Authors: Reba White Williams
Coleman arrived on DDD&W’s thirty-third floor ten minutes early. She wanted to see the signs of the missing art that Dinah had mentioned. Yes, despite all the prints that had been hung, Coleman could see indentations and walls lighter in spots than the surrounding paint. Dinah, thinking it might be a touchy subject—had they been desperately in need of money and forced to sell their collection?—hadn’t asked anyone at DDD&W about the missing art, but Coleman wasn’t so diffident. Its disappearance could be a story for
ArtSmart
, and maybe learning about what had happened to the missing pictures could help Dinah.
Amy appeared, smart in a vivid purple suit and a becoming new haircut. But her round rosy face below the mop of black curls was troubled.
“What’s the matter?” Coleman said.
Amy stared at her. “You mean other than an unexplained death in the office? This is where I work, remember? Where I get my paycheck. This death won’t do our business any good.”
“But DDD&W is very successful, isn’t it? Surely an accident won’t seriously cut into your business,” Coleman said.
“A bizarre accident wouldn’t be as bad as a murder, but it could still cause unwanted publicity, draw attention to what a mess we are. Anyway, we’re not nearly as successful as we used to be. I’ll explain at lunch,” Amy said.
When Coleman saw the food on the buffet in the dining room, everything else went out of her mind. “Good Lord, Amy, who’s your chef? A refugee from a fifties diner? Even looking at this food, I’ll gain weight. Chicken pot pie, fried pork chops, chicken fried steaks, white rice, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, two kinds of gravy, corn, butter beans. I don’t know when I’ve seen an array of food like this. Maybe at a Sunday school picnic when I was a toddler? Did anyone in the kitchen ever hear of green, as in vegetables?”
Amy sighed. “Later,” she said. “Let’s try the salad bar, although it’s just as bad.”
They served themselves and sat down with their unappetizing greens, mixed with a few exhausted vegetables. Amy was silent while she struggled to cut an impenetrable slice of unripe tomato but finally gave up, set aside her knife and fork, and looked at Coleman. “This food is a paradigm for everything that’s happened. Did you ever hear of the Davidson & Douglas food program?”
Coleman pushed a piece of limp brown lettuce to the side of her plate and nodded. “Yes, I read about it in the
New York Times
. That’s why I was surprised to see all that greasy, starchy food. Davidson & Douglas used to have a sensational chef who specialized in low-fat meals, long before other business dining rooms changed their food from heavy to healthy. What happened?”
“When Davidson & Douglas acquired Danbury & Weeks, D&W took over the management of the back office. They fired the chef and hired Trixie’s Treats, a caterer who specializes in so-called ‘home cooking.’ Trixie is a buxom blonde who eats the stuff she serves, and shows it. The food’s not only unhealthy, it’s tacky. I can’t bring clients here, old friends like you excepted. The DDD&W people don’t eat here, but the DWs love their thirtieth-floor cafeteria, which serves the same food.” Amy looked at the dessert buffet. “Do you want dessert?”
“Are you kidding? Banana pudding? Coconut cream pie? Fudge cake? Whipped cream, or ice cream toppings? Trixie must be trying to kill the people here—uh, sorry, tactless of me. How’s the coffee?”
“I’ll get it,” Amy said, and went over to the coffee station.
She returned to the table with Coleman’s coffee and a glass of iced tea and continued where she’d left off. “Aren’t the desserts unbelievable? The DWs—the Dreary Wearies—are sugar addicts. They eat doughnuts and frosted pastries all morning, and after a big dessert at lunch, they have what they call a ‘snack’ at three every afternoon—another dessert, usually some kind of cake or pie. They flock to it, brag about it, slurp it up. The new food program is one of many post-merger culture clashes, and a huge waste of money. We pay people to serve this awful food, but hardly anyone uses the dining room, the food goes in the garbage, and we run up expenses taking clients out to restaurants.”
Coleman looked around the vast room with its beautiful view and, thanks to Dinah, wonderful art. Amy and she were the only people in sight. “I’m not surprised no one’s eating here. The food’s all wrong for this century.”
“It’s not just about bad food. I told you, the food is just an example of everything that’s wrong. You’ll encounter a lot worse if you spend much time here.”
Coleman laughed. “Oh, Amy, lighten up! How bad can it be? I don’t have to eat here, and I’ll rarely use the restroom, and when I do, I’ll try to avoid banshee battles.”
Amy frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Coleman grinned and described Dinah’s encounter with the catfight. “Any idea who Patti Sue’s opponent was? Or the identity of the partner-lover? Or the peacemaker?”
“Not a clue. I’m not tuned in to office gossip—I’ve traveled so much in the last year, I hardly know where my office is. But nothing would surprise me. This place is a cesspool. We’ve had a series of weak managing directors who’ve let everything fall apart. Hunt was elected as a reform candidate, partly because of this merger, which is a disaster. We need a new broom, and he qualifies, never having worked in the New York office. He’s supposed to clean house. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Now that you know what we’re like, do you want to look for a well-managed consultant?”
Coleman shook her head. “No, but I don’t plan to eat here again, and I have questions. Did DDD&W have an art collection?”
Amy sighed again. “James Davidson’s will.”
“What do you mean?”
“James Davidson and Campbell Douglas, the founders of DDD&W, both died in the early nineties. But for more than forty years, they ran the place with iron fists in iron gloves. The art collection belonged to Davidson, but it always hung in the office. He left the collection to the firm as long as a Davidson worked here, but if a time came when the firm no longer employed a Davidson, the collection reverted to any Davidson heirs. If there are no Davidson heirs, the art goes to a museum. The Davidson male line ran out a long time ago, and the partners fought the will for years. They lost. The art collection left here last year.”
Coleman frowned. “Aren’t there any female Davidsons?”
Amy shrugged. “If there are female Davidsons, and if a female Davidson would have satisfied the terms of the will, the partners must not have thought they or she were suitable. Or they decided they’d rather lose the art than hire a high-status woman. DDD&W is a male-dominated firm, and they’d have to treat a Davidson better than they treat the few professional women here. Management didn’t care about the art, although I’m sure they’d rather have sold it than given it away.”
“What was it like?”
“Americana—prints, posters. Some good, some worthless. The good stuff was mostly Audubon and Currier & Ives prints. Davidson also left the paneling and furnishings of the chairman’s office to the firm, and the income from a huge trust fund, as long as the managing director’s office remains as it was designed. DDD&W sure wouldn’t want to lose the
money.”
Coleman nodded. “Dinah told me about that office. She said there are spots where art used to hang, on either side of the door.”
Before Amy could comment, four men entered the dining room. Coleman waved at Ted Douglas. He smiled and waved back before he and two of his companions paused at the buffet to serve themselves. The fourth man, Hunt Frederick, frowned and strode over to their table.
“Amy, how are you? Ms. Greene, what brings you here? I hope you aren’t planning to write a story about us,” he said.
“We don’t publish much on corporate art. It’s rarely newsworthy, even with Dinah in charge,” Coleman said.
“That’s a relief,” Hunt said. He nodded, went to the buffet and filled his plate before joining the other men at a table at the far end of the room.
“What
is
his problem?” Coleman asked.
“He doesn’t want anything in print about the art project. An article about it could be an embarrassment.”
“How so? I’m sure Dinah has already improved the appearance of this place enormously. The reception room and this dining area must have been bleak before she hung these prints,” Coleman said.
“Yes, but management might have to admit they lost the Davidson collection, and why. As you know, Dinah’s assignment is to put art on the walls of thirty-two and thirty-three—Hunt insisted something had to be done because the place looked so grim after the Americana collection came down. The walls of thirty and thirty-one, the floors where the D&W people work—human resources, accounting, the mailroom and the cafeteria—are to be left undecorated. The Dreary Wearies don’t want art. They think it’s a waste of money—another culture clash. Hunt wouldn’t be happy to see
that
in print. I think he hopes to try to integrate the two firms before outsiders learn how catastrophic the merger is. It’s not just the inability to meld the two organizations, either. We don’t make the kind of money we used to make. We didn’t pick up any new clients with the merger; in fact, we lost some. Hunt is supposed to bring in a lot of new business while he cleans house,” Amy said.
Coleman shook her head. “Sounds like a tall order. I hope he’s up to it. As for the D&W people, they sound really strange. No art. This food. It takes all kinds, doesn’t it? I met that bald man with Ted Douglas and Hunt Frederick earlier today. Mark Leichter? What does he do? And who’s the fat man? I thought you said nobody used the dining room.”
“Just a handful of insiders who don’t care what they eat, or have to show the flag. The fat noisy guy in the red suspenders is a big deal investment banker. His name is Michael Shanahan, but everyone calls him Moose. He’s a Texan, played football for Texas A&M. He and Hunt know each other from way back. DDD&W hired Moose from Bache, Gold & Glatz a few years ago for a ton of money to get us into financial services and mergers and acquisitions big-time. They’re supposed to be growth areas, but so far, all we’ve seen is a lot of expenses without much result. Moose is one of the people who wanted this merger, and he said we had to have a lot of computer geeks and accountants—bean counters—to help attract new business. Moose is usually trailed by a bunch of baby investment bankers turned consultants. He’s the chief of a tribe of adoring sycophants.”
Amy sipped her iced tea and made a face. “Ugh, it’s presweetened. I should have remembered. Back to our fellow lunchers. The one you met—the prissy-looking bald guy in the short-sleeved dress shirt—is Mark Leichter, our office manager and chief operating officer. He’s the son-in-law of Weeks, one of D&W’s founders. Weeks retired about a year ago and anointed Leichter as his successor,” Amy said. “How’s your coffee?”Coleman shook her head. “Dishwater. What’s Ted Douglas’s position here? I’ve lost track if I ever knew. I used to see him at parties, but not recently. Is he still married to Glenda the Ice Queen?”
“He’s a member of the senior partner committee, and he’s Hunt’s chief link with the Old Guard. He’s also probably the closest friend Hunt has here, except for Moose. Ted’s a rainmaker—belongs to the best clubs and hangs out with a lot of big deals. Nobody dislikes him, but he’s a lightweight, the typical son of a famous father. He wanted the managing director’s job in the worst way—politicked for it for months—but it was hopeless. He’s still married to Glenda, although she’s failed in her most important role: she’s never produced an heir,” Amy said.
The DDD&W story was fascinating, but Coleman couldn’t see how anything she’d heard would be helpful to Dinah. She needed to get back to the office. The papers on her desk were calling her. She arranged to meet Amy and several of her associates Monday afternoon at DDD&W, when the team would present a detailed timetable for implementing the planned changes at
First Home.
After saying goodbye, she headed toward the elevator, thinking about picking up a sandwich to eat at her desk. Lunch had been long on gossip, but short on food.
Back in her office, Coleman outlined the article she’d like to write about DDD&W, its management, and its art. Hunt Austin Frederick had annoyed Coleman—she didn’t like being snubbed—and he’d be easy to caricature. But she didn’t want to interfere with Dinah’s project; the article would have to wait until Dinah had finished her job. And maybe she should hold off on the article until after her own association with DDD&W ended. No point in biting the hand that was helping her. She summarized all she’d learned from Amy and added her impressions of DDD&W and Hunt Austin Frederick. She would need her notes when she wrote the article, but for now, she’d fax them to Dinah, Jonathan, and Rob.
After Dinah showered, shampooed, and dried her long dark hair, she put on comfortable black slacks and an oversized matching sweater. She forced herself to make and nibble an egg salad sandwich and sipped a Diet Coke. But when she’d eaten, cleaned the kitchen, and unpacked her suitcase, the rest of the day stretched endlessly before her. Her thoughts turned again and again to the horrible scene in Hunt’s office. The room’s nauseating odor seemed to cling to her, despite a generous use of lemon-scented soap and shampoo. When she was able to force the death scene out of her mind, it was replaced with the repellent picture of Danbury urinating on the desk, accompanied by the disgusting odor that pervaded the thirty-first floor.
She needed distraction. Cooking usually soothed her, and she considered baking a cake or cookies but decided against it. That wouldn’t work today, this Thursday that was the worst day of her life. She craved companionship. She’d go to the gallery, where she’d be among friends and where there was always work to do.
She grabbed her red suede jacket, and after locking up, hailed a taxi headed uptown on Sixth Avenue. When she entered the gallery and saw Bethany’s welcoming face and the friendly smiles of the others, her spirits rose. She felt even more herself when Bethany hugged her and ushered her into the little conference room. “I want to hear all about everything,” Bethany said.
Telling Bethany about Oscar Danbury was a relief. Her friend was shocked, but she chuckled. Dinah couldn’t see the funny part, but something deep inside eased at the sound of Bethany’s laughter. Maybe it wasn’t quite as awful as she’d thought. She found it far more difficult to describe her discovery in the managing director’s office, and she began to cry again. But Bethany’s sympathy helped, and she was feeling almost normal when Coleman called to fill Dinah in on everything she’d learned from Amy.
Dinah only half-listened. She detested DDD&W, and anything bad that happened to the people there was probably less than they deserved. She was more interested in Coleman’s reaction to the Oscar Danbury story and wasn’t surprised when her cousin was properly disgusted. As always, Coleman was supportive and encouraging. Neither Coleman nor Bethany suggested Dinah try to get out of her contract; they assumed she’d resume hanging prints as soon as she could. Dinah was grateful for their understanding. Jonathan would have a different take on everything. She dreaded arguing with him about her determination to complete the work at DDD&W.
When Coleman asked for an update on the Stubbs photocopies, Bethany put the phone on speaker and briefed both Coleman and Dinah. “None of us has learned much. The paintings have perfect provenance, but I didn’t find any recent articles about them. As far as the world knows, they’re still hangin’ at DDD&W,” Bethany said.
Dinah frowned. “That’s odd. I guess they could be on loan to a museum or out being cleaned or restored. But why wouldn’t Hunt Frederick have told me about them? Oh well, just one more weird thing about the place.” She couldn’t wait to finish hanging the prints, deposit her money, and forget that DDD&W existed. Tonight she’d have to go over everything that had happened since she got the job on Tuesday, answering questions from Rob and Jonathan. Good Lord, was Tuesday only two days ago? She felt as if weeks had passed.
What should she tell them about Ellie? When she was first questioned, she’d been certain that the death was an accident, and she hadn’t wanted Hunt Austin Frederick or the police screaming at Ellie, so she’d kept quiet about the girl’s presence in the office Thursday morning. But hadn’t the guards signed Ellie in? Or out? Had they reported her to the police? Ellie
must
have been the woman who’d told the police the death was a murder. Why had she thought that it was murder? And why hadn’t she come forward since then? Was Dinah breaking the law by not telling people about Ellie’s presence near the death scene?