Murder at the Falls by Stefanie Matteson

would take possession of a collection of twelve paintings which Don had loaned to him over the years, and which hung in Randy’s studio at the mill. The gift agreement was Don’s way of providing for Randy’s long-term security. It was a formal agreement, drawn up by a lawyer and including detailed descriptions of the paintings. The value of the paintings at the time of Don’s death was estimated at eight to ten million dollars.”
    “Whew!” said Tom. “A million a year isn’t bad long-term security.”
    “Yeah,” said Diana. “Don was a generous guy, extravagantly so. It was just as well that Bernice was managing his money. He probably would have pissed it all away otherwise. Anyway, this document was drawn up, oh, maybe three or four years ago. To continue the story: as Randy became more and more successful, he began to resent his position as Don’s vassal, however well-treated he might have been. He started neglecting his duties: not showing up, throwing temper tantrums when he was asked to do something he considered beneath him. That sort of thing. He also developed a serious cocaine habit. I’m not talking party coke here. I once found him passed out in my doorway when I got here in the morning. He must have been hanging out with the winos. Anyway, he and Don began to quarrel. Then came the ARTnews incident. In an article on artists’ assistants, Randy claimed that he had actually painted some of Don’s paintings himself, paintings that were signed ‘DS.’ Don always signed his work with his initials, which were hidden somewhere in the painting. Randy made it sound as if Don’s paintings were like the products of one of those Renaissance workshops in which the only parts actually executed by the signatory artist were the finishing touches and the signature.”
    “Was it true?” Charlotte asked.
    “Let me tell you about the Gryphon Mill. The mill was an ongoing house party. If the art community of Paterson could be said to have had a clubhouse, the mill was it. Artists, would-be artists, dealers, collectors, sycophants, jazz musicians, groupies, poets, writers—you name it. People like the Lumkins thought it was great, a safe little taste of Bohemia. There were people going in and out of Don’s studio all day, every day. Rare was the night when there weren’t a dozen people for dinner. Part of the reason that Louise left Don was that she couldn’t stand living in a goldfish bowl. In all the times that I was there—and I was there three or four times a week over the course of twelve years—I never saw anyone but Don put a brush to one of his canvases. Besides, it would have shown. Don had a magic touch: he was very precise. He could create an effect with one stroke. Randy’s technique is entirely different.”
    “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