After Chief Alverez finished questioning me, he told me that he needed to talk to the senior technician for a minute, and then he’d drive me to my car.
“Okay,” I said, feeling shaky and weak, glad for his offer, embarrassed to admit that independent little ol’ me didn’t want to walk alone in the dark to my car.
We rode without speaking. All I heard were the comforting sounds of the droning engine and the soft claps of waves as they washed ashore.
Approaching the strip of stores where I’d left my car, I noted that the Taffy Pull was closed and dark. My car was the only one parked nearby. The entire area looked deserted.
Alverez said, “How are you feeling?”
“Embarrassed.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. Why wouldn’t you get upset when someone breaks in to a recently murdered man’s house?”
“I guess,” I acknowledged. I shrugged. “I’m okay.”
“You did fine,” he reassured me.
“Well… no, I didn’t. I used to pride myself on handling crises well. Now look at me. I’m a mess.”
“Jeez, Josie. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
My father used to say the same thing to me, that I had to give myself a break. Hearing Alverez speak similar words comforted me.
“Thanks,” I said, trying for a smile. “Also, thanks for driving me.”
“You going to be okay on your own tonight?”
I swallowed, fighting sudden tears. “You bet,” I said, aiming for perky.
He paused, then said, “If anything else occurs to you, don’t wait. Call me right away. Even in the middle of the night, okay?”
I shivered at the urgency conveyed by his words, and turned to look at him. In the glinty white moonlight, I could see the outline of his features, but not his eyes.
“Okay.”
“Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Take another card so you’ll have my number handy.”
I took it and slipped it into my purse. After a pause, I asked, “Do you know how the person got in?”
“Looks like they just popped the lock.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe it’s that easy.”
“Yeah,” Alverez said. “That lock is probably original to the house. A credit card would do it, no problem.”
“But the back lock requires a key.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Apparently Mr. Grant didn’t use the back door much, so he thought it ought to be secure.”
“Really? How can you know that?”
He paused, then said, “It’s what I do, actually. I find things out. Like, for instance, the grocery-store delivery folks always came to the front door, by request.”
I nodded. “Funny, isn’t it? We’re in the same business. We both are paid to find things out.”
“Yeah. Same, but different.”
“Yeah.” I thought about what he said about the lock. “Should I tell Mrs. Cabot to change the lock?”
“Absolutely. I plan on telling her, too. We’ll be providing security until we figure out what’s going on. But she might want to add more, like an alarm system. Until the contents are removed.”
“That’ll be pretty soon, I guess. In a week or so, probably Dobson’s will take control of everything and put it all in storage in New York. So they can do their own research.” After a short silence, I added, “Well, I guess I better go.”
“Will you be all right to get home?”
“Sure. I’m glad to be away from the Grant place, I’ve got to tell you.” As I spoke, I decided not to be alone there again. “When you said you’re going to be providing security, does that mean that you’re going to station men at the Grant house?”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Call me crazy, but I don’t really want to be there on my own again. And I don’t think I ought to let Sasha be alone there, either.”
“Makes sense. For the foreseeable future, I’ll have someone there.”
“Good. We’re scheduled to start the appraisal tomorrow morning. Will it be all right for us to enter?”
“Yeah, no problem. The technicians are just about done already. They’ll be out of here within an hour. I’ll tell the man on duty that you’re expected.”
“Thanks. Well, then…”
“You need me,” he interrupted, “you call. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed, grateful for his attention, yet still feeling self-conscious about my emotional spectacle. He came around the car to hold the door for me as I jumped down from the SUV. When I had my motor running, I waved a quick “See ya,” and he nodded and stepped back. As I pulled out and drove north, I glanced in the rearview mirror, and saw him, standing still, watching me.
Home again after spending more than fifty dollars at the grocery store, I put on a CD of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and made a martini. I broiled a hamburger and ate it with sliced tomatoes standing at the kitchen counter.
I was feeling better, more energized and less fearful. Even though it was approaching 10:00, I decided to proceed with preparing Monterey chicken. I was definitely not ready to rest, and it tasted better if it sat overnight in the refrigerator before baking anyway. I was grating Parmesan cheese for the bread-crumb mixture when Wes called.
“Hey,” he said. “Let’s meet tomorrow. Same time, same place, okay?”
“What do you have for me?” I asked.
“Another doughnut.”
“Please, God, no,” I said, understanding that he wasn’t going to give anything away on the phone. “Seven? At the beach?” I asked to confirm.
“Yup.”
“I’ll drive myself.”
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“See you then,” I said.
I turned back to my butterflied chicken breasts, white-hot curious about what he had to tell me. While I prepared the recipe, I went over everything I knew about Mr. Grant’s murder and the missing paintings. Where would Mr. Grant have hidden the masterpieces? I wondered if I had walked past them secreted somewhere and not even known it.
I ran water over my hands, rubbing my fingers to rid them of the breading mixture I’d used to coat the rolled chicken breasts, and stretched the plastic wrap taut over the roasting pan. I smiled as I placed it in the refrigerator and saw a carton of eggs. Tomorrow, I’d bring breakfast and show Wes an alternative way to eat. I put water on to boil.
Twenty minutes later, hard-boiled eggs and fruit salad ready to go for the morning, I finished wiping down the counter, turned the dishwasher on, and with my mind still absorbed in thinking of possible hiding places, I went to bed.
But sleep eluded me. I was exhausted, yet fretful and exhilarated as well. Tossing and turning so relentlessly that I jelly-rolled myself in the sheet, I finally gave up and turned on the light.
I decided to read for a while, to try to relax. I selected a favorite romance that I knew well, The Reluctant Widow, by Georgette Heyer.
It didn’t work. I found myself staring into space, pages unturned, for minutes at a time. Suddenly, just before two in the morning, I found the answer I’d sought.
I put the book aside and sat up in bed. I had it. I thought it through, methodically working through the various issues involved. Satisfied, I nodded, convinced that I knew where the paintings were and how they were hidden.
And I had a plan to protect them.
I smiled, satisfied, and to the mournful whine of a screech owl, my still-active brain succumbed to my body’s fatigue, and at last. I slept.
When the alarm went off, I hit the snooze button repeatedly until I finally forced myself out of bed, dawn’s light seeping into the room through ill-fitting curtains. When I saw that it was after five, I panicked, and flew into the shower.
I planned to secure the missing paintings and set the protocol we’d use in the appraisal before meeting Wes, and that required that I get to the Grant house by 5:30.
I didn’t make it. It was closer to 5:45 when I pulled up in front. A police officer stepped out onto the porch as I got out of my car. He was one of the young men I’d seen at the Rocky Point police station during one of my interrogations, and he looked tired.
I started up the walk, smiled, and said hello. “I’m Josie,” I said.
He nodded. “Chief Alverez said you’d be coming by.”
“And you are?…” I asked.
“Officer O’Hara.”
“May I enter?”
“Sure.” Officer O’Hara stepped aside and I went in.
“I’ve got to tell you,” I said to O’Hara, looking back with a smile, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
He looked surprised, as if he was more used to people objecting to him or something he was doing than he was to receiving thanks. Or maybe he thought I was being cagey, a murder suspect trying to lull a cop into believing in her innocence.
“I’ll stay out of your way, but I’ll be around,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Okay.” I shut the door, and through the window, I saw him sit on a bench and stretch his legs out in front of him.
I hurried into the study, turned on the lamps, and looked at the three Taverniers sitting side by side on the far wall, hanging from the crown molding on metal brackets. Reaching up, I lifted the painting closest to the door off its brackets, and gently lowered it until it rested on the carpet and against the wall. I examined the frame carefully, rotating the painting one turn at a time, carefully searching all sides. I twisted it so I could see the back, spotting nothing unusual in its construction, except that it was oversized, perhaps four or five inches deeper than it needed to be. The second Tavernier seemed to be constructed in the same way. I saw nothing odd. The third one, when I lifted it down, was noticeably lighter than the first two, and as soon as I positioned it against the wall, I saw a gap, as I expected.
The three-sided structure in the basement was designed to slip into the top of this frame like a drawer, sliding into place, meshing perfectly. No doubt, that was where the Renoir had been stored.
Returning my attention to the first painting, with its three-sided removable frame still in place, I tried to pry it loose. Nothing happened. I couldn’t see how to wedge it free. There was no handle or pulling device visible.
I unhooked my flashlight and leaning back on my heels, I examined the frame inch by inch, and there it was. On the top, in the center, was a tiny square plastic button, painted black to match the rest of the frame, and inlaid so perfectly, it was only by the closest examination that it ever would be found.
I pushed the button, and felt the spring-loaded apparatus nudge the top of the frame upward. Enough wood was now available that I could get a handhold and pull.
The frame was too large and heavy for me to extract standing up, so I laid the painting on the carpet and pulled it out that way. “Oh, my God,” I whispered as the Cezanne came into view. The cobalt blue and muted shades of orange and green were indescribably breathtaking. I shook my head, dazed.
I heard a scuffing sound, realized that Officer O’Hara could enter at any moment, and rushed to lay the other Tavernier down on the rug. I pushed the button releasing the hidden drawer and slid the Matisse out of its secret place. It was gorgeous, the perspective complex, and the colors vivid.
Both canvases lay flat against plywood backing, clamped at the top to hold them in place. I was easily able to release them, lift them out, and roll them up. Sliding the three-sided structures back in place, I left the paintings leaning against the wall.
As I passed through the hall, I was relieved to see O’Hara perched against a porch column, staring at the ocean, smoking a cigarette. I headed for the basement, cradling the two rolled paintings. I shivered a little as I entered the cooler, darker environment, whether from the chill of the cellar, the memory of yesterday’s panic attack, or the thrill of my discovery, I couldn’t tell.
I tenderly placed the paintings on the top of the leather truck, and squatted down to open the hard-to-find bottom drawer. It slid out smoothly, and unrolling the paintings, I laid them one on top of the other in the oversized space, closed the drawer, and ensured that the two handles were snuggled into their openings.
Standing, I realized that I’d been hyperventilating, and I forced myself to take several slow, calming breaths. I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I grabbed the three-sided frame from the workbench and held it upside down. Under the targeted beam of my flashlight, I could see the small spring. From the top, when nuzzled in place, it was essentially invisible. I carried it upstairs, inserted it into the opening in the third painting’s frame, and pushed it home.
I was done, and I sat down on the floor to catch my breath. “Whew,” I said aloud.
When I’d first examined Mr. Grant’s treasures, all three Tavernier frames were intact. I wondered what the police had thought when they’d looked at the gap. Probably nothing more than that a piece of a frame had broken off.
Last night, with sleep eluding me, I concluded that Mr. Grant had intended to destroy all three of the fabricated frames as soon as the stolen paintings had been sold, thus eliminating evidence of his deception. He’d taken the Renoir from its hiding place, and since he never intended that it would return to its home behind the Tavernier, he’d brought the three-sided frame to his workroom to demolish. No doubt he’d eventually expected to reframe the Taverniers, and I was willing to bet that somewhere, in the back of a closet, or in the attic, for instance, we’d find three traditional gilt frames ready to go.
I stood up, took a deep breath, and rehung all three paintings. It was exhausting.
I allowed myself a private grin and an “atta girl.” I brushed hair out of my eyes, excited that I’d discovered the missing paintings, and proud that I’d found a way to keep them safe.
But my pride was mitigated by icy fear. Another thought I’d had last night, as I’d struggled to sleep, was that maybe someone had killed Mr. Grant in order to have unfettered access to the Cezanne and the Matisse.
If Mr. Grant hadn’t liked how the negotiations over the Renoir had gone, and had decided not to proceed, killing him had been the only way of getting the art. Or maybe, I thought, Mr. Grant was killed not because he’d withdrawn his offer to sell the Renoir but because his death allowed the killer to avoid receiving only a small percentage of the proceeds of its sale. With Mr. Grant out of the way, the murderer could take it all. But only if he-or she-could locate the missing paintings.
It seemed obvious to me that the Renoir had been stolen at the same time that the murder occurred. What a disappointment it must have been for the murderer to realize that everyone seemed to know that the Renoir existed. Too risky to keep, and too risky to sell, it must have seemed clever to the killer to plant it at my warehouse in order to try to frame me for Mr. Grant’s murder.
I shook my head, sickened at the thought that someone could do such a thing to me. Whoever it was, I could imagine their growing frustration. The Renoir might be off limits, but if Mr. Grant had mentioned the other paintings, perhaps dangling them as a carrot during the negotiations, and if the killer hadn’t known that Mrs. Grant’s ledger would reveal the paintings’ existence to the police, the murderer might think he-or she-was sitting pretty.
Of course, a search couldn’t be undertaken while the house was under police custody as a crime scene, but as soon as the authorities unsealed it, someone had entered and had, apparently, started to hunt for the paintings while I was in the basement.
My final conclusion, and I shivered with fear at the thought, was that if someone had murdered once to acquire priceless masterpieces, that person wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.
It was almost 6:30 when I got to my office. I ran inside, punched the code to turn off the alarm, and dashed upstairs to my office.
The best way to establish protocols is to actually do research. Otherwise, your decisions are based only on theory and can be arbitrary. Still, research only isn’t enough. Setting reasonable price ranges requires knowledge, intuition, and street smarts. You have to consider factors such as the condition of the piece relative to other examples that have sold, current market demand compared to what economic conditions existed when other similar pieces were auctioned, and unique factors such as a distinctive provenance-and determine which ones matter most.
Two of my office walls were stocked with various guidebooks and auction catalogues. In addition, we subscribed to several Web sites that tracked and reported auction results worldwide.
As a test case, I selected the now-silent Queen Anne grandfather clock standing in Mr. Grant’s hallway. I wanted to see how long it took me to set a price. It was a reasonable test selection, since it was representative of the bulk of the items in the Grant estate: valuable, but not unique.
Noting my starting time, I quickly sorted through the American furniture catalogues that filled about a quarter of my bookshelves and found two clocks that were similar to Mr. Grant’s. One had been sold by a Florida dealer, Shaw’s Antiques, in 2003. Mark Shaw described it as “magnificent.” Barney’s firm, Troudeaux’s New Hampshire Auctions, had auctioned the second in 2002. M. Turner described the clock’s condition as “very good.” Which meant it wasn’t “magnificent.”
Most antique dealers used “excellent” or “mint” to indicate pristine condition, but some were more poetic, and used terms like “magnificent.” The bottom line was that there was no standardization in the industry, so it was important for buyers to know how a dealer used words. “Magnificent” implied perfection. “Very good” usually meant there was some minor or normal wear.
Shaw’s had estimated that the clock would sell for $9,000 and it had actually sold for $10,300. Troudeaux’s had expected the clock to bring in $10,500, so its sales price of $6,750 must have been a huge disappointment. That was quite a spread-the Florida clock fetched $3,550 more than the one Barney sold.
Big differentials in prices between two similar items usually reflected differences in quality-which was, I knew from experience, impossible to define precisely. In this case, however, it seemed obvious why Shaw’s clock did so much better. First, it was in better condition than the one Barney sold. Second, according to Shaw’s description, the clock had been owned by a former governor of Georgia. That kind of connection often led to higher prices. Prestige by association. Besides which, Barney’s estimate might reflect wishful thinking or whimsy. His firm’s research was always suspect; whether from indifference or sloppiness, his estimates were wrong more often than they were right.
Searching through the Web sites we subscribed to, I found another similar clock, described as being in “excellent condition.” It had sold at a Pennsylvania auction six months ago within its range. Estimated to fetch between $7,000 and $8,500, it had brought in $8,100.
From a low of $6,750 to a high of $10,300. Calculating both the average and the median, and considering the effect of condition and the Georgia governor’s prior ownership, I estimated that Mr. Grant’s clock should sell for $7,000 to $9,000. Maybe more if Dobson’s got lucky.
I typed out the description, including the estimated price range, and glanced at the clock on my computer. From first look at my bookshelves to the completed catalogue entry, half an hour. Not bad. In a separate document, I specified the details of my calculation.
The protocol was set: I would require that we research three sales of comparable items within the last five years. I e-mailed the file to Gretchen and Sasha, and printed out a copy for me to take. I smiled with satisfaction. Step one of the appraisal, done.
I called Wes en route and told him that I was running late.
It was twenty after seven when I pulled to a stop behind Wes’s old Toyota. He was leaning against the hood, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, hurrying to join him, the bag of food in my hand.
“If only you knew what I know, you would have been on time,” Wes said, popping a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.
“Don’t be a tease, Wes. Tell me.”
“Let me turn on the radio.”
“Wes, you’re not still thinking I’m wired, are you?”
He chuckled, a snorting sort of sound, and ate more nuts. “Nah, but I got news, and I’m not taking any chances.”
Wes sat down, and leaving the car door open, turned on the motor and punched a button for an oldies station. I got settled in the passenger seat and pulled plastic-wrapped hard-boiled eggs out of the bag, laid out napkins on his dusty dashboard, and handed him a plastic fork.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Food,” I answered. “You ought to try it sometime.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I looked in the back of your car, remember? I ate your doughnut. You don’t eat food. You eat junk. An egg and fruit salad. That’s food.”
He looked skeptical. “Thanks,” he said, but made no move to eat.
I unwrapped my share and took a bite of egg.
He gestured that I should lean closer. Accompanied by the familiar, gotta-dance rhythm of “Under the Boardwalk,” he whispered, “Barney kept the three P.M. appointment at Mr. Grant’s house. Alverez was the one who told him about the murder.”
Either Barney was telling the truth and had called the night before to change his appointment from 9:00 to 3:00 or he was lying, and had called for some other reason altogether.
Goose bumps rose on my arms as I had the startling realization that maybe Barney had shown up at 9:00 and killed Mr. Grant. There was plenty of time for him to cover his tracks. It was simple. All he had to do was leave and return at 3:00, pretending he was there for his rescheduled appointment.
I stepped out of the car and walked a few steps, starting up the dune, wanting to see the ocean. I watched the frothy waves make rivulets as they rushed along the sand.
Wes stepped out of the car, and called, “What are you doing?”
After a moment, I came back and sat down again.
“What do you think?” Wes asked, watching me consider options.
“Interesting,” I said.
“That’s one of those comments…”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Interesting,’” he said, mocking me. “Don’t give me that. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that it’s interesting,” I insisted, aiming to look and sound sincere. “What do you think I mean?”
“Give me a break.”
I shook my head. I took out my plastic container of fruit salad, popped the lid, and ate some pineapple and cantaloupe pieces. “Anything else?” I asked.
Wes sighed loudly. “You owe me. You know that, don’t you? You owe me big.”
“Wes, you and I both know we owe each other. You’ll get yours.”
“I better. That’s all I’ve got to say. I better.”
“You will. So, what else?”
He sighed again. “What the hell. You know those two business calls?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Mr. Grant’s doctor and the Taffy Pull.”
“Right. Well, the doctor made that call to tell Mr. Grant about the results of some tests he’d taken a week earlier.”
“And?” I prodded.
“And,” he said, drawing it out, enjoying his moment, “Mr. Grant received a diagnosis of late-stage pancreatic cancer.”
“You’re kidding! That’s terrible.”
“Yeah. Apparently, it’s terminal about ninety-six percent of the time. It looks like Mr. Grant had only weeks or months to live.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. That’s so sad.”
I felt unsettled, hearing yet another example of my not being able to trust my instincts. The older I got, the more I realized that the chasm that exists between perception and reality is huge. I shook my head, disheartened at the thought. I pictured Mr. Grant standing in his kitchen, jovial and lively. It was hard to think that at that moment, he’d been deathly ill. Sadness swathed me like fog clouding a distant view. Taking a deep breath to clear my mind, I looked up and saw Wes waiting for me to speak.
“When was that call made?” I asked.
Wes pulled out his much-used notepaper. “March twelfth.”
I nodded. “Just before Mr. Grant called me. That must be why he decided to sell everything-and why he wanted to move so quickly.”
“Makes sense,” Wes acknowledged. “But what does it mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to understand everything I can.”
“How about you? What have you learned?”
It seemed low risk to confide that I’d been retained by Mrs. Cabot. It wasn’t a secret, and if he published it, I’d get some good press. “You didn’t get this from me. All right?”
“Sure. What?”
In a hushed voice, I told him what Mrs. Cabot hired me to do, sticking to the in-the-open reasons: to verify, authenticate, and value the estate.
Impressed, Wes shook his head a little, and whistled. “What a coup. What are you going to do about Troudeaux?”
“What do you mean?”
“Good ol’ Barney’s gonna be pissed.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but he might be right. “It’s just business,” I said with a dismissive shrug.
“You wish,” Wes responded with a grimace.
If he was right, it was a real problem because Barney had the power to hurt me. A rumor here, an innuendo there, and my business would be ruined. Just in case Barney would resent that I won the job, I had to anticipate and block an attack. I remembered my father talking to me about barriers to competition, and tried to recall what he’d said.
The echoing, lonely sound of a sea gull startled me. I looked up and saw it spike and dive.
“What do you think?” Wes asked, recalling me to the conversation.
“You might be right,” I admitted. “So I’d better prepare for the fallout, huh?”
“What can you do?”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”
“Let me know, huh? It might make for a good story.”
“Wes, you’re something else.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. You’re like an ambulance chaser, you know, looking for ways to find a nicely battered accident victim.”
“Man, you’re brutal in the morning, aren’t you? All I’m doing is my job. I don’t make anyone a victim, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged and smiled a little. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Nothing personal, anyway. It’s a comment on the breed, not on you as an individual, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever. Back to the subject at hand… Don’t forget-when you find the Matisse and the Cezanne, I’m your first phone call, right?”
I thought for a moment about what to say. I needed to remember how I’d felt before I found the paintings, and consider how I would have acted around a reporter. I looked back toward the rising dunes. Upbeat and noncommittal, I decided. “Keep your fingers crossed that I find them,” I said, trying to for a casual tone.
“And then you’ll call me, right?”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
“Why not? I’m the guy that clued you in to Mrs. Grant’s ledger, remember? You owe me.”
“I’ll tell you what I can when I can. And that’s a promise.”
He sighed loudly and tried to look hurt. I laughed. “Wes,” I added, “you’re a hoot and a half.”
“A ‘hoot and a half’?” he asked. “What’s that?”
“You’re a good reporter. Persistent. But we’re done now. Unless you learned anything about the Taffy Pull phone call.”
“Not yet.”
“How about who left that fingerprint in Mr. Grant’s house?”
He shook his head. “Still unidentified.”
We shook hands, and agreed to talk if and when.
I arrived back at the Grant house a couple of minutes before Sasha and sat in my car, glad for the chance to rest. She pulled up and parked in back of me. As I got out to greet her, I spotted the Taffy Pull box that had sat on the passenger seat overnight.
“Do you like taffy?” I asked her.
“What?”
“I have a box of taffy, but I don’t really care for it. So you can have it if you want.”
“Sure, thanks. I like it.”
As I handed her the box, I thought of Paula and her family business. I wondered what she and Barney had been discussing on Saturday at the tag sale.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Absolutely. I can’t wait! I knew that the Grants had special things, but I had no idea.”
“I know. It’s unbelievable. Wait ’til you see. First thing we’ll do is walk the house so you can get a feel for the layout. Then I’ll go over the research protocol and we’ll discuss procedures. Then, off we go!”
Sasha smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Will you be here the whole time?”
“No. I need to follow up on some of the buying leads we got over the weekend. But I’ll be available whenever you need me.”
Officer O’Hara was still standing on the porch. “Hi,” he said as we approached.
“Hello,” Sasha said shyly, looking down.
I introduced them, took her inside, and began the tour. Sasha followed along in stunned silence. It’s one thing to watch a video and another thing altogether to see and touch the real thing.
When we finished, we sat at the kitchen table, agreeing that Sasha would go room by room, starting in the living room. “The only thing for you to look at in the basement,” I told her, “is the lamp. I don’t know if it’s worth including in the auction. There’s a leather trunk down there, but I’ll take care of that. I’ve already begun some of the research.” It wasn’t true, but I needed a good reason to keep her away from it.
“Okay. I’ll look at the lamp later.”
“Should I get you a helper?” I asked.
“A research assistant would be helpful,” she said. “There’s so much to do.”
I nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.” I took out my cell phone and called Gretchen. “Good morning,” I said. “Everything okay?”
“You bet,” she answered, sounding chipper.
“Do me a favor, will you? Call Don in New York,” I said, referring to an executive recruiter I knew who placed a lot of curators and art historians in temporary and permanent positions, “and tell him I’m going to need a researcher for a week. Explain about the Grant appraisal, and warn him that the collection is eclectic, so we’ll need someone with a broad knowledge base. Tell him I’ll call him later if he has any questions. And ask him to get the person up here today.”
“Got it.”
I hung up and turned to Sasha. “Let me explain the protocol that I think makes sense,” I said, showing her the printout I’d prepared that morning, reviewing what I learned about the grandfather clock, and detailing the standards I’d established. She listened closely, and agreed that the approach was appropriate.
As Sasha and I sat and talked about the catalogue format we’d use in preparing the written appraisal, I heard a commotion outside. I was glad I wasn’t alone, anxiety replacing the comfortable feeling of being in charge that I’d had all morning.
“Let me see what’s going on,” I said.
I headed to the front and pulled aside the sheer curtain enough to see Andi Cabot, scary-skinny in a formfitting yellow spandex dress and French heels, righteous and rigid, arguing with Officer O’Hara. Her features were scrunched in anger.
“Let me in,” she berated. “It’s my grandfather’s house and you have no right to stop me.”
I couldn’t hear Officer O’Hara’s reply, so I cracked the door, gesturing to Sasha, who’d begun to walk forward, that she should stay back.
“I demand to see that Prescott woman.”
“Calm down, ma‘am,” O’Hara said. His words had the opposite effect, enraging her further.
“Don’t you tell me what to do. Where is she?”
I stepped forward. “I’m here. What do you want?”
Andi tried to push past him, to get to me, but O’Hara thrust out his arm and stopped her. “Don’t touch me,” she shrieked. To his credit, he didn’t budge.
To me, she said, “Get out, and get out now. You’re fired.”
The angrier Andi got, the calmer I felt. “You can’t fire me, I’m afraid,” I said softly. “I don’t work for you.”
“Me, my mother… it’s all the same. I damn well can fire you. Get out!”
I shook my head, mystified about her motivation, but confident of my position. “I don’t know what your issue is, Ms. Cabot. But you can’t fire me and I’m not getting out. I have a signed paper authorizing me to be here. Do you?”
“How dare you speak to me that way?” she raged, trying again to push past O’Hara.
“Officer O’Hara,” I said, still calm, “I’m going inside now. Would you like me to call Chief Alverez and tell him what’s happening?”
“Yes, thanks,” he said, moving in tandem with Andi, keeping her in check as she tried to forge ahead.
“I’ll get you,” she shrieked, “you can’t do this to me!”