“paid.” The Greene Gallery. Any connection to Coleman Greene? Oh, yeah, Dinah and Coleman were cousins. Uh, oh—that asterisk by Dinah Greene’s name meant “tread carefully.” She was married to Jonathan Hathaway. The Hathaway family had a lot of clout. It was hard to see how Rob could offend the Greene cousins, but he’d keep in mind that he had to tread softly. Unless, of course, they were guilty of something.
*
Coleman was red-penciling a manuscript when a Robert Mondelli called. He said he was a consultant to the police on the art aspects of the La Grange case, and her name had come up. Could he come to see her? Coleman agreed to see Mondelli in half an hour. That would give her time to run downstairs and pick up an early lunch.
She stood in line at Starbucks—there was always a line at Starbucks—and collected and paid for her coffee and a turkey sandwich. But on her way to the elevators she slipped on a wet spot on the marble floor, and careened into a bulky man emerging from a telephone booth. If he hadn’t grabbed her, she would have fallen. She managed to keep her balance, but her coffee spilled all over both of them.
“God, that’s hot,” he said, trying to clean himself up with his handkerchief. Coleman dabbed at him with the paper napkins she’d collected with her coffee. “I’m so sorry—” Oh hell, the napkins were drenched. She was making it worse, and, not only that, she was patting his crotch. She felt as if she were in an episode of Sex and the City. She snatched her hand back and fled, calling “Sorry” over her shoulder.
After a futile attempt to remove the coffee stains from her beige silk pants, she collapsed in her desk chair and stared at the soggy sandwich and empty coffee cup. The man she’d run into was worse off. She’d probably ruined him for life. Could a man be sterilized or become impotent after being scalded? Coleman hoped he didn’t work in the building. With luck, she’d never see him again.
She’d barely picked up her pencil when the receptionist called to say Mondelli had arrived. She sighed and went out to greet him, Dolly at her heels.
Good grief! It was the man she’d injured. Well, there was nothing for it but to tough it out.
He’d apparently decided on the same strategy—he didn’t acknowledge their previous encounter by so much as a blink. God, he was even bigger than she remembered. She wouldn’t meet with him in her little office, she’d feel too crowded. Not to mention uncomfortable about their earlier encounter.
Coleman stood aside to let him precede her into the conference room. He reeked of coffee—surprise, surprise—and his gray suit was stained. She probably should have offered him money for the dry cleaners. He was maybe forty-five; six feet, or even taller; and husky, nice-looking, if you liked ex-football types, which she didn’t. But she couldn’t fault his thick dark hair slightly graying at the temples, or his heavy-lidded brown eyes. He had a deep mellow voice and a good smile. Still, Coleman was sure she wouldn’t like Mondelli—he was too big, too much a cop. He’d be bossy and overbearing.
She sat down across the table from him. “How can I help you?” she asked, hoping she sounded cool, not like a clumsy oaf—oafess?—who’d spilled boiling hot coffee on a man trying to prop her up.
He said he was investigating whether La Grange’s death was art-connected, or, as the police thought, a date turned bad. The police had given him her name and number because she’d been trying to reach La Grange. “Why were you so anxious to talk to him? Was he a friend?” he asked.
“No, I never met him. I’m working on a story about a man named Heyward Bain who bought a Winslow Homer print at Killington’s yesterday. Since La Grange was the seller, I wanted to interview him. But I never reached him, and then I heard he was dead.”
Mondelli frowned. “What makes you think La Grange was the seller?”
“I heard it
*
Coleman was red-penciling a manuscript when a Robert Mondelli called. He said he was a consultant to the police on the art aspects of the La Grange case, and her name had come up. Could he come to see her? Coleman agreed to see Mondelli in half an hour. That would give her time to run downstairs and pick up an early lunch.
She stood in line at Starbucks—there was always a line at Starbucks—and collected and paid for her coffee and a turkey sandwich. But on her way to the elevators she slipped on a wet spot on the marble floor, and careened into a bulky man emerging from a telephone booth. If he hadn’t grabbed her, she would have fallen. She managed to keep her balance, but her coffee spilled all over both of them.
“God, that’s hot,” he said, trying to clean himself up with his handkerchief. Coleman dabbed at him with the paper napkins she’d collected with her coffee. “I’m so sorry—” Oh hell, the napkins were drenched. She was making it worse, and, not only that, she was patting his crotch. She felt as if she were in an episode of Sex and the City. She snatched her hand back and fled, calling “Sorry” over her shoulder.
After a futile attempt to remove the coffee stains from her beige silk pants, she collapsed in her desk chair and stared at the soggy sandwich and empty coffee cup. The man she’d run into was worse off. She’d probably ruined him for life. Could a man be sterilized or become impotent after being scalded? Coleman hoped he didn’t work in the building. With luck, she’d never see him again.
She’d barely picked up her pencil when the receptionist called to say Mondelli had arrived. She sighed and went out to greet him, Dolly at her heels.
Good grief! It was the man she’d injured. Well, there was nothing for it but to tough it out.
He’d apparently decided on the same strategy—he didn’t acknowledge their previous encounter by so much as a blink. God, he was even bigger than she remembered. She wouldn’t meet with him in her little office, she’d feel too crowded. Not to mention uncomfortable about their earlier encounter.
Coleman stood aside to let him precede her into the conference room. He reeked of coffee—surprise, surprise—and his gray suit was stained. She probably should have offered him money for the dry cleaners. He was maybe forty-five; six feet, or even taller; and husky, nice-looking, if you liked ex-football types, which she didn’t. But she couldn’t fault his thick dark hair slightly graying at the temples, or his heavy-lidded brown eyes. He had a deep mellow voice and a good smile. Still, Coleman was sure she wouldn’t like Mondelli—he was too big, too much a cop. He’d be bossy and overbearing.
She sat down across the table from him. “How can I help you?” she asked, hoping she sounded cool, not like a clumsy oaf—oafess?—who’d spilled boiling hot coffee on a man trying to prop her up.
He said he was investigating whether La Grange’s death was art-connected, or, as the police thought, a date turned bad. The police had given him her name and number because she’d been trying to reach La Grange. “Why were you so anxious to talk to him? Was he a friend?” he asked.
“No, I never met him. I’m working on a story about a man named Heyward Bain who bought a Winslow Homer print at Killington’s yesterday. Since La Grange was the seller, I wanted to interview him. But I never reached him, and then I heard he was dead.”
Mondelli frowned. “What makes you think La Grange was the seller?”
“I heard it
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