Consigned to Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Max,” I said. “I’m en route to meet Mr. Grant’s daughter and granddaughter. I figured I ought to let you know.”

  “Good. I’m glad you called. What are you meeting them for?”

  “I’m not sure. They said they wanted to talk to me about the estate.”

  There was a long pause before he asked, matter-of-factly, “That’s a surprise, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I acknowledged.

  “Where are you meeting them?”

  “A coffee shop in the Sheraton.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “Okay. Curious, I guess.”

  There was another long pause. “If they ask anything about the murder, don’t answer. Say you don’t know or can’t comment. No matter what.”

  “Okay.”

  “And call me if you need me, all right?”

  “Thanks, Max.”

  Max’s palpable concern communicated itself to me. As I drove out of the parking lot, I became fearful that they might blame me for Mr. Grant’s death. Another worry added to the rest.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I nearly fell asleep driving into Portsmouth. I found myself drifting into a kind of stupor as the taillights in front of me rose and fell, gently undulating with the grade of the road. It was hypnotic. I was hungry, tired, stiff, and worried. When I reached the brightly lit hotel parking lot, I sat for a minute, waiting for a second wind. It didn’t come.

  I found the coffee shop, mostly empty at this hour, and stood near the hostess stand, waiting. A large woman with crimped, silver-blue hair approached me.

  “I’m supposed to meet the Cabots,” I told her.

  “This way, dearie. They’re waiting for you.”

  She led me to a table around a corner, past oversized windows and tall palm trees. Two people sat across from each other. One, an attractive woman in her sixties with white wavy hair and an ivory complexion, sipped from a coffee cup. The other, a younger woman of about my age, shook a tall glass of what looked like the dregs of iced tea. I heard the jiggling of the ice as we approached. They sat in stony silence, as if they were strangers.

  “Here she is, dearies,” the hostess said as she placed a menu on the table.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

  Both women looked at me. I suddenly felt conspicuously underdressed and unkempt. I shouldn’t have come straight from a long day at work. My jeans were dirty and stretched out, my plain-Jane T-shirt was covered by an oversized flannel shirt, and my engineer boots were scuffed.

  “I’m Dana Cabot,” the older woman said politely, without warmth. “And my daughter, Andi. Miranda.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  Mrs. Cabot said, “Please, have a seat.”

  The younger woman leaned back and stared at me. She looked and acted angry as she shook her glass, swirling the ice. Switching her attention to the hostess, she said, “I’ll take another.” She took a last, long drink and handed over the glass.

  “And for you, dearie?” the hostess asked me.

  “Give me a minute,” I answered, sitting down, looking from one to the other. They didn’t look alike. Dana Cabot looked well coiffed, well dressed, and well fed. Her daughter, Andi Cabot, looked sick.

  “Have you eaten?” Mrs. Cabot asked.

  “No, actually, I haven’t. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to get something.”

  “Of course,” she answered.

  I looked at the menu and, surreptitiously, at them. Mrs. Cabot looked like an affluent matron who hadn’t had a lot of worry in her life. Andi was too thin, the kind of thin that comes from a chronic, life-threatening disease, or maybe from doing a lot of drugs over a lot of years. Her eyes were clouded, her skin sallow, and she seemed enveloped in a cloud of resentment. Sitting next to her, I wanted to slide my chair a bit farther away lest I catch whatever ailed her.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “And your grandfather. I hadn’t known him for long, but we’d had many pleasant conversations over the last week or so.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Cabot replied. “My father had many good qualities.” She cleared her throat. “You’re probably wondering why I asked to meet you.”

  “My assistant said you wanted to talk to me about your father’s estate.”

  “Yes,” she said, with a glance at Andi. “You saw my father’s house?”

  “Yes. Everything is very beautiful. Not just the antiques. Everything. The house, the grounds. Everything,” I said.

  She nodded. “It’s funny to be in New Hampshire and staying in a hotel. But we couldn’t stay at the house. Not after…” she trailed off.

  “I understand,” I said.

  The waiter arrived with Andi’s drink and coffee to refill Mrs. Cabot’s cup. He poured a cup for me, too. I ordered a hamburger, medium, and asked for water, no ice. I wanted a martini, but knew that even one would put me to sleep, facedown in my plate.

  Andi shifted impatiently in her chair, continuing to look irritated. I wondered if it was annoyance I was perceiving, or contempt. Maybe she took my sloppy appearance as a personal affront, as if I were indicating that she and her mother weren’t worth the bother of cleaning up.

  “I should have mentioned,” I said, “that I came straight from work. Please excuse my appearance.”

  “No problem. We understand completely, and are just pleased that you were able to come at all,” Mrs. Cabot said.

  I waited for her to continue, wondering if her polite words would mellow Andi’s antipathy. Andi slapped her drink on the table, and opened her eyes wide at her mother. Having caught her attention, Andi wiggled her fingers. Hurry it up, Mother, she seemed to be signaling. Get on with it.

  “Did my father talk to you about selling anything?” Mrs. Cabot asked, jumping in.

  “Why do you ask?” I was curious about Andi’s role in the family. It almost seemed that Mom was following cues from her daughter.

  She sipped her coffee, and I noted that she drank it black. “I need to decide what to do about my father’s estate. I’m trying to learn what my father intended.” She shrugged. “Knowing his plans might help me decide what would be best to do at this point.”

  I didn’t see the connection. What did Mr. Grant’s former intention have to do with their current plans? Maybe she was a sentimental sort.

  “Are you thinking of selling the contents of the house?” I asked, faking confusion, aware that I was avoiding answering her question. For some reason, it seemed smart to be cagey, but I wasn’t sure why I was having that reaction. Maybe Andi’s impatience and seeming disdain colored my view. Or perhaps it was Max’s warning not to talk about the murder that made me wary. For whatever reason, my gut was telling me that until I knew more about what was going on, I shouldn’t reveal too much.

  “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 si
nce 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.

  It wasn’t unheard of for a curator or owner intent on protecting a treasured canvas to arrange for an artist to paint a second image over the first, secure that the priceless original would remain safely disguised. Once the danger had passed, the second layer of paint could be removed. But Tavernier had died in the 1800s, so he couldn’t have worked to disguise paintings stolen by the Nazis. Yet there was something about those paintings that seemed out of whack.

  I reviewed what I knew about them. They were among the least valuable of Mr. Grant’s possessions. Yet they were the most valuable of all the artwork I’d seen. The other paintings were inexpensive reproductions, and there weren’t many of them. It’s odd, I thought, that the Grants would have reproductions in that houseful of treasures. And not many of those. Mostly the walls were decorated with family photographs. There was something else, but whatever it was escaped me.

  I sipped my martini and stared out into the silvery night. Seeing the light shimmer on the fluttering tall grasses reminded me of a toast my father coined, meaningless, but pleasing nonetheless: To silver light in the dark of night, he’d say, and raise his glass. I mouthed the words, lifted my drink, and was relieved that I didn’t cry. Progress, I told myself. If I could repeat my father’s toast and stay dry eyed, I was definitely making progress.

  As I watched the gently shifting shadows caused by the pale moonlight and a light breeze, I realized that, as the crow flies, Alverez was probably less than five miles away. Fox Point Road, where he lived, was on the other side of the meadow, past the stand of b
irch and maple trees that flanked the forest on the edge of the property, on the other side of a small tributary called Knight Branch.

  I wondered if he was sleeping, or if perhaps he was wakeful, looking out of his window, thinking of me. Remembering the magnetism we’d shared, I became tearful, grateful that my ability to respond to a man and feel womanly, which for so long had been attenuated, was intact.

  It was close to midnight when I took a last sip of my second martini, finally relaxed enough to sleep. Just as I was swinging my feet to the floor, the phone rang, startling me.

  “Hello,” I said, braced for trouble.

  “How ya doing? It’s Wes. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m awake.” Wow, I thought, Wes does quick work. Could he have answers to my questions already?

  “About what I said, that I’d like to interview you. I wanted to let you know that if you changed your mind, I’ll be at the paper tomorrow morning after nine.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know,” he said, “the interview.”

  “What interview?” I felt as if I’d wandered into a hall of mirrors. Nothing was as it appeared. Had I gone insane-agreeing to an interview with Wes Smith? It wasn’t possible.

  “Yesterday. You asked that I call you.”

  And with those words, I finally understood that Wes was being discreet. He knew I hadn’t agreed to an interview-he was being careful, which could only mean that he was assuming that my phone was tapped. Whether it was tapped or not, he was smart to presume that it was, and I was stupid not to have thought of it before.

  “Ha, ha, Wes. I told you,” I said, playing along, “I won’t talk to you. Besides which, I have the auction tomorrow-and the tag sale.”

  “When do they start?”

  “I need to be there by nine.”

  “Okay. I’ll be at the Portsmouth Diner at seven.”

  “Is that the place by the Circle?” I asked, thinking that we weren’t doing a very good job of being circumspect, and that anyone listening to our conversation would know we were arranging to meet.