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.