"Good boy!" he said. "Let me see it." Engraved discs were linked together to make a flexible bracelet, but the clasp was broken. One disc was engraved in cursive script: "To Dianne." Another was inscribed: "From Ross." The remainder bore the numerals: 1-1-4-1, 5-1-1-1, 4-1-3-5, etc. Obviously it was a secret code between the two.
"Okay, this is enough excitement for tonight," Qwilleran said, "but tomorrow we do a little research on the Labor Day incident." On Tuesday morning Qwilleran called Jefferson Lowell at Grinchman & Hills, inviting him to lunch at the Press Club, and the architect accepted. There was a certain mystique about the Press Club, and most persons jumped at an invitation.
Before going out to breakfast, he checked the weather report on the radio and learned that the Narcotics Squad had rounded up fifty-two suspects in a drug bust; a judge had been indicted for accepting bribes; and a cold front was moving in.
On his way out of the building Qwilleran was flagged by the manager. She said, "I'm sorry about that commotion last night. Mrs. Button is very old and a little confused at times." "I understand, Mrs. Tuttle." "Last year she had an attack, and the paramedics gave her CPR. The next day she accused them of rape. It even went to court, but of course it was thrown out." "I'm glad you warned me," Qwilleran said. "Next time I'll let her fall." If Mrs. Tuttle appreciated his sly humor, she gave no indication. "I also wanted to tell you, Mr. Qwilleran, that some of our tenants do cleaning - those that are on social security, you know. They like to keep active and earn a little extra. Let me know if you need help with your apartment." "I'll take you up on that," he said, "but don't send me Mrs. Button." Then he walked downtown. It was a good day for walking - by urban standards; a light breeze diluted the emissions from cars and trucks and diesel vehicles. En route he stopped for pancakes and sausages, observing that they were twice the price of a similar breakfast in Pickax, and the sausages were not half so good. Moose County had hog farms, and independent butchers made their own sausages. He was spoiled.
At the Daily Fluxion he braved the security cordon and gained admittance to the library, where he asked to see clips on the Bessinger murder. The film bank produced three entries, the first dated the day after Labor Day. Although the victim's name was spelled differently in each news item, that was not unusual for the Daily Fluxion.
MURDER-SUICIDE JOLTS ART WORLD The violent deaths of an art dealer and an artist Sunday night, apparently murder and suicide, have shocked the local art world and the residents of the Casablanca apartments.
The body of Diane Bessinger, 45, co-owner of the Bessinger-Todd Gallery, was found in her penthouse apartment Monday morning. Her throat had been cut. The body of Ross Rasmus, 25, a client of Bessinger, was found earlier atop a car in the parking lot below the murdered woman's terrace.
Rasmus apparently jumped to his death after leaving a contrite confession daubed on a wall. His body landed on the roof of a car owned by a Casablanca tenant, who found it at 12:05 A.M. Monday and notified the police.
"I went out for some smokes and beer," said Jack Yazbro, 39, "and the top of my car was all bashed in. He wasn't that big of a guy, but it's a long way down." Bessinger died between 11 P.M. and midnight Sunday, according to the medical examiner, although the body was not discovered until Monday morning when her partner, Jerome Todd, phoned and was un- able to get an answer.
"I heard about Ross's suicide on the radio and tried to call her," Todd said. "When she didn't answer, I got worried and called the building manager." The gallery had mounted a one-man exhibit of Rasmus's mushroom paintings in June.
"They sold poorly," said Todd, "and Ross blamed us for not publicizing the event enough." Rasmus rented a loft apartment adjoining Bessinger's lavish penthouse at the Casablanca. Jessica Tuttle, manager of the building, called him a good tenant. "He was a nice, quiet, serious young man," she said. "We rented to him at Ms. Bessinger's recommendation." It was Tuttle who found the murdered woman's body. "Mr. Todd called me about not getting an answer on the phone. He was sure she was home, because she had guests coming for a holiday brunch. So I took my keys and went up there. Her body was on the living room floor, and there was a lot of blood on the carpet." Bessinger had been in the news frequently in connection with the Save Our Casablanca Kommittee, of which she was founder and leader.
Following the news item, a brief obituary had been published in the Wednesday edition of the Fluxion, with a half- column photo of the de- ceased, a vivacious-looking woman with dark shoulder-length hair. Diane had become Diana.
BESSINGER, DIANA
Diana Bessinger, 45, of the Casablanca apartments died Sunday at her home. She was co-owner of the Bessinger-Todd Gallery, founder of the Save Our Casablanca Kommittee, an officer of the Turp and Chisel Oub, and an active worker in local art projects.
A native of Iowa, she was the daughter of the late Prof. and Mrs. Damon Bessinger.
She is survived by one brother and two daughters.
Private services will be held Thursday. Memorials may be made to the Turp and Chisel scholarship fund.
The following Sunday, the art page of the Fluxion carried a commentary by art writer Ylana Targ, with yet a third spelling of the victim's name. A photo taken by a Fluxion photographer at the Rasmus opening in June showed a smiling "Dianne" Bessinger and a shy Ross Rasmus, posed with one of the mushroom paintings. The byline, Qwil leran noted, was another one of those names that was just as logical spelled backward or forward.
MUSHROOM MURDER HAS NO ANSWERS by Ylana Targ
There is only one topic of conversation in the galleries and studios as Dianne Bessinger is tearfully laid to rest and the ashes of the "mushroom painter" are shipped ignominiously to his hometown - somewhere.
Why did he do it? What caused this talented, thoughtful artist to turn violent and commit such a heinous crime? His suicide is easier to explain; it was the only possible escape from intolerable guilt. Desperate remorse must have driven him over the parapet of the Casablanca terrace.
"Lady Di" was his patron, his enthusiastic press agent, his best friend, who saw merit in his work when no other gallery would take a chance on his monomania for mushrooms.
Once, when asked why he never painted broccoli or crook-neck squash, Ross said meekly, "I haven't said all I have to say about mushrooms." Granted, mushrooms are erotic, and he captured their mushroomness succinctly.
Pairing the fleshy fungus with the razor-edge knife, as he did, bordered on soft porn.
Dianne said in an interview last June, , 'There have been artists who painted soft- ness, crispness, silkiness, or mistiness sublimely, but only Rasmus could paint sharpness so sharp that the viewer cringes." The knife he portrayed in the paintings was always the same - a tapered, pointed Japanese slicer with a pale wooden handle and a provocative shapeliness of its own.
One shudders to think too much about the actual crime. The motive is all one can safely or sanely contemplate, and that is a question that will never be answered.
Dianne Bessinger was the founder and president of SOCK. It was a passion with her, and she would not want her worthwhile cause to be overshadowed by the notoriety surrounding her tragic death. She would say, "Let the matter fade away now, and get on with the business of saving the Casablanca." Qwilleran finished reading the clips and patted his moustache. It would be a challenge, he thought, to uncover that hidden motive. It might be buried in 14-A.
7
ON AN IMPULSE, after reading the murder-suicide clips in the Fluxion library, Qwilleran walked to the Bessinger-Todd Gallery in the financial district. It had the same address as the old Lambreth Gallery that he knew so well, but the interior had changed dramatically. At that morning hour the place had a vast emptiness, except for a business-suited man supervising a jeans-clad assistant perched on a stepladder. He turned in surprise as Qwilleran entered, saying, "We're closed. I thought the door was locked." "Am I intruding? I'm Jim Qwilleran, formerly of the Daily Fluxion. I used to cover the art beat when Mountclemens was the critic." "How do you do. I'm Jerome Todd. I've heard about Mountclemens, but that was before my time here. I'm from Des Moines." "I've been away for three years. I see you've enlarged the gallery." "Yes, we knocked out the ceiling so we could exhibit larger works, and we added the balcony for crafts objects." Qwilleran said, "I'm retired now and living up north, but I heard about the tragic loss of your partner and wanted to extend my condolences." "Thank you... Is there anything I can do for you?" Todd asked in an abrupt change of subject. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with one disturbing mannerism - the habit of pinching his nose as if he smelled an unpleasant odor.