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  “Clancy? What’s up?”

  “A suspicious death early this morning of a guy connected to the art world. Jimmy La Grange. Do you know him?”

  “What? I can’t believe it. I’ve never met him, but I’ve been trying to reach him. A print he owned sold at Killington’s this morning for half a million dollars.”

  “You have to be kidding. The police say he’s a part-time art dealer, part-time model, part-time actor, maybe a small-time hooker. They sure don’t think he had any money—he lived in a run-down tenement in the West Village. They think his death was a sex-gone-bad crime—he wanted it rough, and it got too rough,” Clancy said.

  Coleman was taking notes. “Tell me everything you know, then I’ll fill you in on the auction and the print.”

  “Okay, but can you get me background on this guy? It might not be a story for the Times, but if it is, I’ve gotta be prepared.”

  “I’ll find out what I can. Dinah probably knows him. Now, tell.”

  “The police say he picked up a couple of biker types and took ’em to his apartment. A neighbor on the way home after a late night out saw two gorillas leaving La Grange’s building about one this morning. The police think La Grange was probably dead or dying by then. They’ll know more after the autopsy, but they already know he was battered to death. Did you know he was into rough stuff?”

  Coleman grimaced. “Yuck. No, I never even heard of him till today. I don’t know anything about him but what I’ve told you. Who discovered the body?”

  “An old lady who lived across the hall noticed his door was open and went in to see if he was all right. She’d heard a lot of noise the night before, but didn’t see anyone. But the one witness they have is sure he’d recognize the men he saw.”

  “Too bad about La Grange. Young, on the verge of getting all this money, and dying in such a terrible way,” Coleman said.

  “Yeah, he got a bad deal. Of course, if it was an accident, a consensual sex death, it’s nothing to do with the Times. But if there’s an art angle, I have to look into it. What do you think?”

  “There’s a big art angle. Have you heard the Heyward Bain story?” She reported what she knew about Bain, the purchase of Skating Girl, and Jimmy La Grange.

  “I’d heard about Bain and the museum, but I had no idea of a connection with La Grange. I’ll talk to my police sources, see what they know. Call me if you learn anything from Dinah.”

  Coleman fetched a cup of coffee from the conference room, sat back down at her desk, and pondered Jimmy La Grange’s death. The poor guy finally gets a big financial break, and is immediately killed. That couldn’t be a coincidence. But neither could it have been somebody trying to steal the money he got for Skating Girl: Killington’s wouldn’t send out the check for weeks. But what was the link between the print and Jimmy La Grange’s death, if not money?

  She telephoned Dinah, but Dinah knew almost nothing about La Grange. She’d met him a few times when he’d visited the gallery, offering prints for sale, but that was the extent of their acquaintance.

  “He sold prints he picked up at garage sales, places like that. He was a runner—didn’t have a gallery—carried everything he had for sale in a portfolio. I liked him. He was shy, sweet, quiet. I bet Skating Girl was supposed to be his big break,” Dinah said.

  “Yes, but it may have turned out to be a curse. His selling that print for so much money almost certainly caused his death. Do you know anything about his personal life?” Coleman asked.

  “No, I didn’t know him that well, and I never heard any gossip about him. But I don’t think that looking-to-be-beat-up story makes sense. He told me he made more money modeling than selling prints. His face was his fortune—he was gorgeous,” Dinah said.

  “Maybe he wasn’t seeking sex—maybe it was a gay-bashing,” Coleman said.

  “It’s awful no matter how it happened. Let’s don’t talk about it anymore. Are you going to Grendle’s auction tomorrow? They have a lot of junk, a few nice things, and one fabulous print—a rare Toulouse-Lautrec. It has to be on Bain’s list,” Dinah said.

  “I’m going in the hope Bain’ll turn up. But before the auction, I’m meeting Simon Fanshawe-Davies. I wish I knew more about him. Do you know a Renaissance art expert who could fill me in on Simon’s background, and his relationship with the Ransome Gallery? I don’t know if he’s a partner, or what he does there.”

  “Several of my graduate school classmates specialized in the Renaissance, but they mostly work in Europe. I’ll see who I can find. Do you want to have lunch after the auction?”

  “Sure, what about the Red Dragon? I’ll make a reservation.”

  “Okay, see you at Grendle’s.”

  Two

  Tuesday

  Dinah hung up and turned to Bethany, filing in the back of the gallery. “You know Jimmy La Grange? That runner who comes in once in a while? Coleman says he was killed last night, maybe by gay-bashers, maybe rough sex.”

  Bethany frowned. “That’s awful. He seemed like a nice kid—he couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-five. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  Dinah returned to the stack of bills she was studying, but looked up again when Bethany sat down in the chair across the desk.

  “Dinah, I have to find another job. I’m not earnin’ commissions, I can’t live on my base salary, and you know I have to send money home. I sit here all day doin’ nothin’, and no one ever comes in—there’s no drop-in business. Most of the time I read. Maybe some people would like gettin’ paid to read mysteries, but I hate it. And I’m losin’ sleep worryin’—I was awake nearly all last night.”

  Dinah groaned. “I’ve been halfway expecting this. Will you at least stay until the end of the year? The Luigi Rist show should be successful, his color woodcuts are beautiful, and our Christmas business should do pretty well. I promise I’ll make it up to you financially if you’ll stay. We’ll work out what your commissions might have been if we were in a better location and open weekends, and I’ll guarantee them, plus a Christmas bonus.”

  “Okay. But that’s it, Dinah. I’d love to stay with you long-term if the gallery were in a better location. You need to be in an art neighborhood with other galleries to get the business.”

  Dinah sighed. “I know. I’ll talk to Jonathan about it again tonight.”

  When Coleman had done all she could think of to pursue the Skating Girl story, she was forced to return to a problem she’d mentally shelved.

  The latest issue of the Artful Californian, a new magazine published in Los Angeles, lay on her desk. The cover story, about paintings by Georgia O’Keeffe in New York collections, was one she’d planned to run in the January issue of ArtSmart. Even the illustration on the cover, an O’Keeffe painting featuring a great sheaf of calla lilies, was the image she’d have put on the cover of ArtSmart.

  For three months in a row, the Artful Californian had published stories that Coleman’s staffers were working on, printing them before they could appear in ArtSmart. Some of the articles showed up in the magazine proper, which was, like ArtSmart, a monthly. Others were featured in the Artful Californian Online, an e-newsletter published every Tuesday. None of them had been as well-written or as thoroughly researched as an ArtSmart article, but Coleman could no longer use the features she’d planned; she’d look as if she were copying the California magazine. Worse, she was sure one of her employees—all of whom she thought of as friends—was selling her ideas.

  She looked around the cream-colored walls of her office, hung with framed ArtSmart covers. After Coleman bought the failing magazine, she’d redesigned it and built up its circulation and advertising revenues with what had turned out to be an instinct for the next art trend. But if another magazine got there first with her best ideas, its management could beat her out with subscribers and her advertisers would disappear. The proprietor of the Zabriskie Gallery, her largest and most profitable advertiser, had warned her about the rise of the Artful Californian, and advised h
er to make sure she stayed on top of the art market, if she wanted to continue to be their leading advertising outlet. Coleman was worried. She’d staked her career and a lot of borrowed money on the future of ArtSmart.

  She rose and paced the room, Dolly at her heels, pausing first at one, then another of the framed magazine covers. She picked up the little Maltese and cuddled her while she looked at what she thought of as Dolly’s cover, a Christmas tree with dog-shaped ornaments. The story was about a Soho restaurant where, in defiance of a city ordinance, the art world took their dogs. This occasion was a Christmas party attended by some of New York’s most prominent art collectors and their pets. The host of the party was ostensibly Dolly’s chum Thomas, an aging pug, frequently photographed with his glamorous socialite owner. In the article, told from Dolly’s point of view, the guests were the dogs and their owners were attendants. The name of the restaurant was never mentioned, but many ArtSmart readers recognized it and its patrons. Those in the know ran up social mileage informing the less knowledgeable.

  She stroked Dolly’s head. “You liked that party, didn’t you, Dolly?” she said, and the little white dog wagged her tail, her pink tongue slightly visible in what Coleman thought of as a smile.

  Some of Coleman’s favorite cover stories were about collectors in action. She’d traveled to Israel with Shelby White and her husband, the late Leon Levy, famous for their antiquities collection. That cover featured photographs of the couple’s faces imposed on cartoon figures astride camels, a Hollywood desert in the background.

  When she’d interviewed the Wall Street mogul and house collector Dick Jenrette in St. Croix, Coleman persuaded Jenrette to guide her and the ArtSmart photographer through his sugar plantation house while its restoration was underway. On that cover, Jenrette, who usually appeared in a dark suit in one of his perfected houses, climbed through what could have been a bombsite wearing a casual shirt and khakis.

  Coleman had been confident she could generate enough ideas to keep ArtSmart the talk of the town for years—but not if they were stolen before she could use them. She didn’t know what to do, or where to turn. She couldn’t discuss her problem with anyone at the magazine, since she didn’t know whom she could trust. Worse, she couldn’t talk about her problem with Dinah.

  Coleman was a raggedy five-year-old orphan when she went to live in North Carolina with her seven-year-old cousin Dinah and their grandmother and great-aunt. Since then, for more than twenty-five years, Coleman had confided every problem, every plan, and nearly every thought to Dinah. But Dinah’s investment-banker husband, Jonathan Hathaway, had arranged the financing that enabled Coleman to buy ArtSmart. He’d devised a complicated deal Coleman barely understood, but she knew that as long as profits grew, she remained in charge. If profits fell, her backers could take over. If they dropped enough, she could lose the magazine.

  If she told Dinah about the leak, Dinah would tell Jonathan; Coleman wouldn’t dream of asking her not to. But Jonathan might take ArtSmart away from her.

  She needed to discuss the problem with someone she trusted. She hadn’t thought of confiding in Zeke until she’d glimpsed him at the auction. She’d last seen him at Dinah’s wedding in June. Their paths rarely crossed these days. But they’d been friends since they met as undergraduates at Duke. He’d majored in art history, as had Dinah and Coleman. Because they were in classes together, they saw a lot of him.

  After Duke, Zeke, whose family lived on Long Island, had returned to New York. He’d graduated from Columbia Journalism School with Coleman and Clancy, but unable to find a good job with an art publication, had worked at Business Week for several years. He tried hard, but he hadn’t liked being with a big magazine and just couldn’t stay interested in business. He resigned, and freelanced for Art News and other art magazines until he bought Print Journal, a newsletter that he still ran. He was the perfect confidant. He knew enough about publishing and the art world to be helpful. He was acquainted with the ArtSmart writers, and most important, he’d been Coleman’s friend for more than fifteen years. She trusted him.

  She punched in his number. He answered on the second ring.

  “Zeke, it’s Coleman.”

  “Coleman, what a surprise! I was thinking about you.”

  “You were? Why?”

  “I saw you at the auction today, and after the auction, I had lunch with Dinah, and we talked about you. I mentioned how rarely I see you.”

  “Well, that’s about to change. I have a problem, and I need your help. I know you’re busy covering the print auctions, but if you possibly can, I’d like to see you this afternoon or evening. It’s urgent, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Sure. I can be free by six thirty. Shall I come to your office?”

  “No, I’ll meet you at the Creedmore Club.”

  Coleman and Zeke sat side by side on a worn brown leather couch at the rear of the library of the Creedmore Club, one of New York’s three women’s clubs. Except for the two of them (and Dolly, snug in Coleman’s carryall), the comfortable room—lined with brightly colored book-jacketed volumes by the large number of club members who were writers—was empty. At this hour, everyone was sipping tea in the drawing room or cocktails in the bar.

  Coleman described her problem with the Artful Californian, and explained that she believed one of the staff was responsible. “So that’s the story,” she said. “What do you think I should do?”

  Zeke’s mobile monkey face, usually cheerful, reflected her distress. “Are you positive that’s how it’s happening? You’ve known the writers for years. It’s hard to believe they’d sabotage the magazine or risk their jobs. They seem so proud of ArtSmart,” he said.

  “I know. It must be someone who’s desperate for money.”

  “Does anyone have a drug problem?”

  Coleman didn’t drink or smoke, let alone use drugs, and she was pretty sure everyone at the magazine shared her values. “That seems to be why people steal these days, but I’d swear no one at the magazine is on drugs.”

  “Could the leak be your printer or somebody like that?”

  Coleman rubbed her forehead. Just talking about the problem gave her a headache. “Don’t I wish. No, these are ideas we’ve discussed at editorial meetings, and I’ve assigned them to someone, but before we can get the story completed, it’s in print in the Artful Californian. No one but the writers could have known what was said in our meetings.”

  “Give me some examples.”

  “We planned a story about that couple who built a replica of Tara in Bedford—at least on the outside it’s Tara-like. Inside, it’s a series of lofts, crammed with Schnabels and Lichtensteins and Twomblys. It’s a bad match—the house is ghastly—but it’s a good story.”

  “Couldn’t that have been coincidence? They’re pretty conspicuous people.”

  “Possibly, I guess, but look at this.” She handed him the current issue of the Artful Californian and described the article she’d planned on Georgia O’Keeffe paintings in private collections, including her cover design. But when she’d tried to make appointments with the collectors, her California competitor had already set up meetings with everyone on Coleman’s list.

  Zeke nodded. “I’m beginning to agree with you. That can’t be a coincidence. Anything else?”

  “Yes. We were doing a story on the best and worst food in museums, both in the restaurants and the catering at their benefits. We hadn’t even decided which the best and worst were, and they printed it.”

  “That settles it. The food story isn’t even newsy. Fun, but not news. Have you narrowed it down?”

  Coleman sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. I’ve eliminated everyone but my two longest-term writers—Tammy Isaacs and Chick O’Reilly.”

  “I know Chick, and I dated Tammy a few times,” he said.

  Coleman raised her eyebrows. “You did? I wouldn’t have thought Tammy was your type.”

  “You got that right. It had a bad ending.”

  Coleman waited fo
r Zeke to continue, but when she could see he wasn’t going to elaborate, she said, “I’ve worked with them both for years, and I thought I knew them, and could trust them. But they’re the only ones who had access to all the information.”

  “Has either one been acting odd?”

  “It may just be in my mind, but I think they’re both acting strange. Tammy avoids me. We used to get together for lunch occasionally and chat about girl stuff: clothes, movies, diets. But I’ve tried several times in the last month or so to have lunch with her, and she’s always busy.”

  “And Chick?”

  “I know him better than anyone else at the magazine. He has a partner, David Edwards, a paper salesman. I’ve been there for dinner with the two of them many times. Chick’s the closest person at ArtSmart to being a real friend, not just a workmate. He usually wants to talk to me too much—he’s a gossipy, friendly guy. But lately, he seems uncomfortable around me. I think he’s avoiding me, too.”

  “You have to insist on getting together with both Chick and Tammy,” Zeke said. “You don’t have to accuse anybody or mention the leaks, just meet with each one and draw them out about what’s going on in their lives. You do it all the time for articles.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Coleman said. “I kept thinking there was no alternative except confrontation. I guess I haven’t been thinking straight. I usually discuss everything with Dinah—” she broke off.

  Zeke nodded. “Dinah would tell your money man, right?”

  Coleman didn’t reply. She’d never discuss Dinah with anyone, and anyway, there was more to it than that. Dinah was another person who hadn’t seemed herself lately. Not happy the way she’d been while she and Jonathan were dating, certainly not the joyful bride she’d been in June. Coleman didn’t know what had changed, or why, but she wasn’t about to add to Dinah’s problems. Aware of the long silence between them, she glanced at Zeke. He was staring into space.