“Perhaps. Did you look at everything?”
“I don’t know about everything. I looked at some things.” I flipped a hand. “If you’re interested in selling, I’d be interested in buying, or auctioning, any or all of the goods. The items I saw were very special, and I’m sure you’ll realize a large amount of money.”
“If I decide to sell,” Mrs. Cabot asked, “and if I ask you to help, how would the process work?”
I was spared the necessity of providing a quick response when the waiter brought my hamburger and asked if we wanted anything else. I asked for ketchup and he produced it from a pocket in his apron.
“How much do you know about the origin of the antiques?”
“Why?” Mrs. Cabot asked.
I wondered if she was being cagey, too. “It makes research easier,” I answered. True enough, but I had another reason for asking. I was trying to discover how much she knew about her parents’ buying habits. From that information I might be able to discover more about the history of the Renoir.
“Not much, I’m afraid. I left home when I married, forty years ago.”
I nodded. Learning anything useful had been a long shot. So much time had passed since the Renoir had been hidden, according to the Web site I’d consulted, in an Austrian barn. Memories fade and witnesses die.
“How much will you give us for the lot?” Andi asked abruptly.
“Andi!” her mother protested.
“Oh, come on, Ma. What’s the problem?” To me she added, “Well? How much?”
“I don’t know,” I answered calmly, addressing Mrs. Cabot, not her daughter, while spreading ketchup on the bun. “As you know, your father hadn’t actually retained my company’s services before he died. What that means is that I didn’t do a complete appraisal. If you’d like, I will. Then I can make you an offer, tell you how much you’d be likely to get at auction, or discuss other possibilities, like a consignment sale arrangement.”
“How long would that take?” Andi asked, irritated.
“A few days. Not even,” I replied, remembering that I still had the videotape as reference.
“How much do you charge for the appraisal?”
“You probably don’t need a written appraisal.” I shrugged. “For me to get enough information to make you a fair offer, no charge.”
“Thank you. That’s very clear,” Mrs. Cabot said. “May I ask you… do you know my father’s lawyer, Mr. Epps?”
“Yes,” I said.
“This is a little awkward, but I need to know, well, would you comment… Let me ask you… Did you know that Mr. Epps was recommending that Mr. Troudeaux help my father sell some items?”
I felt pinned by Andi’s eyes and turned to look at her. Her antagonism was directed at me like bullets from a rifle, and I found myself getting angry. What on earth, I wondered, did I ever do to her?
“I wouldn’t know,” I answered, turning my attention back to Mrs. Cabot.
“What do you think of Barney Troudeaux?” Mrs. Cabot asked, ignoring her daughter.
I shrugged. “He’s well respected in the industry.”
“Assuming our choice is between you two, why should we use your services instead of his?”
I took a bite and chewed. It tasted knee-weakeningly good. “I don’t know how to answer that without sounding immodest.” I shrugged and smiled. My father once told me that the secret to pitching new business was to avoid adjectives and generalities which only sound like marketing hype, and to stick to the facts. And to keep it short. “Barney’s well respected, but I have on staff researchers whose work will ensure that you get the highest prices. Barney doesn’t. As to the rest, well, I’ll be glad to give you references.”
I took another bite. I could tell that when I was done eating, I was going to have trouble staying awake.
Andi made a contemptuous clicking noise with her tongue and looked away as if to show that she thought my pitch was completely lame. Usually, I’d want to strike out against her display of rude belligerence. For some reason, though, witnessing her behavior just made me feel sorry for Mrs. Cabot.
“The money,” Andi said as if she were talking to a four-year-old. “If we give you the job, how soon would we get the money from the sale?”
“It depends on the deal we make, whether it’s an outright sale, consignment, or an auction.”
“Andi,” her mother said kindly, “don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves.”
Andi pushed back her chair. “Whatever. Let’s not make it more complicated than it has to be. We should let them do their appraisals, submit offers, and take the highest bidder. Period.” She stood up and turned to her mother, adding, “I’ll be upstairs when you’re done.” She stomped out of the restaurant, her anger poisoning the air.
“Please forgive my daughter. She’s never learned patience.”
Either Mrs. Cabot was in complete denial, or that was a masterful example of understatement. I wasn’t sure how to reply. I looked at her, but her attention was focused on the far distance. She probably didn’t even realize that I was watching her. There was a hollow sadness in her voice that I recognized, and deep in her eyes I sensed a vulnerability that echoed within me. My father had died unexpectedly, too, so I thought I understood part, at least, of what she was feeling.
After the initial shock of his death had worn off, a barren loneliness set in, and was with me still. True, in the last several weeks I’d felt flickers of hope that happiness could again be mine, but those moments were brief and transitory. The big difference was that for the first time, I believed that things would get better. Mrs. Cabot was still in shock; for her, the bitter alone-ness hadn’t yet begun.
“It’s okay,” I said, finally.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said in a whisper.
Just after eleven that night, showered and wrapped in my favorite pink chenille robe, I sat on a window seat in my kitchen with my feet tucked under me, sipping, at last, my first martini of the day. The creamy cold gin soothed and calmed me.
Staring across the silver-lit meadow that backed into a thick forest, it occurred to me that I could picture Andi somehow being involved in sneaking the Renoir into my warehouse, and maybe even in her grandfather’s death. While it seemed absurd to think that Mrs. Cabot would have snuck into my warehouse and hidden behind my crates. I could easily picture Andi skulking about, her face pinched with anger. But why would she have done so? Nothing added up.
Still, her anger seemed beyond reason. Could she really be involved? No, I told myself. Such a thing would be incredible! Yet even as I silently spoke the word, a picture of her blazing eyes and sneering lips came to mind. Maybe. I shook my head, incredulous at the thought. Maybe it was true.
I realized that if I’d been thinking like a detective, I would have looked at her feet. As it was, I hadn’t once noticed either Mrs. Cabot’s or Andi’s shoes, so I had no idea whether their sizes might be nine narrow.
I needed to stop thinking.
“Chicken,” I said aloud, and smiled. “I’ll make Monterey chicken tomorrow night or Sunday.” I liked to cook, and I was good at it. Whenever I want to improve my mood, I cook.
When I was thirteen, just days before my mother’s death from lung cancer, she’d made a ceremonial presentation of her recipe box. Her handwritten index cards contained a treasure trove of family favorites, and I’d made them all, adapting the proportions so I could cook for two, and lately, for one.
I’d make Monterey chicken tomorrow or the next day, but tonight my mind wouldn’t be silenced. I sipped my drink and thought about Mr. Grant’s paintings, the Jules Tavernier garden scenes.