“Ms. Spiegel, there are paintings there. I saw them myself.”
“Those are Randy’s paintings. I’m talking about my brother’s paintings. There were twelve of them: they were hanging on the back wall. Lieutenant, those paintings are worth eight million dollars.”
“I know,” he said. “You already told me.” He sighed, and stood up. Then he introduced her first to Martinez, and then to Charlotte and Tom. She was too upset to question what Charlotte and Tom were doing there. Finally he said: “Why don’t we go take a look?”
He then led them down an alley between the mill and the neighboring building, a small brick Victorian house. At the rear of the mill, a cop was sitting on a chair next to a door. At the sight of Voorhees, he sprang to attention. “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. He eyed Bernice warily; she must have given him a piece of her mind too.
Voorhees proceeded to grill the cop on the arrangements for guarding the premises. According to the cop, the building had been “secured at all times” since the discovery of the body. Then they entered the building. The door opened onto a stairwell, at one end of which was a thick metal door—the door that Bernice had had installed to keep Randy out of the rest of the building. Then they went upstairs to Randy’s second-floor studio apartment.
The first thing to strike Charlotte’s eye was the yellowing eviction notice hanging on the door. The next was the TV monitor whose lens was aimed at the door. There was also a burglar alarm system, which Martinez deactivated. Randy must have been very afraid of break-ins. The door opened onto a large space that ran the full width of the back of the building. To their right was a small kitchen and living area, and at the far end was the door to a bedroom.
“The paintings were here,” said Bernice. She led them over to the interior wall, and pointed to a series of hooks surrounded by faded rectangles marking the spots where the paintings had once hung.
“And those?” said Voorhees, nodding at the paintings on the far wall.
“Those are Randy’s diner paintings,” she replied icily.
Voorhees sauntered down to the end of the studio, and stuck his head in the bedroom door. “Those are Randy’s paintings in there, too,” said Bernice. “I looked everywhere,” she added as he wandered around, peeking in closets and behind couches and bookshelves.
“We’ll have to go through all of these papers,” said Voorhees as he passed a desk in the living area. He nodded to Martinez, who made a note. Then he pulled out an album from a rack of half a dozen on the desk, and opened it. “Will you look at these!” he said, as he leafed through the pages.
“That’s his collection of old diner postcards,” said Bernice.
“Is that right?” said Tom casually as he flew to Voorhees’ side.
“How about the rest of the building?” asked Voorhees as he idly riffled through the rest of the papers on the desk, leaving Tom to the postcard albums. “Or in your brother’s house. Could he have hung them somewhere else?”
“I don’t know.” The police officer wouldn’t let me look. He couldn’t have put them downstairs after I installed the steel door, but he might have done it before.”
“Can you describe some of the missing paintings?”
“Yes. The biggest was ‘Horn & Hardart.’ It was of the interior: a close-up of the shiny little stainless steel doors with the windows for viewing the food. Then there was one of the W. R. Grace Building, and one of the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge …”
“Okay,” said Voorhees, “We’ll go take a look.”
Led by Bernice, the four of them toured the rest of the building, which was divided into a large living area, a cavernous studio, and a second-story mezzanine, which overlooked the studio. None of the missing paintings was hanging on the walls, nor were they in the storage rooms.
Next they toured Spiegel’s house, the little brick Victorian that had formerly been the mill superintendent’s residence. The living area in the mill had been Spiegel’s public living space—the scene of the ongoing party that Diana had described—but this little house was where he had actually lived. The paintings weren’t there, either.
“Okay,” said Voorhees after they had completed their tour. “I think we can conclude that the paintings aren’t here. Which means one of two things: either Goslau disposed of them before his death, or someone broke into his studio and stole them.”
They were standing on a small patio at the rear of Spiegel’s house. It reminded Charlotte of the garden of her own townhouse: a little oasis of green in the midst of the urban congestion.
“Since the studio has been guarded since his death, we’ll work on the first assumption,” said Voorhees. He had taken a seat on one of the patio chairs. Leaning back, he rubbed his neck. Then he asked, “Is there anywhere else that Goslau might have stored the paintings?”
“Out at his camp,” said Bernice, who had finally calmed down. “It’s out in Warren County, near the Pennsylvania line. I doubt he would have displayed them there—they were too valuable to hang in a place that was unoccupied most of the time—but he might have hidden them out there.”
“Why would he have hidden them?” asked Voorhees.
“He might have been afraid that I was going to take them.”
“Had you threatened to?”
“Yes. They’re mine. My brother was planning to rescind the gift agreement under which he had given Randy the paintings. He told me so.”
“But he hadn’t done so at the time of his death,” said Voorhees, adopting a chastising tone. “Moreover, they were the subject of a legal dispute.”
“No, he hadn’t,” replied Bernice, subdued.
“Is there anywhere else that Goslau might have hidden the paintings?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is there a possibility that he may have sold them?”
“The court ruled that they weren’t to be sold until after the settlement,” said Bernice, “But he might have sold them anyway. In recent months, there was no predicting what he might do.”
“Okay,” said Voorhees. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I presume that a detailed description of the works in question was drawn up in connection with the lawsuit: title, size, description, and so on.”
Bernice nodded.
“Do you have a copy of it?”
She nodded again.
“Martinez here will follow you home, and you’ll give him a copy. We’ll notify the art squad in New York that the paintings are missing. Once we get the list, we’ll send it along, and they can notify galleries to be on the lookout for the missing pieces.”
“What if they went overseas? Don had collectors in Europe and Japan.”
“The art squad will also notify the FBI, which will notify Interpol. Meanwhile, I’ll go out to Goslau’s country place and look for the paintings. I was thinking about going out there anyway. I’ll let you know as soon as I get back what I’ve found.”
After a few more minutes of discussion, Bernice got into her car to leave. After closing the door for her, Voorhees handed her his business card through the window and said: “If you think of anywhere else the paintings could be, give me a call.”
Seemingly satisfied, Bernice took the card with an effort at a smile.
Charlotte was impressed at how well he had handled her, but she supposed he’d had years of training in dealing with irate people.
After Bernice had driven off, followed by Martinez in the police cruiser, Voorhees rejoined Charlotte and Tom in front of the mill. Stretching out his arms, and sniffing the sweet air, he said: “Anyone for a ride out to the country?” He looked over at Tom. “Maybe we’ll find a good diner along the way.”
Charlotte didn’t need to check first with Tom to see what his answer would be. She could already sense a new book in the works.
“Where exactly is Randy’s country place?” Tom asked.
“Blairstown,” Voorhees replied. “Out near the Water Gap.”
Tom’s eyes gleamed. “I know just the one
.”
6
Tom and Charlotte followed Voorhees in the Buick. It took them a little over an hour to get to Randy’s camp, which was at the end of a long, winding dirt road on the wooded banks of the Beaver River—in western New Jersey. What had once been a fishing camp—the kind of weekend retreat where New York stockbrokers used to go to drink and spit to their heart’s content—had been transformed into a rustic trailer park for old diners. As Randy had already told them, there were five of them, arrayed in a semicircle around the original building, a log cabin lodge with a fieldstone chimney that looked as if it dated from the twenties. There were two diners on one side, these set fairly high above the water, and two on the other side, lower down. The fifth, the diminutive Short Stop, was set on a small island in the river, which was reached by a wooden bridge. Neatly manicured gravel paths led from one building to the other, and the woodsy grounds were beautifully landscaped with plantings of native trees and shrubs interspersed with flower beds of zinnias and marigolds. The effect was peculiar in the extreme: it reminded Charlotte of the tourist courts, the predecessors of modern motels, that could still be found on old highways, except that these structures were sided with stainless steel and porcelain enamel instead of clapboard or rough-hewn logs.
“This is my idea of a summer place!” Tom exclaimed as they got out of the car and studied the shining buildings. “The neon must look wonderful at night against the leaves. Look at that one,” he said, pointing at the sign for one of the diners on their left: the RED ROBIN. The name was followed by three robins that probably lit up in succession to give the image of a robin bob, bob, bobbing along. “I wonder if they all work.”
Charlotte looked up. “There are electric lines running to all of them.”
“We’ll have to ask Voorhees if we can come back at night.”
Voorhees was standing with his hands on his hips, looking around. Then he turned and walked over to them. He walked with a rolling gait, like a sailor who isn’t entirely comfortable on dry land. “I thought I’d seen it all, but this is a new one on me.”
“I think it’s great,” said Tom.
“Each to his own,” said Voorhees, shaking his head.
“I know some of these diners,” Tom announced with the pleasure of someone who’s accidentally come across an old friend. “That one, the C & E, used to be in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. And that one, the Silver Spoon, used to be in Burlington, Vermont. They were listed for sale in Diner Monthly. I guess that’s how Randy found out about them.”
Voorhees was studying the ring of keys he held in his hand.
“Where do we start?” asked Charlotte.
“They’re all labeled. Let’s see,” he said, picking out two of the keys. “Plummer, why don’t you take the two on the right.” He handed Tom the keys to the Silver Spoon and the Tastee. “Miss Graham can take the C & E, the Red Robin, and the Short Stop,” he added, handing Charlotte three more keys, “and I’ll take the lodge.”
“Do you think there’s an alarm system?” asked Charlotte.
“I was just getting to that.” He fished around in his coat pocket. “Martinez got the code from the alarm company.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. “It’s 2031. The panels should be just inside each of the doors.”
Charlotte chose to visit the C & E first. She liked the looks of it. It was a small, shiny, jewel-like diner with a barrel roof.
It turned out to be Randy’s living quarters, and she could readily see why he had chosen it for this purpose. It had a J-shaped counter, the area beyond the curve of the J making a natural space for a bed. The rest had been remodeled into a living area, with a banquette under the front windows, and shelving under the counters.
Although it was fascinating as a study of adaptive reuse—who would have thought of using a mirrored pie case for a bookshelf?—it didn’t tell her much. Most of the possessions were practical ones: a TV and a stereo system, a blender and some other kitchen gadgets; some fishing gear. The only art was an old photo of the C & E.
As she was leaving, Charlotte noticed an area nearby that had been recently cleared by a bulldozer. Inspecting it, she found that a road had been bulldozed through the woods. Remembering that Randy had talked about having a particular diner in mind to add to his collection, she concluded that this must be its future site.
Next she checked out the Red Robin, which was one of the diners that Randy had described as undergoing restoration. It was a mess: half the stools were missing, the interior stainless was pitted and rusted, and the woodwork looked like someone had used it as a punching bag. Seeing it, Charlotte was struck by how much work must have gone into restoring the C & E.
The third diner, the Short Stop, was a dinette, one of the mini-diners that had been built after the war for ex-GI’s who had learned to cook in the Army, and who didn’t have the money to invest in something bigger. The stainless steel bands on the exterior alternated with bands of pink enamel to match the color of the sign, which featured an arrow pointing downward at the entrance.
The C & E and the Red Robin had yielded nothing in terms of clues, but at the Short Stop, she struck pay dirt.
The Short Stop was the diner that Randy said he’d just acquired for a guest house. It was a guest house all right, but for a particular guest: a guest whose taste for hot-pink matched the neon sign and the enameled stripes between the stainless steel banding. In short, the Short Stop was Xantha and Randy’s love nest. Xan and Ran, how cute.
“The Short Stop,” Charlotte repeated, laughing to herself at the aptness of the name. Taking a seat in a chair covered in imitation zebra skin, she studied the interior. It was a sight to behold.
Unlike that of the C & E, the interior of the Short Stop had been gutted to make one big bedroom whose decor, in both color and style, matched the pink-on-white cloud pattern of the Formica walls. It was all fifties high-camp, with a ruffled pink satin bedspread, an elaborate dressing table whose mirrored surface was covered with makeup containers and perfume bottles, and lamps in the shape of French poodles with pink tulle shades.
Swallowing her qualms about the propriety of snooping around, Charlotte boldly peeked into the closet. Any uncertainty about the identity of the occupant was erased by a glance at its contents. Almost all of the garments bore the Xantha Price label.
Hearing a step behind her, she turned around. It was Voorhees: he was standing in the glass-block entryway, an expression of astonishment on his broad face. “Holy moly,” he said. “What the hell have we got here?”
“I think it’s what you’d call a love nest,” she said.
“The Short Stop,” he said. “He couldn’t have picked a diner with a more suitable name. Maybe we can add it to the nooner and the quickie as a slang expression for the hasty sex act.”
“He could have chosen the Tastee,” she joked.
Voorhees chuckled.
“Look at this,” she said. She gestured for him to join her at the closet, where she showed him the label in a beaded sweater dress. “I wonder what Arthur Lumkin would think about this.”
“‘Xantha Price,’” he read. He looked over at her, and then raised his hands in an expression of bafflement. “Okay, I give up. Who is Arthur Lumkin and what does he have to do with the label in a dress?”
“Arthur Lumkin is a prominent investment banker who is very, very rich,” she explained. “Xantha Price is a British fashion designer. She is also Lumkin’s wife, and, it most certainly appears, Randy’s lover.”
“I remember now,” he said, nodding his bald head. “They were at the opening; you and Plummer met them there.”
“They’re art collectors. They had loaned a painting to the museum for the diner exhibit—one of Randy’s, I might add. Randy told me at the opening that they owned nine of his paintings.”
“I knew there was a reason I asked you to help out in this investigation. Well, at least we now have one suspect: the husband.” He scanned the interior: “No paintings, I presume.”
�
��Not that I’ve found. Either here or at the C & E or the Red Robin.”
“None at the lodge, either.” He looked at his watch. “It’s going on six. What do you say to some dinner?”
Charlotte agreed, and they joined Tom outside the lodge. He had found paintings—one of the diners he had checked out was being used by Randy as a studio—but they were all Randy’s own.
After checking out the C & E again—Tom just had to see it—they regrouped in the parking area. “Where’s that diner you were talking about?” asked Voorhees. “I’m getting hungry.”
“Follow me,” Tom responded.
Their destination was the Sunrise Diner in Blairstown, whose sign boasted “Great Coffee.” It was a classic diner that had been ruined, at least as far as Tom was concerned, by the addition of a dining room on the back. Though it had never actually achieved the august rank of perfect diner, it had—prior to the addition of the dining room—been a contender for that title, and it still ranked among the best in Tom’s estimation. Among the features that elevated the Sunrise above the ordinary were the hand-lettered sign above the grill, which said: “There are only two places to eat breakfast: here and at home”; the homey note provided by the blue- and white-checked tieback curtains; the view overlooking the municipal ball field; and the specialty of the house, a simple roast chicken.
Last but not least among the diner’s winning features was the waitress, Lorraine Kelly. Lorraine was the subject of one of Tom’s diner stories, which he regaled them with once they were comfortably settled in a booth with a view of the Little League game-in-progress.
“Her husband was an interstate truck driver, and she used to go along on trips with him sometimes,” he said. “They lived in the Midwest. Dubuque, I think. Anyway, they were eating here when he excused himself to go to the bathroom. He never came back.”
“What do you mean?” asked Voorhees. “Somebody offed him in the john?”
Murder at the Falls Page 9