Restrike (3 page)

“Maybe so, but I bet he’s making sure she doesn’t do anything except what he says. He acts like he’s used to getting his way. Back to your leak: Get busy. You’re a great interviewer. You can get it out of the guilty one.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go—I’m meeting people for dinner. Keep me posted on your problem. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes, please. Could you see what you can find out about the
Artful Californian
? Who owns it, that kind of thing? I could make some calls, but I don’t want anyone to know I’m checking.”

“Sure. I’ll look into it right away.” He kissed the air near her cheek and headed for the elevator.

Coleman picked up Dolly’s pouch and followed Zeke out. Talking to him had been a relief, and she had a plan of sorts. Even more important, while they talked her thoughts had clarified. She was convinced that someone at the
Artful Californian
must have figured out a way to make some real money with this spying, although she couldn’t see how. They could ruin
ArtSmart
and increase their advertising revenue, but after
ArtSmart
was destroyed, where would they get their ideas? And the two writers she suspected wouldn’t risk their jobs for chicken feed. Bribing either one of them would come high. Something had to be going on that she didn’t understand. How could she learn what was behind the attack on
ArtSmart
?

And how could she help Dinah? Coleman had had reservations about Jonathan from the beginning. He
did
adore Dinah, but he was so possessive, so jealous. He even resented Dinah’s close relationships with Bethany and Coleman. Coleman was sure that possessiveness was the basis of his not wanting Dinah to move her gallery. He wanted all of her attention for himself. But why hadn’t Dinah told her what was going on?

When she reached the sidewalk, Coleman took Dolly out of her pouch, snapped on her leash, and with Dolly leading the way, headed for home. When they got there, after feeding Dolly and giving the little dog another walk, Coleman planned to spend an hour in her sewing room, which always absorbed her. It was her favorite recreation, a different kind of creativity from her work on the magazine. After that, she’d soak in a hot tub and think about everything, including her bleak social life. She did some of her best thinking in a tub full of hot water.

In the apartment above the Greene Gallery, Dinah changed into jeans and an old shirt of Jonathan’s. She pushed the sordid story of Jimmy La Grange’s death to the back of her mind—Jonathan wouldn’t want to hear about
that
—and turned to cooking, a task that always relaxed her. When she cooked, she found herself back in the kitchen with her beloved grandmother, learning the craft that had helped support their little family, and helped pay her way through college. Cooking was for her what sewing was for Coleman—a lifesaver then, comforting these days. The family—her grandmother, her great-aunt, and Coleman—had been poor, but the warmth and love they had shared had made her childhood so very happy. She wished her grandmother or Aunt Polly were still alive. She wanted to talk to someone about her feelings about Jonathan and the gallery, but she didn’t want to tell Coleman. Jonathan and Coleman didn’t get along very well, and this would make matters worse. She sighed and concentrated on her cooking.

Hoping to put her husband in a mellow mood, she prepared one of his favorite dinners: gumbo, crammed with tomatoes, garlic, okra, and baby shrimp, accompanied by tiny corn muffins, and followed by a spinach salad. She set the table, and when all was ready, showered and changed again, this time into a gray-blue silk caftan Jonathan had given her; he said it was the exact color of her eyes. She piled her long dark hair on her head the way he liked her to wear it, and added big silver earrings. When she’d put on fresh lipstick and mascara, she sat on the sofa in front of the fire to wait for his arrival. Baker, Jonathan’s ancient golden retriever, snored on the floor nearby.

She was leafing through
Vogue
when she heard the street door open and Jonathan’s steps on the stairs. She glanced around once more to make sure everything was the way he’d want it. The brick-walled, loft-like apartment was filled with appetizing smells, and the flickering candles and soft glow of the fire created a warm and soothing ambience. She rose to greet him, Baker at her side.

As he so often did, Jonathan had brought her flowers, tonight her favorite freesias. The perfume she wore, which he had especially made for her by a woman in Los Angeles, was based on their delicate scent. She kissed him, then put the flowers in water in a vase on the coffee table. Jonathan was mindful of the things she’d heard so many men forgot—flowers, gifts, private anniversaries. And he was a wonderful lover. The honeymoon continued—at least until the topic of the gallery came up.

They sat down to dinner at the kitchen end of the big table in the living-dining room, and Dinah drew him out on his day. She was proud of Jonathan’s success as an investment banker, and fascinated by his deals. She also liked his looks—his narrow head, his bony, aristocratic face, his dark eyes bright with enthusiasm, his soft brown neatly combed hair. Tenderness welled up in her.

After dinner, Jonathan settled in his favorite chair by the fire, his long legs stretched out in front of him, Baker asleep with his head on Jonathan’s feet. Dinah poured his coffee, handed it to him, and sat down opposite him.

“What kind of day did you have? I’ve done all the talking,” he said, leaning over to scratch Baker’s head.

“Exciting! I bought a beautiful Rist print—
Red Roses—
for the show—and Jonathan, guess what!” She described the bizarre trio at the auction, the sale of the Homer, and Heyward Bain’s plans for a print museum. “Coleman plans to publish a prints issue in May to coincide with the next print auctions. She says the Print Museum is the biggest art news in a long time.”

Jonathan removed his horn-rimmed glasses and cleaned the lenses with his handkerchief. He put them on again and said, “I bet the whole thing never comes off. So many phonies come to New York, announce grandiose plans, and disappear. Like that French guy sent over to head up the big multinational, who promised all those nonprofits millions of dollars, and then got fired and skulked home to France, leaving the charities in the lurch. Don’t bank on sales you’ll never make.”

Dinah shook her head. “I just like the idea of a print museum. I haven’t given any serious thought to selling to it—I don’t think the museum will make any difference to me or the gallery. Why would Heyward Bain care about American color woodcuts? Or early screenprints? They’d be way down on his list of priorities for a museum. But I’d love to know why he decided to do what he’s doing. I’d like to meet him, but I probably never will.” As soon as she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t. Even saying she’d like to meet another man could make Jonathan flare up with jealousy.

“Well, who cares if you sell him anything? We don’t need the money. And why do you want to meet some parvenu from nowhere?” Jonathan slammed his coffee cup onto the saucer.

Dinah winced. So much for the mood she’d tried to create. He crossed the room, refilled his wineglass, and brought the half-full bottle to the coffee table. Not a good sign. In for a penny, she might as well go ahead. “Since you ask, I care about selling to him or anyone, and as to why, I’ll tell you—again,” Dinah said. “I’ve worked for years to build a reputation in the print world. When we decided to get married, you said you’d help me realize my ambitions, my dreams. We agreed I’d devote a minimum of two years to being a full-time dealer. But Jonathan, I’m not a d-dealer: I’m a housewife with a h-hobby.”

She felt like a broken record. She’d said these same things to him over and over since she opened the gallery in July. Horrors, she was stuttering. She’d stuttered as a child when she was frightened or upset, but rarely since.

“Don’t be absurd. Obviously you’re a dealer—you have your own gallery—that’s everybody’s dream, including yours. At least, that’s what you said before we got married.” Jonathan’s voice had risen, and Baker sat up and whimpered. Jonathan refilled his glass, but his hand shook, and he spilled wine on the table.

“No one c-comes to the g-gallery. A Greenwich Village side street is a t-terrible location for an art g-gallery. I don’t do anything but p-play with p-prints, and now Bethany’s going to quit.”

“Good riddance. That girl is no asset. She’s politically to the left of Nancy Pelosi, and I can’t stand her ethnic look. Why can’t she wear more conventional clothing? She probably frightens the customers.” Jonathan stood up and started to pace. Baker struggled to his feet and limped behind him.

“But I n-need somebody in the g-gallery while I’m at auctions or visiting artists. And Bethany’s g-good at selling p-prints and managing on her own. And she’s from North C-Carolina, from home. She’s my b-best friend after C-Coleman. I don’t c-care about her politics, and I don’t agree with you about her looks. I love her c-clothes, and I think she’s g-gorgeous.”

A muscle in Jonathan’s cheek twitched. “You should see customers only by appointment. It’s much safer than dealing with any Tom, Dick, or Harry who walks in off the street. I’ve repeatedly suggested that, and I cannot see why you won’t do it.”

Dinah stared at the wine he’d spilled on the table. She reached out to the coffee tray for a napkin. “I’ve told you: seeing by appointment is for retired people. I’m young and energetic. If I only see customers by appointment, I may as well c-close the g-gallery. Why c-can’t you understand this is important to me? Why c-can’t we move to Chelsea or Midtown, or at least let me m-move the g-gallery, if you want to l-live in the Village? We c-could let the space d-downstairs.” She dabbed at the spilled wine with the napkin, and the red soaked into the heavy linen.

“That’s ridiculous. The economics would be terrible, and besides, it’s convenient having you live above the gallery. For God’s sake, Dinah, leave the table alone. The wine won’t hurt the glass tabletop, and you’re ruining that napkin.”

Dinah twisted the wine-stained napkin, staring at it. A wedding present, it was monogrammed, one of a set of a dozen, and unless she put salt on it right away, it probably
was
ruined. She couldn’t bring herself to care. “Jonathan, don’t p-pretend this is about m-money. You j-just want me to be a full-time wife. But I will
not
g-give up my work with prints, even if I have to forget about being on my own and g-get a job somewhere. Which I will do, if the g-gallery keeps losing money.”

“Don’t be silly. Don’t you think having your own gallery, no matter how small, is better than working for someone else? Anyway, we bought this place for the space downstairs, and you agreed to it.” Jonathan was nearly shouting, and Baker whined again. “I’m taking Baker for a walk,” Jonathan said, grabbing his coat and Baker’s leash from the closet. The door crashed behind him.

Dinah cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. She poured salt on the stained napkin. She cleaned the kitchen, tidied the sitting area near the fireplace, and left the napkin in cold water to soak overnight.

When Jonathan returned, she pretended to be asleep. She was thinking about Jimmy La Grange, and Coleman’s speculation that his death might have something to do with
Skating Girl.
She hoped not. She’d hate to learn that the print was connected to anything so awful. She liked thinking of the image. She imagined herself the girl on skates, flying across the ice—happy, carefree . . .

Before she went to bed Tuesday night, Coleman had decided what she was going to do about the leak at
ArtSmart
, but she couldn’t begin to put her plan into effect until after lunch with Dinah on Wednesday. She left a voice mail for Tammy to meet her at the Starbucks in the
ArtSmart
building at two, and raced off to the Regency Hotel. Trust Simon to choose
the
spot to see and be seen at breakfast.

She was drinking her second cup of coffee and working on the
New York Times
crossword puzzle
when Simon slouched in, twenty minutes late. He glanced around the room to see who was there, nodded to Donald Trump two tables away, and blew a kiss to fashion designer Nicole Miller, who looked surprised at an intimate greeting from a man she obviously didn’t recognize. He made sure everyone in the room observed his arrival before joining Coleman.

“What a wonderful way to start the day, meeting a beautiful lady for breakfast. I’ve been looking forward to this.” Simon smiled and brushed his fair hair back from his forehead. He was nice looking, she supposed, but when he bared his big teeth, Coleman felt like Red Riding Hood encountering the wolf. Or maybe Clarice Starling face-to-face with Hannibal Lecter. She recognized the caps. A bi-coastal dentist catering to the stars mass-produced that smile, but on Simon, it seemed threatening.

When he slid into the chair across from Coleman, his leg moved against hers. Coleman was sure it was deliberate. She’d eaten in this room many times, sometimes at this very table, and it had never happened before. She moved her legs to the side and nodded to the hovering waiter.

Simon ordered eggs Benedict. Coleman chose grapefruit juice and the egg-white omelette. She tried to ignore the woman at the next table devouring bacon and brioche French toast. Just smelling the bacon, Coleman would probably gain two pounds.

As soon as they’d ordered, she took out her pen. “Congratulations on acquiring
Skating Girl
,” she said.

Simon’s grin widened. “Thank you! A milestone: the first of many purchases for the Print Museum. Heyward has asked me to do all his auction buying.”

Wow, that was a good deal for Simon, especially since he had no background in prints. “Is Heyward an old friend?”

He looked amused. “No, but it was old friends at first sight.”

“Then maybe you can tell me about him. I’m having dinner with him tonight, and I’d like to know more before we meet. Where’s he from?”

Simon’s oleaginous veneer disappeared. “You’ll have to ask him, but I don’t think he’ll tell you. Heyward and I think that the world is too preoccupied with the past. We believe in living in the present.”

His tone was patronizing, infuriating. She felt a rush of heat to her face and neck.

The waiter arrived with their orders, and she waited until he finished serving before she spoke. The delay gave her time to cool off. “Well! That’s an interesting point of view. Do you feel the same way about the history of works of art? Aren’t you concerned that Killington’s didn’t provide
Skating Girl
’s background?”

Simon took a big bite of his eggs and shook his head. “Not at all. It’s so unmistakably a Homer, the image is so well known, neither Heyward nor I thought provenance was an issue. We feel the same way about the Lautrec coming up at Grendle’s—it’s a superb impression, and very rare. We don’t care where it’s been, or who owned it.”

Strange. Most museums were sticklers about an object’s history, and wouldn’t touch a work of art unless its pedigree were sound. Ethical Renaissance art dealers were usually pretty picky, too. Wonder how Rachel Ransome felt about Simon’s attitude? “Don’t you think it’s peculiar that such a rare Lautrec is being sold at a second-rate auction house?” she asked.

Simon shrugged. “Grendle’s could have charged the seller nothing, knowing they’d get a big fee from the buyer. And the Lautrec will bring in a lot of people, and get Grendle’s a lot of publicity.”

Maybe he was right, but she still thought it was odd. “Do you plan to bid for
The Midget
for the Print Museum?”

He looked down his nose. “I intend to buy
The Midget
for the Print Museum.”

What a jerk he was. “Oh, I see—no matter what the cost?”

“Of course. Heyward can and will pay whatever it takes to get the best.”

Why were Heyward Bain and Simon on such good terms? Maybe Bain was a creep, too, despite being so gorgeous. “How’d you and Bain meet?”

“A mutual friend introduced us, and I was intrigued by Heyward’s project. I decided to put Ransome’s into the print business. It’s my own personal baby, and certain of success: Heyward and I are acting virtually in partnership. Now, that’s enough about me. How did an enchanting little girl like you become the owner and editor of an art magazine?” He rubbed his leg against hers again.

When she moved her legs this time, she kicked him in the shin with the very pointed toe of her Jimmy Choo. He raised his eyebrows again and took another bite of eggy muffin, dripping with hollandaise. A blob of the sauce fell on his Sulka tie. If she’d liked him even a little, she’d have mentioned it so he could remove the stain before the tie was ruined.

“Sorry, this table must be smaller than usual. I keep bumping into your legs,” she said. “By the way, I heard some shocking news this morning. Jimmy La Grange, you may know him—he was the seller of
Skating Girl
—was killed last night.”

An odd expression passed over Simon’s face. She’d swear it was anger. What could that mean?

“What a pity,” he said, his voice flat. His plate clean, he looked at his watch and frowned. “Oh dear, I fear I must move on. I have a thing or two to do before the auction. It’s been absolutely marvelous.”

When he rose, Coleman caught a whiff of a strange odor: hay or dried grass, barnish—horsey for such a citified guy. Had he been pitching hay? More likely rolling in it, like the ass he was.

She’d picked up a few good quotes, but she was leaving their meeting with more questions than answers. Who was the friend who’d introduced Simon to Bain? Why in the world was Bain letting this creep do all his buying?
Had
Simon known Jimmy La Grange? And why would Simon be angry about La Grange’s death?