Fatal Impressions

by Reba White Williams

  He grinned. “Mom and Dad don’t care about that, either, and I’d be proud to be a Byrd. I’ve always wanted to be part of a big family, like the Waltons. I’ve watched a lot of reruns of that show.”

  “And you’re rich, and I’m poor,” she said, still tearful.

  “My family isn’t big rich like the Hathaways or Heyward Bain. We’re comfortable, and we live well. But being rich isn’t important to us, and the family has given away a lot of money to education and other causes. You and I and our children won’t inherit a great fortune, but you don’t care, do you? We’ll both keep working, won’t we?”

  She stared at him. She almost believed that this could happen. “I’d never stop workin’—don’t know how. That part’s fine. But we’d have to go to North Carolina to ask Aunt Mary Louise’s permission. And she’ll want me to get married in our church in Slocumb Corners.”

  “I’d expected to ask somebody for your hand, I don’t care where we get married, and I’ve been angling for an invitation to North Carolina to meet your family ever since we first went out in November. Anything else? If you’ll just say yes, I can put this ring on your finger, we can eat the duck that’s waiting in the oven, and then you can show me how you get out of that dress.”

  “Oh, yes—dear, dear Zeke.” She held out her hand, and he slipped the ring on her finger.

  Later, she told him Dinah had confided that after the financial crisis was over, she planned to reduce the amount of time she spent at the gallery, and Bethany might be running the gallery a lot sooner than she’d anticipated.

  Zeke looked surprised. “What’s she going to do?” he asked.

  “More research, more writing, look for a Midtown apartment. Jonathan’s movin’ his office to Midtown, and they both want to be able to walk to work,” Bethany said.

  “Do you think this mess at DDD&W has put her off corporate work completely?” Zeke asked.

  “Absolutely. She says if we’re ever offered another corporate art contract, she wants me to handle it, or we’ll hire somebody. She hates DDD&W, and it got worse today. She’s been thrown out of the place. Loretta and I are takin’ over the print-hanging project.”

  Just as she’d expected, she could tell from his expression that he didn’t like it a bit. He thought it was dangerous, but he’d never tell her not to do it. Zeke wasn’t like that—if he’d been domineering and overprotective like Jonathan, she’d never have gone out with him more than once or twice, never mind living with him. She looked at her ring again and thought she was going to burst she was so happy.

  Twenty-Nine

  By late Sunday morning, Jonathan was exhausted, but he’d completed everything on his list: Bethany and Loretta had Greene Gallery identification cards and keys to the art storage room and the office assigned to Dinah at DDD&W. They’d start hanging prints Monday morning.

  By special arrangement with the art movers, and after sending a couple of guys Rob hired to wait at DDD&W for their arrival, the prints Dinah had bought for the corridor walls had been delivered to DDD&W and were locked in the storage room. Two of the hangers who’d worked with Dinah in the reception and dining rooms would meet Loretta and Bethany at DDD&W at nine a.m. Monday.

  A messenger had arrived with everything Jonathan had requested from Greg Fry, and another messenger had brought him Dinah’s check from DDD&W’s attorneys, along with the signed agreement covering all issues with DDD&W, including what DDD&W could say to the press and to their own staff about Dinah and the Greene Gallery. Jonathan had done all he could on his own and by asking favors from miscellaneous friends. He needed the big guns now.

  He picked up the phone and punched in the number of Blair Winthrop, who’d been a boarding school classmate, his roommate at Yale, his closest friend at Harvard Business School, and best man at his and Dinah’s wedding. Blair had stayed on at Harvard for a law degree and was now a rising star at the firm of Winthrop, Winthrop & Cabot, the lawyers who managed the Hathaway family’s financial affairs. One of the most powerful law firms in the United States, where Jonathan would have worked if he’d decided to become a lawyer instead of an investment banker—Winthrop, Winthrop & Cabot was known by nearly everyone as “the Firm.”

  “Blair? You’re not going to believe this, but Dinah’s suspected of murder.”

  “Impossible,” Blair said. “How could anyone think such a thing? Dinah’s an angel.”

  “She is an angel, but she’s being pushed into the frame by those bastards at DDD&W—you know them, or of them, I’m sure. She doesn’t have an alibi for a murder that took place in their office, where she’s been installing art, and the police don’t have any other suspects, so they’re after her.”

  “How can I help?” Blair asked.

  “You can do a lot. The New York County District Attorney’s office is investigating people at DDD&W for art tax evasion, and we need them to speed up their investigation. Several lawyers at the Firm know the DA, don’t they? The SEC is sniffing around DDD&W, too—I don’t know exactly what they’re after, but they need to get moving. Both agencies may turn up other suspects for the murder, but it might be too late to help save Dinah’s reputation,” Jonathan said.

  “I’ll take care of them. What else?” Blair asked.

  “Can you find out who’s in charge of James Davidson’s estate? He died in the 1990s. He had two daughters, who should have inherited everything. Apparently they didn’t. I don’t know why they didn’t, and no one seems to know what became of them. Are they alive? If so, where are they? Davidson expected them to work at DDD&W, and if DDD&W refused them jobs, they should have come into a big art collection. We need to find them, talk to them. And do you know anyone at the Prince Charles Stuart Museum in Stuartville, New York? A trustee, maybe? The chairman of the board? The museum inherits Davidson money, too, and may have been cheated by the DDD&W crowd.”

  “I’ll ask about the Davidson estate, and I’ll find someone who knows that museum. I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t worry. Give Dinah my love, and tell her she’s not to worry, either.”

  When Jonathan came into the living room, Dinah thought he looked less strained.

  “I just talked to Blair. He and the Firm are going to help get things moving,” he said.

  “Oh, Jonathan, that’s great. He’s a good friend,” she said.

  “That he is, and he sent you his love, and said ‘don’t worry,’” Jonathan said.

  “Good advice. I wish I could stop worrying. I need to tell you something, Jonathan. Promise me you won’t get upset.”

  She described Oscar Danbury’s behavior, how horrifying she’d found it, and why she hadn’t told Jonathan. Then she held her breath, waiting for the explosion.

  Jonathan frowned, but it was a thoughtful expression, not a signal that he was on the verge of a tantrum. “I’ve heard of someone else who did that—it was at a financial company—Steinbrew was his name. The people who worked with him thought he was wonderful, too. I could never understand it. In my opinion, he was disgusting.”

  “Could Oscar Danbury have known Steinbrew?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it—Steinbrew died a long time ago. But Danbury must have heard about it and imitated him. They don’t teach that little trick in business school. I’m sorry you had to see it. Try and put it out of your mind, love. Danbury’s just a filthy slob—one more bottom-of-the-barrel type in a rotten organization.”

  Dinah sighed. She should have known. Jonathan would never say a cross word to her when she was in trouble. She reached out and took his hand in hers. “Thank you,” she said.

  Jonathan, looking bewildered but ever polite, said, “You’re welcome,” and leaned over to kiss her.

  “I wish we could take a day off from everything to do with DDD&W,” Dinah said.

  “Why don’t I ask Tom to bring us the car and we’ll drive north? We can take Baker and have lunch on the coast somewhere. The sun is out for a change. It’s pale and uncertain, and it may rain again later, but for the moment,
it’s reasonably clear outside.”

  “Could we? That would be wonderful,” Dinah said.

  “Absolutely. We’ll have to bundle up. It will be cold, but it will be a change, and I think it will do us good.”

  Forty-five minutes later, they were in the Lincoln, Jonathan at the wheel, Baker asleep on the back seat. She turned on the car radio and found a channel that played Golden Oldies music. She laughed out loud when she heard a male vocalist singing “Blue Skies.”

  Thirty

  Loretta didn’t like living alone. She’d had roommates in college, and after graduation, she shared an apartment with two girls in Raleigh. She was bored and lonely in Bethany’s one-room apartment. She’d been lucky to get it, with Bethany always at Zeke’s, but the decorations, although attractive, made her homesick. The red-and-white quilt on the narrow bed had been pieced and sewn by Bethany’s grandmother, who was also related to Loretta. The dried grasses in the big bowl on the table came from a North Carolina beach, and the room smelled of potpourri made from North Carolina roses. The cupboard in the kitchen was full of jam and jelly made by friends and neighbors of Bethany’s family. Bethany’s tiny nest was a constant reminder of home. She needed to get out for a while and get over feeling so bad. Today, like all the Sundays she’d spent in New York, were the worst days of the week. At home, Sundays after church were filled with family, friends, food. Here she had nothing to do.

  The only good thing about the apartment was its location. She loved walking around Greenwich Village taking pictures. She sent most of them home to her parents, who were interested in everything she saw and did.

  She pulled on an old duffle coat and tucked her camera in her pocket. She’d buy coffee, milk, and other necessities at the Food Emporium and pick up something comforting for supper. Maybe she’d go by the Chinese restaurant and get some wonton soup. She’d take a few pictures if she saw anyone or anything especially interesting. She ran down the stairs, but when she stepped out the door of the building onto the sidewalk, a toddler in a pink snowsuit careered into her and fell flat on her well-padded bottom.

  Loretta leaned over and picked up the screaming child. She was a beautiful little girl with curly red hair and fair skin, although at the moment, her dimpled cheeks were nearly as red as her curls. Loretta didn’t think she’d been hurt; her yells sounded angry, not as if she were in pain.

  A man pushing a baby carriage reached out to take the little girl. “Here, let me,” he said, cuddling the child, who stopped crying as soon as she felt his arms around her.

  Loretta looked at the infant in the carriage. More red curls. What gorgeous children. The man was nice-looking in a Waspy way but a little old to be the father of these two. Grandfather? Uncle? They sure didn’t look like him. He must have been blond once, but his thinning hair had turned gray. “Beautiful red hair,” she said. “Do they take after their mama?”

  The man grinned. “In more ways than one,” he said. “I have a hard time keeping up with the three of them, and Mac—he’s in the carriage—can’t even walk yet. Kathy, my wife, is just like Kitty—always running, never walking, and doesn’t always look where she’s going. I hope Kitty didn’t hurt you when she ran into you?”

  “Goodness, no. I’m just glad she wasn’t hurt. They’re both adorable. Nice talking to you.” She waved goodbye to the now-beaming Kitty and ran toward the Food Emporium, pausing to look back and take a picture of the gorgeous children and their doting father. They looked so happy together. Her parents would enjoy seeing their pictures, especially with the building where she was living in the background.

  Before leaving for the office, where she spent most Sundays, Coleman skimmed the newspapers. Still nothing about Dinah or any more about the death at DDD&W. That was good news, almost a miracle. She pulled on a red cashmere turtleneck, gray slacks, and boots. The rain had stopped, but the air was raw and chilly. She wrapped her ancient raccoon coat around her, grabbed Dolly, and set off at a brisk pace for her office.

  She settled down at her desk and pulled out her to-do list. First, Dinah’s problem: she’d done everything she’d pledged to do on the art side, except learn anything about the location of the Stubbs. Dinah was working on that.

  As for the press, Debbi was doing an excellent job. Jonathan was working hard on other issues and getting good results. Rob seemed to be a little slow, but maybe he was having startup problems. Anyway, there was nothing she could do about that. Goodness knows, she had more than enough to do without worrying about Rob’s work habits. She settled down at her desk and was soon absorbed in the demands of ArtSmart and First Home.

  Rob spent most of Sunday trying not to think about Coleman, reading the reports that had come in, and listing the information he had and what he still needed.

  Pete had left Rob a summary on the Victor sisters. Born in a small town in southern Georgia. Struggled to finish high school. Made their way to Atlanta, then Chicago. Typists, then secretaries. Frances married and divorced in Chicago. Both of them worked for D&W in Chicago at the time of the merger—Patti Sue as a secretary for one of the accountants, and Frances as an assistant in the personnel department. When D&D merged with D&W, a lot of D&W people, including the sisters, transferred to New York. The Victor women landed at LaGuardia with higher-status jobs and better salaries. They weren’t paid as much as the employees they had replaced, but those people had been well qualified, which the sisters definitely were not. Given their backgrounds, they were overpaid. They must have had pull. Or something on someone?

  The sisters shared a Park Avenue condominium, which had to have cost at least a couple of million dollars. According to Pete, the maintenance was far more than they could afford on their salaries, even sharing. Each of them had five-figure bank accounts, too, and no debts. Where had the capital come from to buy the apartment? And how did they support their lifestyle? Money other than their salaries was coming from somewhere.

  He’d assigned the guys who’d completed the Cornelia Street interviews to chat up the Victor sisters’ neighbors, their doormen, the super of their building, trolling for information on friends, money, love life—whatever came up. He’d asked Pete to check out Hunt Frederick—finances, Texas reputation, the works.

  He would also ask Pete to find out all he could about Harrison, but if the detective had gone bad, Pete wouldn’t turn up much. Cops were good at hiding their skeletons in more secure places than their closets. The only way to get the facts would be calls to friends, and Rob would have to do that himself. He put it at the top of Monday’s to-do list, along with making sure one of the investigators checked out the fight in the ladies’ room.

  He sighed. He had a long list of loose ends and not much time to tie them up. The story of Dinah’s involvement in the murder was bound to break soon.

  Fortunately, they didn’t have to check out Great Art Management. The memo from the DA’s office had explained exactly how GAM worked. They sold paintings to the not very knowledgeable who wanted something decorative or trendy or both to hang on their walls—definitely not in the Monet or Renoir class, but expensive enough to make avoiding taxes worthwhile. Great Art Management shipped the paintings to addresses outside New York—maybe even provided the buyer with the addresses.

  But who at DDD&W was buying art? What, if anything, did Patti Sue Victor have to do with the racket? And did it lead to someone trying to kill her? If so, why?

  Thirty-One

  Coleman’s week began well. When she read Monday’s newspapers, she yelled “Yes!” startling poor Dolly; Debbi had struck again. From the New York Examiner’s “What’s Happening” column:

  Is a blue-chip consulting firm at the center of the next art scandal? The will of James Davidson, who died in 1993, left a huge art collection to the firm he helped found—now Davidson, Douglas, Danbury & Weeks—as long as the firm employed a Davidson descendant. If a descendant no longer worked there, the entire collection was to go to the Prince Charles Stuart Museum in Stuartville, NY. There are no
Davidsons at DDD&W today, and in December, the Prince Charles received 414 objects from the Davidson collection. Trouble is, James Davidson’s will listed 1,049 works of art. What happened to the missing items? Will “Bonnie Prince Charlie” rise again and force DDD&W to produce the missing art—or compensation to the Prince Charles Stuart Museum for what’s missing?

  The Mirror’s “Round the Town” column:

  The word around town is that a renowned management consulting-accounting firm can’t manage its own business, which should give its Fortune 500 clients pause. Believe it or not, the firm—or two firms—let’s call them “Upstairs” and “Downstairs”—which “merged” a few years ago, work on separate floors, and the twain rarely meet. Maybe that’s why it’s rumored that the SEC is investigating: are those Downstairs folks auditors or consultants? If auditors, isn’t this the same kind of conflict the SEC found at Arthur Andersen? If the Downstairs crowd are consultants like their Upstairs partners, why aren’t they working together?

  And an e-mail from Amy:

  I apologize for Hunt. He received a copy of our contract with you as soon as it was signed. The signing partners have let him know what they think of his inattention to DDD&W business and his rudeness to a client. He should apologize to you, but they say he never apologizes, never explains. Great attitude for the CEO of a service company, right?

  Coleman laughed. She could hardly wait for her afternoon meeting at DDD&W. Would she run into the Cowardly Cowboy? She guessed not. He’d be lying low.

  Hunt had just arrived in his office and hadn’t had time to remove his overcoat, when Ted Douglas brought the column items into his office.