Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just did a check on Gretchen, to see if she’d deleted any names.”

  “Why would she do that?” he asked.

  “I have no reason to think she would, but she could have. So I checked. I added the one hundred and forty names on Detective Rowcliff’s list to the number of entries in our database and had her confirm that that’s the number she had in the combined file.”

  “That’s pretty clever, Josie. I’m not sure I would have thought of that.”

  “Desperate times lead to suspicious thinking. On the one hand, I’m completely relieved that she passed my test. On the other, I’m disgusted with myself for even considering that it was possible that she wouldn’t have.”

  “I take a different view. I think you’re smart, Josie. You know the saying: ‘Trust, but verify.’ ”

  “Yeah—I guess. I keep thinking that the switch of tureens must be an inside job.”

  “You can’t know one way or another until we have more information. And until we find out what’s going on, you can’t be too careful.”

  “Do you think we’ll ever know?” I asked, fighting tears as a wave of hopelessness washed over me.

  “You bet. I have a lot of confidence that one of the avenues Detective Rowcliff is pursuing will pan out.”

  “Why? Nothing has so far.”

  “You’ll see. I’ve got a good feeling about it. . . . There’s going to be a break soon.”

  “Thanks, Max.”

  “No problem. I’ll call Detective Rowcliff and let him know the results.”

  I hung up the phone, exhausted and discouraged. I scanned my office. There were no projects that enticed me, no deadlines that had to be met, and nothing that was waiting for my immediate attention. I didn’t know what to do. Stop it, I chastised myself. When you don’t know what’s best to do, my father once advised, pick the least bad of the alternatives. If you still don’t know what to do, stop thinking about it. Instead, call a friend and have some fun for a while. I called directory assistance and got Zoe’s phone number.

  “Hello,” she said, a cacophony of clattering in the background.

  “My God, Zoe! It sounds like World War Three has broken out in your living room.”

  “That’s about right. Except that I’m in the kitchen. It’s Emma making war. She’s commandeered all of the pots and pans. And the lids.”

  I laughed and felt better already. “I’ll let you get back to your peacekeeping duties. I was hoping you and the kids could come to dinner tonight.”

  “You’re a lifesaver. I was just thinking that I wouldn’t be able to cook because I had no pots or pans!” She laughed heartily.

  I smiled, thrilled by her acceptance. “Come about seven, okay? Is that too late for the kids?”

  “Nope, it’s perfect.”

  “Anything you’re allergic to? Anything you hate?”

  “You cook it, I’ll love it!”

  “How about the kids?”

  “They’re easy. . . . I’ll bring mac and cheese and they’ll be happy.”

  “Are you sure? I can make it.”

  “Not like Mama you can’t! No, I’ll bring their mac and cheese, their jammies, and a bottle of wine; you do the rest. How’s that?”

  “Great! See you at seven.”

  I allowed myself a small attagirl for finding the strength to make the call to my new maybe friend, the first step, perhaps, in finding a chink in the wall of my self-limiting isolation.

  I closed my eyes, allowing myself to enjoy the relaxation that came from thinking of my mother’s recipes. What should I make for dinner? After considering and rejecting several options, I decided on roast chicken with homemade stuffing, and following my mother’s instructions to add complex flavors to balance the simplicity of the chicken, herb-stuffed tomatoes, broccoli with a lemon-tarragon sauce, and chocolate bundles for dessert.

  I wrote the grocery list, and called Chi to alert him that I was going grocery shopping, then home. He thanked me for calling and told me he was on the property and ready when I was.

  Downstairs, I entered the office just as a young woman with pink-tinted hair and six earrings in her right ear perched on a guest chair. Her eyes were intent on Sasha as she sorted through a box of leather-bound books.

  I could tell by the undistinguished gold-tooled spines that most were uninteresting twentieth-century volumes, but a couple bound in mahogany-colored leather looked intriguing, and I noted that Sasha had set those aside.

  Sasha straightened up, twirling her hair, a sure sign that she was nervous. “You said you wanted to sell them. Is that right?” Sasha asked.

  “Yeah. That’s right,” she responded.

  “I can offer you forty dollars.”

  That worked out to about four dollars a volume, a fair offer for leather-bound books of no particular value.

  “No way,” the pink-haired woman argued, looking shocked. Another seller with an unrealistic notion of value.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer more,” Sasha said softly. She began to replace the books in the box.

  “Oh, man, jeez. Are you trying to rip me off?”

  “No, no,” Sasha said, appalled. “It’s just that that’s what they’re worth to us.”

  Pink hair flying, the woman jumped up and slammed the remaining books into the box. Don’t take it out on the books, I silently entreated, wincing.

  “What a joke,” she snorted. She lifted the box as if it had some heft and shielded it from the relentless rain with her body. I watched as she quickly walked to an old beat-up Chevy truck waiting in front with its engine idling. She ripped open the passenger door, hoisted the box onto the seat, and jumped in. The truck screeched away.

  “Anything there?” I asked Sasha, who stood with her head down, looking troubled.

  “Not really,” she said. “Maybe I should have explained why the price was so low.”

  “Maybe,” I said, acknowledging her remark with a shrug. “But it probably wouldn’t have made any difference. You win some, and you lose some. It’s no big deal.”

  Gretchen wasn’t in the office. I inferred that she was on break, because I could see the home page of one of her favorite celebrity gossip Web sites on her computer monitor. Instead of tracking her down, I asked Sasha to tell her I’d left for the day.

  Zoe arrived in a laughing fuss of backpacks, umbrellas, children, bedrolls, and plastic containers. I accepted coats, packages, blankets, and a bottle of wine. Jake began a running survey throughout the downstairs rooms, screaming, and Emma wailed, wanting to be picked up.

  “Come on, sweetie! Are you going to help Mama get the bedrolls ready?”

  “I can’t believe you brought bedrolls!”

  “Are you kidding? By eight, I hope they’re both dead to the world. I love them to death, but they’re exhausting.” She turned to Jake, still tearing through the house. “Jake, come here, darlin’! Look!”

  He paused long enough to glance at the sliding-piece puzzle she was handing him, happily screeched, “I can do it!” and plunked down on the living room carpet.

  “Zoe?” I said, having become aware of her raiment. She wore a full-length floral-patterned flannel nightgown with little ruffles at the hem and cuffs.

  “What?” she responded, guiding Emma in unrolling the bedroll on the carpet.

  “Why are you wearing a nightgown?” I inquired, bemused.

  “Oh God!” she exclaimed, spinning around to face me, her eyes huge. “Don’t tell me there are other guests.”

  “No, no, just us.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, and turned back to her task.

  “But why?”

  “They wouldn’t put on their jammies unless I put on mine,” she said in a tone of abject resignation.

  “Of course,” I replied, and started laughing.

  By the time Zoe left around ten o’clock, I felt calmer and more prepared to cope with my confusing situation than I had in a long time. We dashed back
and forth carrying Jake and Emma, both fast asleep and swaddled in their bedrolls, and all their supplies, laughing as we leaped puddles. My muscles and ankle complained, but not much.

  On her final trip, she told me, “This was great! Thanks, Josie. Best damn chicken I’ve ever had!”

  “It meant a lot that you were here.”

  And then she was gone and I was alone.

  Ty phoned around eleven. I was in bed reading Plot It Yourself.

  “Aunt Trina seems to be weakening,” he told me.

  “How come?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “That sounds frightening.”

  “It happens.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it sounds a little unclear is all. Do you think you should get a second opinion or something?”

  A too-long pause made me feel as if I’d said the wrong thing. “We’ll be fine,” he finally responded.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, sitting up, slapping the book aside, spine side up.

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

  “Not now, Josie.”

  “Right. No problem.”

  I hung up, gently cradling the phone, looked at the blank wall across from the bed, the one I intended to decorate with seashells, or family pictures or something, and thought, Why bother? If Ty doesn’t want to confide in me, so be it. If I have to watch every word I say for fear of offending him or overstepping his unspoken boundaries, forget it. Maybe he’s not quiet and deep like I thought. Maybe he’s emotionally unavailable or domineering. Maybe he just can’t stand a woman who voices an opinion that implies he might have made a mistake. I shook my head. Would he let Aunt Trina continue to weaken, maybe even die, rather than accept unsolicited advice? No way. Not Ty. Ty is reasonable and rational and open, I reassured myself. Unless my perception that he’s a good man is wrong.

  Doubt and despondency once again replaced hope. I had no energy for anything but switching off the light. I turned toward the window. Usually, slivers of moonlight were visible at the outer edges of the shades, but not tonight. Tonight, the sky was blacker than ink, and the windswept rain hammered the house unceasingly. I plumped the pillow and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t seem to find a comfortable spot.

  The phone rang, but of the people who were likely to be calling, there was no one to whom I wanted to speak—not Wes with his unrelenting demands for information, nor Ty with his closed heart and glib explanations, nor Rowcliff with an emergency question. No one. I let the machine pick up. It was Ty and his words were utterly disarming.

  “Please pick up, Josie. . . . Josie, please. . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know why I froze exactly, but—”

  I picked up the phone. “It’s me, Ty.”

  “Josie.”

  “It’s okay. Apology accepted.”

  “Thanks.” He paused, then added, “I got a second opinion this afternoon.”

  “Good.” After an awkward silence, I added, “That gives you more confidence, I’m sure.”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause. Reach out, I thought. “Are you okay?”

  He gave a nonfunny laugh. “I’ve been better. But, yeah, I’m okay. How about you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When this is over—well, I was thinking—”

  “What?” I asked, my heart beginning to race. Tell me!

  “Let’s go away.”

  “Away like sell our possessions, change our names, and move to Vegas? Or away like a vacation in the Bahamas?”

  He laughed a little, this time sounding amused. “The latter. I’m thinking heat, water, drinks with little umbrellas, tropical nights.”

  “Oh God, let’s go now.”

  “Soon,” he said.

  I smiled. “Date.”

  We ended the call promising to talk in the morning, and I lay back down, pleased but still concerned. Could I meet his expectations? Ty was reserved, but when he opened up, he had a lot to give. If asked, would he say the same about me?

  I forced myself to be still and try to sleep, but instead, I thrashed and rolled from side to side until the sheets were tangled around my neck, the quilt was on the floor, and my pillow somehow had ended up under my feet. Resigned to wakefulness, I sat up in bed and rested my head on my hands. How will I endure the night? I wondered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I

  must have slept, because when I awoke, I was cold to my bones. The quilt was once again on the floor. Hurrying into the bathroom, I caught a look at myself in the mirror in the gray morning light. I looked like hell. My skin was white-blue pale, my eyes were rimmed in red, and my bruises had faded to a sickly green.

  I took a fast hot shower, then went back into the bedroom, wrapped in my pink chenille robe. After putting on some makeup, trying to disguise my green-tinted, too-pale skin, I dressed for Maisy’s funeral. The black slacks, moss-colored blouse, black-and-green tweedy blazer, and black leather ankle boots were appropriate for church, but not for work, so I packed jeans and a flannel shirt, my standard work wear, along with my work boots, in a large tote bag.

  As I walked slowly downstairs, leaning heavily on the banister, I felt overwhelmed with fatigue and barely controlled panic. I was in no shape to cook. Instead, I treated myself to breakfast at the Portsmouth Diner.

  I bought a USA Today from a vending machine just inside the front door—I didn’t want any local news—and sat in a small booth at the rear of the restaurant for almost an hour, relishing the companionable hum of early-morning customers.

  I decided to call Ty, just to check in, but didn’t reach him. It was early. I left a message on his cell phone, reminding him that I’d be at Maisy’s funeral until around noon.

  When I got to my building, I sought out Eric and found him in the warehouse, loading inventory onto a cart for transport to the tag sale. I wanted to be certain he included the six boxes of highly sought-after 1950s vintage barware, all in good shape, I’d recently acquired.

  “Perfect,” I said, “for Christmas gift buying.”

  We discussed display ideas for about ten minutes; then I went upstairs to my office, fighting the anxiety and fear that threatened to paralyze me. It took all of my willpower to sit and review last month’s financials.

  I had gotten to Maisy’s funeral a few minutes early and I sat alone in a pew near the back. I scanned the room for people I knew, recognizing several.

  Mitch and Rochelle, the winning bidders of the stolen tureen, sat fairly close to Maisy’s husband, Walter, in the front row. Walter looked shell-shocked. Pam sat alone, about halfway back. Dora was off to the right, near the front, skewed around, chatting earnestly with a couple I’d never seen before. Britt was nearby, sitting next to a couple I’d seen at the Gala but hadn’t met.

  No one spoke to me until Detective Rowcliff slid into my pew. I felt my heart begin to thump, and I scooched my purse toward me, as if it were a buffer that could somehow protect me from him.

  “I need to talk to you,” he whispered fiercely.

  “Sure,” I responded.

  “Later today.”

  “I’ll talk to Max and we’ll arrange something.”

  “I’ll call him,” he said. “Let’s try for two o’clock. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Ominous, I thought. “Sure. If Max is available,” I said.

  Rowcliff got up and moved to the far corner—the better to see everything that was going on. I kept alert, too, but noticed nothing that provided a clue. Still, my anxiety level continued to rise, and I didn’t know why.

  I left the church as soon as the service was over. It was still raining, and it, along with the mournful hymns and sorrowful eulogy, left me feeling sad in addition to panicky. I noticed a patrol car three cars back, following me. I was glad to get to work, and gladder still when I saw the glint in Fred’s eye. Let there be good news, I thought.

  “What?”
I asked him as I placed my dripping umbrella in the stand near the door.

  “One of Mrs. McCarthy’s bowls isn’t just a bowl,” he said. “It looks like a bowl, but it’s not. I called her and asked about it. She looked around and called me back.”

  “And?”

  “And she found something in an old trunk.”

  “How intriguing. What?”

  “A nearly black centerpiece with lions and tigers and other figures positioned around a palm tree. Eight black supports extend from the tree and lead to black circles. Seven supports have black bowls with cut-glass inserts suspended from the circles—one black bowl is missing.” He pushed his glasses up, smiling. “I had her describe them.”

  “And?”

  “And she said that they all were simple in design, with only a fancy pattern along the rim for decoration. Here,” he said, handing me a silver dish, “look.”

  I reached for it, noted the gadrooned border, and turned it over. On the bottom were three hallmarks—an anchor, a lion passant, and a lower case a.

  “Birmingham,” I said, recognizing the anchor. “Nineteenth century?” I guessed.

  “Right.”

  “Cut to the chase, my friend. What have you got?” I asked him, smiling, handing back the bowl.

  “I don’t know, but I think we ought to get our hands on that piece quickly.”

  I understood the implication. If Fred’s instincts were correct, the black centerpiece would metamorphose into silver when polished. Lions and tigers? The piece sounded like a nineteenth-century epergne, perhaps unique, and potentially valuable.

  “Is she interested in selling it?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He smiled, looking proud of himself.

  As well he should be. “Great catch, Fred,” I said, impressed.

  I glanced at the Mickey Mouse clock on Gretchen’s desk. “Give her a call, will you?” I asked. I wanted to get my hands on it before Mrs. McCarthy called another dealer. “See if I can stop by today. Four, four thirty?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  The phone rang and Sasha answered it. “Prescott’s,” she began, “how may I help you?”