Fatal Impressions (13 page)

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.”

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?

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:

The
Mirror
’s “Round the Town” column:

And an e-mail from Amy:

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.

“We’re being killed by the press,” Ted said. “What are we going to do?”

Hunt read the clippings, his spirits sinking. “Is anything here inaccurate? Is there anything we can deny?” he asked.

“You know where the Stubbs are—you can respond to that one. I don’t know anything about the Americana collection. There’s nothing we can say about the split here—it’s all too horribly true,” Ted said.

“All right. Draft a memo to the staff for my signature explaining that the paintings are out for cleaning, and they’ll be back Friday. Get whoever oversaw the packing of the stuff we sent to the Prince Charles to look at these lists—was it Patti Sue? See what she has to say, and get me a report on it. Maybe the missing stuff was stolen at the museum or by the movers,” Hunt said.

“I hope you’re right. Have you heard anything about an SEC investigation?” Ted asked.

“No, and I doubt if it’s true. Even if it is, I don’t think we have anything to worry about. None of those bean counters do audits, do they? They were supposed to stop after the merger. I
hope
they’re helping Moose get business.”

Ted shrugged. “I don’t have any idea what they do. You’ll have to ask Moose.”

Hunt nodded. “I will. What’s new on the murder? Have the police made any progress? Are they still convinced Dinah Greene is the killer?”

“Here’s their case: the Greene Gallery is in financial trouble. Hathaway wants Dinah to let it go and become a full-time wife and mommy, so he’s balking at continuing to prop it up. She needs our money desperately. She’s not as ambitious as Cutthroat Coleman, but she wants the gallery to stand on its own feet before she steps aside as a career woman. Patti Sue, jealous and worried about her job, had been determined to get rid of Dinah and was agitated, complaining about her all over the office,” Ted said.

“That’s okay as far as it goes—she has a motive—but how did she accomplish the murder, if she did?” Hunt asked.

“Here’s a possible scenario: suppose Dinah arranged to meet Patti Sue in this office—which I must say looks great, Hunt, the restorers did a good job and fast. Anyway, maybe Dinah told Patti Sue she’d share the job with her. Patti Sue is a dope and would have easily swallowed the bait, but instead of working with her, Dinah planned to get rid of her. For some reason, Frannie turned up instead. Anyway, Frannie supported Patti Sue’s efforts, so maybe Frannie was the target,” Ted said.

Hunt frowned. “How could a girl like Dinah Greene do whatever it took to make the cases fall? She looks too fragile to pick up a frying pan, never mind sabotage the office.”

“That’s the beauty part: Dinah Greene hangs art all the time, can handle tools with the best of them, and she has no alibi.”

“Why haven’t they arrested her?” Hunt asked.

“They need a little more.” Ted counted his points off on three fingers: “What did she use to pull down the shelves? How did she get in your office? How did she get back and forth from their house in the Village to this building? I’m told that if they get the right answer to just one of those questions, they’ll arrest her.”

Hunt shook his head. “I still find it hard to believe. She doesn’t seem like a killer.”

Ted shrugged. “People have been convicted on far less. Even pretty people. Don’t you watch
CSI
? Anyway, there’s no one else. It has to be Dinah.”