“Do the girls have money?” Jonathan said.
“James left some money for their education, but it couldn’t have been much. They went to Miss Mitford’s, a boarding school near Richmond, from the seventh grade through high school, and Witherspoon College, in Summerville, Virginia. Inexpensive schools. He must have settled only a modest amount on them, because he didn’t believe in leaving kids a lot of money—he thought it spoiled them. He wanted them to work for a living. He tied up most of his money in a trust for DDD&W, which, except for the twins, was his only love. He expected the girls would work at DDD&W, but I gather they didn’t?”
Jonathan shook his head. “No, and I don’t know why. It’s hard to believe they could just disappear.”
Carville shrugged. “Girls get married and change their names—or change their names, period. They may even get new social security numbers, if they’re trying to hide.”
Blair, who’d been listening attentively, frowned. “Why would they hide?”
“I don’t know that they are hiding,” Carville said. “But the researchers at the Firm tried to find them, and they didn’t turn up under the name of Davidson, dead or alive.”
When the meeting broke up, Jonathan was even more puzzled than he’d been earlier. Not only did it seem impossible that the girls could have disappeared, but their schools were surprising. Why did the only children of the wealthy and socially prominent James Davidson attend such obscure schools? Why didn’t their father leave enough money to give them a decent education? Were they perhaps backward? Slow? Did that explain why they couldn’t get jobs at DDD&W? Maybe this lawyer, Lucas Parker, could supply some answers.
But Jonathan’s three-thirty meeting with Parker was not only uninformative, it turned ugly.
Parker was a Pillsbury doughboy with an unpleasant personality. His skin was flour paste white, and his plump form was held in place by a sausage-casing vest, but he wasn’t cheerful and smiling, let alone giggly like his doppelganger. Stubborn and obtuse were the words that came to mind: he simply could not—or would not—understand why Jonathan was concerning himself with something that Parker did not think was Jonathan’s business. He insisted that anything to do with the Davidson estate was his affair, and he intended to keep it that way. He said so several times, in an unctuous voice that set Jonathan’s teeth on edge.
“I agreed to this meeting because Blair Winthrop asked me to see you,” Parker said, looking down his nose at Jonathan. “But you have given me no reason why I should discuss the Davidsons’ financial affairs with you.”
Jonathan tried to contain his exasperation, but he felt like screaming at the idiot. “As I’ve said repeatedly, but perhaps too subtly, I’ve encountered some irregularities concerning the Davidson estate, and I’d like to talk to the girls about them.”
Parker’s body, froglike, seemed to swell. “I am the only person with whom you should discuss the Davidson estate. As for ‘irregularities,’ you are insulting. The estate was in my father’s hands, and it is now in mine.”
Jonathan stood up. “Parker, I’ve heard about attorneys like you, but it’s been my good fortune never to have met one. I haven’t asked you for anything confidential. I simply want to talk to James Davidson’s daughters. You won’t tell me if they are alive or dead, let alone how I might reach them. The irregularities to which I refer are about to turn into a public scandal. You should inform yourself by reading these.” Jonathan dropped a set of the photocopied clippings from the columns that mentioned DDD&W on Parker’s desk.
Parker curled his lip. “I’ve seen those articles,” he said. “They’re ridiculous. I’m told that this nasty press campaign is a personal vendetta engineered by you, because your wife is suspected of murdering someone who worked at DDD&W.”
“You’re a pompous jerk, but you’re also a fool. Your saying that proves it. Say it again in front of a witness, and I promise you, you won’t practice law again in the United States. In fact, you’ll be lucky if you can earn enough to live in the United States.”
Jonathan strode to the door, but before he departed, he turned back and glared at Parker. “When I find those young women, I’m going to tell them that you are so bullheaded, so stupid, you wouldn’t take steps to protect their assets. Some people would describe your behavior as criminally incompetent—or just criminal. I’ll advise the young women to take legal action against you, and I’ll represent them at no expense. You’re a disgrace to the legal profession. The next time you hear from me, it will be through the Firm.”
In the car on the way to the Century Club to meet Blair, Jonathan telephoned Rob to ask if he’d had any luck tracing the Davidson girls.
“Not yet,” Rob said. “Have you learned something about them?”
“Their lawyer wouldn’t tell me anything. But I have the names of their schools: Miss Mitford’s and Witherspoon College, both in Virginia. Maybe the schools have addresses for them.”
“I’ll put a guy on it right away,” Rob said. He sent an e-mail to Pete explaining his request, adding that if Pete was too busy, he could farm it out to one of his friends. It was a simple request; anyone could handle it.
Thirty-Nine
Jonathan recognized Ian MacDonald’s kilt as the red plaid of the MacDonald clan. With it he wore a black velvet jacket ornamented with silver. He should have looked elegant, but MacDonald was a big craggy man, with tree-trunk legs and receding reddish-blond hair. His fair skin was ruddy and freckled, marking him as a man who spent more time out of doors than at formal dinners. He had laugh lines around his pale blue eyes, but he wasn’t laughing tonight; he looked like a volcano on the verge of erupting.
When Blair asked what he’d like to drink, he asked for Scotch whisky, and swigged it throughout the meal, rejecting the excellent wines Blair had selected to drink with the smoked salmon and roast beef. Even with enough whisky in him to float a yacht, MacDonald was a man of few words. “I ken the Davidson family well. All the Davidsons I ever heard of did good. They go all the way back to the Bible. But the Douglases are a treacherous lot. I know naught of Weeks nor Danbury.” He repeated the speech several times.
Jonathan, bewildered, turned to Blair for enlightenment.
Blair, grinning, explained that the first David in Scotland was the son of Malcolm III, king of Scotland, and Margaret, the much beloved queen of Scotland, a devout Christian. Margaret and Malcolm died in 1093. The Earl of Douglas was said to have deserted the Scottish cause in the fifteenth century. “Scots have long memories,” Blair added.
Jonathan nodded. This one certainly did.
When coffee was served, MacDonald spiked his with more whisky and took a big gulp. The steam rising from it proved it was scalding hot, but the inside of his mouth was apparently as immune to heat as his blood was to whisky. Jonathan took advantage of MacDonald’s mouthful of coffee to ask what he planned to do about the missing art. MacDonald glared at him, his bloodshot eyes the only sign of his alcohol intake.
“I’d like to kill the buggers, but I cannae. I’ll have to beat the bloody bastards with the law.”
“Can the museum afford a prolonged court battle?” Blair asked.
“Nae, the museum cannae, but I can. I got all the siller I’ll ever need, and more besides. But I dinnae ken a lawyer for this. My lawyers deal with the land and such.”
Jonathan and Blair exchanged glances, and Jonathan said, “We already have a lawyer and a detective working on this problem—we think some of the people at DDD&W have committed other crimes. We could probably save time—and money—by joining forces.”
MacDonald’s eyes gleamed. Within twenty minutes a deal had been struck, and MacDonald departed for Stuartville in the back seat of an ancient Rolls Royce, with a young, presumably sober, driver at the wheel.
Jonathan went to bed Tuesday night exhausted but satisfied. Adding MacDonald and the defrauded museum to those prosecuting DDD&W greatly strengthened their position. Eccentric as he was, MacDonald would still make a good ally.
>
Rob was trying to decide which of the vast list of things to do he should tackle first, when Pete appeared in his office door. “I got a pal to call Miss Mitford’s, the Davidson girls’ school. He spoke to the registrar. Margaret Davidson was married and divorced. She kept her married name, Galloway. She died last summer—suicide, people say, although her sister Elizabeth insisted it was an accident. Ms. Galloway was buried in the family plot in Connecticut with her father and brother, but because of the way she died, the funeral was private, and there were no articles in the local paper. Most people around there don’t even know Margaret’s dead.”
“What about Elizabeth?”
“She was at the funeral, but nobody’s seen or heard from her since, and neither of her schools has a current address for her.”
Rob frowned. “Too bad, the schools were our best hope. See if you can think of any other approach to locating Elizabeth, or her mother.”
Pete, looking dubious, nodded, and departed. Rob put a big question mark by Elizabeth Davidson’s name and returned to his list.
Forty
“Did you see this?” Loretta held out Tuesday’s Daily Reporter, open at the gossip page.
“No, I haven’t seen the papers. What’s happenin’?” Bethany asked. She took another sip from the paper cup of Starbucks’s strongest and blackest she’d picked up on her way to the office. She’d decided not to eat or drink anything prepared at DDD&W. The people were so hostile toward the Greene Gallery they’d probably poison anything that came near her and Loretta. Anyway, everything here had sugar in it.
“Another story about DDD&W,” Loretta said. “Listen:
Jonathan Hathaway, the scion of one of Boston’s most established families, is dining tonight in Beantown—not on beans, we hasten to add—with Ian MacDonald, chairman of the Prince Charles Stuart Museum, of Stuartville, New York.
Under the late James Davidson’s will, the Prince Charles recently received the multimillion-dollar Davidson Americana collection, from DDD&W, the New York–based consulting firm. But somebody grabbed all the goodies before shipping the bequest to the museum. According to sources who’ve seen what arrived in Stuartville, the museum got only scraps and bobtails, a fraction of what they’d expected.
Hathaway’s wife, art dealer Dinah Greene, and her cousin, Coleman Greene, editor of ArtSmart, discovered that the collection had been stripped of its most valuable objects. Hathaway is the bearer of the bad news to the museum. (See Arts Section for a related article.)”
Bethany nearly spilled her coffee. “Wow! They know everything, don’t they? What’s the related article?”
“They printed the list from the will beside the list of the things that went to the museum. Is Coleman giving this stuff to the columns?” Loretta asked.
“I’m sure she’s responsible for the earlier pieces, but not this one. Jonathan won’t like havin’ his name or Dinah’s in a tabloid, and Coleman wouldn’t ruffle his feathers. I’m guessing the Daily Reporter picked up the story from the New York Examiner and did its own research,” Bethany said. She dropped her empty cup in the trash basket and sighed. “Okay, let’s hang—but first, who’s going to chat up the Moose?”
“I’ll do it. I don’t mind,” Loretta said.
She’d tackle Moose right now. But first she’d stop by the ladies’ room to check her appearance. She needed to look her best for this little job. Every time Moose had seen her in the corridors he’d complimented her clothes. He was a noticing man.
The Joan Crawford–cut turquoise suit and matching platform shoes were just right. The rosy lipstick was perfect, too. She touched the hair sticks she’d tucked into her chignon. Well, knitting needles really, left over from unsuccessful attempts by her great-aunt to teach her to knit. But they’d be sold as expensive hair sticks if she’d had to buy them at Bloomingdale’s. They were hot. She’d buy some more when she’d saved a little. She enjoyed the admiring stares of the DDD&W men, and she looked forward to interviewing the Moose. This was a chance to strut her stuff. She knew what to do; she’d been watching TV detectives for years.
Moose, his brow furrowed and a pencil behind his ear, sat behind an enormous desk littered with paper. He looked up and grinned. “Well, howdy, Love Bird! You here for help? You got the right guy. What can I do for you?”
Loretta leaned against the wall inside his office door and considered Moose. Despite his compliments, she didn’t think he was interested in her sexually, or that talking trash with him would get her anywhere. Today he looked really busy. His eyes were cold, and his jaw looked tight—she’d cut to the chase. She could flirt anytime; this was business.
“You talked about Patti Sue fighting. We know the other woman was Naomi Skinner. Who’s the partner they were fighting over?”
“You got the women right. Forget about the partner, Sweetie. Don’t go there. And stay away from those women. Trust me. Patti Sue’s a mean, ugly bitch, and so is Skinner. Messin’ around with them is dangerous. Don’t get involved. Forget it.”
Loretta, thrilled with having their suspicion of the Skinner woman confirmed, tried again.
“So you’re not the partner Patti Sue and Naomi Skinner are fighting over?”
Moose guffawed. “Get real, Love Bird. The DDD&W women are bow-wows. I take out models and stars—at least, I did before I got married. Lemme show you a picture of my wife.” He picked up a silver-framed photograph from the array on his desk and handed it to her. Loretta recognized the exquisite face, the perfect body, the de la Renta ball dress. She’d seen that lady’s photograph in fashion magazines. Moose must be loaded big-time. Maybe even a billionaire. Dressing the way she did cost plenty.
“Wow! Isn’t she on the best-dressed list?”
“That’s my girl,” he said, his round face glowing with pride.
“I can see why you wouldn’t be interested in Patti Sue or Naomi Skinner. But can’t you tell me who is?” she begged, her tone as persuasive as she could make it.
He shook his head, and no matter how she wheedled, he wouldn’t say another word. She gave up and rejoined Bethany and the hangers. When she repeated the conversation to Bethany, Loretta added, “But he knows who the partner is. He just didn’t want to tell me.”
“You think he’s involved with those women?” Bethany asked.
“No, I believe him about that. Anybody married to that Nicole Kidman look-alike wouldn’t go out with what he calls bow-wows. But I think he knows all about it, just won’t talk.” She shrugged. “Boy stuff. Loyalty to the other boys above all. Anyway, we know for certain who the other woman is.”
“Good. I’ll send Rob an e-mail. Let’s hang prints.”
Bethany was standing on a ladder in the hall hanging a print when her cell phone rang.
“Bethany, it’s Rob. We have a problem.”
When he explained that Dinah’s tools had been used to sabotage the bookshelves, Bethany groaned. “Got it. What do you want me to do?” She climbed down the ladder and moved out of earshot of the other hangers.
“See if you can open that file cabinet without a key. Try a nail file or a letter opener. Find out who has duplicate keys to your office and the print storeroom. Someone must. And Bethany, don’t tell anyone about this. Jonathan doesn’t want Dinah to know until she has to.”
“Okay, done.” Zeke, who’d followed her down the hall, raised his eyebrows. She climbed down and smiled at him. “I’ll tell you later, lover. I’m going back to the office for a minute,” she said and hurried down the hall.
When she and Loretta had arrived yesterday, the metal file drawers were locked, and the key had been where Dinah said she’d put it, taped to the bottom of the stapler in one of the desk drawers—not findable without a time-consuming search. Seemed unlikely that whoever used Dinah’s tools would have wasted time looking for the key, and since the killer wanted people to believe Dinah did it, he or she wouldn’t have forced the lock. So how did the killer open the file, and relock it?
Similar cab
inets in her high school had interchangeable keys. She bet these did, too. She walked around a couple of corners and stopped at an assistant’s desk. The young woman looked up. “May I help you with something?”
“I hope so. I can’t find the key to the filing cabinet in my boss’s office. But it looks like it’s one of those cabinets where one key fits all. May I borrow yours to see if it works? I’ll bring it right back.”
“Sure, here it is,” the woman said, handing her the key.
Five minutes later, Bethany returned the key. “Just as I thought, your key fits my boss’s file cabinet,” she said. “Thanks.”
The young woman shook her head. “Don’t mention it. Some security, huh? I’ll remember not to leave my wallet in there.”
Bethany grinned. “Me, too. Thanks again.”
Now for the other keys. Dinah said that Ted Douglas’s assistant had arranged the installation of the locks. She was Bethany’s next stop.
“Hi! I’m Bethany Byrd, Dinah Greene’s assistant. We’ve begun hangin’ prints, and I wanted to introduce myself. But I also wanted to ask you something.”
“What’s that?” The woman was so colorless, she was nearly invisible. Grumpy, too. The corners of her mouth turned downward. Douglas’s wife must have hired her.
“The doors to the office and the storage room were open when we got here—I guess Dinah left ‘em that way ‘cause there weren’t any unhung prints lyin’ around. But we’ve had some prints delivered, and we’re expectin’ a whole lot more, and we need to be able to secure ‘em,” Bethany said.
The woman frowned. “Where are the keys I gave Dinah Greene?” she asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Bethany lied. “Maybe she took ‘em with her?”
The woman nodded, her face sour. “Typical. No one here can keep up with keys.” She opened her middle desk drawer and pulled out a large ring holding thirty or more keys, each labeled. She removed two from the ring and handed them to Bethany. “Don’t bother to return them,” she said. “I have several more sets.”
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