Fatal Impressions (7 page)

Coleman ate her turkey sandwich, drank a cup of coffee, and tried to settle down to work, but she couldn’t concentrate. The bits and pieces she’d learned buzzed around in her head like a swarm of angry yellowjackets. Dinah’s story about Danbury was repellent, and the missing paintings were mysterious, but what, if anything, did they have to do with Johnson’s death? She felt as if she were trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. If only Frances Johnson’s death would turn out to be an accident, she could forget the whole mess. Maybe there was news. She telephoned Amy again. “Do they know yet whether the woman’s death was an accident? Or have they decided it was murder?” she asked.

“Everyone in the office is saying it’s murder. I think the police must have told someone that it’s murder, and the news has been leaked all over the place. I hope Dinah has an alibi. If she does, everyone here will shut up about her being involved,” Amy said.

Coleman’s heart sank, then settled somewhere in her stomach. “Do they know when Ms. Johnson died?” she asked.

“I’ve heard early this morning, but that’s all,” Amy said.

“Without knowing when the woman died, it’s hard to say whether Dinah has an alibi, isn’t it? Anyway, why would that woman have been in Hunt Frederick’s office?”

Silence. Coleman could almost hear Amy thinking.

Finally, “Maybe something to do with two paintings that usually hang in that office,” Amy said.

“Two Stubbs paintings?” Coleman asked.

“How could you possibly know that?” Amy asked.

“Someone put photocopies of two Stubbs portraits under Dinah’s door at DDD&W. According to the catalogue raisonné, they should be at DDD&W in the chairman’s office. You were going to say something about them at lunch before Frederick turned up, weren’t you?”

“I swear, Coleman, sometimes I think you’re a witch,” Amy said.

“Yeah, right. But I still want to know why Frances Johnson was in that office in the middle of the night.”

“I have no idea. Maybe she heard the Stubbs were missing. We may never know,” Amy said.

“Which part of the will covers the paintings?” Coleman asked.

“That’s the multimillion dollar question, isn’t it? If they’re part of the art collection, they probably left the office with the other Americana and are in the museum that inherited them. But if they’re part of the chairman’s office fittings, and they’ve been lost or stolen—that will cost the firm big-time. I’m not sure DDD&W could survive. I think we need the income from the Davidson trust to stay in business.”

“I can tell you one thing: those paintings are valuable. The pair should sell for at least twenty million dollars, maybe a lot more. Several Stubbs paintings have fetched big money at auction in the last couple of years, including a record sale at Christie’s—thirty-six million, I think,” Coleman said.

“Oh, my God, I had no idea. The paintings must be insured, right? Someone should be worried about them, unless, of course, they were part of the art collection. But surely management would have tried harder to keep the collection, if anything that valuable was part of it. They might have even gone so far as to hire a female Davidson,” Amy said.

Coleman laughed. “The supreme sacrifice, huh? Don’t say anything about the paintings to anyone until we know more. I’ll get a list of everything that arrived at that museum. Maybe the paintings are there. What’s the name of the museum?”

“Wait a minute, let me think…it’s a place I’d never heard of. It’s Scottish, and royal. Mary, Queen of Scots? No—the Prince Charles Stuart, that’s it. And the town is Stuartville, New York.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I learn anything.”

Before she placed the call to the museum, Coleman checked her e-mail and her voice mail. Jonathan had left a message repeating his request that she join him, Dinah, and Rob at Cornelia Street that evening to discuss the DDD&W situation. She texted him that she’d be there. Rob had called and wanted her to call him. She’d ignore that one. She was too busy to argue with Rob about their relationship. She’d see him soon enough. Time to call the Prince Charles Stuart.

The director of the museum chirped and twittered like an excited canary at the prospect of an article in
ArtSmart
about their new Americana collection. She promised to fax the list of the art they’d received first thing Friday morning, explaining that “it needed a bit of organizing before she could send it, but she’d work on it this afternoon and tonight.” Coleman sighed at the delay and called a paralegal at
ArtSmart
’s law firm to ask how she could obtain a copy of James Davidson’s will. The young woman explained that the will was a public document, all that was needed was a trip downtown, and described the process step-by-step. But Coleman couldn’t get downtown and complete her research before the Chambers Street office closed. The will would have to wait until Friday. She’d take Dolly for a long walk, and then they’d go home so Dolly could have supper and Coleman could change clothes before heading for Cornelia Street.

Coleman’s emergency summons caught Robert Mondelli at Heathrow. He was on his way to Paris to spend the weekend with friends, but since he had only a carry-on bag with him, he was able to catch the British Airways 1:40 flight to New York scheduled to arrive at JFK at 4:10. He texted his assistant in New York to cancel his Paris engagement and to arrange with Brown’s Hotel to overnight the rest of his baggage to New York.

Interrupting his trip was inconvenient. He had several appointments at museums to discuss security arrangements. They’d have to be rescheduled, which meant a time-consuming return trip to Europe, when he was already overcommitted. He had two new and demanding clients, both needing his attention as soon as he returned to New York. He was swamped and significantly understaffed for all he’d promised to do, even before hearing about Dinah’s problem. He needed to hire more people, but when would he find the time? Coleman wouldn’t have asked him to come home unless it was urgent. Dinah? A suspect in a murder investigation? Treated like a criminal by the police? Absurd. This had to be a mistake. Maybe he could wrap it up in a few hours and turn to his other clients.

And then there was Coleman. He should be thinking about his business, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind. When she’d telephoned, for a heart-stopping few minutes he thought she was calling to say she was flying over to join him in London. But while her voice reflected concern for Dinah, her manner in dealing with him was distant. Her attitude toward him had changed in March when he’d asked her to marry him. Her refusal had been curt, and when he’d explained he wanted to take care of her, prevent anyone from hurting her ever again, his explanation seemed to make her angry. She’d said she didn’t need anyone to take care of her, and she’d reminded him that she had warned him the first time they went out that she had no interest in marriage.

“I told you then that I’ve never married, never been engaged, never lived with anyone, and that I never will. That I like men in small doses—flings. That I love living alone. And I said that if you were looking for a wife, or even a roommate,
forget about me
. I’m not interested. Didn’t you hear me?” she asked, her green eyes icy.

He remembered every word, but he hadn’t believed she meant it at the time, and he still didn’t. All women wanted to be married, to have a family, to have a husband to support them. He and Coleman had gone out together almost every night since their first date in January. Every occasion had been wonderful. He was in love with her, and he was certain she was in love with him. He was confident that he could persuade her that they were meant to be together. It was just a matter of time.

But the more he pursued her, the more she retreated. When he talked about children and a house in Connecticut, perhaps Darien or Westport, she shook her head and looked at him as if he were a Martian. Before she’d acquired
First Home
, he’d tried to persuade her not to buy another magazine, advised her that given the country’s economic problems, buying it was a bad risk. In any case, she shouldn’t work so hard, keep such long hours. Since then, she’d refused his every invitation. He could rarely reach her on the telephone. He sent flowers, candy, books, notes, and cards. He received brief thank-you notes, until she’d e-mailed him, asking him to stop the “annoying” barrage.

Still, he would keep trying. He was determined to marry her. Surely she would come to her senses and see how much better off she’d be as Mrs. Robert Mondelli. Retired from the cutthroat world of publishing. Taking care of babies instead of a lap dog. A big beautiful house in the suburbs instead of her tiny apartment in dangerous New York, where she’d been mugged, and where she met such awful types, like that filthy artist who accosted her at her party.

He tried to call both Coleman and Jonathan from the limo that met him at JFK. Coleman was out of the office, but Jonathan, who hadn’t yet arrived from Los Angeles, had e-mailed asking Rob to come to Cornelia Street tonight at seven. Rob left word with Jonathan’s assistant that he’d be there and that he would call Jonathan as soon as possible. He phoned Dinah at home, got her machine, and tried the Greene Gallery.

A shaky little female voice answered the telephone—probably one of Dinah’s graduate students, getting a taste of the real world and not liking it. “This is Robert Mondelli. May I speak to Ms. Greene, please?”

“Welcome back. We missed you,” Dinah said, picking up the line. Her chatty tone suggested that today was an ordinary day. Could something have changed since he spoke to Coleman?

“What’s happening, Dinah?” he asked.

“The detectives are here waiting to interview me again. I thought they’d asked me everything early this morning, but I guess not, and Coleman said I mustn’t speak to them without a lawyer—”

Bad news. The police shouldn’t be after her again so soon. She must be their only suspect. She shouldn’t be in the office; she should be at home, resting and inaccessible, especially since it was after five.

“Coleman’s right. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t say a word till I arrive. Can you transfer me to one of the officers?”

“Yes, of course. Thanks, Rob,” she said.

The next voice he heard was deep and gruff.

“Harrison,” the man said. Rob identified himself as Dinah’s attorney and said he’d be with them in an hour. “Till then, I don’t want you to speak to my client. Is that clear?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded surly, but Rob was confident Harrison would do as he was told, at least for now. Before Rob saw Dinah or talked to the police waiting to interrogate her, he needed information about this death. When he spoke to Coleman, she hadn’t been sure that it
was
murder. Maybe the problem had disappeared. If only. He telephoned a highly placed friend at One Police Plaza and inquired about the case.

“We’re treating it as a suspected homicide. Someone loosened the brackets holding the bookcases to the wall, and after that, it didn’t take much to pull them down. The woman was crushed—killed instantly—those bookcases and books weighed hundreds of pounds. The victim was Frances Victor Johnson, fifty-five, divorced, head of human resources at DDD&W. She was identified by her sister, Patti Sue Victor, who also works there. Because of Johnson’s job, she could open any locked door, but she had no business in that office. No one knows why she was there,” his friend said.

“When did Johnson die?” Rob asked.

“Between two and four Thursday morning. The brackets must have been loosened earlier, but someone had to be in the office at the critical moment to make sure the bookcases fell on the right person. Hunt Frederick—the big deal whose office it is—was with clients in Chicago on Wednesday. Came back on a charter jet in the wee small hours, landed at Teterboro Airport at five thirty this morning, and went straight to the office. He’s in the clear.”

Rob made a few notes. Then, “Okay, got that. What else?”

“Frederick’s secretary said the office was locked, and no one—including her—went in there all day Wednesday. She ate lunch at her desk and left for the day at five thirty. If she’s telling the truth—and we think she’s squeaky clean—someone got in after five thirty Wednesday night to loosen the brackets—and—”

“Wait a minute, how do you know the shelves were loosened that night? Couldn’t someone have slipped past the secretary during the day?”

“We think whoever did it wouldn’t have left the shelves hanging loose for long—they might have fallen accidentally, or might have been spotted. And no one could have been sure the office would be empty all day Wednesday, or if she left her desk, that she wouldn’t return and catch him or her in the act. To get out of the frame, Ms. Greene needs an alibi for the hours between five thirty p.m. Wednesday and five a.m. today. The suits at DDD&W will throw her to the wolves if they can. It’s CYA time,” his friend said.

“How strong is the case against her?” Rob asked.

“It’s pretty good. Her gallery is in financial trouble, and she needs the DDD&W job. Patti Sue Victor didn’t want her at DDD&W—Victor wants to be in charge of art and wanted DDD&W to hire a consultant that sucked up to her and gave her credit for everything to do with the company’s art collection. Victor told everyone that Dinah Greene was trying to steal her job, and her sister supported her. Both Johnson and Victor were agitating to oust Ms. Greene, and some people think they would have succeeded. There’s your motive, whether Ms. Greene intended to kill Victor or Johnson: get rid of the sisters before they got rid of her, and try to make it look like an accident. As you know, Ms. Greene discovered the body, and her excuse for being in the office this morning is weak. Why would she come in to check on work she’d finished last night? And everyone knows Ms. Greene hangs prints and can handle tools as well as a carpenter. She’s physically capable of doing the job. She’s the only stranger in the place, and the murder took place right after she started to work at DDD&W. If she doesn’t have an alibi, they’ll have nearly enough to arrest her,” his friend warned. “If she was a nobody, I think they’d indict her with what they have. But given who she is, they’ll have to go slow.”

Rob wasn’t surprised that the brass knew all about the crime. A murder inside a company like DDD&W would make headlines, and the Hathaway name would raise warning signs all over the case. There’d be a lot of pressure on the police to solve this one fast, but they’d want to get it right. They wouldn’t arrest Dinah unless they were sure she was guilty, but they wouldn’t do anything to help her either.

The limo slowed, and Rob glanced out the window. They had arrived at the building on Fifty-Seventh Street where the Greene Gallery was located.