I was closer to being on even footing now, but I wasn’t there yet. To say that I found it harder to contain my feelings didn’t even begin to describe my lack of emotional control. It was as if my nerve endings were a little nearer to the surface.
I shook my head a bit to chase the memory away. I took a deep breath and looked up at Alverez, trying for a smile. “I’m being stupid, I know,” I said. “I didn’t know Mr. Grant, not really. I only met him a couple of weeks ago. And look at me.” I swept away more tears. “It’s just such a shock. And he was such a sweetheart.”
“Tell me about him,” Alverez said, leaning against the concrete wall.
I paused, thinking of what to say. “He looked like Santa Claus, except that he was short and sort of shriveled. But he had the beard and the belly and he was jolly as all get out.”
“How did you come to meet him?”
“He wanted to sell a lot of furniture and art.”
“Out of the blue?”
I swallowed again, fighting back sudden emotion. “Not really. His wife died, you know, about three months ago. The house is huge. Well, I suppose you know that. It was too much for him, I guess.”
“So,” Alverez said softly, “where were you this morning?”
“Is that when… I mean… when was he killed?”
“The medical examiner is still working on it.”
I nodded. “I just can’t believe it. Mr. Grant! I’m sorry… Okay… Let me think.” I sighed and paused. “Okay. I got in around eight and was here working,” I said, gesturing with a sweep of my hand that I meant inside the warehouse, “until around eleven-ten or eleven-fifteen. Then I drove out to Mr. Grant’s house. I got there around eleven-thirty. We had an appointment, but he wasn’t there.”
“How do you know he wasn’t there?”
“I knocked and rang the bell. I went around back and knocked on the kitchen door. I even peeked in windows, but I didn’t see anything.”
“What did you do then?”
“I thought Mr. Grant had mistaken the day. He’s pretty old.”
Alverez nodded. “So then what?”
I shrugged. “I sat in my car awhile. At quarter to twelve I rang the bell again, in case he hadn’t heard it the first time. Then I left a message on his answering machine and came back here.” I wiped away another tear. “I was planning on calling him again later today because I wasn’t sure he knew how to use his answering machine.” I smiled a little. “He was such a nice man. What happened?”
“We don’t know yet. Do you?”
“Me? I don’t know anything.”
“Sure you do. You knew him and you were there this morning. What would be best is if you came with me to the station.”
“Why?” I asked, startled, and immediately wary.
“To answer some more questions.”
“I can’t. I have too much work.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. It’s important. And I could really use your help.”
I looked at him, wondering what I should do. The Wilson estate needed careful sorting, and there were only two days until the auction preview. Sasha, an art-historian-turned-appraiser who worked for me, could handle that, I supposed. I’d remind Eric to be diligent. Or maybe not. I’d made my point earlier. Gretchen would hold the fort as she always did.
“I guess,” I said. “I’d better call my lawyer.”
“Why don’t you have him meet you at the station house,” he suggested.
“I’ll let him decide.”
“Who’s your lawyer?”
I worked with lawyers in my business all the time, but I’d never needed one personally before. I swallowed, trying to focus. Who should I call?
Max Bixby came to mind. He was one of the first people I’d met when I’d moved to Portsmouth. I remembered his friendly welcome at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast, and he’d been pleasant and accessible ever since. “I’m going to call Max Bixby,” I said.
“He’s a good man.”
I turned away, heading for the office to talk to Gretchen. Before I reached the door, I stopped and turned back to him. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were dark and knowing.
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure. Whether I answer, well, that depends.”
I nodded. Tears came again, unexpected and unwanted. I turned away and wiped them away.
“How was he killed?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head. “That’s under investigation.”
I shut my eyes and shook my head. “Was he in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“This morning?”
“Probably.”
I shivered. Murdered and left alone to die in his own home.
After trying his office, I reached Max at home. I could hear a child crying in the background and a woman’s raised voice.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at home,” I said.
“It’s okay, Josie. I’m glad to have an excuse to remove myself from the situation,” he said with a laugh. “What started as a nice family lunch has disintegrated into a temper tantrum.”
“Well, I hate calling you there, but I think I’m in trouble, Max,” I said, getting to the point.
“Tell me,” he ordered, and I told him the whole story.
“It’s good you called,” he said when I’d finished. “I’ll meet you at the station house in a half hour. Wait for me in the parking lot.”
I found Alverez where I’d left him, standing by the crates, scanning the room. I told him what Max said, and he nodded.
“Half hour’s fine,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”
I watched as he walked away, leaving me feeling alone, confused, and frightened.
Max and I stood on the edge of the sand dunes watching the ocean as we spoke. I know that it’s popular not to like lawyers, but it’s impossible not to like Max. He’s paternal without being patronizing, direct but always respectful, and old-fashioned without being stodgy. He’s probably about forty-five, but you think he’s older from the way he dresses and conducts himself. He wears tweed jackets and bow ties, and he’s almost courtly in manner.
“If I tell you not to answer any question, don’t. Stop talking when I tell you. If you’re unsure about an answer talk to me in a whisper first,” he instructed me. “If you know the answer and I haven’t stopped you, answer only what is asked. Don’t give any extra information. The shorter your answer, the better. One-word answers are good.”
“What if I can’t give just a one-word answer? What if he asks for my impressions of something?”
“Assuming I don’t stop you, try to answer it in one short sentence. Don’t expound.”
I nodded my understanding and agreement. The ocean was rough today. The bottle green water was dotted with whitecaps, and the waves were bigger than usual. It was mostly overcast. A storm was brewing.
Max told me his fee and I was glad that I had enough in savings so it wouldn’t pinch to pay it. We crossed the street and entered the station house. The Rocky Point police station was new, built in the last year or two and designed to look like a beach house with a peaked roof and shingles left to weather to a silvery tone just like most of the houses along the shore.
Alverez pushed through the swinging wooden gate to greet us, then held it open for us to pass through.
“Thanks for coming. How you doing, Max?” he asked.
“Fine, thanks,” Max said. “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since last summer’s clam bake.”
“That was a good time, wasn’t it?” Alverez asked. “Cathy,” he called, “we’ll be in the back.”
A big blonde hurried out from somewhere on the left. “Did you see my notes?” she asked. “You had calls.” She scooped up old-fashioned pink While You Were Out message sheets from a Formica-topped desk and handed them to him, spotted us, and looked at Alverez, a question in her eyes.
“This is Josie Prescott,” Alverez said to her. “And her lawyer, Max Bixby. We’ll be in room two, Cathy.” To me he added, “Would you like some coffee or an iced tea or anything?”