Murder at the Falls (9 page)

“I gather the article didn’t make Spiegel very happy,” Charlotte commented.

Diana nodded emphatically. “He was crushed. He felt that Randy had betrayed him, and everyone else pretty much agreed. Bernice was especially angry. She and her brother were very close, and I think she had always resented Randy’s status with Don. She had been nagging Don to fire Randy, but he always refused. When Don died, the first thing that Bernice did was to start eviction proceedings against Randy. The second thing she did was sue him for the return of the paintings Don had given him. She claimed that the paintings belonged to the Gryphon Corporation, and that Don had never intended to give them to Randy, especially after their falling out.”

“Sounds like it got pretty ugly,” said Tom.

“It got worse than that. We’re talking brass knuckles stuff. Randy not only turned around and countersued the Gryphon Corporation for compensatory damages for the mental anguish Bernice’s suit had caused him, he threatened to sue for palimony.”

“Palimony!” exclaimed Charlotte. “Were he and Spiegel lovers?”

“No. Don liked women, as any number of them, myself included”—she smiled—“could readily attest. But, as it later came out, the courts do not necessarily define such a relationship as involving sex, and Randy wasn’t saying that it did. But the mere mention of the word was enough to raise the suspicion that he and Don had been lovers, which was Randy’s intent. He knew that any blemish on the reputation of her beloved brother would drive Bernice nuts—nuts enough to settle.”

“What about
his
reputation?” asked Tom.

“He didn’t give a damn about his reputation. He went either way when it came to sex. I hesitate to call him a bisexual only because it wasn’t a matter of sexual identity. It was a matter of self-aggrandizement: he’d have sex with anyone if there was something in it for him. To see him in action was a lesson in how to hustle. He had a way of sniffing people out—male or female—to get a sense of how much money they had or how well-connected they were.”

“Did the police know about this dispute?” asked Charlotte.

“Everybody knew about it. It was the talk of the town. I think Bernice is their main suspect at this point, at least that’s what I gathered from the questions they were asking me about her.”

“Who was asking you?” said Charlotte.

“The police. Specifically, a detective named Voorhees and his young henchman. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten around to you yet. He said they would be talking with everyone who was at the opening. I had to give them a list of names and addresses.”

Charlotte exchanged glances with Tom. So much for Voorhees knowing “exactly zip.” She should have known better. His strategy must have been to see what details they came up with on their own. She couldn’t blame him: it was usually the details that solved the case.

“Did Bernice back down as a result of the palimony threat?”

“Not immediately. I think she would have settled eventually, but of course that’s all irrelevant now.”

“I wonder if it is,” said Charlotte, looking out at the pool.

“What do you mean?” asked Diana.

She returned her gaze to Diana. “If the gift agreement is valid—and it seems to me that if it was drawn up by a lawyer and signed by Spiegel it would be, despite Spiegel’s intentions—then wouldn’t Randy’s heirs inherit the paintings?”

“Randy’s heirs,” said Diana. “Now there’s an interesting question. I never heard him mention any family. His father is dead, and he doesn’t have any siblings. I think there may be a stepmother, but if there is, he isn’t close to her.”

“Who has physical custody of the paintings?” asked Tom.

“Randy did. They were hanging in his studio the last I knew.”

“Then Bernice hadn’t succeeded in evicting him.”

“Not yet. But it was just a matter of time: the Gryphon Corporation owned the building. She
had
succeeded in confining him to his studio. She had a steel door installed between his studio and the rest of the building. It looks like I imagine the door to Hitler’s Berlin bunker to have looked. She also changed the locks on all the outside doors. She was afraid he might rip off some of Don’s other paintings, or trash them. I don’t blame her. His behavior had become so bizarre that it was becoming difficult to predict just what he
would
do.”

“His behavior certainly was bizarre at the opening,” said Charlotte. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about when he was looking at Verre’s painting?” She couldn’t help thinking that his behavior that night was linked to his death.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Diana as she sipped her drink.

“Had you ever seen him like that before?” asked Tom.

“I haven’t, no. But a friend of mine has seen him freak out twice before, both times in connection with a photorealist painting. Funny, isn’t it? Maybe there’s something about photorealism that sets him off, the way the vibrating colors in a Vasarely can induce a seizure in an epileptic.”

“Did he freak out in the same way?”

“I don’t know any more about it than that. But if you’re interested, you can ask my friend. His name is Jason Armentrout. He did the paintings you saw inside. He can also tell you more about Randy. They were good buddies. Though Randy was even starting to grate on his nerves toward the end.”

Tom looked up. “It looks like you have a visitor,” he said.

5

A hunchbacked old woman clad in a long skirt and a shawl was descending the steps to the patio. Her face was nearly covered by a kerchief, and her feet were incongruously shod in new white running shoes. She couldn’t have been much more than four feet tall, so bent over was she by old age. Coming up to Charlotte, she gestured with a gnarled hand toward the shopping cart that she pulled behind her, which was filled with crumpled newspapers, and muttered something in a language that sounded like Italian. Gesturing again at the cart, she said in English, “One dollar.”

Curious, Charlotte reached into the cart and withdrew one of the crumpled newspapers. To her delight, she found that it was filled with a bouquet of autumn wildflowers: black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, and wild asters. “How lovely!” she exclaimed. Taking out her wallet, she paid the woman, who responded with a toothless smile.

Handing another bill to the old woman, Diana said: “I’ll buy one too,” explaining to her guests that the old woman had been around before. “Sometimes she has violets, sometimes mushrooms, sometimes wild herbs.” She nodded at the mountain that loomed over the city. “I think she picks them up in the reservation.”

“Excuse me,” said Diana as the old woman mounted the steps back up to Spruce Street, “I’m just going to get a vase for these.”

She returned momentarily with a small ceramic vase filled with the wildflowers, which she placed in the center of the table. “Here are some damp paper towels for yours,” she said to Charlotte as she handed them to her. “To keep them fresh until you get home.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said.

“That’s the magic of Paterson,” Diana continued as they watched the woman make her way down Spruce Street, pulling her cart behind her. “Magical little things like that old woman appearing with her wildflowers are always happening here. Have you read the poem
Paterson
by William Carlos Williams?”

They shook their heads.

“Allen Ginsberg sometimes does readings of it here. He’s a Paterson native son. Ginsberg, I mean. Williams was a doctor in Rutherford. Anyway, there’s a line in that poem: ‘The mystery of streets and back rooms—’ That mystery is why I hang on here, despite it all. That, and the wonderful buildings.”

They stayed a few more minutes, asking questions about Randy, to support the charade about the article. Though Diana clearly didn’t believe their story, Charlotte doubted that she suspected their real motive. As an inveterate gossip herself, she probably thought they wanted an excuse to get the lowdown.

“Where can we find your friend Jason?” Charlotte asked as they were preparing to leave.

Diana consulted her watch. “Let’s see. At this hour, he’ll probably still be at his studio, which is in the old Columbia Bank building, downtown. Nine Colt Street. If you’re facing City Hall, Colt Street is to your right.”

Tom nodded. They had gone by City Hall several times in their search for the public safety complex.

“If he’s not at his studio, he’ll be at Le Club Parisienne, which is right around the corner.

“Is that a restaurant?” asked Tom. “I’m starving.”

“Of sorts,” she replied.

The Columbia Bank was one of those wonderful old Beaux Arts buildings that Charlotte had admired as they were driving around downtown Paterson. Adjacent to City Hall, it, like the other banks in the vicinity, had been built in the same ornate style, with wrought-iron grillwork at the enormous windows, pilasters crowned with lions head capitals, and corbels in the form of baskets overflowing with fruit. It was a six-story monument to the days when Paterson had still been a mighty industrial power. No longer a bank, it now appeared to be occupied by offices and studios. In the directory, Charlotte had noticed the names of several photographers and commercial artists. The name
JASON ARMENTROUT
was followed by two room numbers, both on the fourth floor.

A creaky old elevator deposited them at a dingy, poorly lit hallway lined by doors with windows of wire-mesh safety glass, and smelling sharply of cleaning powder. After a bit of a search, they finally located the first room, where no one responded to their knock. They had better luck at the second room. The door was opened by a thin man with a black ponytail going to gray. He was very handsome, with an intense face of sharply-angled planes, and heavy black brows overhanging penetrating, deeply set blue eyes. He wore a navy blue T-shirt, and a faded blue plaid flannel shirt that brought out the color of his eyes.

Tom introduced himself and Charlotte, and explained that they had been sent over by Diana Nelson.

“Come in, come in,” said Jason. “Diana just called. She said you would be coming over. “Jason Armentrout,” he said, extending his hand.

Charlotte and Tom entered the room, which had enormous windows overlooking City Hall. A beat-up old couch stood against one wall, a stack of canvases against the other. Several works-in-progress were propped up on easels.

“This is a beautiful building,” offered Charlotte by way of an opening.

“It was at one time,” Jason replied. “I’m afraid it’s going to wrack and ruin.” He pointed to a hole in the ceiling where the plaster had fallen down. “It’s for sale: two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand for this entire building!” exclaimed Tom. “There are lots of places you couldn’t buy a house for that.”

“That’s right. Gives you an idea of the sorry state of Paterson commercial real estate, doesn’t it? It means cheap rent for artists, though. I understand that you want to know about Randy. Doing an article or something.”

Tom pulled out a copy of
Diner Monthly
. “I put out this magazine. I’d like to do something on him for it.”

Jason studied the magazine for a minute, and then checked his watch. “I’d like to help you. But I was just on my way out—to le Club Parisienne. It’s right downstairs. I’m working on a painting there. Have you eaten lunch yet?”

“No, and we’re starving, or at least I am,” said Tom.

“Good. Then you can eat while I work.”

Le Club Parisienne was a go-go bar. It was also in the Columbia Bank building, but around the corner from the Colt Street entrance. For a go-go bar, it was quite respectable-looking, with a red canvas marquee that stretched out to the curb, and a heavy wooden door with polished brass trim. On the wall next to the door hung a sign advertising the luncheon specials: boeuf bourguignon, breaded veal cutlet, braised calamari Provençale, and, as a sop to the locals, Great Falls Salad. On the opposite side of the door was a sign with a martini glass, the words “Girls, girls, girls,” and three framed black-and-white head and bust shots of the girls in their costumes. Their names were written in flowing script underneath, along with the themes of their acts. Not content with being mere topless dancers, these go-go girls had developed acts reflecting their native cultures. Chantal, a black woman in a leopard pelt, represented Africa; Yolanda, an Hispanic woman in a feathered serpent headdress, represented Central America; and Mariette, who wore a rhinestone choker and a bonnet with an enormous brim, represented France. At last! Ethnic pride had come to the go-go lounge.

“I now see what Diana meant when she said ‘of sorts,’” said Tom as they stood in front of the door, through which they could hear the muffled pounding of a jungle beat. He looked at Charlotte. “Are you ready for this?”

She nodded. “Sounds like Chantal must be on,” she said. Reaching into her pocketbook, she pulled out a scarf and some dark glasses. This was not the kind of place in which she wanted to be recognized.

“The food’s great,” said Jason with a smile, which revealed a handsome set of straight, white teeth.

After holding the door open for them, he followed them in, and was greeted by a mustachioed maitre d’. “Hello, Louie,” Jason said, embracing him warmly. Then he turned to Charlotte and Tom: “I’d like a table for my friends here.”

Nodding assent, Louie led them past a long bar to a dining room at the back. At one side was a mirrored stage, which was separated from the audience by a brass rail. On stage was a not-so-young woman with dyed blond hair whom Charlotte recognized from her photograph as Yolanda. She was naked except for a G-string and the headdress, which would have done Quetzalcoatl proud. As she rotated her breasts in time to the music, the loose flesh swinging around like the balls on a gaucho’s bola, the patrons watched with jaded detachment. They were mostly businessmen, with a few blue-collar types thrown in. There were even a couple of tables of secretaries, neatly made-up Hispanic girls who were doing their best to ignore the entertainment.

Charlotte’s acquaintanceship with go-go establishments was limited, but she suspected this place could have been worse. It clearly aspired to some degree of refinement. Actually, it must have been quite elegant in the days when its customers were Paterson’s bankers and business leaders. The theme was Second Empire, with the decor running to intricately carved walnut woodwork and oversized mirrors with ornate gilded frames. And although the woodwork was scarred and the burgundy paint was flaking, the crisply starched tablecloths and vases of fresh flowers showed that someone still cared.