The day was a success. At the auction, everything sold, and we beat our estimates; several people told me they were impressed, including a woman who made an appointment for an appraisal; and Bertie, from the New York Monthly, looking for fodder for her article on scandals in the antique business, learned nothing.
The tag sale went well, too. Revenue from sales was flat, but three people invited us to make offers on selling miscellaneous household goods to spare them the hassle of running yard sales. Anyone in the antique business will tell you that buying is tougher than selling, and the search for quality goods is constant. So to have opportunities to acquire inventory was all that was needed to transform a good day into a megawinner.
Max called around seven that evening, just as we were getting ready to close up.
“I finally reached Alverez,” he said.
“And?”
“And it’s okay for you to go to the Grant place anytime.”
“That’s great.”
“He mentioned that they’re maintaining a loose patrol, so if you’re questioned, it would make your life easier if you had some kind of written permission on hand.”
“I have a letter from Mrs. Cabot.”
“Good. Go ahead and fax it to me, and carry it with you. Moving on… I asked him about the inventory.”
“And?”
“And everything is accounted for except two things. You’ve seen Mrs. Grant’s ledger, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know about the Cezanne and the Matisse?”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“Well, those are the only two items missing.”
I was prepared for the news. So far, Wes’s source, whoever it was, was batting a thousand. “Pretty amazing, huh?” I said.
“Just a little,” he said dryly.
“Yeah.”
“Also, I asked him about being at your place today.”
“And?”
“And he said he went to your tag sale because he likes tag sales.”
I paused. “Did you believe him?”
“Sure, why not? I like tag sales, too. And you should see my wife.”
“I don’t know… he just doesn’t strike me as a tag-sale sort of guy.”
“Well, whatever his reason was, I wouldn’t let it worry you.”
“Okay,” I said, willing to stop discussing it, but unconvinced. “Any other news? Did he indicate they’re making progress on the investigation?”
“No news. He said they’re still following up on several promising leads, whatever that means.”
“What do you think it means?” I asked, not liking the sound of it.
I could imagine Max’s shrug. “Probably just what it says. That he’s following up on several promising leads.”
The phrase “following up on promising leads” chilled me. Somehow, the wording sounded ominous.
We agreed to talk on Monday after I’d been through the Grant house, or sooner if I needed him. His rock-solid support was an enormous comfort to me. I pictured him sitting in his suit and bow tie, his brow furrowed as he listened, and I wished I was nearby to touch his elbow, to thank him for helping me navigate this unchartered sea.
As I hung up, Sasha came into the office.
“We’re all set,” she said, looking exhausted.
“You did a great job, Sasha,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she answered, blushing, her awkwardness at being complimented manifesting itself in a quick hair twirl.
“New project,” I said, changing the subject.
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“The Grant goods. We’ve been hired by Mrs. Cabot, Mr. Grant’s daughter, to verify, authenticate, and value the contents of the house. You and I will work together, but you’ll be doing most of the research.”
“That’s great!” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing at the prospect, exhaustion a thing of the past.
“The first step is for you to watch the tape I made. And read the inventory Mrs. Grant kept. Review them before Monday, okay?”
“Absolutely. This is so exciting! Thank you, Josie.”
“You’re welcome. It’s great, isn’t it? Let’s meet at the Grant house at, what? Nine on Monday morning? Is nine okay for you?”
“Sure, nine is good.”
“Okay. Make sure you have the address.”
She smiled and thanked me again. From her perspective, I was offering a rare treat. She was visibly excited at the prospect of spending her weekend studying the tape I’d made of Mr. Grant’s antiques and poring over the inventory. Lucky me.
I slept until noon on Sunday. When I awakened, I felt discombobulated, uncertain of the day or, even, momentarily, where I was. No remnant of a dream lingered, so I couldn’t blame my confusion on that. Shaking off the amorphous discomfort proved tough, and it wasn’t until I showered and ate eggs, cooked just the way I like them, scrambled soft with tomatoes and onion mixed in, that I began to feel more like myself.
At three, dressed in jeans and a lightweight sweatshirt, I headed for the Grant house planning to stop at a grocery store on the way back to buy the ingredients I needed to cook Monterey chicken. I took the scenic route, glad for an excuse to drive along the shore.
It was a warm day, the bright sun hinting at summer. I rolled down the windows, relishing the ocean breeze. As I drove, I spotted several sailboats coursing along, running parallel to shore. I’d never sailed, and I decided that once I was clear of the Grant situation, I’d learn. Why not? I asked myself.
Driving through the village, I saw that the Taffy Pull’s door was propped open, and impulsively, I swung right into a vacant parking space. According to Wes, someone from the Taffy Pull had called Mr. Grant shortly before he’d been murdered, and I wanted to know why.
I stepped out and looked around. The street was deserted, but there were several cars scattered along the stretch of Main Street where the shops were nestled.
The Taffy Pull’s front window was decorated with displays of small piles of sand, artistically arranged to suggest the beach. Miniature lawn chairs dotted the sand piles. Brightly colored saltwater taffy pieces somehow connected to fluffy clouds dangled on nylon threads from the ceiling. It didn’t make logical sense, but it was whimsical and cute.
I took a deep breath for courage, and entered the store. I blinked several times, trying to hurry my eyes along as they adjusted to the dim inside light.
A blonde stood with her back to me, stretching to pull down a small white box of candy from a high shelf.
“Hi,” I said, looking around, glancing at the woman’s back.
“Hello,” she answered over her shoulder.
Box in hand, she turned, and I’m certain surprise showed on my face. “Paula!” I exclaimed.
Paula, my part-time tag-sale employee who wore T-shirts emblazoned with her political views and causes, responded, “Josie?”
“I didn’t know you worked here.”
She grimaced, just a little. “Family business. Today’s my turn.”
“Got it.” I smiled. I wanted to say something nice. A family business required a compliment even if she had made a face in telling me about it. “The display window’s cute.”
“Thanks. That’s my mother’s touch. She’s the needlepoint and scrapbooking type, so her window displays are always ‘cute.’”
She spoke the word “cute” as if it were vulgar, or at least embarrassing. I flashed on a memory from when I was about nine or ten, with my mother. My dad was busy with business, and the two of us had driven out to the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, about two hours west of Boston.
“It isn’t just his craftsmanship, Josie,” my mother told me later that night, as we sat eating dinner at the Red Lion Inn. “Obviously, Rockwell’s a brilliant technician. But it’s more than that. It’s the emotion. He captured the moments in life exactly. You look at what he painted and you know how the people in his pictures felt about whatever situation he put them in. That’s an amazing talent.”
To this day, I loved Norman Rockwell. But I was willing to wager that Paula, like many of the hip, so-called sophisticates I’d run into during my years living in New York scorned him, viewing his illustrations with disdain. “White bread,” they called his work, dismissing it as banal. Too bad for them. I could just imagine the picture Rockwell would have created showcasing Paula’s mother pridefully putting the final touches on the display window.
Paula seemed the same as always, cordial but not friendly. Solemn, as if she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. Today’s T-shirt read Mind Your Own Religion. Appropriate dress, I guessed, for an atheist with an attitude to wear on a Sunday.
Given her reaction to the window I’d just described as cute, I felt the need to clarify my comment. “I meant it as a compliment.”
She paused, apparently unused to hearing positive remarks. “Oh. Sure. I’ll tell my mother. She’ll be pleased.”
I smiled. “So you sell saltwater taffy, do you?”
“Yeah. And other stuff. We sell all sorts of handmade candy.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she said, placing the small white candy box on the counter.
“You know how a man named Mr. Grant was murdered?”
“Yeah, I heard. Terrible.”
“Was he a customer?”
“A customer? I don’t think so. I don’t know. Why?”
“Did you know him?”
Her look of surprise at what must have struck her as an out-of-the-blue question seemed genuine. “No. Why?”
I shrugged, not wanting to explain. “No reason. He’s a local, that’s all.”
A man entered the store holding hands with a girl of about seven or eight. They were laughing.
“Hi,” Paula greeted the newcomers.
“Hi,” the girl answered sweetly. “Oh, look, Daddy…” and she led him to a display of pink-wrapped taffy.
There was no point in asking any more questions, even if I knew what to ask, which I didn’t. I didn’t feel right not buying something, so I pointed to the small box she placed on the counter, asked if I could buy it, and when she said yes, paid in cash. As I was about to leave, I turned back and got her attention. “You did a great job yesterday.”
She seemed taken aback. “Thanks.”
“I’ll see you next Saturday.”
Paula almost smiled. “You bet.”
Getting in my car, I placed the little white box of candy on the seat beside me, noticing the kind-of-hokey, kind-of-sweet tag line under the logo: Made with pride by the Turner family.
The smell of ocean salt and musky seaweed swept over me, and I decided to walk to Mr. Grant’s. I estimated it was less than two miles, and it would feel good to stretch my legs. There were no parking restrictions on Sunday, so I could leave the car where it was.
As I headed south, the ocean on my left, I found myself thinking about Paula. I realized I knew very little about her. In fact, I realized, feeling slightly guilty, I’d never actually thought about her as an individual at all. It was habit more than desire that led me to keep employees at a distance. Idly, I wondered if that professional reserve was wise. I shook my head. No way to know the answer to that one.
I knew more about Paula than before. I knew she had a family, and was involved enough to honor her responsibilities to the family’s business. Still, discovering her there was odd. Maybe it was just a coincidence that one of my employees worked at the Taffy Pull. But if I’d named all the people I might have expected to find there, Paula Turner wouldn’t have been on the list.
The Grant house, an icon of a gracious age, had been built around 1920 and beautifully maintained ever since. As I approached, I spotted a policeman in uniform sitting on the porch, gently rocking in a weathered Adirondack-style chair. I recognized him. He was the middle-aged black man who’d led the search of my house. His belly hung over his pants. I was sure we’d been introduced, but I didn’t remember his name.
“Hello,” I said as I started up the flagstone walkway.
He stood up, hitching his pants and taking a step forward. He nodded.
“I’m Josie Prescott. We’ve met.”
“I remember.”
“I’m authorized to go inside.”
“You got a letter or something?”
I dug into my purse, pulled out Mrs. Cabot’s note, and handed it to him. He read it slowly, turned it over, I don’t know why, and gave it back to me.
“You going in now?”
“Yes. Is that all right?”
He shrugged. “Sure, why not? I was just checking on things. Nothing much going on.”
My guess was that he was more interested in relaxing on a sunny spring day than he was in checking on things, but all I did was nod. “I’m going to look around back.”
“I’ll be heading out now, but I’ll back in a while. You going to be here for long?”
“I don’t know. Not too long, I don’t think.”
I watched as he headed slowly toward the alley. That’s why I hadn’t seen his car, I realized. He was parked along the side. I looked around. Things looked fine. Someone, probably a landscaping service, had been maintaining the yard, for the lawn was freshly mowed. A stranger walking or driving by wouldn’t know that the house was unlived in.
I circled the grounds slowly, looking for I don’t know what, anything, I guess, that struck me as unexpected or out of whack. I saw nothing unusual, no recently excavated plot of land, no outside structure like a shed or tree house that might conceal two canvases laid flat or rolled. Entering with the key Mrs. Cabot had given me, I stood for a moment in the vast hallway and listened to the sounds of nothing.
Not even the ticking of the grandfather clock disturbed the quiet. No one, I supposed, had wound it. I walked toward it, shaking my head in admiration.
It soared more than seven feet tall, a beautiful example of a Pennsylvania Queen Anne grandfather clock, circa 1785, with a walnut casing burnished to a glossy sheen. The flat-top bonnet featured an arched door with free-standing turned columns enclosing the hand-painted faces. The illustration showed the phases of the moon, and at the bottom, an inscription read Jacob Spangler York Town. I stroked the side, relishing the feel of the satiny wood.
I turned toward the kitchen, visible through the open hall door. It was creepy. I considered leaving, but I wanted to remind myself of the layout, so when Sasha and I met tomorrow, I could direct her efficiently. I walked through every room. Shadows stretched through old-fashioned slanted metal Venetian blinds. A musty odor of disuse permeated the air, my footsteps echoed, a lonely sound, on the hardwood floors, and a thin layer of dust lay undisturbed on every flat surface. I felt my normal Sunday melancholy descending on me like a shroud.
An oversized leather trunk in the basement caught my eye. Sitting on wooden planks about six inches off the concrete floor, it had probably been made in the 1920s. The cordovan-colored leather was butter soft and only slightly scuffed. I’d opened it when I’d surveyed the house for Mr. Grant, so I knew it was designed in two parts. On top was a tray, about eighteen inches deep, sized to rest perfectly on a small ridge. When I’d removed it, a larger section, maybe four by six feet, was revealed. Mr. Grant had used it to store stacks of old clothing. What had just occurred to me was that there might be a third section below the other two. Some old traveling trunks were built with a narrow but deep drawer at the bottom. Under the dim light cast by the single overhead bulb, I couldn’t see well enough to tell, so I stooped down and used my flashlight to examine it carefully, and there it was. Two slots had been fabricated on the front side of the trunk, about 4 inches from the bottom, and in each slot, a metal handle lay flush with the leather surface.
My heart began to race. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a perfect hiding spot. I reached down and wedged my fingers under the handles, and pulled. It resisted my efforts, and I tugged harder. The drawer slid out smoothly, and it was empty.
I felt deflated, but less so than when I’d sat on the floor in front of the partners desk and cried. Then not finding the missing paintings had left me disconsolate. Now the hunt got my dander up.
I stood and stretched, turned off my flashlight, and stowed it on my belt. I looked around. The basement was a labyrinth of small rooms, and most were empty of items that would go to auction. One room housed the oil burner, another the washer and dryer, and a third was lined with wooden shelves filled with Mason jars of homemade preserves and pickles.
In a small workshop, presumably awaiting Mr. Grant’s attention as a handyman, stood a nonworking lamp, a chair that needed caning, and two pieces of a broken china platter. I doubted they were worth our time, but decided to examine them more closely tomorrow. Next to the platter, on the chipped surface of the worktable, was a three-sided wooden frame painted black with a plywood backing, waiting, I guessed, for the final piece to be attached. Sitting nearby were plastic containers of screws, nails, and bolts.
I switched off the light and was ready to head upstairs when I heard a creak, the sound of a floorboard bearing weight. I felt my heart suddenly stop, then thud so hard I almost felt sick. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I stood and listened. Nothing.
I shook off the concern, telling myself I was still skittish. Don’t be a silly-billy, I chided myself, you know very well that floorboards frequently make settling noises long after they’re trodden upon, so what you’re hearing is the aftereffect of your own presence. I smiled, wondering if I’d gained a pound or two.
At the top of the stairs, halfway in the kitchen, I heard a soft scroop as the front door latch clicked home. Shocked, I recoiled and almost tumbled down the steps. Then I froze again. Someone was in the house.
As the footsteps moved confidently and quickly away from the door, heading, I guessed from the direction of the sound, to the study in the front, I moved forward, trying to glide, my boots leaden as I moved. I tried to think who it could be, but no one made sense. It certainly wasn’t Mrs. Cabot. And she’d assured me that she’d keep Andi away. Could the police officer have returned? Maybe.
I left the basement door ajar, not wanting to risk the sound the latch would make if I closed it, and listened. I heard what sounded like drawers opening and closing. A loud scrape startled me, and I tried to imagine what could have caused it. Something big, I thought, like a chair or an ottoman, being dragged across the floor would sound like that. Then I heard a soft thud, as if the item had tipped over and landed hard on a thick carpet. No, I said to myself, whoever it is, it’s not a policeman.
I thought of calling 911, but quickly dismissed the idea. No. I’d make too much noise rummaging through my purse to locate my cell phone, and my voice would carry easily through the empty rooms.
All I could think of was how to get out. I headed for the back door, aiming to keep as much distance between me and the intruder as I could. I stepped gingerly into the mud room, and paused to let my eyes adjust. I had trouble catching my breath. In the gathering twilight, I could barely see the doorknob, and a rush of fear streamed over me. My heart hammering, tears welled in my eyes, making it hard to see. I brushed them away, forcing myself to focus on the problem at hand-getting out-and not think about my anxiety.
As soon as I could make it out, I reached for the doorknob, turned it, and pulled. Nothing. I tried again, pulling harder, then spotted a latch and turned it. Still, the door didn’t budge. I looked at it more closely, and felt my stomach lurch as I realized it was a dead bolt and required a key to open, even on the inside. I was trapped, with no way out.
Peeking around the corner, my mouth was so dry, I struggled not to cough. I saw and heard nothing.
I slipped back into the kitchen and crept forward, and stood beside the refrigerator, shielded from view. Purposeful steps headed in what sounded like my direction, and looking around wildly, I ran across the room to a door that swung into the butler’s pantry, connecting the kitchen to the dining room, and unsure where to go or what to do, I crouched down.
Even tucked away in a small room in the middle of the house, I heard a car pull up in the alley and stop. I could picture it. My thighs began to ache, but I seemed paralyzed with dread. Heavy steps approached the back door, and I heard the faint click of the dead bolt turning. Someone was entering the door that had held me prisoner.
A moment later, I heard a rush of scurrying steps, then a long moment later, a car starting and squealing away. I stayed huddled in the butler’s pantry, rocking a bit, tears running down my cheeks unchecked.
“Josie?” I heard. I recognized Alverez’s voice.
I sat down, hard, nearly fainting with relief, dropped my head forward, and began to cry in earnest. “In here,” I called faintly after a moment, my voice muffled with tears. I tried again, using as much willpower as I could muster to stem the flow. I swallowed. “I’m here.”
I heard a soft whoosh as Alverez pushed open the swinging door from the kitchen. I looked over and saw faded jeans and brown boots. I didn’t have the energy to lift my head higher.
“What happened?”
“Someone,” I said, my voice cracking. “Someone was here. They left out the front.”
“Are you all right?”
I nodded, and struggled to speak, but before I could translate my scattered thoughts into a coherent explanation, he was gone, running toward the front. “Stay there,” he called.
I stayed, unmoving, listening. I heard his running steps, heavy thumps, then silence. After several minutes, he again pushed his way into the pantry and squatted beside me. “Can you tell me what happened? What’s wrong?”
I hated that he was seeing me like this. I felt mortified. “I don’t know. Someone was here. I heard noises and I panicked. I tried to leave, but I couldn’t get out.”
I started up, wiping away the remnants of my tears. “I never used to cry. You must think I’m a mess.”
“No, no,” he said. He helped me stand, holding my elbow. “Let’s get you a glass of water and you can tell me what happened.”
Meekly, I followed him into the kitchen and stood silently while he let the water run and opened cabinet doors until he found a glass. He filled it with water and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, accepting it. I took a sip.
“I called for backup. People will be here in a minute, but in the meantime, I’m going to call the lab and get some technicians up here. Don’t move.”
“I don’t mean to sound wussy, but don’t leave me alone. Okay?”
Alverez smiled. “Okay. I’m just heading to the front door. Tag along if you want. But don’t touch anything.”
I followed him, carrying my water, taking an occasional sip. The front door was wide open.
“I take it you closed the door when you came in.”
“Of course,” I said. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.” I shook my head, the evidence of the open door startling me. I shivered.
“Was the door locked when you got here?”
“I guess. I used the key. I assumed it was.”
He nodded. I listened as Alverez called someone and issued a series of instructions. When he was done, he went into the study and glanced around. Nothing looked different. The books lining the shelves were orderly, the blotter on the partners desk was centered, and the chairs were angled as I recalled.
“It looks the same, right?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. But whoever it was wasn’t here long.”
“Right.”
He gestured that I should lead the way out, and we stood in the foyer, waiting.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“Griff told me.”
“Griff?”
“The officer you spoke to.”
“Oh, I didn’t remember his name. Why did you stop by?” I asked.
He paused, then said, “Just checking on things.”
Was he checking up on me? At the auction, thinking he was following me had made me mad. Here, I had a different reaction. For whatever reason, it was easier for me to believe that he was just doing his job than it was to think he was trying to trap me somehow. I guessed it was adrenalin-fueled relief that allowed me to trust him.
“Feel free to sit down,” he said.
I went into the living room and perched on a French Provincial chair upholstered in blue-and-yellow fleur-de-lis chintz. He leaned on the doorframe, keeping an eye on the front door.
“So, are you okay enough to tell me what you’re doing here?”
He didn’t sound accusatory or judgmental. I looked up and our eyes met and held fast. The attraction I felt was deeper than before, more personal, based on my response to his actions, not just his looks. I felt myself relax and despite the anxiety of my situation, for a moment, all I experienced was the delicious, mysterious connection between an interested man and a willing woman.
A car door slammed and broke the spell. I looked away, disoriented, but calmer, and no longer frightened.
“So,” he repeated, “what were you doing here?”
I shrugged. “Nothing. I was looking around. You know, getting ready for tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Sasha and I begin the appraisal. You heard, right? Mrs. Cabot has hired me to do a full appraisal.”
He nodded. “Yeah, Max told me. Congratulations.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“So exactly where were you and what did you hear?”
“It just occurred to me that I ought to call Max.”
Alverez nodded. “Sure. Do you have his number?”
“Yeah. On my cell phone.” I retrieved my purse from the butler’s pantry where I’d deserted it. Max answered on the first ring.
“Max, I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday.”
“No problem, Josie. What’s up?”
“I’m here at the Grant house with Chief Alverez. I’m fine. But it looks like there was a break-in while I was here and he was asking me about it, so I thought I ought to call you.”
“A break-in! Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I didn’t see anything. But I heard footsteps and it pretty much scared me to death. Then Alverez came in and found me huddled in a ball crying my eyes out. Pretty embarrassing, all things considered.”
“Let me speak to him,” he said. He didn’t sound like he found my attempt at lightheartedness amusing.
I handed the phone to Alverez, who took it, and said, “Alverez.”
He rested against the wall, calm and seemingly at ease. I sat on the chair and watched and listened.
“She seems fine. She was spooked, was all… I haven’t checked yet… Understood… I’ll be reinstituting security… Yeah, absolutely. Okay… okay… here she is.”
I accepted the phone, and said, “Max?”
“Did you see or do anything you don’t want him to know about? Just answer yes or no.”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea who it was who entered?”
“No.”
“Do you know why someone would have broken in?”
“No. Well, maybe.”
“Why?”
“Can I say openly?” I asked, my eyes on Alverez, watching him watch me.
“No. Keep him in sight, but get out of earshot.”
I repeated Max’s instruction and Alverez said he’d step outside. I watched through the kitchen window as he walked toward the ocean. When he’d stopped and was standing with his hands in his pockets and his back to me, I told Max I was ready.
“So, why do you think?” he asked.
“Maybe to find the missing paintings.”
“Right. Got it.” Max paused. “Why would someone risk breaking in if you were there?”
“I don’t know. I was in the basement, so they wouldn’t have heard me walking around. And the workshop is on the far side of the house, so they might not have noticed the lights being on.” I shrugged. “The bulbs are pretty dim down there, anyway.”
“What about your car?”
“I left it in town. I walked.”
“That explains that,” Max acknowledged. “And you didn’t hear the person drive up?”
“No. But if I was in the basement, I don’t know that I would have heard a car.”
“In any event, you didn’t?”
“No.”
“Did you see anything-a shadow, a reflection in a mirror… anything?”
“No. Nothing.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard a floorboard, on the porch, I guess. Then I heard the front door opening. Then more footsteps.”
“Where did the footsteps go?”
“It sounded like to the study, but I can’t be sure.”
“That’s all?”
“I heard noises. I thought it was someone moving around, pulling open drawers, maybe knocking over a chair. Then footsteps heading toward the kitchen.”
“Then what?”
“Then I tried to get out. And couldn’t. And flipped out.”
“You did fine, Josie. What else did you notice?”
“Nothing. After Chief Alverez arrived, I heard running steps, then a car roar off.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it,” I said.
Max paused, digesting, I guessed, what I’d told him. “What were you doing in the basement?”
“Looking around. I looked at a trunk and was deciding whether the broken things in Mr. Grant’s workshop were worth including in the appraisal.”
“What broken things?”
“You know, a lamp that needs a new cord, a plate that needs to be glued. Things like that.”
“What did you decide?”
“Probably they’re not worth including. I mean, there’s no market for glued china, you know? I thought I’d have Sasha look at the lamp, but that’s about it.”
“Okay. You can tell him what you’ve told me. If he asks anything out of range of your experience today at the Grant house, don’t answer. I told him I’d give you this instruction, so all you have to say is that you want to wait for me. If he needs more information, we can meet tomorrow. Okay? Are you clear?”
“Yeah. I am. Thanks, Max.”
“Just remember, short answers. One-word answers are best.”
“I remember.”
I hung up and slipped the phone back into my purse. I made my way outside and when Alverez turned toward me, I smiled. “I’m all yours. Max said.”
I heard the sirens, and before he could answer, two marked cars had pulled up, their red lights spinning in the night.