I thought about avoiding the question, but saw no point. It wasn’t confidential. In fact, knowing Wes, it would be in tomorrow’s paper. “Yes, she’s hired us to do an appraisal.”
He nodded. “That’s a big job.”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Her daughter, Miranda, she’s concerned about her mother. She’s elderly, as you know.”
Dressing up her name from Andi to Miranda didn’t make the bald-faced lie true. Andi had no thoughts for or about her mother. All she cared about was money. Money for Andi.
“Not so old,” I said.
“You can’t always tell by looking,” he said, as if he were the bearer of bad news.
“Do you have a point, Barney?”
“Miranda feels obliged to challenge her mother’s decisions about the Grant estate, I’m afraid.”
Well, well, well. Chief Alverez told her to sue. And I would have bet money she wasn’t listening.
“I suppose she has the legal right to do so, but it’s hard to believe that anyone would think Mrs. Cabot isn’t competent to handle her own affairs.”
“Well, luckily, that’s nothing you or I will have to sort out.”
“True,” I agreed.
“Here’s the thing. Miranda has hired me to help her sort through the complicated issues related to Mr. Grant’s estate.”
I felt like cursing him, but gripped the side of the chair instead.
No emotiozzal display
, my father told me, and I took a long moment remembering his admonition. Breathing slowly, I was able to smile and stay silent, conveying, I hoped, disinterest and mild curiosity.
“I thought, and tell me if I’m out of line here, that maybe, just maybe, if you and I work together, we can help this mother and daughter find it in their hearts to settle their differences without resorting to the court system.”
The son of a bitch, I thought, half admiring his sterling ability to make his outrageous encroachment seem like a sacrifice he was willing to make for the greater good of others. I wished Alverez was here, confident that he’d share my appreciation of Barney’s ridiculous and transparent offer, except it was probably a good thing that he wasn’t in the room. If he were, I’d look up to share the joke, and once our eyes met, I doubted that I’d be able to keep a straight face. As it was, I was having a hard time maintaining professional decorum.
“Andi’s going to do what she needs to do, including, I guess, hire you. Thanks for the offer, Barney, but we don’t need any help.”
He stayed another twenty minutes, trying to find a wedge into my defenses. Finally he gave up. “Josie, you’re a stubborn young bird.”
“Hell, Barney, I’m not stubborn. I’m steadfast.”
He laughed, patted my shoulder, and left. But as he turned away, I noted that his eyes stayed hard. He was not amused at my refusal.
Too bad, Barney
, I said to myself as I escorted him out to his truck.
Too bad for you, you devious son of a bitch, but you don’t get a piece of this one
.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
D
on, the recruiter, called with questions about the skill level required, and I explained that in addition to a solid foundation of knowledge, we were looking for half diligence and half common sense. He chuckled and told me he had someone in mind and would call back, he hoped, within the hour.
I realized that whoever Don found as our temporary researcher, he or she, as a newcomer, would need the appraisal protocol explained in more detail than Sasha had required. I sighed, resigned to doing what felt like busywork. It was too complex to delegate, but it had to be done.
“Gretchen,” I said, calling her, “I need a binder. Would you bring one up?”
“Sure. Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling. “Good idea.”
I heard the clickity-clack of her heels on the steps, swung around in my chair, and saw her enter with a big smile, then accepted the steaming mug of coffee she proffered. She placed the burgundy binder, preprinted with our logo and name on the cover, on my desk.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“No, thanks. It’s a research thing.”
“Well, let me know if I can do anything.” With a cheery wave, she was gone.
I thought for a moment about what to include in the binder. I started with a description of the grandfather clock and added the protocol itself along with the explanation of how I calculated the value. Since the researcher would be new to the region, I added a paragraph explaining my distrust of Troudeaux’s research. Deciding that more information was better than less, I photocopied the title pages of the two catalogues I consulted, Shaw’s and Troudeaux’s, along with the pages containing the specific entries about the clock. I retraced my steps on the Web sites, found the information I’d discovered previously, and printed out the relevant pages.
I was trying to determine the best sequence when Max called, just before 1:00. “Hey, Max,” I said, “I was just thinking about lunch. Do you have time? I’ll buy.”
“Thanks, Josie. I’ll take a raincheck. Alverez called.”
I sat up straight, alert for trouble. “What now?”
“I don’t know. He wants to see us this afternoon.”
As if a switch had been flipped, I lost my appetite. Whatever Alverez wanted, I figured it must be dire if he was calling Max out of the blue. I began to shake, and swallowed twice to try to control my visceral reaction. “Okay,” I said, as calmly as I could. “When?”
“Is three o’clock all right?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you there, okay?”
I hung up the phone and began to think about what might have led to this unanticipated request. Nothing came to mind, but I became increasingly disquieted and tense.
Stop it
! I told myself. Until I had cause, tormenting myself with unanswerable what-if questions was way south of pointless. I’d know whether I had reason to be concerned soon enough. Just as I was chastising myself and wondering how to stop worrying, Don called back and gave me the name of the researcher I was going to hire for five days at $400 a day, Fred Reynolds.
“He’s perfect, Josie,” Don said. “He’s young and eager. Smart as a whip. With absolutely no social skills at all. But give that boy an antique and a computer and look out.”
I laughed, and it felt good. “Thanks, Don. You’re the best.”
Don told me that Fred was already en route. He was flying to Boston, where he’d rent a car, and with any luck, be at my warehouse by 4:00. I passed on the information to Gretchen, who made a hotel reservation at a small bed-and-breakfast in downtown Portsmouth.
As soon as I hung up the phone, anxiety returned. Keep busy, I admonished myself. I took a long drink of water, and turned my attention back to the protocol.
I played around a little, designing a jazzy title page on letterhead, and using a three-hole punch, thumped all the pages and inserted them into the binder. I flipped through, admiring my work, and smiled. I was ready to dazzle anyone. Don’s researcher, Fred, would have an unequivocal understanding of what I meant by “professional standards.”
Thinking about the schedule, I decided I’d better consult Sasha.
“Sasha,” I said, when I had her on the phone, “how’s it going?”
“Good. I’m working on the sofa, and have two tables and the plant stand to go.”
“That’s great,” I said. “You’re working quickly.”
“I’m trying. There’s so much.”
“Yeah. Listen, Don has called back. A young guy named Fred Reynolds, a terrific researcher, according to him, will be here by four o’clock or so.”
“Great.”
“I’m going to be out for most of the rest of the day. When Fred arrives, it might make sense for you to get him settled in at the extra desk near Gretchen, make sure he can get on-line, then show him around. Okay?”
“Okay. What about the protocol?”
“I’ll do that. Are you okay to meet at the office at eight o’clock tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“Arrange that with him, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You can watch the video with him first thing and show him how the tape relates to Mrs. Grant’s ledger. After that, I’ll go over the protocol with him. Then we should be good to go.”
Hanging up, I realized that I ought to take the binder with me. I wanted to know the material cold when I reviewed it with Fred in the morning.
I headed downstairs.
Gretchen was on the phone arranging an appointment for me. From what I gathered as I waited for her to finish, a couple was downsizing after their kids had left for college. They were moving from a big Colonial in Durham into a small condo overlooking South Mill Pond in Portsmouth. She passed me a note reading “2:00 P.M. tomorrow?”
I nodded that 2:00 was fine. When she was off the phone, she said, “This is a good one, I think.”
“Yeah? What do they have?” I asked.
“Loads of stuff, it sounds like.” She glanced at her notes. “A set of china, nothing special. A dinette set from the ’40s. End tables. Some hand-carved decoys. Japanese screens. A pool table, in pretty good shape. Boxes full of miscellaneous goods.”
“That’s great! Where did the lead come from?”
“The tag sale. Eric got this one.”
“Excellent.”
I slipped the address she handed me into my purse.
“Eric’s off today, right?”
“Right.”
Since we all work on Saturdays, everyone gets a weekday off. Eric usually took Mondays. Gretchen rarely did, since she was responsible for reconciling the weekend receipts. She and Sasha worked it out between them which day they took, so we always had coverage in the office. “When are you off?” I asked.
“Wednesday.”
“When Eric gets in tomorrow, have him go to the professor’s and pick up the books. He ought to have a helper. There’s a lot of them.”
She nodded, jotted herself a reminder, and taped it to her computer monitor. “I’ll get a temp right now.”
“Good. I’m heading out,” I told her. “When Fred arrives, remember that he’s a stranger to these parts. Make sure he has everything he needs and that he can find his way to the B-andB, okay?”
She gave me an of-course-I-will look.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, of course you will.” I smiled.
I stopped at a grocery store and circled their deli-style salad bar picking and chose whatever grabbed my fancy, drove to the beach, and ate sitting in my car. It tasted pretty good, but not as good as homemade. I missed cooking for someone. Rick, my former boyfriend, loved my cooking. It was one of his best qualities.
I wondered what Rick was doing now. When I’d called to let him know that I was leaving New York for New Hampshire, he’d told me that he thought it was a good idea for me to get away, that maybe the physical distance would help me put my father’s death behind me. I didn’t respond to either his insensitivity or his bitter tone. His lack of empathy was why we’d broken up a month or so after my father’s death, and it still seemed incredible to me that he thought I ought, somehow, to simply turn the other cheek, and get on with things. I had wished him good luck, and hung up, relieved that I was no longer dating him.
I shook my head. We’d had such good times for almost two years, I still felt surprised at how quickly things had changed. In only a matter of weeks, we’d gone from cruising the farmer’s market looking for the freshest produce to strangers laboring to maintain a conversation.
I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, a sudden memory bringing tears to my eyes. I’d been making a Newburg sauce, slowly stirring sherry into cream, when he came behind me, his hands encircling my torso. He brushed my hair aside and began kissing my neck, his lips electric on my skin.
I sat up and pushed the memory aside. I didn’t want to be with him, but I wanted to be with someone. I was aware that I was exerting a lot of mental energy coping with loneliness. I tried my best, without much success, to shake off my growing depression. I had a sense of impending doom. Not only was I alone but I was having to deal with being suspected of murder. I swallowed, fighting tears.
Whatever Alverez was going to say or do, I felt certain it would be bad news.
It was exactly 3:00 when I entered the Rocky Point police station.
Max was leaning against the counter chatting with Alverez. I saw the big blonde, Cathy, at a file cabinet in the rear. We walked down the now-familiar hallway to the interrogation room, and I took my usual seat. I doubted that I’d ever enter that room and see the cage in the corner without wincing.
Once we were settled, Alverez turned on the tape recorder, spoke the date and time, listed our names as those present, and then said, “Thanks for coming in. Our investigation has progressed and I wanted to give you some information.”
“Okay,” Max responded.
Alverez leaned back, stretching out his legs. He looked the same as always, his demeanor providing no clue about his message. I was anxious, but braced to deal with whatever came my way.
“Unless new information comes up, which I don’t expect, Josie has been cleared as a suspect.”
“What?” I exclaimed, stunned.
Alverez half smiled, and nodded. “We don’t think you were involved in the murder.”
Max gripped my shoulder for a long minute, a contained gesture of celebration. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I didn’t try to stop the flow. I took a deep breath, realized I’d had a death-grip on the sides of my chair, and lifted my hands to the table top, clenching and unclenching my fists to relax. I reached over and put a hand on top of Max’s, still on my shoulder, and squeezed, then reached into my purse for a tissue, and wiped away my tears.
As stress and anxiety receded, anger rushed in. I stuffed the crumpled tissue in my purse, turned to Alverez, and asked, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean ‘What do I mean’? You drag me down here to tell me that I’m no longer a suspect? Don’t you think I might have been interested in hearing that news right away? Would it have killed you to have called and told me?”