Restrike Read Free

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