commitments.”
“Really,” Maude Sloan murmured with a downward smile.
“He wound up saying we could settle the whole thing amicably: I was to give him the painting—for which he was willing to pay six hundred dollars.”
“Isn’t it interesting that he called you?”
“Instead of calling you, you mean?”
Mrs. Sloan nodded.
“I said that if Mr. Abel wanted his painting back he could have it. He didn’t like that idea: he said he dealt with galleries, not painters, and advised me to do the same. So here I am.”
Mrs. Sloan laughed dryly. “Somehow, I don’t think he had me in mind.”
“Do you suppose he went through the phone book till he found me?”
“You didn’t sign the gallery book?”
Julie shook her head. “I’d mentioned to Mr. Abel that I was married to a newspaperman. That’s how he found my number.”
“Very curious behavior—everyone’s.” Mrs. Sloan gave a weary sigh.
“Do I have to give Mr. Rubinoff the painting?”
“Do you still like it? That’s the first question.”
“I do, I really do,” she said, convincing herself at the same time. “I didn’t like Mr. Rubinoff, but then I wasn’t going to under those circumstances. I guess I ought to tell you too, all I paid Mr. Abel for it was a hundred dollars. He said that was all he wanted and that maybe someday—if he was around—I could give him another hundred.”
“Then, if I were you, I would keep it. Until you hear from Ralph—if you do. Or until Rubinoff brings the matter to arbitration and involves me. I should be surprised, since he’s gone this route, if he intends to do that.”
“But if he did, would the painting belong to him?” Julie was immediately sorry she had asked that, remembering that at the time she was pretty sure Maude Sloan had opted for the whole star over the half star on the spur of the moment, something that might not stand up legally when push came to shove.
But she wasn’t going to admit that. “I’ve never found it useful, Mrs. Hayes, to predict the outcome of arbitration.”
“I was going to ask if you had an address for Mr. Abel.”
“I do not. I suspect he’s back in Iowa.”
“Or Italy?”
Mrs. Sloan just looked at her. Julie shrugged. She felt that Iowa meant defeat for Ralph Abel the painter and Italy was where he’d had a lot of hope. She had not consciously made the association with Maude Sloan’s daughter.
“I don’t think he’s in Italy. Did he tell you about my daughter?”
“He mentioned her as a kind of patron.”
“A patron,” she repeated. Then: “Ginni proposed to come over for the opening of his show. Now she proposes to come the day before it was scheduled to close.”
“Oh, boy.”
Mrs. Sloan was amused. “Exactly. I’ve decided to let her come. I want very much to see her. She has asked for a party Saturday night and I’m going to give it. If you and your husband would like to come, you’d be most welcome.”
“Thank you,” Julie said. “I’ll have to let you know after I’ve talked with Jeff.” Who probably wouldn’t be back from West Virginia or wouldn’t be high on a SoHo party if he were.
“No need to call, just come. Drinks and buffet at eight.” Mrs. Sloan took a card from the drawer and wrote the address.
“How nice,” Julie said. Then: “Will Mr. Rubinoff be there?”
Mrs. Sloan spaced the words out with emphasis: “I…think…not.”
NINETEEN
T HE ANSWERING SERVICE WAS hooked up Tuesday morning, freeing Julie to do…what? She was learning what Jeff meant when he said the hardest part of a newsman’s job was the waiting. Her mind swiveled between Romano and Rubinoff and she wound up in the terrible position of racing the service for every phone call.
In the afternoon she got a number for the Abel Tailor Shop in Keokuk and dialed it.
“Mr. Abel?”
“There is no Mr. Abel, ma’am. My name is Amberg. Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to get in touch with Ralph Abel, Mr. Amberg, and I thought you
“Really,” Maude Sloan murmured with a downward smile.
“He wound up saying we could settle the whole thing amicably: I was to give him the painting—for which he was willing to pay six hundred dollars.”
“Isn’t it interesting that he called you?”
“Instead of calling you, you mean?”
Mrs. Sloan nodded.
“I said that if Mr. Abel wanted his painting back he could have it. He didn’t like that idea: he said he dealt with galleries, not painters, and advised me to do the same. So here I am.”
Mrs. Sloan laughed dryly. “Somehow, I don’t think he had me in mind.”
“Do you suppose he went through the phone book till he found me?”
“You didn’t sign the gallery book?”
Julie shook her head. “I’d mentioned to Mr. Abel that I was married to a newspaperman. That’s how he found my number.”
“Very curious behavior—everyone’s.” Mrs. Sloan gave a weary sigh.
“Do I have to give Mr. Rubinoff the painting?”
“Do you still like it? That’s the first question.”
“I do, I really do,” she said, convincing herself at the same time. “I didn’t like Mr. Rubinoff, but then I wasn’t going to under those circumstances. I guess I ought to tell you too, all I paid Mr. Abel for it was a hundred dollars. He said that was all he wanted and that maybe someday—if he was around—I could give him another hundred.”
“Then, if I were you, I would keep it. Until you hear from Ralph—if you do. Or until Rubinoff brings the matter to arbitration and involves me. I should be surprised, since he’s gone this route, if he intends to do that.”
“But if he did, would the painting belong to him?” Julie was immediately sorry she had asked that, remembering that at the time she was pretty sure Maude Sloan had opted for the whole star over the half star on the spur of the moment, something that might not stand up legally when push came to shove.
But she wasn’t going to admit that. “I’ve never found it useful, Mrs. Hayes, to predict the outcome of arbitration.”
“I was going to ask if you had an address for Mr. Abel.”
“I do not. I suspect he’s back in Iowa.”
“Or Italy?”
Mrs. Sloan just looked at her. Julie shrugged. She felt that Iowa meant defeat for Ralph Abel the painter and Italy was where he’d had a lot of hope. She had not consciously made the association with Maude Sloan’s daughter.
“I don’t think he’s in Italy. Did he tell you about my daughter?”
“He mentioned her as a kind of patron.”
“A patron,” she repeated. Then: “Ginni proposed to come over for the opening of his show. Now she proposes to come the day before it was scheduled to close.”
“Oh, boy.”
Mrs. Sloan was amused. “Exactly. I’ve decided to let her come. I want very much to see her. She has asked for a party Saturday night and I’m going to give it. If you and your husband would like to come, you’d be most welcome.”
“Thank you,” Julie said. “I’ll have to let you know after I’ve talked with Jeff.” Who probably wouldn’t be back from West Virginia or wouldn’t be high on a SoHo party if he were.
“No need to call, just come. Drinks and buffet at eight.” Mrs. Sloan took a card from the drawer and wrote the address.
“How nice,” Julie said. Then: “Will Mr. Rubinoff be there?”
Mrs. Sloan spaced the words out with emphasis: “I…think…not.”
NINETEEN
T HE ANSWERING SERVICE WAS hooked up Tuesday morning, freeing Julie to do…what? She was learning what Jeff meant when he said the hardest part of a newsman’s job was the waiting. Her mind swiveled between Romano and Rubinoff and she wound up in the terrible position of racing the service for every phone call.
In the afternoon she got a number for the Abel Tailor Shop in Keokuk and dialed it.
“Mr. Abel?”
“There is no Mr. Abel, ma’am. My name is Amberg. Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to get in touch with Ralph Abel, Mr. Amberg, and I thought you
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