A group of uniformed police, followed by a cluster of medical technicians, shoved their way into the ballroom. Seeing them, the doctor changed direction and headed toward the rear exit. Coleman couldn’t make out his features—he wore a black stocking cap, black hair fell to his shoulders and covered his brow, and a heavy beard disguised his mouth and chin.
“Who do you think it is?” Bain said.
“I don’t know. We never found a tall man connected to Simon. Could it be Maxwell Arnold?”
“Maxwell’s tall enough, and rotten through and through, but I can’t see him making a public attack like this. He’d creep up behind his victim in a dark alley. I’m going to see how badly Simon’s hurt, and where they’re taking him.” Bain signaled with his hand, and one of his musclemen appeared. Bain jumped down from the bar, and the two of them pushed through the crowd, the huge guard forcing an opening.
Debbi looked up at Coleman. “You’re safe here—the action’s across the room. I’d better go with Heyward. I’m going to have work to do.” She followed in their wake.
The figure in bloodstained white continued to force his way through the crowd. The shrinking crowd, frightened or repelled, struggled to keep their distance from him. The doctor twisted and turned, moving like an eel, until, as if by magic, he disappeared. Coleman stared at the spot where she’d last seen the white coat. The doctor had covered the bloody white jacket that drew every eye with a long black raincoat—an incredible feat of trompe l’oeil. His pursuers, bewildered, looked around them. Their quarry had inexplicably disappeared. Coleman tried to catch Rob’s eye, but he, as puzzled as the others, scanned the room for the white coat.
Oh God, the doctor was coming straight towards her. The bartenders who’d been on duty at the bar where she stood had deserted their posts, and she couldn’t see anyone she knew. If the doctor attacked her, how would she protect herself? The shepherdess’s crook was a toy and would break instantly. Maybe a bottle?
Coleman grabbed a bottle of red wine, prepared to make a stand. But the figure in the black raincoat ignored her and veered towards the emergency exit behind Coleman’s perch. In seconds, he’d be out of the ballroom and down the stairs. “Speak, Dolly,” she commanded.
Dolly jumped out of her basket and began to bark at the top of her lungs. Faces turned toward Dolly and Coleman, and should have spotted the doctor, but the black coat was like Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility. No one recognized the figure as Simon’s attacker.
It was up to her. Given their relative size, Coleman felt like Dolly attacking a Weimaraner, but she had no choice. She took a deep breath and launched herself into the air, tackling the tall black-coated figure, who tumbled to the floor beneath her.
Coleman was on top, but her right side hit the hard wood of the ballroom. The little dog jumped to the floor, and followed Coleman, still barking shrilly. The wine bottle lay in shards around Coleman, and red wine stained her ruffles and Dolly’s white fur.
Coleman was in agony. She was sure she’d broken her shoulder. Her right arm was useless, and she’d hit her head. She felt dizzy and faint, but the killer was struggling to turn over and grab her. If she was going to be killed, she’d damned well see her killer. She pulled at the beard with her good left hand, but the whiskers wouldn’t come off. She grabbed at the stocking cap, and it came away, bringing with it the black wig. A mass of red curls tumbled out.
Good God, the doctor was Ellen Carswell.
Ellen managed to turn, making a horrible hissing noise as she reached for Coleman, but Dolly sunk her sharp little teeth into the arm that was trying to snake itself around Coleman’s neck. Ellen screamed, and the crowd closed in. Coleman heard Dinah say something she couldn’t understand, and Rob’s voice shouting, “Out of the way! Police!” He pulled Coleman to her feet, and she nearly fainted with pain. Someone picked up Dolly and held her out to Coleman.
Coleman, holding the dog with her left arm, watched Rob handcuff Ellen Carswell.
Ellen was almost unrecognizable. Her eyes bulged, and the black beard covered her mouth and chin. She was still making that horrible hissing noise.
“Get Coleman out of here,” Rob told someone. “She’ll have to talk to the police, but not tonight. I’ll deal with that. She should see a doctor. Maybe one of the emergency people can help.” His voice faded, and the room went dark.
Forty-Seven
Thursday
Coleman, frustrated, helpless, and fuzzy-headed with painkillers, sat in Dinah and Jonathan’s living room in front of a blazing fire. Her right shoulder was broken, and her useless arm was in a sling. Despite all the pills, she felt excruciating pain. She had three cracked ribs—her sides hurt every time she breathed—and she was black and blue all over. Her head ached from a slight concussion, and with her two black eyes, she looked like a bedraggled panda.
When she’d spent a night and a day in the hospital, and the doctor had said she could leave, she’d planned to go to her own apartment. But when she realized she couldn’t hook her bras, or pull on tights, or wash her hair, or even hold a pencil, let alone walk and feed Dolly, she’d agreed to stay in Dinah’s guestroom until she was better able to take care of herself and her dog.
Dolly, who’d been to the groomer to have the blood and red wine washed away, was sparkling white, and snuggled beside her on the sofa. Coleman envied Dolly her clean fur. Her own hair was a rat’s nest of blood, tangles, wine, who knew what.
“Tell me everything,” she commanded Rob, who’d come by to cheer her up.
“You know everything I know,” Rob said. “Try to get your mind on something else. You shouldn’t keep dwelling on Tuesday night.”
Coleman groaned. Bossy and patronizing again. “Rob, I’ve had so many painkillers I hardly know my own name. Pretend I know nothing, and talk. I can’t remember much since the ball, except pain and doctors. I’ll never see a white coat again without feeling nauseated.”
Rob nodded. “All right, here goes: Ellen was the master criminal. She says she killed Jimmy because he was threatening Simon, wanted more money, and said he’d talk if he didn’t get it. She was your mugger, and your would-be poisoner. She tried to kill Baker and Dolly. She says Simon doesn’t like ugly dogs. They’re ‘nasty and they bite,’ and ‘Nanny didn’t want little Simon hurt.’ She says you’re nosy, and you ‘chased after Simon.’ Chick was nosy, too, and like Jimmy, you both threatened Simon.
“She used the club she was carrying Tuesday night to kill both Jimmy and Chick. She wore the doctor outfit when she killed Jimmy, and was a bearded man in jeans and a sweatshirt when she killed Chick. She says she did it all without Simon’s knowledge. Simon never did anything ‘bad.’ By giving Simon a false alibi for La Grange’s death, she alibied herself, but I don’t think anyone ever suspected her of the violent crimes. I certainly didn’t.”
“And the thefts?” Coleman said.
“She stole the Dürers, and she borrowed Delia’s car to do it. Delia knew Ellen took her car, but Ellen says Delia didn’t know how it was being used until later. Ellen went to London with a driver when she said she did, but she came back to Oxford in a rental car, parked it outside of town, and took a taxi to the Randolph. She drove to the Baldorean and back to the Randolph in Delia’s car, returned to London in her rental car, and finally came back to Oxford with the driver. Ellen planned the Rembrandt plate theft, Delia set it up, Judy took them, and Ellen managed the restrike. She said an ordinary commercial printer in Chicago made it, on paper she obtained from an antique book dealer. She isn’t naming names, but I’m not sure any crime was committed until the print was sold.”
“Is Ellen insane?” Coleman asked.
“Maybe she is now. Who knows? But I don’t think she was crazy during most of her criminal activities. It was more about money and power than she’s admitting.”
“How about Simon’s girlfriends? How are they?” Coleman asked.
“Neither Delia nor Judy was hurt at the ball. They had the presence of mind t
o fall to the floor as soon as the doctor took a swing at them. They say the theft of the Rembrandt plates was a ‘prank,’ they ‘borrowed’ the plates, and Delia planned to return them before they were missed, but they were missed sooner than they expected. They swear they knew nothing about any restrikes. The police have searched Ellen’s apartment, and the plates were there, with two more restrikes of Kitten. The plates will go back to the museum, and the restrikes will be destroyed.”
“What about Maxwell? Did he have any part in this?” Coleman said.
“None. His harassment of you and Dinah is totally unconnected to Ellen’s activities. He’s been warned, and I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”
“And Simon isn’t guilty of anything?”
“I’m sure he knew about the theft of the Rembrandt plates, and he must have set up the theft of the Dürers—he was the only one who knew about them—but he won’t admit anything, and Ellen won’t testify against him. The British won’t prosecute him, and neither will Bain. I doubt if the Harnett Museum will prosecute anyone, not with Chairman Daddy’s little Delia involved and the plates back where they belong.
“I’m guessing Delia and Judy will have their hands slapped, but as far as I can tell, the police have absolutely nothing on Simon. He’ll walk away with a pretty new face and beautiful new teeth, courtesy of Heyward Bain. Bain’s been at the hospital with Simon, dealing with police and bad publicity, lawyers and who knows what—but Dinah says Bain found the time to send you flowers?”
“Yes,” Coleman said. “Nice of him, especially with all he had going on. But since we can’t prove Simon guilty of anything, does that mean poor Rachel is stuck with him?”
“Afraid so, but Simon is co-owner of everything Ellen owned. She’s going to be out of the picture for a long time. When everything’s settled, Simon could end up rich. He might lose interest in Rachel.”
“I doubt it. He’s tied to the past and to Rachel by hate and envy,” Coleman said.
“If you had it to do over, would you still put on the act for the bug and set them all up?” Rob asked. “I can’t forget I suggested it, but I didn’t expect Ellen to try to kill Simon right in front of us.”
Coleman shuddered. “I’ve been thinking about that ever since I saw Ellen bash Simon in the face. It was horrifying. But I’d do it again. Someone who’d killed twice wasn’t going to stop, and I was on the hit list. Self-preservation was part of my motivation, I’m sure. I didn’t enjoy throwing myself off that bar and tackling her, but I’d do that again, too. Someone had to stop her.
“But there won’t be a next time. You were right— detecting is too dangerous.” She stroked Dolly, who snuggled closer and licked her hand.
“I hope you never run into anything like this again,” Rob said.
“I’m sure I won’t. I’m going to be too busy. As soon as I’m able to get around, I’m going to buy another magazine. I’ve always wanted to run more than one, and now I have the money.”
He stared. “Not the Artful Californian?”
Coleman laughed. “Oh, no. Something in an entirely different field—the art world can be soooo quiet and boring. I need a little excitement.”
Acknowledgements
My thanks for the support, encouragement and assistance of Marilyn Breslow, Susan Cheever, Kenny Cook, Bert Fields, Amanda Foreman, Barbara Guggenheim, Susan Kinsolving, Susan Larkin, Elisabeth Norton, Mollie and John Julius Norwich, Alexandra Penney, Betty Richards, and Noreen Tomassi. A very special thank you to Emma Sweeney, my wonderful agent, and above all, thanks to Dave.
About the Author
Reba White Williams worked for more than thirty years in business and finance—in research at McKinsey & Co., as a securities analyst on Wall Street, and as a senior executive at an investment management firm.
Williams graduated from Duke with a BA in English, earned an MBA at Harvard, a PhD in Art History at CUNY, and an MA in Writing at Antioch. She has written numerous articles for art and financial journals. She is a past president of the New York City Art Commission and served on the New York State Council for the Arts.
She and her husband built what was thought to be the largest private collection of fine art prints by American artists. They created seventeen exhibitions from their collection that circulated to more than one hundred museums worldwide, Williams writing most of the exhibition catalogues. She has been a member of the print committees of several leading museums.
Williams grew up in North Carolina and lives in New York, Connecticut, and Southern California with her husband and Maltese, Muffin. She is the author of two novels featuring Coleman and Dinah Greene, Restrike and Fatal Impressions, along with the story of Coleman and Dinah when they were children, Angels. She is currently working on her third Coleman and Dinah mystery.
Also by Reba White Williams
We hope you enjoyed reading Restrike and getting to know Coleman and Dinah. If so, you’ll be happy to know that the second Coleman and Dinah Greene Mystery is out now:
Coleman’s magazine publishing empire is growing and Dinah’s print gallery is gaining traction. In fact, Dinah has just won the contract to select, buy, and hang art in the New York office of the management consultants Davidson, Douglas, Danbury & Weeks – a major coup that will generate The Greene Gallery’s first big profits. However, when Dinah goes to DDD&W to begin work, she discovers a corporate culture unlike anything she’s ever encountered before. There are suggestions of improprieties everywhere, including missing art worth a fortune. And when two DDD&W staff members are discovered murdered, Dinah and Coleman find themselves swept into the heart of another mystery. Revealing the murderer will be no easy task…but first Dinah needs to clear her own name from the suspect list.
Here’s an excerpt from Fatal Impressions:
By five thirty Thursday morning, Dinah had eaten a light breakfast, dressed, and packed. At 5:45, Tom, Jonathan’s driver, picked her up in the Lincoln Town Car. Tom would drive her to the DDD&W office in the Fry building, wait while she made a final check of last night’s installations, then take her to the airport in time for the nine a.m. flight to Los Angeles.
They dropped Baker at his vet’s for the weekend and were on their way uptown by a few minutes past six. Dinah mentally checked everything she should have done. Her suitcase and carry-on bag were in the trunk, and she was dressed in a favorite travel outfit, a navy blue pantsuit and a crisp white shirt. Her ticket was in her bag, as were her sunglasses, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and cash in small bills to buy newspapers or magazines, and for tips. She’d remove the jacket when the plane arrived in warm LA. The New York weather was typical for March: cold, damp, and overcast. She smiled. In a few hours she’d be in sunshine, surrounded by the beautiful Bel Air gardens, enjoying a loving welcome from Jonathan. Making up after a quarrel could be fun.
At the Fry building, she took the elevator to the thirty-third floor. She paused to admire the prints in the reception area, then hurried toward the dining area. But before she reached it, she noticed the door to the anteroom of the managing director’s suite was open. Hunt Frederick must be in. She’d invite him to join her for a tour.
The door to his office was ajar. Dinah called his name but got no reply. Maybe he was on the telephone and couldn’t hear her? She tapped on the door and pushed it open. The carnage jumped up at her, a vision in a nightmare, and the smell was horrific—blood, urine, feces, and—oh, God—a whiff of Jungle Gardenia. The heavily carved bookshelves on the left had pulled away from the wall, and shelving and books lay all over the floor. Beneath the jumble of dark wood, red leather, and white pages splattered with blood: a body—and more blood, black against the red carpet. Blonde hair soaked in blood. A blood-stained beige platform shoe. A hand with purple painted nails.
Dinah tiptoed into the room, avoiding the blood, and touched a white wrist: no pulse, and the skin was cool. Nothing could help the poor woman.
Fighting nausea, she backed into the corridor and called 911 on her
cell phone. “There’s b-been a f-fatal accident,” she said.
You can also get more of Coleman and Dinah’s story in Angels
Here is the deeply moving and entirely irresistible story that introduces Coleman and Dinah Greene, the stars of RESTRIKE and FATAL IMPRESSIONS. Set in small-town North Carolina, it tells of orphaned cousins who discover each other and believe that angels are watching them and guiding them through their most important moments. Seven-year-old Dinah has been blessed with a loving grandmother and great aunt. Five-year-old Coleman has not been so lucky. But now that the two have been united the wonders of the world begin to reveal themselves.
Touching, thoughtful, and rewarding, ANGELS is a treasure.
Here is an excerpt of ANGELS, which will be available July 15, 2014:
Soon as Coleman said “roadside stand” I wondered why we hadn’t thought of it before now. Everybody goin’ to the beach has to drive through Slocumb Corners. People say the fruit and vegetables for sale at the beach aren’t real fresh, and the prices are as high as a cat’s back. Ours would be right out of the garden, and cheaper. Lots of folks passin’ by would stop at our stand, and those who came to pick up Miss Ida’s cakes and fried chicken and ham biscuits, and the ladies who have fittings with Aunt Polly—they’d all buy from us. I saw how it would be a big success.
Good an idea as it was, I don’t think Miss Ida and Aunt Polly would have let us do it, but while we were discussin’ it, Aunt Mary Louise stopped by, and as soon as she came through the door, Coleman told her all about the stand. Aunt Mary Louise said it was a real good idea, and the Byrds would help; they’d bring things to sell, and work at the stand.
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