Fatal Impressions

by Reba White Williams

  “You coulda hid it, or flushed it down the toilet.”

  Coleman stifled a laugh; he pronounced it “terlet.” Harrison was a joke. If Dinah weren’t involved, Coleman would enjoy this experience. She’d always wanted to meet a Harrison. She’d put him in a novel someday, or maybe she’d put him in an article sooner than someday. But he didn’t amuse Dinah. Her face was even whiter than it had been earlier. “Are we about through here?” Coleman asked.

  Harrison ignored her. “You’ve been in Frederick’s office before, right? Did ya touch anything?”

  “I was in his office Tuesday for a few minutes, but I didn’t touch anything,” Dinah said. “I wanted to run a hand over that carving, but it didn’t seem appropriate, and anyway, there wasn’t time. Today I was in there for seconds. I just touched the woman’s wrist.” She shuddered.

  “Why’d ya do that?” Harrison asked, leaning closer to Dinah.

  Dinah flinched and moved her chair back. Coleman wasn’t surprised. His breath must be deadly. “To see if she was alive, of course. If she needed medical treatment, or if it was too late.”

  “And?” Quintero said.

  “No pulse, and her skin was cold. She’d been dead a while.”

  Harrison scowled, and his eyebrows overlapped. “You’ve had a lotta experience with death?”

  “My grandmother and my great aunt,” Dinah said, tears welling up in her eyes.

  Coleman reached out for her hand and squeezed it. Dinah cried easily and often, over everything from a romantic movie to a dead pigeon on the sidewalk. Coleman was amazed that these were her first tears of the day.

  “Back to Frederick’s office. We’re going to fingerprint that room. Are you sure we won’t find your prints in there?” Quintero said.

  “Positive,” Dinah said.

  “Oh, please,” Coleman said. “She’s already answered that. Ms. Greene is tired. We’re leaving. You should go do something useful, like fingerprint that room.”

  “We’ll say when Ms. Greene can leave,” Harrison said, shoving his face into Coleman’s.

  She nearly gagged. His breath was even worse than she’d imagined. “No, you won’t, not unless she’s under arrest. If you keep on harassing her when she’s about to pass out from fatigue and shock, you’re going to be sorry. Don’t say another word, Dinah. Listen, Detective, you get one more chance to save yourselves a lot of trouble. I’m calling a lawyer you’ve heard of—he’s known as the Cobra, and for good reason. He’ll drop everything to help Dinah, and he won’t care what he has to do to anyone hurting her.” Coleman, cell phone in hand, turned to Harrison. “But while I’m calling, you better talk to your boss. This is the last time I’m warning you: stop bullying Ms. Greene.”

  Harrison’s face turned purple. “Don’t threaten me. Show a little respect, big mouth, or we’ll teach you how to behave. You’re asking for trouble.”

  “What are you going to do? Hit me? Please feel free. Beat me up, big man. I’m five feet tall and I don’t weigh as much as one of your hands. You’ll be a real hero. I can hardly wait to see you in court,” Coleman said, and punched in the number. His threats didn’t bother her a bit, and Dinah might be exhausted, but she wasn’t intimidated. Coleman could see that the police were puzzled because their threats weren’t working. They exchanged glances, and Quintero left the room.

  Coleman could hear the murmur of Quintero’s voice in the corridor. Good, he’d finally called a senior officer. She knew what he’d learn, too: Rob Mondelli’s detective agency specialized in art crime. He was a consultant to the NYPD on art-related cases and was highly regarded by the NYPD and city hall. These idiots would be told all about Mondelli, and that the Hathaway name had an asterisk by it that meant “handle with kid gloves.” They’d be in big trouble if they kept beating up Dinah.

  She cancelled her call. It was past time to get Dinah home.

  Quintero came back into the dining room looking furious. “You can go,” he said, nodding at Dinah.

  On their way to the elevators, Coleman said, “Do you want to speak to anyone here before we leave?”

  Dinah shook her head. “No, I’m so tired I can hardly move. I want to go home, pick up Baker, take a shower, eat something. I was so happy this morning, proud of the job we’d done last night, and looking forward to California, and then that horrible scene—God, I’ll never forget it. What a ghastly experience. Surely it can’t get worse.”

  Coleman hoped Dinah was right, but a police investigation into a suspicious death was bound to be unpleasant. If it turned out to be murder, it could get a whole lot worse, and Dinah was in the middle of it.

  Eight

  After she’d seen Dinah into the car where Tom waited to drive her to Cornelia Street, Coleman collected Dolly from her East Fifty-Fourth Street apartment and walked the little dog to ArtSmart’s offices on Third Avenue. They rode up in the elevator, and Dolly followed Coleman to the office they shared and curled up in her basket. Coleman settled down at her desk to read an article one of her writers had just turned in.

  But she couldn’t concentrate. Why had Harrison been so nasty to Dinah? Hunt Austin Frederick, whom she thought of as the Cowardly Cowboy, had been rude to her, too. Odd. Dinah was the gentlest of creatures, and unlikely to offend anyone, except, apparently, Patti Sue Victor, who, according to Dinah, had pounced on her like a chicken on a june bug. It was hard to believe that resentment of Dinah’s role at DDD&W was Victor’s sole motive for declaring war on Dinah, but what else could it have been? And it seemed unlikely that Harrison and the Cowboy should be hostile to Dinah because Victor disliked her. What was going on?

  The only way she could think of to help Dinah was to try to learn more about DDD&W. Luckily, she had a good source—Amy Rothman was an old friend, who worked as a consultant there. Coleman had hired Amy to help with the hundreds of details leading up to the acquisition of First Home and had been impressed. She had recently extended Amy’s contract to cover the implementation of the merger. What would Amy think about this mess? She dialed her friend and reached her right away. Coleman didn’t have to describe the early morning events at DDD&W; Amy knew everything.

  “It’s all over the office,” she said. “People think it’s murder, and that it has something to do with the art project, and that Dinah’s a killer. Absurd, I know, but the people working here need to think a stranger did it, if anyone did anything. Do you know for sure that it was murder?”

  “They haven’t told Dinah either way. Have they identified the body?” Coleman asked.

  “I thought it was Patti Sue Victor. That’s why people think Dinah did it. Everyone knew Patti Sue didn’t want Dinah working here and was trying to get rid of her,” Amy said.

  “Dinah didn’t know for sure it was Victor. Dinah only saw a shoe, nail polish, and hair. She said it could have been Victor,” Coleman said.

  “Oh, God, then it might be Frannie Johnson, Patti Sue’s older sister, the head of human resources. They dress alike, wear the same makeup, have the same hairdos.”

  “Shouldn’t someone know by now? After they uncovered the body, someone must have identified her,” Coleman said.

  “I’ll find out and call you back,” Amy said.

  Ten minutes later, Amy reported that the dead woman was Frannie Johnson. Patti Sue, eyes red and face swollen from crying, was screaming to anyone who’d listen that her life was in danger, insisting that she needed protection. Everyone was ignoring her, or trying to. “Since it’s Frannie, we know how she got in Hunt’s office. Frannie had access to everything,” Amy said.

  “Why do they have different names? Are they trying to hide that they’re sisters?” Coleman asked.

  “Frannie’s divorced, Johnson is her married name. Everyone knew they were sisters. They not only looked alike and dressed alike, they were always together, shared an apartment. Anyway, just because it’s Frannie who was killed, Dinah won’t be off the hook. They’ll say Dinah murdered Frannie by mistake, thinking she was Patti Sue,” A
my said.

  Coleman let that pass. “Isn’t that kind of nepotism unusual? Two sisters hired, with one in a sensitive job? Human resources has access to a lot of confidential information, and the sisters’ relationship means Victor probably knows everything Johnson knew.”

  Amy sighed. “Yes, it’s unusual, and it’s worst practice. We advise our clients not to hire relatives, especially in sensitive positions, and then we do it. The sisters came in with Danbury & Weeks when we merged with them. The people here should have let them go. I don’t think Frannie was necessarily a bad person, and neither is Patti Sue. But they were way over their heads, trying to do jobs they weren’t prepared for, in an environment they didn’t understand. Frannie was ignorant and tacky, and so is Patti Sue, but I don’t believe either one of them would do anything criminal. Pathetic is the word that comes to mind.”

  Coleman tapped her pencil on her desk. She needed to know a lot more about DDD&W if she was going to help Dinah.

  “I can’t make myself work. I’m too worried about Dinah,” Coleman said. “She’s innocent of any wrongdoing, but I’m afraid this thing will ruin her reputation. I have to do something, but I don’t know what. Maybe you can advise me. Are you free for lunch?”

  “Why don’t you come over here for lunch? I can’t promise you good food, or even good advice, but you’ll learn a lot about this place,” Amy said.

  “I’d love to see DDD&W’s offices, but most of all, I want to talk to you. Is twelve thirty okay?” Coleman asked.

  “Absolutely. See you then.”

  Nine

  Coleman arrived on DDD&W’s thirty-third floor ten minutes early. She wanted to see the signs of the missing art that Dinah had mentioned. Yes, despite all the prints that had been hung, Coleman could see indentations and walls lighter in spots than the surrounding paint. Dinah, thinking it might be a touchy subject—had they been desperately in need of money and forced to sell their collection?—hadn’t asked anyone at DDD&W about the missing art, but Coleman wasn’t so diffident. Its disappearance could be a story for ArtSmart, and maybe learning about what had happened to the missing pictures could help Dinah.

  Amy appeared, smart in a vivid purple suit and a becoming new haircut. But her round rosy face below the mop of black curls was troubled.

  “What’s the matter?” Coleman said.

  Amy stared at her. “You mean other than an unexplained death in the office? This is where I work, remember? Where I get my paycheck. This death won’t do our business any good.”

  “But DDD&W is very successful, isn’t it? Surely an accident won’t seriously cut into your business,” Coleman said.

  “A bizarre accident wouldn’t be as bad as a murder, but it could still cause unwanted publicity, draw attention to what a mess we are. Anyway, we’re not nearly as successful as we used to be. I’ll explain at lunch,” Amy said.

  When Coleman saw the food on the buffet in the dining room, everything else went out of her mind. “Good Lord, Amy, who’s your chef? A refugee from a fifties diner? Even looking at this food, I’ll gain weight. Chicken pot pie, fried pork chops, chicken fried steaks, white rice, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, two kinds of gravy, corn, butter beans. I don’t know when I’ve seen an array of food like this. Maybe at a Sunday school picnic when I was a toddler? Did anyone in the kitchen ever hear of green, as in vegetables?”

  Amy sighed. “Later,” she said. “Let’s try the salad bar, although it’s just as bad.”

  They served themselves and sat down with their unappetizing greens, mixed with a few exhausted vegetables. Amy was silent while she struggled to cut an impenetrable slice of unripe tomato but finally gave up, set aside her knife and fork, and looked at Coleman. “This food is a paradigm for everything that’s happened. Did you ever hear of the Davidson & Douglas food program?”

  Coleman pushed a piece of limp brown lettuce to the side of her plate and nodded. “Yes, I read about it in the New York Times. That’s why I was surprised to see all that greasy, starchy food. Davidson & Douglas used to have a sensational chef who specialized in low-fat meals, long before other business dining rooms changed their food from heavy to healthy. What happened?”

  “When Davidson & Douglas acquired Danbury & Weeks, D&W took over the management of the back office. They fired the chef and hired Trixie’s Treats, a caterer who specializes in so-called ‘home cooking.’ Trixie is a buxom blonde who eats the stuff she serves, and shows it. The food’s not only unhealthy, it’s tacky. I can’t bring clients here, old friends like you excepted. The DDD&W people don’t eat here, but the DWs love their thirtieth-floor cafeteria, which serves the same food.” Amy looked at the dessert buffet. “Do you want dessert?”

  “Are you kidding? Banana pudding? Coconut cream pie? Fudge cake? Whipped cream, or ice cream toppings? Trixie must be trying to kill the people here—uh, sorry, tactless of me. How’s the coffee?”

  “I’ll get it,” Amy said, and went over to the coffee station.

  She returned to the table with Coleman’s coffee and a glass of iced tea and continued where she’d left off. “Aren’t the desserts unbelievable? The DWs—the Dreary Wearies—are sugar addicts. They eat doughnuts and frosted pastries all morning, and after a big dessert at lunch, they have what they call a ‘snack’ at three every afternoon—another dessert, usually some kind of cake or pie. They flock to it, brag about it, slurp it up. The new food program is one of many post-merger culture clashes, and a huge waste of money. We pay people to serve this awful food, but hardly anyone uses the dining room, the food goes in the garbage, and we run up expenses taking clients out to restaurants.”

  Coleman looked around the vast room with its beautiful view and, thanks to Dinah, wonderful art. Amy and she were the only people in sight. “I’m not surprised no one’s eating here. The food’s all wrong for this century.”

  “It’s not just about bad food. I told you, the food is just an example of everything that’s wrong. You’ll encounter a lot worse if you spend much time here.”

  Coleman laughed. “Oh, Amy, lighten up! How bad can it be? I don’t have to eat here, and I’ll rarely use the restroom, and when I do, I’ll try to avoid banshee battles.”

  Amy frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Coleman grinned and described Dinah’s encounter with the catfight. “Any idea who Patti Sue’s opponent was? Or the identity of the partner-lover? Or the peacemaker?”

  “Not a clue. I’m not tuned in to office gossip—I’ve traveled so much in the last year, I hardly know where my office is. But nothing would surprise me. This place is a cesspool. We’ve had a series of weak managing directors who’ve let everything fall apart. Hunt was elected as a reform candidate, partly because of this merger, which is a disaster. We need a new broom, and he qualifies, never having worked in the New York office. He’s supposed to clean house. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Now that you know what we’re like, do you want to look for a well-managed consultant?”

  Coleman shook her head. “No, but I don’t plan to eat here again, and I have questions. Did DDD&W have an art collection?”

  Amy sighed again. “James Davidson’s will.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “James Davidson and Campbell Douglas, the founders of DDD&W, both died in the early nineties. But for more than forty years, they ran the place with iron fists in iron gloves. The art collection belonged to Davidson, but it always hung in the office. He left the collection to the firm as long as a Davidson worked here, but if a time came when the firm no longer employed a Davidson, the collection reverted to any Davidson heirs. If there are no Davidson heirs, the art goes to a museum. The Davidson male line ran out a long time ago, and the partners fought the will for years. They lost. The art collection left here last year.”

  Coleman frowned. “Aren’t there any female Davidsons?”

  Amy shrugged. “If there are female Davidsons, and if a female Davidson would have satisfied the terms of the will, the partners must n
ot have thought they or she were suitable. Or they decided they’d rather lose the art than hire a high-status woman. DDD&W is a male-dominated firm, and they’d have to treat a Davidson better than they treat the few professional women here. Management didn’t care about the art, although I’m sure they’d rather have sold it than given it away.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Americana—prints, posters. Some good, some worthless. The good stuff was mostly Audubon and Currier & Ives prints. Davidson also left the paneling and furnishings of the chairman’s office to the firm, and the income from a huge trust fund, as long as the managing director’s office remains as it was designed. DDD&W sure wouldn’t want to lose the money.”

  Coleman nodded. “Dinah told me about that office. She said there are spots where art used to hang, on either side of the door.”

  Before Amy could comment, four men entered the dining room. Coleman waved at Ted Douglas. He smiled and waved back before he and two of his companions paused at the buffet to serve themselves. The fourth man, Hunt Frederick, frowned and strode over to their table.

  “Amy, how are you? Ms. Greene, what brings you here? I hope you aren’t planning to write a story about us,” he said.

  “We don’t publish much on corporate art. It’s rarely newsworthy, even with Dinah in charge,” Coleman said.

  “That’s a relief,” Hunt said. He nodded, went to the buffet and filled his plate before joining the other men at a table at the far end of the room.

  “What is his problem?” Coleman asked.

  “He doesn’t want anything in print about the art project. An article about it could be an embarrassment.”

  “How so? I’m sure Dinah has already improved the appearance of this place enormously. The reception room and this dining area must have been bleak before she hung these prints,” Coleman said.

  “Yes, but management might have to admit they lost the Davidson collection, and why. As you know, Dinah’s assignment is to put art on the walls of thirty-two and thirty-three—Hunt insisted something had to be done because the place looked so grim after the Americana collection came down. The walls of thirty and thirty-one, the floors where the D&W people work—human resources, accounting, the mailroom and the cafeteria—are to be left undecorated. The Dreary Wearies don’t want art. They think it’s a waste of money—another culture clash. Hunt wouldn’t be happy to see that in print. I think he hopes to try to integrate the two firms before outsiders learn how catastrophic the merger is. It’s not just the inability to meld the two organizations, either. We don’t make the kind of money we used to make. We didn’t pick up any new clients with the merger; in fact, we lost some. Hunt is supposed to bring in a lot of new business while he cleans house,” Amy said.