Murder at the Falls (4 page)

“That—and the atmosphere,” Tom chimed in.

Andriopoulis set down his fork and pointed his forefinger at Tom. “You’ve got it. There are thousands of mid-price restaurants out there serving shrimp scampi, but there’s only one Falls View. They’ll come from all over the country for a hot Texas wiener and an art deco diner. We even had a guy in here last year from Michigan. He travels around the country visiting diners, in a van all fitted out like a camper. He said the Falls View was one of the most pristine—that was the word he used,
pristine
—he’d ever seen.”

“Kenny Meeker?” asked Tom. “Sells tapes of his diner songs?”

Andriopoulis nodded. “That was the guy. I even bought a tape. I figured that for two bucks I couldn’t go wrong. He performed one of his songs for us out in the parking lot: ‘The All-Night Diner Blues.’” He laughed at the memory.

“He advertises his tapes in my magazine,” Tom said.

“He was a nice guy,” said Andriopoulis. “I play the tape sometimes in my car. I like the ‘All-Night Diner Blues’ one.” He started to sing the first line, but was interrupted by the reappearance of his daughter with their orders.

“Tell me,” said Andriopoulis, leaning forward to address Tom and Charlotte, as Patty set the plates down. “Have you ever had a hot Texas wiener before?” He pointed his fork at Randy. “I know
you
have.”

“I have,” said Tom. “I was here last week.”

“Aha,” Andriopoulis said. “Undercover.”

“I asked for the boss, but you weren’t around.” He looked over at Charlotte. “But Miss Graham hasn’t had the pleasure.”

“I hope you won’t mind if I ask what you think,” Andriopoulis said to Charlotte. “Please, go right ahead.”

“Not at all,” Charlotte replied as she bit into the wiener, which was heaped with a pale orange sauce. To her amazement, she found it quite good. It wasn’t hot, but rather a little sweet, with an unusual spice.

“John takes his work very seriously,” said Randy as Andriopoulis stared at Charlotte, eagerly awaiting her appraisal. “If the peaks on the lemon meringue pie don’t stand up just right, he has the pastry chef do it over.”

“Damned right I do. No sense in doing it if you’re not going to do it right. But I don’t only pay attention to the way a pie looks. A lot of those pies in the cases at other diners look great, but they taste like cardboard. Our pies not only look great, they taste great too.” He turned his attention back to Charlotte. “Well?” he said.

“It’s delicious,” she replied, after swallowing her first bite. “It’s like a chili dog,” she added. “But it’s not really a chili sauce, is it? What’s the secret ingredient, cinnamon?”

“Ha! What did I tell you about the customer’s ability to detect the subtleties? It
is
cinnamon, as well as other spices that I’m not at liberty to divulge on account of their being a trade secret. Cinnamon isn’t exactly a common spice in Tex-Mex cooking, but”—he shrugged—“my daddy came from Athens, not from Amarillo.” He shifted his attention to his copy of
Diner Monthly
. “This looks very interesting,” he said, tapping the cover. “May I keep it?”

“Sure,” said Tom, beaming. “If you want to subscribe, there’s a form inside that you can fill out.” Reaching in his briefcase, he pulled out a stack of sample issues. “Here, take these for your customers.”

As a result of his true-crime books, Tom had become, if not a millionaire, then close to it. He had earned numerous awards, and was much sought after on the talk-show circuit. But it wasn’t true-crime reporting that was closest to his heart; it was this modest eight-page periodical, whose circulation was now approaching forty thousand.

“Thanks,” said Andriopoulis, rising. “I’ve got to get to work.” He reached out to shake their hands. “It was nice meeting you. Come back again some time.” He pointed a finger at Tom. “If you ever get around to doing that book, I’d appreciate your putting us on the cover.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Tom.

“Randy here has done some great paintings of us.”

The artist had poked a rift in the wall of the little crater in his mashed potatoes that held the gravy, and was totally absorbed in watching the gravy run out onto his slab of meat loaf.

“Speaking of which …” said Tom, as John shuffled off.

“Yeah, let’s get down to business,” agreed Randy, turning his attention back to his companions. He soaked up the fugitive gravy with a roll, then popped it into his mouth. “Are you sure you want me to do this? Because there are a lot of other artists painting diners these days. Sometimes it seems as if every other gallery in Soho is displaying a diner artist. I’m the best, of course.…”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Tom put in. “And I can’t say I’m not intrigued by Andriopoulis’ suggestion of making it the Falls View.”

“I’ve probably done dozens of paintings of the Falls View. From various angles, under various light conditions, in different seasons. The Falls View is to Randy Goslau what Mont St. Victoire was to Cezanne or ballerinas were to Degas.”

Give me a break
, thought Charlotte.

“Do you want to use one I’ve already done, or commission an original?”

“Commission an original, I think.”

“Okay. In that case, here’s what I think we should do.” He craned his neck to look out at the parking lot again, and then continued: “Are you free on Wednesday? If so, you could come out to my studio.” He nodded in the direction of the Falls. “It’s in the Gryphon Mill, just past the Falls overlook.”

“I think so,” Tom replied.

“Okay. You come out to my studio, look at slides of my work. I can throw them up on the screen for you. That way you can get a better idea of what it is you’re looking for. Just the diner alone, or the diner with its surroundings? Morning light or midday light? Long shot or close-up?”

“I think I get the idea.”

Ignoring him, Randy continued: “Oils or watercolors: I do both. Equally well, I might add. Big or small. Then, once you get an idea of what it is you want, we’ll talk price. You said you were interested in buying the original for your private collection, right?”

Tom nodded.

Randy sized him up as if he were trying to estimate his bank balance. A layer of sweat had broken out on his forehead, giving him an oily appearance. “I warn you, I don’t come cheap. An average-sized oil will run you about thirty grand, plus another twenty-five percent for a commissioned piece. Have you ever seen my work in a gallery?”

“Your show at the Koreman. That’s how I tracked you down.”

“Damn,” said Randy. “Theoretically, if the Koreman referred you to me, they should get a cut. But if you want to keep this visit under your hat, I won’t have to pay the gallery a commission and I can give you the painting at a lower price. We’ll both make a little on the deal.”

Tom shrugged. “Sounds okay by me.”

“Once you decide what you want, we’ll draw up a letter of agreement: size, medium, date of delivery, amount of the down payment, et cetera. One other thing: I like to be paid in cash.”

Tom’s eyebrows flew up: “Thirty thousand in cash?”

“Not all at once. Installments are okay. The payment schedule will be spelled out in the letter of agreement.” He gestured with a roll for emphasis. “Do you know what a guy who I was talking with last week about a painting asked me: ‘Can you give it to me cheaper if you use less paint?’ Can you believe it? You’d be amazed at how many assholes are out there.”

No, I wouldn’t
, thought Charlotte, with present company in mind.

“Dessert?” asked Randy.

As Randy signaled to Patty, Charlotte turned around to eye the pie case, where a Black Forest cake, a linzertorte, and an assortment of pies spun slowly under the lights, like the crown jewels in the Tower of London.

“I guess I’ll have to try some of that lemon meringue,” she said.

Patty arrived, and Randy gave her their dessert orders: lemon meringue for Charlotte, Black Forest cake for Randy, and the inevitable rice pudding for Tom.

She returned with their orders almost immediately. That was another virtue of diners: speedy service. The conversation came to a halt as they devoted their attention to the desserts, which were indeed delicious.

After wolfing down an enormous slab of Black Forest cake with a whipped cream frosting, Randy popped down a couple of antacid tablets (
Di-Tabs
? Charlotte wondered), and abruptly excused himself. “I have to go back to the studio to take care of some last-minute business,” he explained.

“I noticed that he didn’t offer to pick up his share of the tab,” Charlotte said after he had left.

“I noticed that, too. I don’t think I like that guy.”

“I
know
I don’t like that guy. I sure as hell wouldn’t give him any cash until he’s produced a painting. Are you going to go through with your meeting with him, or are you going to try to get out of it?”

“I’m going to go through with it. I’d still like to see more of his work. But if I do want to get out of the arrangement, I know how to go about it.”

“How?” asked Charlotte.

“Ask him to use less paint.”

3

The museum where the art exhibit was located was just down the street from the diner, in one of the historic factories at the foot of the Falls. As they walked along the street paralleling the river, Tom filled Charlotte in on the local history, which he had picked up on a walking tour of the district on his earlier visit. The nation’s first industrial city was the dream of Alexander Hamilton, who, while picnicking at the Falls (lacking the convenience of a nearby diner, as Tom put it) with George Washington and Lafayette during the Revolutionary War, envisioned a network of raceways that would harness the waters of the Falls. After the war, Hamilton formed the S.U.M. (Society for the Establishment of Useful Manufactures) corporation and engaged the architect of the nation’s capital, Pierre Charles L’Enfant, to lay out a raceway system. Over the next hundred years, Paterson was to become renowned as the nation’s foremost industrial city. Among the many products produced in the red brick mills lining the river banks were locomotives, the Colt six-gun, and the beautifully dyed silk that gave the city its sobriquet of Silk City.

Paterson’s heyday as an industrial power came to an end in the early twentieth century when a series of crippling strikes organized by the notorious Industrial Workers of the World, or the “Wobblies,” led to the demise of the silk industry. Many of the mills fell into disrepair, and the area around the Falls was destined for demolition when a redevelopment movement led by a group of persistent and energetic citizens resulted in its being designated a national historic district. The citizens’ vision was to create a “historic Williamsburg of industry,” centered around the Falls. With the help of Federal monies, local agencies created a series of parks in the vicinity of the Falls, and restored the scenic network of raceways. One of the goals was to restore the deteriorating mills. This was accomplished in part by providing rent subsidies for loft apartments to artists and musicians fed up with the hassle and expense of living and working in nearby New York. As a result, an artists’ colony of New York refugees had grown up—a mini-Soho, as they liked to call it—which had in turn attracted restaurants, boutiques, and galleries. It was a community that was still struggling to survive—as the many still-empty mills, and the winos, crackheads, and lunatics that inhabited them substantiated—but there was no doubt that the artists’ presence had injected a much-needed dose of vitality into the blighted city.

None of this was apparent in the neighborhood of the Falls View, which consisted of a series of garages, run-down apartment buildings, and two-family houses lining the river bank. The historic district began about fifty feet up the street, at the bridge that spanned the river just above the Falls. Here, the street was paralleled by the first tier of the three-tiered raceway system that diverted the water to the mills below. Tom said that the water, propelled by turbines, had once rushed through this raceway, but it now flowed languidly between the brownstone retaining walls, which were overhung with willow trees, their pale green leaves now tinged with gold.

Another fifty feet or so down the street, they had their first glimpse of the Falls. In the thirty-odd years since she had seen them, Charlotte had forgotten how magnificent they were, made all the more so by comparison with the urban blight surrounding them. From a wide, still, lakelike expanse, the water plunged over the crest into a narrow gorge in the shape of an inverted V, which was lined by vertical shafts of rock that must have been opened up by an ancient earthquake. Confined by the narrow walls, the spray boiled up into the air like steam from a teakettle. Shining through the mist was a multihued arc that spanned the gorge, like a magical rainbow in a children’s storybook.

“The second to Niagara in width and volume in the East,” said Tom as they crossed the street to get a better look at the cascade. “Seventy-seven feet high, and two hundred and eighty feet wide.”

As Charlotte recalled, she had had difficulty even seeing the Falls from this point on her earlier visit, so overgrown was the area. But the trees and undergrowth had now been cleared to make a lovely park, which gave visitors an unobstructed view. A statue of Alexander Hamilton presided over the park, which was landscaped with Japanese maples whose leaves were beginning to turn a brilliant red.

From this point, the street pitched downward to the heart of the historic district, a 119-acre complex of red-brick mills lining the river bank, and linked by the system of raceways. On this balmy evening it was easy to ignore the garbage, the castoff wine bottles, the beat-up old cars driving by—salsa and rap music blaring from their open windows—and imagine oneself transported to the eighteenth century, when the first of these mills had been built, or even to another country: the willow-lined canals of Burgundy or Provence.

Charlotte was charmed.

Having admired the view, they recrossed the street and headed down an intersecting street toward the museum, which was located in the old Rogers Locomotive Works, where the country’s first steam locomotives had been built. A banner outside the museum advertised the show, “The New Jersey Diner.”