“I don’t know. I just don’t know, Josie. Actually, we don’t know that Andi did anything. We’re just speculating.”
“I suppose so. Regardless, I’d like to tell Mrs. Cabot that I found the paintings, but I don’t want to burden her if she’s, you know, overwhelmed because of Andi.”
Max paused. “I was just thinking about whether it’s prudent to reveal that they’ve been found. Let me put in a call to Alverez and ask him. Then, once we have an okay, why don’t you get in touch with her and see how she sounds? Use your judgment. You can always just tell her the bare facts, and, if she’s not in any shape to talk to you, discuss the details later.”
“That makes sense.”
“Just remember, stick to the facts. Don’t hypothesize. And don’t editorialize.”
I nodded and took a deep breath. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Are you kidding?” Max said. “I saw you in action last night. You can do anything.”
I smiled, surprised and pleased at the compliment.
I pulled into my parking lot and saw that Griff was on duty, guarding I don’t know what. He told me that I could go in, no problem, and that he’d be leaving in a minute. “We’ll be coming by pretty often,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Just to check.”
“Check on what?”
“A regular patrol, is all. You don’t need to worry.”
I got it. I wasn’t going to learn anything from him, even if he knew anything in the first place, which wasn’t by any means a given, so I thanked him, and went inside.
It was eerie. I walked through every area of the warehouse and couldn’t see a thing out of order, and yet, apparently, Alverez had caught a murderer within my walls only hours earlier. The cameras, microphones, and metal cabinet were gone. I felt unsettled. Ignoring the amorphous disquiet, I climbed the steps to my office, and began to work.
I drafted an e-mail to Gretchen explaining my idea for Prescott’s Instant Appraisals, and asked her to contact Keith, the graphic designer we used on an as-needed basis to create a themed campaign for the booth itself, newspaper ads, and flyers that we could tuck into bags when we packed up items. It had occurred to me that if Barney was more or less broke, he wasn’t much of a competitive threat, but I decided to proceed with the instant appraisal idea anyway. As a strategy to get a leg up on good inventory and build traffic, I didn’t see how it could be beat. Plus, it sounded like fun.
I stretched and glanced at the computer clock. It wasn’t even 7:30 yet. I wondered where Alverez was, and what he was doing. I stood up and paced, sat down, and then, a minute later, stood up and paced again, this time in a different direction.
I sat down, determined to focus on tasks at hand. I turned to the computer. I’d told Sasha that I’d take care of researching the leather trunk, and I hoped that doing so might stop me from wasting time and energy on other, pointless thoughts.
It didn’t take long to find the information I needed. There were loads of comps. The trunk’s silky-soft leather was a sign of the quality of its construction, and its unusually large size and remarkable condition set it apart from similar pieces. I estimated that it would sell for between $1,750 and $2,000.
Eric arrived just as I was finishing writing it up. He called out a general hello, and I shouted back that I’d be right down.
“Hey, Eric,” I said as I hurried down the steps, “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”
“Yeah, if we stay this busy you’re going to have to schedule staff meetings so we see each other.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears!” I said, laughing. “Are you ready?”
“Yup. I just got to pick up the money and the paperwork.”
“I’ll get you the money. Just give me a minute.”
I went to the safe and counted out a dozen hundred-dollar bills. We’d need to replenish our cash reserves soon. Returning to the office, I handed the money to him. He was swift to insert the bills in the envelope containing the inventory and a receipt that Gretchen had prepared, but I stopped him.
“Count it, Eric.”
“Ah, Josie, I know you’re not going to screw me over.”
“Right. But everybody makes mistakes. Even me.”
“Nah. Don’t believe it.”
“I’m flattered, but indulge me. Always count money, Eric. And always read papers before you sign them. I shouldn’t have to tell you this over and over again. When you accept money, you’re responsible. Take it seriously.”
“I do,” he said, almost, but not quite, whining.
“I know you do, theoretically. But I’m focused on practicality. Remember the old saying, ‘Trust, but verify’? Well, do that every time. Always… even with me, Eric. Trust, but verify.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, not quite casting his eyes heavenward, but acting as if he wanted to. He counted the bills, grinned, and said, “See, I knew it would be right.”
“This time.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
“Go,” I told him, shaking my head and smiling, “I’ll see you later. And don’t forget to count the damn ducks!”
Since all I wanted to do was talk to Alverez, everything I did felt like busywork. I wanted an update. I wanted to know the details about what was happening. Instead, I was in limbo, waiting and wondering. Curiosity and anxiety consumed me, and, as a result, I had trouble focusing.
Fred arrived as I was considering my options. Wearing a gray sweater vest and black jeans, he looked ready for whatever came his way, office work or rolling on the floor examining the bottoms of furniture.
“Is Sasha here?” he asked.
“Not yet. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.”
He got settled at the spare desk, and I decided to go to the Grant house and do some appraisal work. Sasha would, I was certain, arrive soon to cover the office, and if not, well, we had voice mail. I told Fred not to worry about the phone, gave him my cell phone number, just in case, and asked him which room I should work on at the Grant house.
He consulted his notes, thought about it, and finally suggested that I start on a small room on the top floor that had been used, apparently, as a sewing room. I grabbed a notebook and my purse, and left.
Max called as I drove. “When I called before, I left a message for Alverez,” he explained, “asking whether it was all right for you to tell Mrs. Cabot that the paintings had been found. I just got a call back with his answer-yes. That’s it. No other information or news.”
“Thanks, Max,” I said. We ended the call by agreeing that our curiosity about what Alverez was doing-and with whom-was white hot and growing.
When I arrived at the Grant house, I saw that O’Hara, the police officer who’d kept an infuriated Andi at bay while Alverez entered the house with me, was sitting on the porch steps smoking a cigarette. He stood as I approached and we exchanged greetings.
Ten minutes after I entered the sewing room, while rummaging through loose photos stuffed in the bottom drawer of a tallboy, I found a picture labeled on the back, “Us and Arnie Zeck, Paris, 1945.” Mrs. Grant’s ledger had stated that the Renoir, the Cezanne, and the Matisse had all been purchased from someone or something called A.Z. It wasn’t much of a stretch to conclude that I was looking at the man who’d sold the Grants paintings that had been stolen from Jewish families.
I sat back on my heels and studied it. The grainy black-and-white image showed three people, two men and a woman, sitting at a table near a grass tennis court, drinks in hand, laughing. All three appeared healthy, happy, and carefree. Neither of the men looked familiar, and I wondered whether one of them was Mr. Grant, and if so, which one.
I sorted through the rest of the photographs. They were a jumble, and I doubted that they had any market value. I put them aside to send to Mrs. Cabot.
I turned my attention to the Chippendale-style walnut tallboy. It was beautifully built. Lying on my side to better examine the lower portion of the piece in detail, I noted restoration to the ogee feet. I’d already noticed that several spots along the fluted, canted corners were slightly nicked. Still, it was a bold and desirable piece, dating from the 1770s, and I expected that it would sell for more than $3,000. If it hadn’t been restored, it might have been worth twice that.