“How about Mr. Grant’s background? Were you able to learn anything about him or his family?”
Wes nodded. “Yeah. Quite a story, actually. He was born in Kansas, the only son of successful ranchers. He came east to go to prep school, and never lived in the Midwest again.”
“Was he in the war?”
“Yeah. He joined the army in 1942, and for a lot of the time, he was stationed in France. That’s when he met his wife. According to all reports she was a piece of work. A tough old bird with a temper. She was maybe French, maybe Belgian, maybe who knows what.”
“What do you mean, ‘who knows what’?”
He shook his head, and gestured that he had no idea. “I know that her name was Yvette. Or at least that’s what she called herself. I couldn’t even find a record of her maiden name.”
“How can that be? What does that mean?”
“Probably nothing. Maybe she was a Jew on the run. Maybe she was a Nazi sympathizer. Who knows? Back then, there were lots of good reasons to change your name and reinvent yourself.”
I thought about that for a long minute, watching as shards of sunlight dappled the sand and water. Gretchen had wanted to reinvent herself, a fresh start, she’d called it. I wondered if Gretchen was her real name, or if, like Yvette, she too had changed it. No matter. She was Gretchen to me, and I felt grateful that her desire for a fresh start had led her to my door.
After a sip of coffee, I asked, “What did Mr. Grant do after the war?”
“He settled in Rocky Point and started a painting contracting business.”
“And?” I prompted.
“And he made a fortune. Everyone I checked with said he was a ruthless SOB, but likable. The kind of guy who could sell tulips to a Dutchman.” He shrugged. “Apparently he was a good talker and a terrific negotiator. But you’d better be careful every step of the way because if there was anything he could exploit, he would.”
“Why? What does that mean?”
“You know… it means that he was a smooth operator, a guy who knew the angles and never missed an opportunity to make a profit. He built his business by winning federal contracts until it became the biggest company of its kind in New England, then sold out to a national firm. That was about fifteen years ago.”
That sounded like both the Mr. Grant I’d met and the one I’d gotten to know after his death: charming and shrewd. “How big a fortune are we talking about?” I asked.
Wes glanced at the folded square of paper. “Somewhere around thirty million dollars, depending on who you ask.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Wow it is.”
I remembered that Max had planned to ask Epps who would inherit Mr. Grant’s estate, and wondered if he had done so. From my conversation with Mrs. Cabot yesterday, I assumed she inherited everything. It occurred to me that Wes might know.
“Does his daughter inherit everything?” I asked.
“Nope. Fifty-fifty split with the granddaughter. Nothing to anyone else.”
“No siblings, uncles, cousins? No other family?”
“No. Mr. Grant had a sister who died in her teens back in Kansas. Mrs. Grant-who knows what family she might have had. According to my source, no one else has surfaced yet.”
I nodded. That would account for Andi’s impatience. Fifteen million dollars would buy a lot of independence. I wondered whether she cared that she had such a small family. As the only children of only children, apparently Andi and I shared a common legacy-small families that grow smaller with each generation.
“Anything else of note?” I asked.
“Something about the daughter’s leaving after high school. Mrs. Cabot. She left to get married in… let me see here… 1964. It seems she and her father had an argument sometime during the summer after her high school graduation that was heard for miles around.”
“What about?” I asked.
“No one remembers. But they sure remember the shouting. The fight started on the beach, and continued through the village. Dana marched into the house, packed two bags, and, with her mother pulling at her and begging her to stay, left.”
I stared at Wes. Was it possible that a forty-year-old argument had anything to do with Mr. Grant’s death? It was hard to believe that a long-ago altercation could be relevant today. Turning my attention to the sea, I looked at the whitecaps shimmering in the now-bright sun. I remembered Max asking Alverez why he was interrogating me about the jewelry in my safe. Alverez had said that until he knew what was going on, it was impossible to know what was a tangent and what was a clue. Dana’s departure had been so remarkable, it was etched in the community’s memory even after forty years. An event that memorable might, in fact, have repercussions that rippled through the generations.
“That kind of breach between parents and a child, it’s sad, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Wes answered with a shrug, seeming not to care much one way or the other. “I guess. But I bet that her half of thirty million dollars will help heal a lot of wounds.”
“Don’t be cynical,” I said. “It’s sad, and that’s that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I gotta tell you, Wes, that my head is spinning a little from all this information. But I’m not sure whether any of it is relevant.”
“Me either. I just provide the facts, ma’am. Just the facts.”
“Good point.”
“Plus which, there’s more.”
“What?”
The sun was warming the air, and Wes paused to unbutton his jacket. I followed suit. He offered me some more coffee, and I accepted a little. He poured himself a full mug. “Stardust” resonated through the speakers.
“Want another doughnut?” he asked.
“No, thanks.” Three-quarters of my first one rested on a nearby napkin. “So, what else?”
“Seems Mrs. Grant ran a tight ship. One of the things she did was keep a detailed record of purchases.”
“What kind of purchases?”
“Everything. Appliances, antiques, dry cleaning. Even milk, bread, and gasoline. Everything.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, a little anal, wouldn’t you say?”
“She probably grew up poor. You know what I mean… like how for some people who survived the Depression, watching pennies was a way of life.”
“Yeah, whatever. The point is, she listed everything in big ledgers. By category, in chronological order by date of acquisition.”
“So?”
“So the police experts have accounted for everything on the ledger except two things.”
“What?”
“Two paintings-one by Cezanne and one by Matisse.”
“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.
“Nope.”
“What paintings?”
Consulting his notes, he said, “Apples in a Blue Bowl with Grapes. That’s the Cezanne. The Matisse is called Note-dame in the Morning.”
I shook my head. “Think about it… a Renoir, a Cezanne, and a Matisse.”
“Good taste, huh?”
“When were they purchased?”
“September of 1945.”
“Where?”
Wes shook his head. “Only initials. Apparently Mrs. Grant used a kind of shorthand. I guess since she knew where they bought things, she didn’t bother spelling everything out.” He shrugged. “According to my source, the paintings were purchased from an ‘A.Z.’ ”
I nodded. “Sounds like a private party. You know, some person’s initials. Were all three paintings bought at the same time?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s hard to picture, isn’t it? At the end of the war, with everything going on, can you imagine buying art?”
“Who knows the circumstances? Things were completely chaotic over there. Maybe the Grants were helping a friend by taking the paintings off his hands when he needed hard cash, not art.”
I nodded, letting Wes think he was making a valid point. I was willing to bet that the Cezanne and the Matisse would be on the Swiss Web site’s listing of pillaged art, alongside the Renoir, and flirted with the idea of telling him about it. I decided to stay quiet. My knowledge of the Renoir’s provenance was the only leverage I retained. Once revealed, its usefulness was gone. At some point, I might need to parlay what I knew for something, so it made no sense to offer it for free. Right now I had nothing to gain and, potentially, everything to lose.