Max signaled and turned left onto Tunney Road. I shook my head, trying to clear my mind of dark thoughts that seemed to grow as time passed. It didn’t work. As we pulled up behind Alverez’s vehicle, I felt weary, angry, fearful, and alone.
We were in a dirt alley at the rear of the property. Standing beside Max’s car, I listened to the ocean, the sound of the waves unhurried and close. High tide on a quiet night. Despite the fog, there’d be no storm.
“Hey,” I greeted Alverez. He looked relaxed in jeans and a blue sweater.
“Hey,” he answered. “You okay?”
I shrugged. “A little spooked.”
He nodded. “I’ll meet you at the warehouse first thing in the morning and we’ll take a look at things.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
We pushed through a white picket gate framed into the hedge, and entered the grounds. I looked at the weathered clapboard house and counted four chimneys. Off to the right I saw parts of the wraparound porch. Alverez led the way down the winding, cracked concrete path lined on either side by thick, six-foot-tall lilac bushes not yet in bud. In May, the white and lilac blooms would hang low and heavy on the gnarled branches, giving off the aroma of old money.
Max and I stood off to the side of the freshly painted red door as Alverez used the silver-white moonlight to sort through a fat ring of keys. He held his selection like a knife and sliced through both yellow police tape that crisscrossed the entryway and an official-looking paper pasted across the doorjamb.
Opening the door, he reached in and flipped a switch. The overhead bulb was of low wattage and cast a shadowy dim light. Stepping into the house, we were in a kind of mud room. I felt a stab of sadness. There was an unpleasant, unlived-in feel to the place as if someone had recently died. Which was true.
I shivered.
With Alverez in front, we walked into an old-fashioned pantry, and through a swinging door into the kitchen. I followed him, and Max brought up the rear. As we tramped past the oversized sink, I noted the knife block. There was an empty slot where the knife I’d used to cut the Bundt cake had been.
I looked away.
“It’s in the study, right, Josie?” Alverez asked.
“Yeah. Next to the living room.”
We made our way through the vacant house to the woodpaneled room. The shelves were lined with leather-bound books. I hadn’t catalogued them individually, but I’d been unable to resist looking at some, including a book on witchcraft annotated by Dr. Samuel Johnson.
I passed by a dark green club chair and stood in front of the desk. Just as I recalled, it had a wide kneehole opening, large enough for a big man to sit comfortably. Seeking out the hidden cabinet was tricky. Max and Alverez switched on all of the lamps. There were two on the desk and four on nearby tables. Still, the room was dim.
“Here,” Alverez offered, handing me an oversized flashlight he’d taken from the back of his SUV.
“I think I’m okay,” I said.
Sitting on the floor, peering into corners, I used the mini-flashlight that always hung on my belt when I was working, and aimed the beam into the back crevices.
Finding the latch was easy, once I looked. A small, raised flower, carved out of wood and attached on the left side easily disguised a device used to open the door. My heart started pumping, adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I felt a burst of energy.
“I think I’ve got it,” I said, my excitement palpable.
Both men leaned over and watched as I worked, although in the shadowy darkness, it was unlikely they could see anything much.
I pulled on the rosette frieze. Nothing. I pushed it. No luck. Finally, I twisted it gently to the left as I repeated the rhyme my father had used to teach me about valves when I was a child.
Righty tighty, lefty loosey
. I felt the back panel nudge forward and slide like a wheeled vehicle on an oiled surface into a perfectly aligned slot. Okay, I said to myself,
here we go
.
“Okay,” I said aloud. “Are you ready?”
“Go,” said Alverez.
I took a deep breath, and used the flashlight to examine the entire inside area. Nothing. Empty. There was nothing there.
Overwrought, I started to cry. I’d been so sure we’d find the Renoir. I gulped and forced myself to quash my emotional melt-down. “Nothing,” I managed to say, embarrassed by my tears. My voice cracked as I spoke.
“Are you sure?” Alverez asked matter-of-factly.
I looked again. It was utterly empty.
Could there be another hidden nook
, I wondered? I leaned back on my heels and thought about it. I’d never heard about a nook within a nook. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t exist. I reached forward and tapped and used my light to examine the panels inside the cabinet. No luck.
Standing, I said, “It’s unlikely there’d be anything like that in the desk.” I swept my hand left and right, indicating I was referring to the entire room. “Look at this place. A secret area, if there is one, could be anywhere. Behind that panel,” I said, pointing to the back wall. “Or in a drawer of the desk. Or anywhere. All we know so far is that the Renoir isn’t in that cabinet.”
We’d only been inside ten minutes. That’s all it took to dash a world of hope.
CHAPTER SIX
W
e stood in the foggy night air in the alley beside the Grant house. It was bone-chillingly damp, more like November than March.
“I’ll take Josie to her car, so you can head home right away,” Alverez said.
“Are you sure?” Max asked.
“Not a problem,” Alverez answered.
“Don’t be discouraged,” Max said to me, looking at me through his rolled-down driver-side window as he got ready to leave.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
“Tomorrow’s another day, Josie.”
“I know.” I smiled to show good spirit, and oddly, doing so helped lighten my mood a bit. “I’m okay. Really.”
“Thanks for seeing to Josie, Ty,” Max called to Alverez as he drove away.
“Ty?” I questioned.
“Yeah,” Alverez answered. “That’s my name.”
I wondered if his name was Tyrone. I glanced at him. He didn’t look like a Tyrone. We stood silently until Max’s taillights disappeared around a bend. Once the car was out of sight, he turned and I felt his eyes on me, but my attention was focused on the step I’d have to climb in order to gain access to his SUV.
“This is a big step,” I remarked.
“What is?” he asked, thinking, I gathered from his tone, that I was referring to some proposed action, though he wasn’t sure which one.
“This one,” I said, nodding toward it. “To get in to the, what do I call it? A car?”
“You could call it a car. It’d be better to call it a vehicle.”
“The step to get into your
vehicle
,” I said, stressing the word, “is very high.”
“Nah,” he responded. “You’re just short.”
“I am not. I’m normal sized.”
“How short are you?”
“How short? What a question. I’m not short. I’m five-one.”
He opened the door and I pulled myself up.
When he was seated behind the wheel, he said, “Feel free to close your eyes if you want.”
“Do I look that beat?”
“Yes.”
“How about you?” I asked.
“How about me what?”
“Are you okay to drive?”
He looked at me sideways. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you need me to stay awake to keep you company?”
“No. I’m fine. What kind of friends do you have, anyway, that you have to stay awake so they’ll be okay to drive?”
“I was just being polite,” I answered.
“You don’t need to be polite. You should just rest now.”
Exhaustion, when it came, came quickly. I had no memory of drifting off to sleep, and felt groggy when Alverez awakened me by quietly calling my name.
“Wow,” I said. “I guess I fell asleep.”
“Yeah.”
“Where are we?”
“At your house.”
The rickety house I rented stood to the right. It didn’t look like home to me. It looked like the place where I’d slept since moving from New York.
Since I didn’t like to come into a dark house, I always left a small lamp lit in my bedroom. I stretched and yawned, and looked up, reassured by the soft golden gleam from my upstairs window.
“Wait . . .” I said, sitting up, coming fully awake. “Where’s my car?”
“Right where you left it. I’ll come get you in the morning and drive you to work.”
“Oh, no, that’s too much to ask. I’m okay. I can drive.”
He smiled a little. “Except that you were asleep before I hit the highway. I have to go to your place in the morning anyway with a technician to check for prints and see what we can see. I can pick you up en route.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. I don’t live far.”
“Really? Where do you live?”
“Over on Fox Point,” he said, naming a narrow inlet not far away.
“That’s close.”
“Yes. So I’ll pick you up. When? Seven?”
“Seven is good.”
“Okay, then.”
“Thank you,” I said, but maybe he didn’t hear me because he was out of his car, ahem, vehicle, by then, and in a few long strides reached my side.
“Can you hop down? If you want, I’ll lift you.”
“I can get down myself,” I told him, half wishing he’d scoop me up. I jumped down with more vigor than I felt, waved good-bye, and walked toward my porch door, the entry I used most frequently.
I wanted to ask him in, but didn’t. I told myself not to be stupid. He had no feelings for me, and the feelings I had for him were probably a result of feeling anxious and vulnerable in the presence of a handsome, strong man.
Don’t act like a fool
, I chastised myself, reiterating that neither of us had personal feelings for the other. My desire was just a spasm, a pathetic attempt to avoid entering my lonely house alone.
Screw it
, I said as I approached the porch, and turned back. He hadn’t moved. He stood by the still-open passenger door, the ceiling light illuminating his craggy face and dark hair like a halo.
“Want to come in?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, and paused. “But I can’t. Not now.”
I nodded.
The next morning, riding in with Alverez, I felt a little awkward, but his conversation focused on the weather and the busy day ahead, and my anxiety dissipated in the face of this matter-offactness.
When we got there, I said lightly, “Thanks for the lift.”
“Anytime,” he answered sounding casual or indifferent, I couldn’t tell which.
Within a few minutes of arriving, there was so much going on, I was wishing I had magical powers and could be in three places at once.
It wasn’t yet eight when I spotted Wes Smith. The Seacoast Star reporter who’d cornered me at the Blue Dolphin earlier in the week was trying to interview a temporary worker at the tag-sale site.
“Wes,” I said, smiling as I approached. “How ya doing?”
“Good,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand.
“Thanks for holding off on writing that article,” I said, thankful that the expose he’d threatened to write referring to me as “maybe a suspect” hadn’t yet appeared.
He shrugged. “Still researching, still checking things out.”
“I can see you are. What are you looking into now?”
“I was just asking Yolanda here how your notoriety was affecting business.”
“Notoriety? You flatter me, Wes, you devil. But I gotta ask you to vamoose.”
“Just a couple of questions.”
“Sorry, but we’ve got to set up.” I turned on my thousand-watt smile, cursing him silently. “You, my friend, are in the way of business.”
“Are you tossing me out?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, trying to look tough.
My smile firmly in place, I shook my head, and said, “Sadly, yes. You can leave this way.” I took his elbow and guided him to the wire mesh gate, which had been latched but unlocked since seven-thirty in the morning so staff could get in. I figured that’s how he’d entered.
He took it in good spirits, play-shooting me as he left, and said, “You won this one. Next one’s mine.”
I kept smiling but didn’t respond, pleased that I had chased him away without offending him. Since I wanted good publicity for my business, I couldn’t see how pissing off a reporter would help my cause.
When I got to the auction hall, about nine, I was greeted by a flood of increasingly impatient preview attendees waiting to register and complaints from Gretchen that the laptop wasn’t working.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It won’t let me open the spreadsheet software,” she explained.
I restarted the computer, but the problem persisted. “Is it working on your desktop?”
“Yes,” she answered. “And I have a backup on CD.”
“Okay, then. We’ll deal with it later. It’s more important to get people signed in.”
Shutting the laptop down and slipping it under the table, I grabbed a printed copy of the registration list that Gretchen, showing prescient judgment, had produced earlier that morning, and began to help with the process. The doors would open promptly at ten, and it was a courtesy Prescott’s was known for that early arrivals got processed before the doors officially opened.
Fourth in line was Martha Troudeaux, the lazy and bitchy researcher who was married to Epps’s pet appraiser, Barney. I greeted her politely, but without warmth.
“You’re to be congratulated on winning the Wilson estate,” Martha said, sounding patronizing and insincere.
“Thanks, Martha,” I said, finding her name on the list. “How are you and Barney doing?”
“Good. Barney will be here later. Have you added better lighting to your charming little room?”
Every sentence was an insult, from implying that Barney couldn’t be bothered to schedule an early viewing to making my company sound rinky-dink, and she did it with slippery precision. The auction wasn’t until tomorrow, so it didn’t matter when Barney arrived, but her tone implied that it did. My auction hall wasn’t small or poorly lit, but her words suggested otherwise.