I pointed out the few typos I’d found, and Sasha said, “I’ll make the corrections and go to the quick-copy place.”
“Sounds good,” I told her.
I heard the click-clack of her shoes as she descended the stairs, then nothing. I was alone.
Watching the tape was upsetting. Seeing certain items, like the inlaid chess table that had belonged to Mr. Grant’s wife, triggered memories of the pleasant conversation we’d shared about its origin. I now perceived his jolly Santa Claus demeanor as a veneer disguising a big bad wolf licking his chops.
Well, I chided myself, maybe that was unfair. Just because his behavior felt like a betrayal didn’t make it so. I sighed. Mr. Grant had owed me nothing, and I had no complaint. If, as it now seemed, he was just using my appraisal to benchmark value so he could negotiate wisely with Barney, well, that was his prerogative, and in fact, was probably a savvy business move.
I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t disappointed, but I could learn from the experience. My naivete and gullibility had facilitated his research. I still believed he’d liked me. But now I understood that liking me hadn’t mattered a whit. Don’t be stupid, Josie, my father had told me once. In business, it’s all about the business. If someone won’t make money doing business with you, they won’t do business with you no matter how much they like you.
It felt good to remind myself of my father’s words. Doing so allowed me to view the tape with more objectivity than I otherwise might have been able to bring to the task.
As expected, there was no Renoir in sight, nor was there an empty space on a wall where it might have hung. Either Barney had already purchased it, as Max thought, or someone else had done so. Either Barney or Epps was lying and there was no Renoir at all, which wouldn’t surprise me a bit now that I was less naïve and gullible, or the painting was secreted somewhere.
I paused the tape to consider why Mr. Grant might have wanted the painting hidden. He had three sterling-silver tea sets dating from the eighteenth century and two mint-condition seventeenth-century Chinese square porcelain bottles on display, a Regency period dining-room set constructed of perfectly matched rosewood that he used daily, and scores of other priceless and near-priceless items all in plain sight. Why would he hide one painting? Obviously, he didn’t keep it hidden just because it was valuable. There had to be another reason.
It was hard to imagine, but maybe the painting had been stolen. Impulsively I turned to my computer and brought up an Internet browser, and then clicked on an Interpol site I’d bookmarked that was devoted to tracking stolen art. I typed in the painting’s title and “Renoir.” Nothing.
I shook my head in frustration. I had no way of knowing if it was true that Mr. Grant had ever possessed the painting, nor did I have a clue whether, if he had, discovering his reason for hiding it mattered. I warned myself not to lose sight of my goal. Whether I was being framed for murder or was an accidental victim, I needed to arm myself with knowledge.
I went through the tape again and counted twenty-three paintings. Not one was even close to a Renoir in reputation, importance, or value. None was remarkable even when compared to the other treasures in the house. The only artist whom I recognized was the nineteenth-century illustrator Jules Tavernier. Mr. Grant had three of his pastoral scenes oddly framed in contemporary-looking black boxes.
I did a quick Internet search for Tavernier prices. The paintings were lovely, but would be unlikely to fetch more than $7,000 to $8,000 each. A lot of money for a painting by some standards, but nothing compared to the millions a Renoir would bring.
The other twenty paintings were even less special than the Taverniers. Value aside, any of the paintings could hide a wall safe. The Renoir could have been taken out of its frame and rolled, fitting easily in a specially designed hole in the wall.
An hour into the tape, I was listening to my discourse on two Windsor chairs, a seventeenth-century hanging tapestry showcasing birds in a jungle, and an eighteenth-century English partners desk. I wondered if the painting could be attached to the underside of a chair via a fake cushion or tucked into a safe located behind the tapestry. And while I’d examined the desk at length and had spotted long, thin dovetail joints that had confirmed its pedigree, I realized I hadn’t discovered the hinged cabinet door frequently found at the back of the desks’ kneehole openings.
I paused the tape, and stared at the screen, my mouth opening, my mind racing. A thorough search would easily discover if there was a wall safe or if the painting was hidden in a closet or under a false bottom attached to a chair or table, but I bet I’d found the stash-a hidden cabinet in the partners desk. We needed to look. And we needed to look now.
“Max!” I exclaimed when I had him on the phone. “I think I’m on to something.”
“Tell me,” he said. I heard children’s laughter in the background.
“I’ve watched the tape. Old partners desks had kneeholes. You know, an opening where your knees go. Many of them had cabinets built in at the bottom. Not exactly secret, since the hinges and lock unit were in plain sight, but semisecret, since someone would have to be on his hands and knees to spot it.”
“And Mr. Grant’s has one of these hidden cabinets?” he asked, excited.
“No. It doesn’t seem to. But in reviewing the tape, I noticed that there’s space for one. Some of the partners desks had the cabinet secreted behind a wood panel. It’s rare, and I’m betting that Mr. Grant’s desk is one of those. Max, it would be a perfect place to stash art.”
“Let me understand,” Max said. “You’re saying that even though no cabinet hardware, like hinges, is visible, you still think there’s a cabinet there. Is that right?”
“Exactly. I’m saying it might be there. It’s worth a look. I have some other ideas of where to look, too.”
“Like where?”
“Like behind the paintings for a wall safe, and under chair cushions-it would be fairly easy to create a false bottom.”
“It sounds possible, Josie. Well done.”
“Thank you. Now what?”
I took a breath, waiting for Max’s assessment, eager, yet fearful. My thoughts were inchoate; understanding why Mr. Grant had hidden the painting, if he had done so, and what it might mean to me one way or the other, was unclear to me. I waited for Max to speak, certain another shoe would drop.
“Now we consider how knowing about the Renoir would affect your situation.”
“And your conclusion?”
He paused. “I think we should alert Alverez and see about a search.”
“Are you sure? Should we reveal what we know?”
“Alverez knows about the Renoir and Epps’s relationship with Barney Troudeaux already. It seems to me that we have nothing to lose and a lot of goodwill to gain.”
“I understand,” I said, and I did. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle latching into place, I saw how our volunteering our idea positioned us as an ally. People with nothing to hide volunteer to help. And since we were revealing nothing new about Barney or Mr. Grant’s murder, there was no downside.
“I’ll call you back,” Max said, and hung up.
Max called me back ten minutes later, the sounds of laughter louder than before.
“Good news,” he said. “Alverez is intrigued. He agreed to meet us at the back door of the Grant house in half an hour.”
“I’m thrilled!” I exclaimed. “Finally, we’re doing something! Max, this is great.”
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. All right?”
“Are you sure? I hear laughter in the background.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. No problem, Josie. Remember, the same rules apply to our meeting with Alverez as before. Don’t volunteer information. Answer questions as simply as you can. Remember that Alverez isn’t your lawyer.”
My momentary euphoria faded with his words. “Got it,” I responded.
I shut down the computer, rewound the videotape, and turned off the lights in my office. As I started d
own the spiral stairs, my thoughts whirring, filled with anticipation, I heard rustling from somewhere downstairs and realized that Sasha must be back with the finished catalogues.
I was about to call out to her when I spotted a shadow behind the crates, the stack of empty wooden boxes where Alverez had stood when we’d first spoken, and felt my heart skip a beat. Sasha wouldn’t be behind the crates. In fact, thinking about it, I realized that she wouldn’t be anywhere around at all. At just after eight, it was too soon for her to be back from the quick-copy place.
I tiptoed back up the steps and slid into a corner of the landing, shielded from direct light, but with a clear view of the entire warehouse below. I listened hard but heard nothing. I saw nothing else of note. I stayed still.
Eric, maybe. Eric often shifted crates, organizing things, rearranging packing materials. Not at this hour, though. Not on this day. He’d left hours ago, tired and dirty.
I shook my head, confused. Everyone was gone. I scolded myself that I was making much ado about nothing, that I was tired and stressed, and that actually there was nothing there.
As I was girding myself to step out from behind my hiding place, I heard another rustling sound and stopped cold, allowing myself to trust my instincts. I wasn’t imagining things. I’d heard something, a movement, a kind of rubbing, fabric maybe, brushing against wood.
In the high-ceilinged, open warehouse, sound reverberated. I thought the soft noise, a hiss or a scrape, had come from near the crates, but I might have been wrong. I pressed my back into the wall and scanned the room, seeking out something that would account for the noise, that would explain an odd shadow behind the tall stack of crates, but I saw nothing out of the way.
I swallowed. My heart was pounding so hard I was having trouble breathing. To hell with it, I told myself angrily. Probably the noise was the building settling, and I’d imagined the shadow. Silently cursing the anxiety that clung to me like barnacles to a rock, I stepped out from the corner. I was tired of jumping at shadows and fretting about small noises. No one could make me fearful but myself. Straightening my shoulders and lifting my head, I began the descent, circling down the staircase.
I heard a click and froze. The door. Someone had quietly latched the door. Were they going out? Or coming in? I stood and listened. Nothing.
Slowly, my heart racing, I moved forward toward Gretchen’s office and the outside world accessible through the front door. I paused at the threshold and peered in every corner. Nothing looked out of order. Making my way to the front, I peeked out the window. There was no moonlight visible through the cloud cover. The perimeter lights that illuminated the parking lot for auction or preview nights weren’t on. The rural blackness was complete.
I reached for the doorknob, ready to leave, when all at once, I stopped. Another noise, this one a kind of low rumble, broke the stillness, startling me. I glanced over my shoulder. It’s outside, I told myself. You’re safe.
I peeked out again, and suddenly headlights scissored through the dark. A car was heading toward me. I tensed and pulled back from the window, terrified that my gut had been right after all, that there had been an intruder who, for whatever reason, had returned.
CHAPTER FIVE
Forcing myself to look through the window once again, I recognized Max’s car, and sighed with relief. Wrenching open the door, I flung it wide, and stepped out into the damp, foggy night.
“Hey, Josie,” Max said, smiling, lowering his window. “Are you ready?”
“Max…” I took a step and stopped. I didn’t know what else to say. I couldn’t figure out how to begin. The look of weariness on Max’s face alerted me to the fact that asking my lawyer to accompany me on an evening venture threatened to cross the line between capitalizing on his dedication to duty and imposing on his good nature.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his smile fading slowly as he looked at me.
“Someone… I think someone was inside,” I said, sounding calmer than I felt.
He climbed out of his car, and I noted that he was still wearing his bow tie and jacket. “What?” he asked.
“I heard something. I saw a shadow.”
“My God,” he said, sounding aghast. “Are you all right?”
“I guess.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, walking toward me.
I looked away under his scrutiny. “I’m okay, just a little shaken up.”
“Did someone break in?”
“Maybe. No, I guess not. Probably they just came in. The door wasn’t locked.”
“When did it happen?”
“Now. Just now.”
“In the warehouse?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“You bet,” I answered, trying to smile. I didn’t want to upset him.
“Come on. Let’s go see.”
“Okay.”
He led the way, and I followed close behind, switching on lights. We stood together in the center of the warehouse, looking in all directions, listening.
“I thought the noise came from over there,” I said, pointing to the stacks of crates.
“I don’t see anything. Do you?”
“No. I must have imagined it,” I said.
“Maybe,” he answered. “Let’s take a look around, to be sure.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
We walked the length of the warehouse, peering down each row, looking through the open shelving and around corners, and climbed the staircase to my office. In the auction area and by the loading dock, Max tugged on the outside doors to ensure they were locked. As we confirmed each section was empty, I switched off the lights. We made our way back to the front door.
“Thanks, Max. I feel better.” I took my coat from the hook by the door. “Ready?”
He nodded toward the alarm box. “It wasn’t set?”
“No. The last person out for the night sets it.”
He nodded. “And you were alone in here?”
“Apparently,” I said, trying for a grin.
“Don’t joke about it, Josie,” he admonished. “Someone might have been inside and left before I got here.”
“How? I was here, watching and listening.”
“You said you climbed back up. It’s a spiral staircase so sometimes your back would be to the open area.” He shrugged. “The sound of your own footsteps might have covered theirs, no matter how quiet you tried to be.”
“I guess,” I said, anxiety returning.
“Lock up, okay?”
I nodded and punched the alarm code, saw the green light turn to red, and stepped outside. Max followed, pulled the door shut, and wiggled the knob to be certain it held fast.
He took my coat and draped it over my shoulders for the short walk to the passenger side of his car, cupping my elbow as if to support me, a service I didn’t need but a kindness that I appreciated. Old-fashioned courtesy unwomaned me even when my emotions were under control. Now, raw from worry and exhausted from stress, I wasn’t on even ground, and his gesture left me feeling irrationally cared for. I thought of an incident, years ago, when my father and I lived in the suburbs of Boston, before I left for Princeton. My father told me that if a man didn’t open the car door for me when he brought me home after a date, I should just tap on the horn and he, my father, would come right out of the house and escort me inside. I smiled at the memory. Oh, Dad.
Max reached down and raised the lever so the passenger seat lay all the way back. When I got in and leaned back, I was prone.
“You look exhausted,” Max said as I got settled. “Just rest on the drive over.”
“I was going to offer to drive,” I said. “You look tired, too.”
“I’m fine. Go ahead and shut your eyes.”
I started to protest out of a long-standing habit of pretending I was completely self-reliant, but stopped when I realized I was in Max’s capable hands. Instead of arguing, I said, “Okay, Doctor.” After a pause, I added, “Thank you, Max
, for coming out. Tomorrow’s going to be a bear. It’ll be easier for me to get through the day tomorrow knowing that we’ve looked for the Renoir tonight.”
“You’re welcome. Rest, now.”
I heard nothing but the comforting hum of the engine until there was a small clicking sound. Opening my eyes, I saw Max ease the car onto 1-95 south as he entered numbers into his cell phone. He was calling Alverez. I closed my eyes again, but stayed alert.
“Josie thought she heard something in the warehouse. We looked around, but didn’t see anything out of the way.” Max said. “Okay… uh-huh… okay, I’ll tell her… We should be there in about ten minutes.”
The car was warm. I felt oddly removed from responsibility, disassociated, as if I were floating on a cloud. I was aware of utter fatigue, Max’s words, the even drone of the motor, and nothing else.
“Josie?” he asked quietly, maybe thinking I’d drifted off to sleep.
“Yeah?”
“Chief Alverez is going to have some technicians come over tomorrow and look around the place.”
“There’s no need,” I protested.
“Stop being so damn polite.”
I smiled, eyes still shut. “Okay.”
After a while, I sat up. Our headlights cut through the thickening fog. As we drove toward the ocean, I became increasingly somber. The frightening reality of tonight’s events was sinking in. Alverez’s saying he would send a technician obviously meant that he thought it was possible that someone had entered my domain.
“Max?” I asked.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have any idea about what’s going on?”
“With what?”
“With everything? This whole situation?”
“No. Do you?”
“None. I’m completely mystified. I hate the feeling of not understanding what’s going on.”
“Just for the sake of argument, forget about Mr. Grant’s murder. Assuming the two events are unrelated… can you think of any reason why someone was in your place tonight?” Max asked.
Consigned to Death Page 6