Coleman shook her head. “Sounds like a tall order. I hope he’s up to it. As for the D&W people, they sound really strange. No art. This food. It takes all kinds, doesn’t it? I met that bald man with Ted Douglas and Hunt Frederick earlier today. Mark Leichter? What does he do? And who’s the fat man? I thought you said nobody used the dining room.”
“Just a handful of insiders who don’t care what they eat, or have to show the flag. The fat noisy guy in the red suspenders is a big deal investment banker. His name is Michael Shanahan, but everyone calls him Moose. He’s a Texan, played football for Texas A&M. He and Hunt know each other from way back. DDD&W hired Moose from Bache, Gold & Glatz a few years ago for a ton of money to get us into financial services and mergers and acquisitions big-time. They’re supposed to be growth areas, but so far, all we’ve seen is a lot of expenses without much result. Moose is one of the people who wanted this merger, and he said we had to have a lot of computer geeks and accountants—bean counters—to help attract new business. Moose is usually trailed by a bunch of baby investment bankers turned consultants. He’s the chief of a tribe of adoring sycophants.”
Amy sipped her iced tea and made a face. “Ugh, it’s presweetened. I should have remembered. Back to our fellow lunchers. The one you met—the prissy-looking bald guy in the short-sleeved dress shirt—is Mark Leichter, our office manager and chief operating officer. He’s the son-in-law of Weeks, one of D&W’s founders. Weeks retired about a year ago and anointed Leichter as his successor,” Amy said. “How’s your coffee?”Coleman shook her head. “Dishwater. What’s Ted Douglas’s position here? I’ve lost track if I ever knew. I used to see him at parties, but not recently. Is he still married to Glenda the Ice Queen?”
“He’s a member of the senior partner committee, and he’s Hunt’s chief link with the Old Guard. He’s also probably the closest friend Hunt has here, except for Moose. Ted’s a rainmaker—belongs to the best clubs and hangs out with a lot of big deals. Nobody dislikes him, but he’s a lightweight, the typical son of a famous father. He wanted the managing director’s job in the worst way—politicked for it for months—but it was hopeless. He’s still married to Glenda, although she’s failed in her most important role: she’s never produced an heir,” Amy said.
The DDD&W story was fascinating, but Coleman couldn’t see how anything she’d heard would be helpful to Dinah. She needed to get back to the office. The papers on her desk were calling her. She arranged to meet Amy and several of her associates Monday afternoon at DDD&W, when the team would present a detailed timetable for implementing the planned changes at First Home. After saying goodbye, she headed toward the elevator, thinking about picking up a sandwich to eat at her desk. Lunch had been long on gossip, but short on food.
Back in her office, Coleman outlined the article she’d like to write about DDD&W, its management, and its art. Hunt Austin Frederick had annoyed Coleman—she didn’t like being snubbed—and he’d be easy to caricature. But she didn’t want to interfere with Dinah’s project; the article would have to wait until Dinah had finished her job. And maybe she should hold off on the article until after her own association with DDD&W ended. No point in biting the hand that was helping her. She summarized all she’d learned from Amy and added her impressions of DDD&W and Hunt Austin Frederick. She would need her notes when she wrote the article, but for now, she’d fax them to Dinah, Jonathan, and Rob.
Ten
After Dinah showered, shampooed, and dried her long dark hair, she put on comfortable black slacks and an oversized matching sweater. She forced herself to make and nibble an egg salad sandwich and sipped a Diet Coke. But when she’d eaten, cleaned the kitchen, and unpacked her suitcase, the rest of the day stretched endlessly before her. Her thoughts turned again and again to the horrible scene in Hunt’s office. The room’s nauseating odor seemed to cling to her, despite a generous use of lemon-scented soap and shampoo. When she was able to force the death scene out of her mind, it was replaced with the repellent picture of Danbury urinating on the desk, accompanied by the disgusting odor that pervaded the thirty-first floor.
She needed distraction. Cooking usually soothed her, and she considered baking a cake or cookies but decided against it. That wouldn’t work today, this Thursday that was the worst day of her life. She craved companionship. She’d go to the gallery, where she’d be among friends and where there was always work to do.
She grabbed her red suede jacket, and after locking up, hailed a taxi headed uptown on Sixth Avenue. When she entered the gallery and saw Bethany’s welcoming face and the friendly smiles of the others, her spirits rose. She felt even more herself when Bethany hugged her and ushered her into the little conference room. “I want to hear all about everything,” Bethany said.
Telling Bethany about Oscar Danbury was a relief. Her friend was shocked, but she chuckled. Dinah couldn’t see the funny part, but something deep inside eased at the sound of Bethany’s laughter. Maybe it wasn’t quite as awful as she’d thought. She found it far more difficult to describe her discovery in the managing director’s office, and she began to cry again. But Bethany’s sympathy helped, and she was feeling almost normal when Coleman called to fill Dinah in on everything she’d learned from Amy.
Dinah only half-listened. She detested DDD&W, and anything bad that happened to the people there was probably less than they deserved. She was more interested in Coleman’s reaction to the Oscar Danbury story and wasn’t surprised when her cousin was properly disgusted. As always, Coleman was supportive and encouraging. Neither Coleman nor Bethany suggested Dinah try to get out of her contract; they assumed she’d resume hanging prints as soon as she could. Dinah was grateful for their understanding. Jonathan would have a different take on everything. She dreaded arguing with him about her determination to complete the work at DDD&W.
When Coleman asked for an update on the Stubbs photocopies, Bethany put the phone on speaker and briefed both Coleman and Dinah. “None of us has learned much. The paintings have perfect provenance, but I didn’t find any recent articles about them. As far as the world knows, they’re still hangin’ at DDD&W,” Bethany said.
Dinah frowned. “That’s odd. I guess they could be on loan to a museum or out being cleaned or restored. But why wouldn’t Hunt Frederick have told me about them? Oh well, just one more weird thing about the place.” She couldn’t wait to finish hanging the prints, deposit her money, and forget that DDD&W existed. Tonight she’d have to go over everything that had happened since she got the job on Tuesday, answering questions from Rob and Jonathan. Good Lord, was Tuesday only two days ago? She felt as if weeks had passed.
What should she tell them about Ellie? When she was first questioned, she’d been certain that the death was an accident, and she hadn’t wanted Hunt Austin Frederick or the police screaming at Ellie, so she’d kept quiet about the girl’s presence in the office Thursday morning. But hadn’t the guards signed Ellie in? Or out? Had they reported her to the police? Ellie must have been the woman who’d told the police the death was a murder. Why had she thought that it was murder? And why hadn’t she come forward since then? Was Dinah breaking the law by not telling people about Ellie’s presence near the death scene?
Eleven
Coleman ate her turkey sandwich, drank a cup of coffee, and tried to settle down to work, but she couldn’t concentrate. The bits and pieces she’d learned buzzed around in her head like a swarm of angry yellowjackets. Dinah’s story about Danbury was repellent, and the missing paintings were mysterious, but what, if anything, did they have to do with Johnson’s death? She felt as if she were trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. If only Frances Johnson’s death would turn out to be an accident, she could forget the whole mess. Maybe there was news. She telephoned Amy again. “Do they know yet whether the woman’s death was an accident? Or have they decided it was murder?” she asked.
“Everyone in the office is saying it’s murder. I think the police must have told someone
that it’s murder, and the news has been leaked all over the place. I hope Dinah has an alibi. If she does, everyone here will shut up about her being involved,” Amy said.
Coleman’s heart sank, then settled somewhere in her stomach. “Do they know when Ms. Johnson died?” she asked.
“I’ve heard early this morning, but that’s all,” Amy said.
“Without knowing when the woman died, it’s hard to say whether Dinah has an alibi, isn’t it? Anyway, why would that woman have been in Hunt Frederick’s office?”
Silence. Coleman could almost hear Amy thinking.
Finally, “Maybe something to do with two paintings that usually hang in that office,” Amy said.
“Two Stubbs paintings?” Coleman asked.
“How could you possibly know that?” Amy asked.
“Someone put photocopies of two Stubbs portraits under Dinah’s door at DDD&W. According to the catalogue raisonné, they should be at DDD&W in the chairman’s office. You were going to say something about them at lunch before Frederick turned up, weren’t you?”
“I swear, Coleman, sometimes I think you’re a witch,” Amy said.
“Yeah, right. But I still want to know why Frances Johnson was in that office in the middle of the night.”
“I have no idea. Maybe she heard the Stubbs were missing. We may never know,” Amy said.
“Which part of the will covers the paintings?” Coleman asked.
“That’s the multimillion dollar question, isn’t it? If they’re part of the art collection, they probably left the office with the other Americana and are in the museum that inherited them. But if they’re part of the chairman’s office fittings, and they’ve been lost or stolen—that will cost the firm big-time. I’m not sure DDD&W could survive. I think we need the income from the Davidson trust to stay in business.”
“I can tell you one thing: those paintings are valuable. The pair should sell for at least twenty million dollars, maybe a lot more. Several Stubbs paintings have fetched big money at auction in the last couple of years, including a record sale at Christie’s—thirty-six million, I think,” Coleman said.
“Oh, my God, I had no idea. The paintings must be insured, right? Someone should be worried about them, unless, of course, they were part of the art collection. But surely management would have tried harder to keep the collection, if anything that valuable was part of it. They might have even gone so far as to hire a female Davidson,” Amy said.
Coleman laughed. “The supreme sacrifice, huh? Don’t say anything about the paintings to anyone until we know more. I’ll get a list of everything that arrived at that museum. Maybe the paintings are there. What’s the name of the museum?”
“Wait a minute, let me think…it’s a place I’d never heard of. It’s Scottish, and royal. Mary, Queen of Scots? No—the Prince Charles Stuart, that’s it. And the town is Stuartville, New York.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I learn anything.”
Before she placed the call to the museum, Coleman checked her e-mail and her voice mail. Jonathan had left a message repeating his request that she join him, Dinah, and Rob at Cornelia Street that evening to discuss the DDD&W situation. She texted him that she’d be there. Rob had called and wanted her to call him. She’d ignore that one. She was too busy to argue with Rob about their relationship. She’d see him soon enough. Time to call the Prince Charles Stuart.
The director of the museum chirped and twittered like an excited canary at the prospect of an article in ArtSmart about their new Americana collection. She promised to fax the list of the art they’d received first thing Friday morning, explaining that “it needed a bit of organizing before she could send it, but she’d work on it this afternoon and tonight.” Coleman sighed at the delay and called a paralegal at ArtSmart’s law firm to ask how she could obtain a copy of James Davidson’s will. The young woman explained that the will was a public document, all that was needed was a trip downtown, and described the process step-by-step. But Coleman couldn’t get downtown and complete her research before the Chambers Street office closed. The will would have to wait until Friday. She’d take Dolly for a long walk, and then they’d go home so Dolly could have supper and Coleman could change clothes before heading for Cornelia Street.
Twelve
Coleman’s emergency summons caught Robert Mondelli at Heathrow. He was on his way to Paris to spend the weekend with friends, but since he had only a carry-on bag with him, he was able to catch the British Airways 1:40 flight to New York scheduled to arrive at JFK at 4:10. He texted his assistant in New York to cancel his Paris engagement and to arrange with Brown’s Hotel to overnight the rest of his baggage to New York.
Interrupting his trip was inconvenient. He had several appointments at museums to discuss security arrangements. They’d have to be rescheduled, which meant a time-consuming return trip to Europe, when he was already overcommitted. He had two new and demanding clients, both needing his attention as soon as he returned to New York. He was swamped and significantly understaffed for all he’d promised to do, even before hearing about Dinah’s problem. He needed to hire more people, but when would he find the time? Coleman wouldn’t have asked him to come home unless it was urgent. Dinah? A suspect in a murder investigation? Treated like a criminal by the police? Absurd. This had to be a mistake. Maybe he could wrap it up in a few hours and turn to his other clients.
And then there was Coleman. He should be thinking about his business, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind. When she’d telephoned, for a heart-stopping few minutes he thought she was calling to say she was flying over to join him in London. But while her voice reflected concern for Dinah, her manner in dealing with him was distant. Her attitude toward him had changed in March when he’d asked her to marry him. Her refusal had been curt, and when he’d explained he wanted to take care of her, prevent anyone from hurting her ever again, his explanation seemed to make her angry. She’d said she didn’t need anyone to take care of her, and she’d reminded him that she had warned him the first time they went out that she had no interest in marriage.
“I told you then that I’ve never married, never been engaged, never lived with anyone, and that I never will. That I like men in small doses—flings. That I love living alone. And I said that if you were looking for a wife, or even a roommate, forget about me. I’m not interested. Didn’t you hear me?” she asked, her green eyes icy.
He remembered every word, but he hadn’t believed she meant it at the time, and he still didn’t. All women wanted to be married, to have a family, to have a husband to support them. He and Coleman had gone out together almost every night since their first date in January. Every occasion had been wonderful. He was in love with her, and he was certain she was in love with him. He was confident that he could persuade her that they were meant to be together. It was just a matter of time.
But the more he pursued her, the more she retreated. When he talked about children and a house in Connecticut, perhaps Darien or Westport, she shook her head and looked at him as if he were a Martian. Before she’d acquired First Home, he’d tried to persuade her not to buy another magazine, advised her that given the country’s economic problems, buying it was a bad risk. In any case, she shouldn’t work so hard, keep such long hours. Since then, she’d refused his every invitation. He could rarely reach her on the telephone. He sent flowers, candy, books, notes, and cards. He received brief thank-you notes, until she’d e-mailed him, asking him to stop the “annoying” barrage.
Still, he would keep trying. He was determined to marry her. Surely she would come to her senses and see how much better off she’d be as Mrs. Robert Mondelli. Retired from the cutthroat world of publishing. Taking care of babies instead of a lap dog. A big beautiful house in the suburbs instead of her tiny apartment in dangerous New York, where she’d been mugged, and where she met such awful types, like that filthy artist who accosted her at her party.
He tried to call both Coleman and Jonathan from the lim
o that met him at JFK. Coleman was out of the office, but Jonathan, who hadn’t yet arrived from Los Angeles, had e-mailed asking Rob to come to Cornelia Street tonight at seven. Rob left word with Jonathan’s assistant that he’d be there and that he would call Jonathan as soon as possible. He phoned Dinah at home, got her machine, and tried the Greene Gallery.
A shaky little female voice answered the telephone—probably one of Dinah’s graduate students, getting a taste of the real world and not liking it. “This is Robert Mondelli. May I speak to Ms. Greene, please?”
“Welcome back. We missed you,” Dinah said, picking up the line. Her chatty tone suggested that today was an ordinary day. Could something have changed since he spoke to Coleman?
“What’s happening, Dinah?” he asked.
“The detectives are here waiting to interview me again. I thought they’d asked me everything early this morning, but I guess not, and Coleman said I mustn’t speak to them without a lawyer—”
Bad news. The police shouldn’t be after her again so soon. She must be their only suspect. She shouldn’t be in the office; she should be at home, resting and inaccessible, especially since it was after five.
Fatal Impressions Page 6