“Can’t you get someone from your squad to sit on the place this afternoon and evening?” I asked.
“Let me call and find out who’s around. Maybe the lieutenant can get the precinct to send some Anticrime guys over. We haven’t got the manpower to do this stuff.”
“Come up to my hairdresser. Elsa’ll let us use the kitchen to make calls.”
“Don’t you have your cell phone with you?”
“Yes, but let’s see what the girls know about what’s happening in the gallery. When Daughtry had his business here, there wasn’t much they hadn’t heard about him. They had better sources than the Westchester District Attorney’s Office. Sooner or later someone from the staff in just about every place in the Fuller Building uses Stella for color or cuts. Besides, wait till you see how adorable Elsa is.”
We switched elevator banks and rode up to the second floor. Pat, the manager, was surprised to see me walk in without an appointment in the middle of the week. Her eyes went directly to my hairline, looking at the state of my roots.
“You’re not due till Saturday morning, week after next, right?”
“That’s some welcome. Just came by to gossip with Elsa and use the kitchen to make a few phone calls.”
I introduced her to Mike and she led us past the reception desk into the rear of the busy salon. Elsa, my colorist, was wrapping foil around a client’s hair strands while Mike watched in bewilderment. I signaled to her that we were going into the back room, and she mouthed to me that she’d join us as soon as she was finished.
Mike called to explain the situation, and the boss told him that he would try to arrange for coverage from the local precinct as soon as possible. Mike also asked that a car be sent to sit on Caxton’s residence, check with the doormen, and monitor the movement of traffic in and out of that location, too. We helped ourselves to coffee and tried to figure out how we could find Caxton quickly and learn what had prompted this sudden move.
Elsa came into the kitchen, removed her rubber gloves, and washed her hands so that I could introduce her to Mike. I had spent so much time talking to each of them about the other over the years that it was hard to believe they had never met. Elsa had long been my friend, and in addition to restoring the blonde to my naturally light hair, as a devotee of the opera and ballet she alerted me to theater and art events that I had neglected to read about. I knew, also, that when there was a rare lull between clients, she explored the galleries throughout the building and collected catalogues of the shows.
“This is a nice surprise. Are you here to see Louis or Nana for a haircut,” she said to me, then looking over at Mike, “or do you have a new customer for some streaks?”
“We were in the building trying to get into the Caxton Gallery, so I thought I’d come by and see if you had any scoops for us.”
“About the move? Nobody knows what’s going on. It’s all so sudden.”
“Didn’t you have any connections there?”
“No, one of the other girls here did highlights for the receptionist, though. Her name was Genevieve. She called yesterday and canceled her appointment. Said she’d been laid off and wouldn’t be working here anymore.”
“Got a full name on her, and a home phone number?” Mike asked.
“Let me check with Pat. She’s got a file on every client. I can get it for you before you leave.”
“Have you ever spent time at Caxton’s?”
“Browsing, sure. They always had fabulous things, stunning exhibits.”
“D’you know either of them?”
“Not more than to say hello to. He knew I worked here-I usually walk around with my smock on during the day-so he didn’t waste any time on me. He realized I wasn’t a buyer. But Mrs. Caxton had a good sense of humor and was always very nice to me. She wasn’t in the building all that much the last couple of years, but before that she’d often talk to me about what she’d picked up at auction or how much she’d sold something for. I didn’t know her well, but I liked her.”
Elsa was petite and thin, with short dark hair and creamy porcelain skin. She worked in a black painter’s jacket, black slacks, and thick black clogs, exuding style and a quiet intensity. She took in everything that her surroundings-and her chatting customers-gave out. And as Joan Stafford always said, you could trust her like a grave to keep a confidence.
“What else have you heard?” I asked.
“Rumors. Nothing reliable.”
“About her death?” I was incredulous, expecting that if she had heard anything, however unreliable, Elsa might have called me before our unplanned visit today.
“No, no, no. There was a commotion a couple of weeks ago, maybe a day or two before Mrs. Caxton disappeared. Genevieve’s the one who told us about it. Sort of a row in the gallery.”
“Between Denise and Lowell?”
“No, I don’t think he was even in town, from what we were told.”
That fit with what we knew of Lowell’s movements.
“What was it?”
“Denise showed up in the gallery one afternoon carrying lots of bags, as though she had just been on a Madison Avenue shopping spree. Genevieve told me that most of the staff had remained loyal to her, but the guy who managed the place for Lowell wasn’t a fan of hers. She did whatever business she had come in to do, and then left. The manager literally ran out of the gallery five minutes later, trying to stop Mrs. Caxton before she got into a cab. Genevieve says he accused her of making off with a painting-something small but valuable.”
“Was there a scene on the street?” I asked.
“Actually, it was in the lobby. He reached the ground floor before she did. Stopped Mrs. Caxton in front of that clerk at the building’s information booth and forced her to let him look through all her bags.”
“Did she make a fuss?”
“Nope. Knowing her sense of humor as I did, I expect she enjoyed the commotion. He pulled out all her purchases- lingerie, a peignoir set, a teddy-intimate items like that were flying out of his hands while everyone watched.”
“And the painting?”
“No painting. Off she went. At least, that’s the version we got down here.”
Mike rested his elbow on the counter and looked at Elsa. “So, where did Mrs. Caxton stop on her way downstairs, so that he got to the lobby before she did, even though she had a good head start, huh?”
“Maybe she popped into one of the other galleries, to see a friend?”
“I’ll follow up on that. See if I can get the date of the squabble from this Genevieve, when we find her.” He paused. “But if Mrs. Caxton didn’t pay a social call, and just supposing for the moment that she was trying to take a valuable item out of the building, can you think of any likely place to hide something between the thirty-fifth floor and the lobby?”
Elsa had worked in the salon for more than fifteen years. She had probably inspected every exhibit and office and nook of the Fuller Building during that time, shunning the elevators in favor of the back staircases, as she often told me, for exercise and to relieve the tedium of standing all day at a stationary place behind her work chair.
“I know where Denise used to go to sneak a cigarette,” she said softly.
“Whaddaya mean?”
“Even before the city passed laws about smoking, Lowell never let anyone light a cigarette in the gallery. He had all kinds of special air controls for the maintenance of the art, especially because he had so many old paintings. Most of the staff would go all the way down to the ground floor and stand out in front on the sidewalk to smoke. Denise wouldn’t bother to go that far. She’d mooch a cigarette-I don’t think she did it very often-and she found my secret hideout. That’s where we ran into each other from time to time.”
“You smoke?” Mike asked, like he was interviewing her as a prospect for a date.
“No. But I like to clear my head every now and then. The fumes of these hair dyes can get to you after a few hours. I just go up there for a breath of air, some peace and quiet, and a great view of the city.”
“What is it, like a balcony?”
“Not even close. In fact,” she said, giving Mike the onceover, “I’m not certain you’ll fit. I’ll show you if you’d like.”
We left the salon and Elsa pressed the button to go to the eighteenth floor, which was the highest level we
