Restrike

by Reba White Williams

  His face remained impassive. “I’m sorry to hear that. Thanks for your time.”

  She walked him to the reception room, but only to make sure he left. First Simon, now this guy. The case was crawling with creeps.

  Back in her office, she considered what she should do next. Before talking to Mondelli, she had assumed that when the police learned about Jimmy and the Homer, they’d investigate the connectio, and figure out that there was more going on than the sordid story they’d decided to believe. She’d planned to learn whatever they turned up from Clancy, and pass it on to Chick. But it sounded as if the police were going to bury the art part of La Grange’s story.

  That was a problem. She couldn’t publish an article telling readers that Jimmy La Grange, seller of the Homer, newly rich by about half a million dollars, was coincidentally killed almost at the same time he sold the print. Too many questions would remain unanswered. She’d look like an idiot. It was time to check in with Clancy.

  “Clancy? I talked to Mondelli, the art cop. He seems sure La Grange’s death isn’t art-related. He’s sticking with the cop theory about the sex thing.”

  “He’ll have to reconsider. Not only was Jimmy La Grange the seller of the Homer, he was also the seller of The Midget.”

  Coleman sat up straight, her eyes wide. “Wow, are you serious? How’d you find out?”

  Clancy laughed. “You’re not the only one with contacts. I got it from someone who works at Grendle’s. What did you think of Mondelli?”

  “Not much. A lot of muscle and a closed mind.”

  “Don’t underestimate him—he’s plenty smart—but so far, the police haven’t found any evidence of an art link to La Grange’s death, except what you and I’ve turned up. They have lots of physical evidence from La Grange’s apartment of what happened. When they pick up the guys who were there, they can nail ’em easily. As far as they’re concerned, even if we’re right, Jimmy somehow found the money—maybe borrowed it—to buy those two prints, and that’s the end of it. His death was something else entirely.”

  “But Clancy, there’s no way that poor obscure little dealer could have ‘found’ or ‘borrowed’ the money to buy those two prints. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars here.”

  “I know. La Grange must have fronted for somebody who didn’t want anyone to know he was connected to those prints. But why? They can’t be stolen. There’s been so much publicity about them, we’d know it by now.”

  “If La Grange was fronting for somebody, the real owner of the print is out of luck. Whoever he is, he’ll never get his money now,” Coleman said.

  “Yeah, and if you weren’t on the case, the seller of Skating Girl might not be out of luck. I bet the auction house checks were supposed to go to a PO Box, where the seller has access. But since you discovered that La Grange consigned Skating Girl, and the information got to the police, the check will go to Jimmy’s estate instead. And thanks to me, so will the money for The Midget.”

  “Somebody’s bound to be furious,” Coleman said, remembering the expression on Simon’s face when she’d told him La Grange was dead.

  Ten

  Friday

  Coleman’s calendar was jammed: gallery and museum openings, book launches, auctions, interviews with artists and collectors, breakfasts, lunches, cocktail parties, and dinners. Much of what she did, saw, and heard had to be recorded for ArtSmart. When she wasn’t attending an event, she was writing about one, or editing an article someone else had written about it. Coleman loved New York in the fall—exciting, stimulating, full of new ideas, new art, new people.

  But while only a week had passed since Bain’s appearance at Killington’s and La Grange’s death, she felt as if it had been months. Despite the brisk pace of her life, much of what interested her appeared to be bogged down. According to Clancy, the police remained confident that they knew how and why La Grange died, and saw no reason to look further. She hadn’t identified or plugged the leak at ArtSmart. Heyward Bain hadn’t called her, and Coleman had failed to learn anything about him despite dozens of phone calls, and hours on the Internet.

  She’d pestered Debbi for information on Bain, but Debbi either didn’t know anything, or wasn’t talking. She dropped a few crumbs about the museum—Bain was hosting a series of group lunches for dealers, and Debbi had invited Dinah to the first one. Simon was selling contemporary prints acquired from artists or from other print dealers to Bain. He continued to buy older prints for Bain in cities outside New York, and at lesser-known auction houses. The most publicized purchases were four Dürers in Cleveland and a Rembrandt in Boston, all for record prices. Inexplicably, Bain continued to rely on Simon the creep.

  The day of Dinah’s group lunch with Heyward Bain arrived, and at breakfast Jonathan was still trying to persuade her not to go. “I can’t imagine why you want to see this guy. God knows, we’ve met enough new-money people in New York in the last few years.”

  “Oh, come on, Jonathan. Part of it’s the mystery: who is this man? Where did he come from? He must love prints. He wouldn’t be willing to commit so much time and money to them if he didn’t.”

  “I don’t agree. I keep telling you, he’s using art to open doors otherwise closed to him. And as for who he is, I’m sure ‘Bain’ used to be an unpronounceable six-syllable name, and his money came from the entertainment industry, or real estate, or something illegal. After all, why should he try to hide his background if he isn’t ashamed of it?”

  Dinah picked up their empty plates and took them into the kitchen. He followed her, and she couldn’t resist replying. “You’re boring when you’re so snobbish. Who cares how he made his money, unless it was illegally? Everyone can’t be a doctor or a lawyer, and some people think investment bankers are infra dig. Coleman says he’s fascinating.”

  “Really? Well, tell me this: how is Bain going to acquire all these prints? Is he going to advertise what he wants? If so, he’ll raise prices dramatically, wreck the market, set new highs. Anyone who overpays is a fool asking to be cheated.”

  She agreed with Jonathan about the impact of Bain’s activities on the print market—she wished it weren’t happening—but he was being insufferable. “How else? I mean, if he doesn’t say what he wants, how will dealers know what to offer him? And he has to outbid others, or he won’t get the prints.”

  “There’s something suspicious about the whole project. Maybe he’s laundering money.”

  Dinah, putting soap in the dishwasher, didn’t turn around. “I disagree, and so does Coleman. She had dinner with him and talked to him for hours, and she doesn’t think he’s a criminal. You haven’t even met him, and you think you know better?”

  By the time Jonathan arrived at the offices of Hathaway and Associates at 140 Broadway he’d cooled off and was thinking clearly. He was a trained analyst who understood complicated financial deals. Surely he could figure out what Bain was up to, discover who he was. The source of all that money—if it existed—shouldn’t be a secret unless it was illegal.

  Dinah was naïve, innocent. He had to shield her, to take care of her. Until she met Jonathan, Dinah had never had anything, and had never been anywhere except North Carolina, graduate school in New York, and that nowhere town in Connecticut where she worked before their marriage. She could get hurt dealing with a guy like Bain. No one was going to hurt Dinah. He would make sure of that.

  He punched in the extension for the company library. “Hello, Jonathan Hathaway here. I’d like everything you can find about Heyward Bain, probably in his forties, probably American, around five feet tall, dark hair, gray eyes, and reputedly rich. I want family background, financial details, education, criminal record, anything. It’s a priority, okay? Thanks.”

  That was a start, but not enough. He’d cancel his appointments and get on the telephone. He’d call the family lawyers, accountants, and money managers. If none of them knew anything about Bain, he’d go through his personal Rolodex and call all his friends.

/>   Bain stood near the door of the private dining room at the Four Seasons Restaurant on Park Avenue, greeting his guests. His suit had to be Savile Row. He and Jonathan probably used the same tailor. He introduced Dinah to Ellen Carswell, today in navy blue, with a jade pin on the lapel, and matching earrings. The knit suit was sexy, outlining her opulent curves, but she was formal and distant, almost cold.

  Dinah recognized the other guests, all print experts. The only person she hadn’t met was Simon Fanshawe-Davies. When Bain introduced them, the dealer acknowledged Dinah with an unflattering lack of interest. Dinah liked nearly everyone, but she was put off by Fanshawe-Davies. He was rude, and he had a lean and hungry look.

  She sat on Bain’s right, and for the first time she got a close look at him. Coleman was right. He was extraordinarily handsome.

  While the others ate their soup, Heyward Bain described his project. He was committed to building a great museum that would cover the history of printmaking and include examples of the best prints ever made. “I’ll need all the assistance I can get, both in deciding exactly what should be in the museum, and in finding the prints. I’ve invited each of you here to ask for your help.” He looked around, waiting for responses.

  Dinah was trying to think of something to say when Simon Fanshawe-Davies spoke. “Do you have a list of the prints you want?”

  His tone was annoying even when he asked an innocuous question. Coleman was right again. Fanshawe-Davies was awful. Dinah knew she was being irrational—she was judging him by the pricking of her thumbs. Why did Fanshawe-Davies make her think of Shakespeare? She sneezed. Oh Lord, it was Fanshawe-Davies’s aftershave. She could smell it across the table. Coleman had mentioned his peculiar scent—like the Straw Man in The Wizard of Oz—but who would have thought it would give Dinah hay fever? She reached in her bag for a tissue and an antihistamine pill. Her eyes were watering, too. She sneezed again.

  “We have a preliminary list of the prints we want. When you leave, Ms. Carswell will give each of you a copy. It’s a beginning—it includes a lot of obvious choices, but we don’t want to confine ourselves to the obvious.”

  Bain turned to Dinah. “For example, we’ll devote a large room to the history of US printmaking. We’ll want relatively unknown artists as well as the big names. I hope you have some nominations for milestones in your field. I understand you specialize in the history of colored printmaking?”

  Fanshawe-Davies barged in. “But surely the most important prints will be Old Masters?”

  “And, of course, contemporary prints—Jasper Johns, naturally,” another dealer said.

  Fanshawe-Davies sneered at the Johns advocate. “Surely negligible in the total scheme of things? Johns’s prints are important, of course, but when you consider them in the context of the total history of printmaking—well! Here’s my list of recommendations for the museum,” he said, handing a sheet of paper to Ms. Carswell. He launched into what turned out to be a long monologue. He discoursed on quality, availability, auction prices, and priorities. He was articulate and well-informed and he never referred to notes. He didn’t pause in his speech through the service of swordfish, salad, poached pears, and coffee. When anyone else tried to speak, he overrode them, and Bain, who seemed mesmerized, did nothing to stop the flow.

  Fanshawe-Davies ended his remarks just as Ms. Carswell looked at her watch, put down her coffee cup, and stood. Bain rose when she did, thanked them for coming, and Ms. Carswell ushered them out. Fanshawe-Davies was the only guest who’d said more than hello and goodbye. His timing was impeccable. He’d filled the available time exactly.

  Dinah walked downstairs to the ladies’ room to wash her face. She was dripping mascara and her nose was tomato-red. Worse, she felt like a fool. She hadn’t said a word. Maybe the looming failure of the Greene Gallery, and hearing Jonathan tell her every day she was unsuited to running a big gallery, had sapped her confidence more than she had realized.

  She blew her nose and powdered it, tidied her hair, put on fresh lipstick, and headed for the Fifty-Second Street door, looking forward to the haven of Cornelia Street, another antihistamine, and a long nap.

  Before she reached the doors, someone grabbed her arm. She turned, ready to smile a greeting, and cringed.

  “Maxwell Arnold! What are you doing here?”

  The man smiled. “What are you doing here? I eat at the Four Seasons every time I come to New York on business. Whenever I’m here, I inquire about you and your adorable cousin Coleman. I’ve never lost interest in the two of you, my dear, and I never will.”

  “Let me g-go!” Dinah whispered. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and ran for the door.

  In the taxi she struggled for control, and by the time she reached Cornelia Street, she could talk to Coleman without stuttering. “I ran into Maxwell Arnold at the Four Seasons,” she said when Coleman answered her cell phone.

  Coleman didn’t speak for a moment, then, “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Well, he said he came to New York on business and he always asks about us.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, but Coleman, it was the way he said it. He scared me.”

  “He’s scary because he’s crazy, but he can’t hurt either of us unless he catches one of us alone in the dark, and even then he’d have to have some of his bully-boys with him,” Coleman said. “What did he look like? Have his evil ways caught up with him? Or is he a Dorian Gray?”

  “There’s no justice—he looks pretty good. Still tall, of course, and not as heavy as lots of guys who played college football. He may have even lost weight since college. Sun and alcohol have roughed up his skin, but he still has good hair, and it’s still black. And Satan still looks out of those crazy no-color eyes.”“I’m sure that couldn’t change unless he was born-again. And pigs might fly. How was your lunch?”Dinah sneezed. “Oh, I came across like an idiot. I couldn’t think of anything to say fast enough to get a word in. Simon Fanshawe-Davies talked the whole time, and his ghastly aftershave or whatever it is gave me hay fever. The only good news is that Bain wants me to offer the museum a group of my kind of prints.”

  “That’s what counts—you’re the expert in your field. You stand out wherever you are.”

  Dinah sighed. “I didn’t today.”

  “Forget it—it doesn’t matter. Did anyone mention Jimmy La Grange?”

  Dinah blew her nose. “No, not a word. He died less than two weeks ago, but it’s as if he never existed.”

  “I agree. No one seems to care how or why he died. It makes my blood boil. Speaking of blood boiling, are you going to tell Jonathan about Maxwell Arnold?”

  “No. If he knew, he’d get me an armed guard, or two or three. I’d look like Heyward Bain.”

  “You’ve got a point. But if Maxwell turns up again, you must tell Jonathan. It was one thing to keep all that a secret when he stayed in the South, but if he’s bringing his vendetta to New York—”

  “We’ll see,” Dinah said.

  Eleven

  Friday

  Coleman was sorry Dinah had encountered Maxwell Arnold. She’d brought that hellhound into Dinah’s life, and she wished she could undo it. She’d gone over and over it in her mind, but she couldn’t see what she might have done differently—except, of course, never gone out with him. But that hadn’t seemed like an issue at the time.

  In the spring of her freshman year at Duke, Coleman’s life was close to perfect. The weather in Durham was beautiful, and she was busy with school, with friends, and with her sewing. Boys lined up for dates, and she went out a lot—not just with Duke boys, but boys from North Carolina State College in Raleigh, and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She’d met Maxwell Arnold at a party. He was a Big Man On Campus at UNC, and he’d seemed okay. He’d asked her out several times, but she’d always been busy, until he’d invited her to have dinner with him on a Saturday night several weeks ahead. She was free, and accepted.

  He’d told her they were
going to Snyder’s, a famous steakhouse, so she dressed up in a blue silk dress. But when Maxwell picked her up, he didn’t take her to the restaurant. He drove her into the woods, where four of his fraternity brothers were waiting in a clearing. She’d dated all of them once or twice, and they’d been nice enough, so she was puzzled, but not frightened. They reeked of beer, but that wasn’t unusual.

  But Maxwell shoved her out of the car, and said, “Okay, Ice Maiden, which one of us do you want to do first? We’ve had enough of your cock-teasing shit. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Coleman had felt a flash of fear, but fear affected her as it always did: she became furiously angry. With her rage came the certainty that if she showed weakness, they’d rape her. Her only hope was attack. She stood as tall as she could, which wasn’t very tall, and said in an ordinary conversational tone, “You’re great big strong men, and I’m not a very big girl, and I’m alone. I can’t stop anything you do to me. But hear me: if any one of you touches me, I’ll walk back to campus, and I’ll tell the world about you, and what you did. You’ll have to kill me to stop me.

  “And you, Tommy, will not go to medical school, I promise you that. Tonight will end your hopes of a medical career. And you, Buddy—you told me you plan on law and politics. But not in this state, not if you hurt me. I’m Miss Ida Slocumb’s granddaughter, and don’t forget it. You’ll have to leave the Carolinas, maybe even the South, once people hear my story. And Henry, you’re practically a neighbor. I know your sister and your mother, we’re members of the same church. They think you’re a devout Christian. I’d hate to hurt them by telling them what you really are, but I’ll do it in a minute. Paul—your fiancée’s in my Spanish class. She’ll never marry you if she hears about tonight. She’s a decent girl and deserves better than you—and believe me, she will hear about you.