“The whole thing is ridiculous,” Dinah said.
“I hope you’re right. Have a nice dinner and sleep well,” Coleman said.
She hung up, carried her pizza on a tray into the sitting room, and turned on the DVD player to watch for maybe the twentieth time Gaudy Night from Dorothy Sayers’s Lord Peter Wimsey series. Both the video and the book it was drawn from were on her top ten list. Like Jane Austen novels and DVDs made from them, she turned to Lord Peter and Harriet Vane when she was worried or under stress. She fast-forwarded past the credits, looked at Dolly, half-asleep on the sofa beside her, and said, “I wish Dinah would get her head out of the clouds and understand that she’s in real trouble. I think it will take a bomb dropping on her doorstep to get her attention.”
Twenty-Three
The bomb fell in the form of a hand-delivered letter to Dinah from Hunt Austin Frederick, which arrived on Saturday morning while Jonathan and Dinah were eating breakfast. Because of the “strong feelings” at DDD&W about the death of Frances Johnson, the firm’s “highly regarded” head of human resources, and her death’s association in the minds of DDD&W employees with Dinah Greene, Dinah should not return to their offices until the mystery of Ms. Johnson’s death had been solved. The pass allowing her access to the premises had been revoked.
Coleman’s presence in the office was also unacceptable. All press visits and inquiries must be approved by Hunt Austin Frederick. He had instructed the receptionists and the security people not to admit Coleman without his written authorization. A copy of this letter had been delivered to Coleman.
Dinah took in the contents of the letter and felt her face grow hot. “Does this mean I won’t be able to install the rest of the prints, and I won’t get paid?” she asked.
Jonathan shook his head. “No, of course not. Our lawyers drew up your contract, and I know exactly how it reads. If DDD&W prevents you or your representatives from entering DDD&W’s offices during the installation period—that is, between the day they hired you and the deadline cited in the contract—they have to pay you in full immediately. Meanwhile, they owe you for the work you’ve already done. Prepare an invoice, and I’ll have the lawyers deal with it.”
Dinah got up and selected a sheet of paper from her shoulder bag lying in a nearby chair. “I’ve already made out the invoice,” she said, handing the paper to him. “I’d planned to give it to Ted Douglas this morning.”
He skimmed it and nodded. “Okay, you’ve completed 20 percent of the work, and they owe you forty-five thousand dollars. I’ll get the lawyers to press for immediate payment.”
Dinah followed him down the hall to the library, Baker at her heels.
“Hunt Frederick must know about the contract. He has lawyers, too. So why is he doing this?” she asked.
“Hunt Frederick is trying to divert attention from the people who work there by making it obvious that management thinks you’re guilty. So far he’s been careful not to risk a lawsuit, and we’ll make sure that continues. Meanwhile, the worst they can do to you is pay you for everything, even though the work is incomplete—which would be just fine, but they won’t do it—or force you to send someone else to finish the installation. I wouldn’t give them the chance to do that. I think we should tell the lawyers Bethany will complete the work in their office. You’ll buy the prints, map out their locations, and run the operation from the gallery. Bethany can handle the installation, can’t she?”
“Absolutely. Go ahead and tell the lawyers that’s what we’ll do.”
She could see that Jonathan was even angrier than she was, but he’d shifted into an icy business mode to deal with DDD&W and Hunt Frederick. Dinah had her own plans for her erstwhile employers. She couldn’t remember ever being so furious. She had never been accused of anything—not even driving too fast, not even littering. How could anyone think she could kill someone? And lock doors against her? Did they think she would kill again? She wasn’t going to sit around idly and let those creatures ruin her reputation, even her life. She needed to talk to Coleman and Bethany and work out a strategy for showing the world the kind of rats that ran DDD&W.
Twenty-Four
Saturday morning Coleman checked the papers again before she left for the office. Oh, joy, the Express had printed an item based on information provided by Debbi:
Is it possible that DDD&W, the consulting firm once famous for its art collection, has lost its greatest treasures? Recent visitors to the DDD&W offices on the thirty-third floor of the Fry Building report that two exquisite portraits by the eighteenth-century English painter George Stubbs titled Lady J and Lord J are missing from the office of the managing director, where they are said to have hung for more than fifty years. A spokesperson for DDD&W declined to comment on the missing works of art.
Coleman laughed. Well, that should put the cat among the rats. And a good thing, too; she wanted those Dastardly Disgusting Dreadful Worms on the defensive. If they were forced to answer questions from the press about their dirty little secrets, they wouldn’t have time to attack Dinah. With a sense of having trumped their opponent’s ace, she and Dolly headed for the office. She always worked Saturdays, and today would be no exception. She was looking forward to reading a couple of articles submitted by a new writer. She felt better than she had for days, despite the continued cold, wet weather.
But when she arrived at ArtSmart, Hunt Frederick’s letter drove everything else out of her mind. She read it three times and compared it to the contract Amy and two other senior members of the DDD&W consulting staff had signed and messengered to her on Friday. The contract defined the scope of the work that Amy and her associates would undertake for Coleman and her magazines. The contract had been signed by the “Co-Chairmen of the Practice Committee,” who, according to Amy, had to approve all DDD&W engagements. Hunt Austin Frederick had insulted a client and had forbidden that client to enter the office where she was scheduled to meet Amy and her team Monday afternoon. Talk about right and left hands.
Could the man possibly be as foolish as he appeared? Maybe he was seriously rattled and not thinking clearly. Whatever. Hunt Austin Frederick was at best an ass. Maybe he was worse than an ass; maybe he was a criminal. Coleman had disliked him when she met him in Texas, loathed him in the DDD&W dining room, and detested him when she encountered him at the murder scene. She’d like to pillory him before the world. But revenge would have to wait. She faxed Frederick’s letter to Rob, to her lawyer, to Amy, and to the two DDD&W bigwigs who’d signed the contract. Then she called Dinah, who sounded more upbeat today, despite her eviction from DDD&W.
“I’m on my cell phone talking to Bethany about Hunt’s letter right now,” Dinah said. “Bethany’s going to finish the installation. She’ll move into the office they gave me at DDD&W. The hangers will work with her, but I wish I had somebody I trusted to stay with her full-time. That place is a swamp, where snakes and alligators and all kinds of vicious crawlies are waiting to sink their teeth into her. She needs somebody to watch her back.”
“What would you think about Loretta Byrd assisting her?” Loretta was Coleman’s most recent hire for ArtSmart, and Coleman didn’t know her very well, but she was related to Bethany, who had recommended her for the job.
“Bethany would love it,” Dinah said. “Can you spare her?”
“Yes, she’s too new to be a contributor. I’ll give her leave of absence so she can work full-time with Bethany. The sooner they get started at that hellhole and get out of there, the better. To make everything legitimate, you should provide Loretta with business cards and a Greene Gallery photo ID, and pay her salary until the installation is complete. She’ll be your employee, if only temporarily. I’ll take care of the ArtSmart paperwork giving her leave,” Coleman said.
“When can Loretta start?” Dinah asked.
“Monday, if your lawyer clears it with DDD&W by then, and if you have her identification done,” Coleman said.
“Everything will be done,” Dinah promised.
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Coleman leaned back in her desk chair, wondering if she had just made a bad decision. She didn’t know Loretta Byrd well, and she wasn’t certain she was trustworthy or reliable. She’d joined ArtSmart the first of March as a junior writer. She was twenty-four, had a degree in writing from Caldwell Creek, a college near Greensboro, North Carolina, and had written articles for Carolina Arts in Raleigh for two years before coming to New York.
Loretta was smart as a tree full of owls, and a talented writer, but she didn’t bother to hide the boredom she felt with the assignments she was given. She obviously thought she should have a bigger role at the magazine. Her impatience and aggressive ambition annoyed the other writers.
Then there was the matter of her looks and her outside interests. She was very different from her cousin, both in appearance and attitude. Loretta was shorter and curvier than Bethany, and her skin color was café au lait, not golden. Bethany spoke in a soft Carolina drawl, while Loretta had a near-Yankee accent, picked up from her father, who had lived in Massachusetts before he and his wife moved to North Carolina after Loretta was born. They had different styles, too.
“What do you think of the way Loretta looks? The way she dresses?” Bethany had said after the introductory lunch Coleman, Bethany, and Loretta had shared.
“Interesting,” Coleman had said. “She carries it off well.”
“She works at it,” Bethany had said. “When she was fourteen, she was plain—dull-looking. You wouldn’t notice her in a crowd. Then she took a high school film class that featured vintage classics, and she reinvented herself to look like the great film stars of the 1940s. She had no trouble buying retro clothes on eBay, and here in New York, she spends all her spare money at Hamlet’s Vintage on Bleecker Street and Star Struck Vintage on Greenwich Avenue.”
“I know the stores and have friends who shop there, but they just wear forties outfits occasionally. She’s really into it,” Coleman had said.
“Oh, yes, she’s joined a vintage film club and located the theatres that show the things she likes, and she’s considering taking a course on classic films at The New School. She’s met a bunch of girls who share her interests. They call themselves the ‘Retroguards,’” Bethany had said.
“I’m glad she’s found some girlfriends. I don’t think she’ll have any trouble attracting boyfriends. Every man who sees her does a double take.”
Loretta wore her long black hair parted in the middle and pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, which should have made her look like a dowdy old maid. Instead, she looked like a younger and more attractive Wallis Simpson, and she adopted 1940s movie star makeup—heavy mascara, dark red lipstick—to go along with her clothes. Coleman was clothes-crazy herself, but Loretta seemed obsessive, and reckless. She hoped Loretta didn’t take all those films seriously, inspiring her to do something stupid at DDD&W.
Oh well, she wouldn’t get in trouble with Bethany watching over her. And anyway, Coleman couldn’t spare anyone else.
She picked up the phone and called Dinah. “I think we should get together, talk strategy. You call Bethany, I’ll tell Loretta.
“Good idea. I have some thoughts. Why don’t we—”
Coleman cut her off. “Let’s meet in half an hour for coffee. Where should we go?”
“How about Hemrick’s, the coffee shop across the street from the gallery?” Dinah said.
“See you there,” Coleman said. The good news was that Dinah was galvanized. The bad news was that Hunt Frederick and DDD&W would destroy her if they could. They had to be stopped.
Within the hour, the four women huddled in a booth at the rear of the coffee shop, leaning close to one another and speaking in low voices. “Do you think the gallery phones are bugged? Or the phone at home? Is that why you didn’t want me to talk on the phone?” Dinah asked.
Coleman shrugged. “I don’t know whether the Horrible Hulks could legally bug your phones, but I wouldn’t put anything past them. Anyway, the last thing you should ever do is talk about anything possibly illegal on the phone. You were going to talk about something illegal, weren’t you?” she asked.
“Maybe. I’ve been thinking about what you said about Patti Sue and Hunt Frederick’s secretary lying to the police to keep their jobs, and I think you’re right. I think Bethany and Loretta should wear wires, and we should put a bug in the ladies’ room and one in the little office they gave me—the world should hear the way people like Patti Sue talk,” Dinah said. “The people at DDD&W are disgusting and should be outed.”
Bethany, her face glowing, said, “Go, girlfriend! Somethin’ in the loo, in the office, on the phone—all that.”
“Can you do it?” Coleman asked.
Bethany laughed. “Can a duck swim? After all that studyin’ to be a detective last year when I was worryin’ about money and my job and couldn’t sleep, and the debuggin’ of ArtSmart’s offices when we were tryin’ to catch the person stealin’ story ideas, I know all about it. The only tap that could be illegal is the one in the loo—it’s illegal if one of us isn’t in there and takin’ part in the conversation. I’m pretty sure it’s okay to record a call as long as one of the people bein’ taped knows about it. If the bug is in our office and on our phone, one of us will always be part of the recordin’, so they’re just fine. But that’s right about not discussin’ anything important on the phone or in e-mail, even when it’s totally legal. You never know who’s listenin’ or readin’.”
“Well, we’ll do the ladies’ room, legal or not.” Dinah decided. “Where there’s one conversation worth recording, maybe there’ll be more. I wish I had that catfight on tape. I’d turn it over to the New York Post.”
“I’ll be the photographer—did Lois Lane take pictures? I’ve got this great digital camera. This is good. It’s been mighty quiet ever since I joined ArtSmart. Y’all had all the fun before I got here,” Loretta said.
Coleman raised her eyebrows in mock disapproval. “Murder? Attempted murder? Me nearly getting killed once or twice? You have a weird definition of fun.”
Loretta grinned. “But you can’t say life was boring. Has anybody read those Women’s Murder Club books? We can be like them.”
“Except they’re crime experts: a medical examiner, a police officer, a lawyer and such,” Dinah said. “We don’t know much about anything except art.”
“That’s okay, we have friends who know other things,” Coleman said.
“And we can always round up some men if we need them,” Loretta said, batting her eyelashes. “This is sooo exciting.”
“I wish the excitement wasn’t about me maybe being arrested for murder,” Dinah said.
“Don’t worry. It won’t go that far,” Coleman said, silently praying that she was right.
Twenty-Five
Back on Cornelia Street, Dinah found Jonathan where she had left him, in the library, on the telephone. He told her that he was asking everyone he knew for advice, assistance, and favors. He had talked to Rob, to Greg Fry, and to the lawyers, as well as to numerous friends, and he was more than ready to take a coffee break. He listened attentively to her summary of her meeting with Coleman and the Byrds. He’d help with their plans, including enlisting Rob to assist them with listening devices at DDD&W. He returned to the library and the telephone, and she settled at the big table in the dining area to catch up on gallery paperwork. But she kept an ear tuned in his direction, and as the morning sped by, she could hear his growing frustration with the lawyers.
When she called him to lunch, he looked tired and exasperated. He relaxed a little after he’d eaten a chicken salad sandwich and sipped a glass of pinot grigio. But when she asked him how things were going, he frowned and shook his head.
“Too damned slow. The DDD&W people are sloths,” he said.
“Anything new?”
“Greg Fry is putting together everything Rob’s asked for—copies of the Fry Building lobby security sign-in and sign-out records for the last six months, the security camera
’s films for six months, the personnel department’s files on the lobby guards, and the voice tape of the woman who called in the murder. And he’s lending us a suite on the fifty-fourth floor where Rob’s people can hang out, and where they can put the equipment to record your bugs. The suite is ostensibly rented to Rob. His name will be on the door.”
“My goodness! That’s a big help!” Dinah said.
Jonathan nodded. “Greg’s a good friend. Those jerks at DDD&W are being obstructive, but we’ll get what we want before we go to bed Sunday night if I have to keep them up all night tonight to do it.”
Dinah was worried about the Fry Building voice tape: Ellie’s tape. She hoped the girl wouldn’t get in trouble. She wished she could reach Ellie. But she’d done all she could until DDD&W reopened on Monday.
While Jonathan was eating lunch, Sebastian Grant, the senior Hathaway lawyer—a.k.a. the Cobra—lost it. Sick of the complaints of the DDD&W lawyers, presumably echoing the protests of their masters, he shouted into his phone, “If the incompetent management at DDD&W will deliver imbecilic letters to the wife of Jonathan Cabot Lodge Hathaway the Third on a Saturday morning, they’ll be bloody lucky if all they lose is a Saturday and Sunday on the golf course! For God’s sake, get to work, or I’m coming over, and if I do, every one of you will regret it.”
When a junior associate asked a more senior associate if Mr. Hathaway really answered to all those names, his senior snapped, “Of course not. But those dopes at DDD&W knew exactly what the Cobra meant, and so should you.”
Grant, who overheard their conversation—he was thought to have supernatural hearing and eyes in the back of his head, and reveled in his reputation—agreed. An associate who said anything that stupid was probably too slow-witted to succeed in the realm of Sebastian Grant.
Fatal Impressions Page 10
