is her real name. Computer Art Research Services owned by someone whose name starts off ‘Cars’ is too good to be true,” Coleman said.

  “It is her name, though—she’s exactly who she says she is, complete with a widowed mother in Chicago,” Rob said.

  “Oh, well,” Coleman said, “I guess it’s up to the Art-Smart Acting Company. Now, how many tickets for the ball do we need?”

  “Six,” Dinah said. “The four of us, and Zeke and Bethany.”

  “Good plan,” Coleman said. “We need all the help we can get. They’ll be a big crowd at the ball, and all of us need to be alert and looking around us. With everyone in costume, it would be easy to miss someone or something.”

  Forty-Six

  Tuesday

  Coleman was up at five thirty, and had finished her second cup of coffee when she heard the New York Times hit the doormat in the hall outside her apartment. She grabbed it and turned to the Arts section.

  Hurray for Clancy! He reported that Bain was returning the Dürers to the Baldorean, and that Simon had bought them for the Print Museum. He wrote that Coleman and Dinah had discovered that the Rembrandt plates were missing from the Harnett Library, and that Sleeping Kitten, bought by Simon for the Print Museum, was thought to be a restrike, made from one of the stolen plates. He mentioned Jane’s and Delia’s names as receiving the people who’d come to see the plates, and that Jane had been exonerated by a visiting Dutch scholar. He didn’t say anything bad about Delia, he just didn’t cite a witness who’d cleared her. A perfect job. />
  Coleman turned to her computer. The Artful Californian Online had taken the bait: the rats had devoted the entire issue to the art climbers she and Zeke had discussed. The writer hadn’t used real names, but the descriptions and nicknames were so explicit that few readers would fail to recognize the climbers. The newsletter was going to infuriate a number of people—some of them pretty influential—but more important, there was no longer any doubt: The bug belonged to the Artful Californian, replacing Tammy the Spy. Could anything happen at that organization without Ellen’s knowledge and involvement? Not likely. Ellen must be the mastermind behind the plot to steal Coleman’s ideas and damage ArtSmart. She’d probably expected Coleman’s backers to have ousted her by now. But her plan had been thwarted, and tonight could lead to her total defeat.

  “Are you ready?” Coleman whispered to Zeke in the hall outside the conference room. He nodded. When they were seated at the big table, Coleman said, “Let’s talk about the Beaux Arts Ball at the Sorcerer’s Club tonight. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Zeke said.

  “Keep your eyes open for anything we can use in the magazine. We’ll have a photographer there, but if people keep their masks on, we won’t necessarily recognize anyone. Try to spot celebrities.” Coleman’s instructions were not just window dressing; the ball would be featured in ArtSmart. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied, she’d have long ago arranged to have it covered.

  “Do you know what anyone is wearing?” Zeke said.

  “I heard Simon Fanshawe-Davies is going as a raven.” Coleman held her hand up so he could see her crossed fingers. “And we know he’ll have both his secret loves with him.”