Restrike (20 page)

“Do not be too sure of that,” Rachel said. “I don’t believe in coincidences. When a series of evil events take place, they are usually connected. Simon hates dogs,” she added, “and they hate him. I always wanted one, but when he was here, that was impossible. Perhaps I will buy one now.”

“Oh,
really
,” Bain said. He turned to Quincy. “Can we get back to Ms.—what’s her name again?”

“Delia Swain,” Quincy said. “She was the American woman staying at the Randolph when the Baldorean was robbed. It was her rented car the thief drove.”

Bain frowned. “Could her presence be a coincidence?”

Dinah shook her head. “I think she’s a part of all this. Coleman and I both thought she acted suspiciously.”

“She has an alibi,” Quincy said for the third time.

Dinah grimaced. Quincy was annoying her even more than Bain. She must be jet-lagged. “So you’ve said, several times. She obviously had an accomplice. Her role was to rent the car, and to make sure it was available.”

Jonathan looked at Dinah, and then at his watch. “It’s nearly eight o’clock. We should leave you in peace, Mrs. Ransome, and I should feed Dinah—she’s scarcely eaten a bite in the last twenty-four hours.”

Dinah stood. He was lying. It was a white lie, but still, unusual for him. She knew he was worried about Baker, uncomfortable with Heyward’s behavior, and distressed by her impatience with Rachel’s solicitor, whom Dinah had mentally christened Quincy the Thick.

“How shall we proceed?” Rachel said.

“We’ll discuss all this over dinner, and I’ll call Rob Mondelli, the detective who’s working on this for us. I wish he could have come with us, but he thought he should stay in New York to protect Coleman,” Jonathan said.

“Quite right, too,” Rachel said. “I’m worried about that young woman.”

“Can you explain why you’re worried about her?” Dinah asked.

“It is as I said: I do not believe in coincidences. I am a student of history. During the past, when a series of events like these have occurred, they have been connected. Your cousin was attacked. She has offended someone, or she is in someone’s way. She should be very careful.”

Bain looked as if he were going to say something unpleasant, but Jonathan intervened. “We’ll telephone you tomorrow. Thank you so much.”

Dinah took Rachel’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Ransome. We’re all after the same thing—the truth, and punishment for whoever’s responsible for these terrible things—murders, spying, theft . . . it must be stopped.”

Coleman looked at the clock on the wall of her office. It was nearly one o’clock—five hours later in London—and the group must have assembled at the Ransome Gallery. If she’d gone with them, she’d have met the fabled Rachel Ransome. And she might have had an opportunity to ask Bain why he’d quizzed Dinah about her private affairs.

She no longer had any interest in Bain, except to find out why he was asking questions about her, and how he’d come by personal information about her. She didn’t believe he’d heard of her near-rape from one of the participants. They’d never have talked about it. On the other hand, if not from one of them, how
could
he have learned about it?

The phone rang. “Coleman, a huge bunch of red roses just arrived for you, and there are some packages with it. Is it your birthday?” The receptionist sounded breathless with excitement.

“No, it’s not my birthday, nor any other special occasion. I’ll be right out.”

She counted the roses: four dozen, and what a delicious scent. Most hothouse roses had no fragrance at all—they might as well be lettuce. Someone had spent a bundle. “Gorgeous,” Coleman said, and looked at the card: “‘From your secret admirer.’ Well, that’s nice. I wonder who it can be? I’ll take the packages to my office. I’ll come back for the flowers.”

Zeke appeared in the reception area and picked up the vase of roses. “I’ll bring them. Who’re they from?”

Coleman handed him the card and, in her office, tore the wrappings off the packages. “Lots of doggie goodies for you, Dolly—and for me—wow! Coffee truffles, and chocolate-covered coffee liqueurs. Somebody knows I’m addicted to caffeine and chocolate.”

“Coleman, don’t eat any of that stuff. Don’t give any of it to Dolly, either,” Zeke said, setting the vase of roses on Coleman’s desk. “Do you have a shopping bag? I’m going to pack everything up.”

Coleman frowned at him. “Who’re you—the food police? I wasn’t planning to pig out,” she said, and leaned over to pick up Dolly, who was standing on her hind legs, begging, “but I think Dolly and I could each have one treat. I’ll have a truffle, and Dolly—”

Zeke held up his hand. “No, Coleman! Don’t touch it. I’m taking all this stuff to my office, and we’ll ask Rob to come get it. If he says it’s okay, fine.”

“Are you saying there’s something wrong with the food?” Coleman and Dolly were still staring at the boxes. Dolly was licking her chops, and Coleman could taste the chocolate.

“Rob asked me to be on the lookout for threats to you, and I don’t like anonymous gifts. Will you call Rob, or shall I?” He poured the candies into the shopping bag, careful not to touch them. A Doggie Treat—Dolly’s favorite brand—fell to the floor and bounced across the room. Dolly scurried over to pick it up before Zeke could reach it. He watched, helpless, terrified that it might harm her.

But Dolly stopped short several inches away from the treat, sniffed at it, growled, and backed away. Zeke sighed with relief. Coleman shrugged. “She usually loves those things, but they’ve been near the candy, and she doesn’t like chocolate or caffeine.” Zeke grabbed a piece of paper from the nearby wastebasket, used it to pick up the treat, and dropped it into the shopping bag. Coleman was on the telephone with Rob, explaining why she had called.

Rob agreed with Zeke. “I’ll be there right away,” he told Coleman. “We’ll get everything checked, but it’s good you didn’t taste or touch anything. Would you like to have a late lunch? I’ll spring for a gooey dessert as consolation for your not being able to eat the candy.”

Coleman smiled. “Absolutely! Could we go to Swifty’s? If I can’t have chocolate, I’ll settle for a cheese soufflé.”

Coleman didn’t believe anything was wrong with the candy. She thought the presents were from Heyward Bain. He could afford roses like that. But she shouldn’t eat the candy anyway, and sometimes paranoid people were right. After all, she would never have believed that Chick would be murdered, or that someone had bugged
ArtSmart.

When the maid had closed the door behind Dinah and her escorts, Quincy said, “Mr. Bain is offensive. Why do you suppose he’s so determined to defend Simon?”

“Two reasons, I think. The first is that Heyward Bain has, like Simon, recreated himself. He empathizes with Simon. He is uncomfortable about my unmasking of Simon, since he lives in fear of being unmasked.”

“And the second?”

“I shall keep the second reason to myself for a while, but it, too, has to do with secrecy and exposure. Would you like another drink?”

He looked at his watch. “No, thank you, I’m expected at my sister’s for dinner. I must leave or I’ll be late. But may I telephone you tomorrow to learn what Mrs. Hathaway has to say, and what you plan to do next?”

Rachel was amused at Quincy’s insistence on calling Dinah Greene by her married name. He was a traditionalist, and as slow as Dinah had found him. But she trusted him. “Of course. I will expect your call.”

In their booth at Richmond’s on Duke Street, Dinah sipped Chablis while she waited for her grilled Dover sole. But she was seething, and decided to have it out with Bain. “Why did you come with us?” she asked.

Bain looked at her, surprised. “It’s mostly my problem, and if Mrs. Ransome had anything helpful to say, I wanted to hear it. But all we learned was that Simon had been poor and unattractive, that she’d picked him up when he was just a kid, that he helped her establish the gallery—but she’s tired of him, and would like to be rid of him.”

Dinah couldn’t believe her ears. “And
The Midget
?”

Bain shrugged. “A misunderstanding, and as I said, sharp business practice.”

“His going through her things, and using
The Record
?” Dinah said.

He shrugged again. “They were partners. It was his right to look at documents important to the gallery’s future.”

“And Ellen Carswell, and her theft of Coleman’s ideas?”

“Silly of Ellen, but not serious. No permanent damage was done, was it? In any case, there’s no reason to believe that Simon knew about it.”

Dinah’s blue eyes glittered. “I cannot believe I’m hearing you right. You’ll excuse and forgive Simon anything, won’t you?
Of
course
he knew about Ellen’s stealing from Coleman. They’re lovers. Did you never hear of pillow talk?”

Bain flushed. “I don’t believe they
are
lovers. Maybe he spent a night with her, but that’s hardly being ‘lovers.’”

“Does Simon have something on you?”

“Dinah!” Jonathan said.

Bain folded his napkin, pushed back his chair and stood up. “I won’t sit here and be insulted,” he said.

“Aren’t you worried about Coleman? I thought you were in love with her.”

He glared at her. “I never said that, you did. Since you’re wrong about my feelings for Coleman, don’t you think you could be wrong about other things? You shouldn’t leap to conclusions. Excuse me.” He stalked out, his back stiff, his head held high.

Dinah covered her eyes with her hands and groaned. “Oh God, what have I done?”

“Well, you were pretty rude, but I’m sure if you apologize, he’ll get over it,” Jonathan said.

“Apologize! Never! He’s horrible, and he can go to hell. I don’t give a damn about him. But I t-told Coleman he was in love with her, I was sure h-he was. She was so h-happy when I t-told her. Now I h-have to tell her I was wrong.”

“There, Dinah, please don’t cry—Oh God, here’s the waiter with the fish,” he said.

Dinah was sobbing, barely coherent. “I can’t eat. I want to go to home—I mean to the hotel—I wish I were in New York—poor Baker.”

Jonathan’s cell phone rang, and several diners glared at him.

“Dinah, calm down. Let the man serve the fish, wait here—I’ve got to take this—it’s Rob. I’ll step outside.”

He was back in less than a minute, his face pale. “Dinah, brace yourself: someone tried to poison Coleman. No, no, she’s fine, don’t get hysterical. But when I told Rob about Baker, he said the person who tried to kill Coleman was probably practicing on the dog. Practicing on poor Baker, damn the evil bastard! Anyway, what with Coleman, and Baker, and this unpleasantness with Bain, I thought you’d want to go home as soon as possible. Is that right?”

“Oh, oh, oh, yes.” Tears were pouring down Dinah’s face, and she was choking down sobs. He called for the check.

“We’ll be at Claridge’s in minutes, and we’ll take the first available flight to New York tomorrow,” he promised.

Dinah controlled her sobs, and wiped her face with her napkin. “You were right about Bain. He’s a terrible person. How could I have been so wrong about him?”

The crowd at Swifty’s had thinned, and Coleman was finishing her soufflé when Rob said, “Coleman, this business gets worse and worse. I think there’s a nut involved. I don’t know why someone wants to harm you, but someone does.”

Coleman made a face at him. “Oh, Rob, we don’t know there’s anything wrong with that candy.”

“Yes, we do. I examined a few of the chocolates before I sent everything to the lab, and there were tiny holes in the soft pieces, the kind a hypodermic needle would make. That candy has definitely been doctored. We’re waiting to learn what was in it. Maybe it’s just stuff to make you sick, but Jonathan’s dog was poisoned this morning. I think someone was testing the poison to see if it worked, and you were the intended victim.”

“My God. I’ve been mugged and threatened, and someone who worked for me was killed, and another person who worked for me betrayed me and told me she hates me. Now someone wants to kill me? I can’t believe it.” She put down her fork. “Baker is dead? Oh, God, that’s my fault, too.”

“The dog isn’t dead yet, but they don’t think he’ll make it. It isn’t your fault, but we have to take it seriously. I think it’s time for amateurs to leave this business to me and the police and stop taking risks.”

His voice was warm and gentle, and his eyes were kind, but his words were annoying, patronizing.

Coleman had to struggle to control her temper. She had to find a way to make him see how wrong he was. “Did you ever hear of
The Women’s Murder Club
series?”

“No. Why? Are you trying to change the subject?”

“No. The books are about four women—a homicide detective, a medical examiner, an assistant district attorney, and a newspaper writer—who join forces to solve crimes.”

He groaned. “Coleman, that’s fiction. We’re talking real-life murder here. Amateurs just get in the way in a situation like this.”

Coleman was unpleasantly reminded of her first meeting with Rob. She hoped he wasn’t going to turn into a know-it-all bully again.

She forced herself to speak calmly. “Now hear me out, Rob. I don’t take kindly to being interrupted. We’re in a good-versus-evil battle. There’s an evil person involved, maybe more than one. Two people are dead, and you say someone’s trying to kill me. So far, the police have done a terrible job. I rarely say ‘I told you so’ but a while back you and the police were sure none of this had anything to do with art. Don’t forget, Chick and Dinah and I found Blackbeard’s, and with Clancy’s help, forced the police to arrest the Apemen. Using Chick’s lead, Dinah and I discovered that the Rembrandt plates were missing. Rachel uncovered
The Midget
scam and found out the Dürers were stolen. None of that would have come out but for us amateurs.”

Rob winced. “Okay, you have a point, but I’m terrified you’re going to be hurt. Your friend Chick was investigating this, and he was killed. The same thing could happen to you.”

She smiled. “But you’re going to prevent that, aren’t you? Look at how we’ve discovered clues in the case: we’ve needed art historians, amateur debuggers, and my friend at the
New York Times.
”

Rob nodded. “Granted, this is an unusual situation, and it hasn’t been susceptible so far to traditional police methods. Maybe that’s the way it’s going to be. But please, Coleman, be very, very careful.”

Dinah, still teary, called Coleman from Claridge’s. Coleman reassured her that she was fine, and Jonathan grabbed the phone to suggest that Coleman and Rob meet them at Cornelia Street. “Our plane gets to Kennedy at eleven thirty, and we should be at the apartment before one. We have a lot to tell you,” he said.

Dinah reached for the phone again. “Rachel Ransome’s a darling, and she’ll do all she can to help. She thinks Simon would kill her if he could get away with it—she found a note with ‘Get rid of Rachel’ on it. But Heyward Bain is a rat. I’ve never been so deceived by anybody in my whole life. I hate him, partly because he’s made me feel like such a fool. I stood up for him when Jonathan insisted he was a crook. I hope this doesn’t make you feel bad, but he says he’s not in love with you. I was wrong about that, too. I’m so sorry I misled you.”

Coleman laughed. “I’m not surprised. He sure hasn’t acted like he’s in love with me. When we’re not talking transatlantic, you’ll have to tell me why you’ve taken against him. I hope it’s not because he isn’t in love with me. Lots of people aren’t, and you can’t dislike them all.”

Dinah had been sure that Coleman would be upset when she learned about Bain. What was going on? But Coleman was right. This wasn’t the time to discuss it. “Don’t hang up—I have to tell you a few more things.” She recounted Rachel’s story about
The Midget
, and Bain’s reaction to it. “Some ethics, right? But the most interesting thing we’ve learned is that Delia Swain—that snippy little twit at the Harnett—was the woman in Oxford whose rental car was ‘borrowed’ and photographed at the Baldorean.”

“No! A link at last!” Coleman said.

“That’s exactly what I said. How can we get her?”

“We’ll talk about it when you’re home. Fly safely—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Coleman paced her office and thought about Delia Swain. Jane Parker should know Swain’s background. The Harnett Museum must have files on anyone working there. When Jane answered her phone, Coleman asked about new developments.

“Nothing. I’m afraid we’ll never find the missing Rembrandt plates. I feel terrible.”

“Don’t give up yet. We’re checking some leads. In that regard, what can you tell me about Delia Swain?”

Jane hesitated. Then, “Why do you ask?”

Maybe Jane
liked
Delia. Coleman would have to be careful. “Well, she was so bitchy to us when we were down there. I’ve had her on my mind ever since. I couldn’t figure out what she had against Dinah and me.”

“Oh, that’s just Delia. She’s the only child of rich parents. They moved down here from New Jersey when she was a baby. They don’t pretend to be Southern, but she acts like the reincarnation of Scarlett O’Hara. She’s a volunteer here. She calls herself our public relations person, but she just hangs around the museum and bothers people. Her father’s chairman of the board of the museum, and on the board of the college, so she can do whatever she pleases.”

“Where’d she go to school?”

Jane said Swain had attended a finishing school in Switzerland, having failed to get into a college that met her social standards. She’d interned with a public relations firm, and considered herself a PR expert. “As you saw, she doesn’t exactly make friends for the museum,” Jane concluded.

“Could you fax me her résumé, if you have one? If not, could you patch together whatever you can find, and fax that? Confidentially, her name has cropped up again in our investigations, and I’d like to check her background for connections to other people.”

“Do you think she could have had something to do with the missing plates?”

“It’s possible,” Coleman said. “But I don’t think you ought to tell anybody. It might cost you your job if you even hint she’s a suspect. Send me anything you can without getting into trouble.”

“I’ll see what I can do. It would be a great relief if the theft were solved and the plates returned without hurting any of the employees—which
she
isn’t. I’ve always wished she’d find another playpen. Uh—no one questioned Delia about the plates. They wouldn’t have dared, given who her father is.”

“I understand. And Jane? One more thing. Bain took
Sleeping Kitten
to the Metropolitan Museum yesterday to find out if it’s a restrike. I bet they already have an answer. Do you think they’ll talk to you?”

Jane laughed. “I’m sure they will. They know we have—had, I should say—the plate. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Jane.”