Jane Cleland - Consigned to Death

“I’ve read it,” I said.

“Do you know Barney Troudeaux?” Max asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “Of course.”

“He’s an antique dealer based in Exeter, right?”

“Right.”

“What do you know about him?”

I forced myself to ignore my personal feelings about good ol’ Barney and his bitch-queen wife. Instead I reported the truth as perceived by the vast majority in the industry. “Barney is very well respected. I mean, he’s the head of the NHAAS.”

“That’s that industry association you mentioned?” Max asked.

“Right,” I said, and shrugged. “It’s pretty prestigious.”

“So Epps recommending him wouldn’t be out of line?”

“Hell, no. It would be an obvious choice. Not a good one, necessarily, but certainly it would be low risk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, between you, me, and the gate post, Barney is lazy. His research is cursory, so he misses a lot of opportunities to maximize his clients’ profits.”

“So he’s reputable but incompetent?” Max asked.

“I wouldn’t say he’s incompetent. He’s knowledgeable and a terrific negotiator. The problem is he’s lazy. He delegates research to other people, usually his wife, who knows nothing but acts as if she knows everything, and he never checks or corrects her work.”

“How do you know?”

“Because on two separate occasions I’ve bought items he’s sold, not because they were sort of a bargain and I knew I could mark them up and make a decent profit but because they were inaccurately described in his catalogues, and I got killer deals. I sure wouldn’t want to be a client of his, but I doubt you’d find a client who’d say so, or even one who discovered the truth. He’s great with people. His clients love him. But from where I sit, it’s as if he doesn’t care as much about the value of the items he’s entrusted with as he does about getting the deal.”

“Why would Epps recommend him?”

I made a noise involuntarily, a small snort of contempt. “Because he’s low risk. Don’t you see? He’s the prez of a major industry association. He’s personable. Forgive my cynicism, but from a lawyer like Epps’s point of view, it doesn’t matter how good a job an appraiser does. All that matters is that his client never comes back with a complaint. But I got to ask you, Max, what does all of this have to do with the price of eggs in China?”

“Well,” he said after a pause, “here’s the thing, Josie. Epps told me that Grant asked him to recommend a reliable dealer. This letter shows that Troudeaux’s the dealer he selected. It might imply that, in fact, you’d lost the deal-or that you were about to.”

“In other words, you’re saying that, on paper at least, Alverez might think I had a motive for killing Mr. Grant.”

“Yeah, but actually, I think it may be even worse than that. Epps told me that the letter was just a matter of form, that he’d given Mr. Grant Troudeaux’s name on the phone when he first called and asked.”

“What?” I exclaimed, shocked.

“He said Mr. Grant was very appreciative for the referral.”

“When was this?”

“According to Epps, it was two weeks ago.”

I did a quick mental calculation. That was just about when Mr. Grant and I began to talk. I felt sick. I closed my eyes and leaned against the desk.

“I can’t believe it,” I murmured. “I just can’t believe it.”

“Why? Wouldn’t it be good business for Mr. Grant to have consulted more than one appraiser?”

“You’re right, of course,” I answered. “I just had no idea, and from the way he acted, it seems so unlikely.” I sat up and opened my eyes, startled by a thought. “Wait!” I said. “That means I’m not the only suspect.”

“Except that you were at Grant’s the morning he was killed. And Epps said that he was certain that Barney had pretty much locked in the deal.”

“How can he be so sure?” I asked, sounding calmer than I felt.

“Well,” Max said, and hesitated for a moment. “Troudeaux told Epps how excited he was about the Renoir, and said that Mr. Grant had agreed to sell it to him privately.”

“The Renoir?”

“I have the title here somewhere…” I heard the rustle of papers being shifted. “Here it is. It’s called Three Girls and a Cat. Epps explained that Troudeaux wanted to buy it for his wife for her birthday.”

The world seemed to reel, and I held on to the desk. Gretchen finished her call, and I heard her get up and open a file drawer. I forced myself to ignore her presence and focus instead on Max.

“Max,” I said.

“What?”

“Mr. Grant didn’t have a Renoir.”

After a long pause, Max said, “Maybe he’d already sold it to Troudeaux.”

“Or maybe Barney’s lying.”

“Maybe,” Max acknowledged.

“Oh, jeez,” I said, startled by a new thought. “I think I might have the answer.”

“What?”

“If there was a Renoir it had to have been hidden somewhere because I never saw it.”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

“So, what we need to do is find the hiding place.”

“Maybe he had a safe,” Max suggested.

“Not a conventional one. I would have spotted it.”

“We could explain our thinking to Alverez and ask him to search the house.”

“We don’t need to,” I said confidently. “I know how to find out.”

“How?”

“The video. Don’t you remember, Max? I videotaped every inch of that place!”

As I hung up the phone, Eric came into the office, grime streaked on his face and T-shirt, looking tired clear through.

Forcing a smile, I said in as light a tone as I could muster, “Man, if I didn’t know better, I’d guess you’ve been working.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, grinning, “just a little. Anything else right now?”

“Are all of the lots in place and approved by Sasha?”

“Yup. I let the temp guys go.”

I nodded. “Good job.” Turning to my assistant, I asked, “Gretchen? Anything for Eric?”

She shook her head. “No. We’re set, I think.”

“You heard the woman. You’re free to go.”

Eric left with a wave, saying he’d be in by eight the next morning. I watched from the window as he made his way across the parking lot to his old truck and signaled his turn from the lot even though there was no one behind him or on the road in either direction. I smiled. A man who follows rules, even in private. I bet he was heading home to Dover, a small town about twelve miles northwest of the warehouse. I’d driven past his house once, an old Victorian in depressing disrepair. He lived there with his widowed mother and two much-loved dogs, a black Lab named Jet and a German shorthaired pointer named Ruby. I spoke to his mom once when she’d called to remind him to pick up some potatoes on his way home. She’d sounded uninterested in speaking to her son’s boss, irritable, and tired.

I picked up the catalogue pages Gretchen had set aside for me. “You should leave soon, too,” I told her. “Tomorrow’s going to be a killer day.”

“In a little while,” she said. “I want to finish updating the roster for the Wilson preview and I have some calls to return about tag-sale stuff.”

“Okay. I’ll be in my office,” I said, and left her transferring names from her handwritten notes onto a spreadsheet.

Before going to my office, I crossed the span to the auction-site corner, shivering a bit as I made my way across the cold concrete floor. It was always dim inside the huge space, even with fluorescent overhead lighting, and somehow the darkness made it seem colder than it really was. Eerie shadows shifted as I walked. I was glad to reach the smaller, more homey-looking zone, and I flipped the light switches illuminating hanging chandeliers and wall sconces. Between the soft, incandescent lighting and the thick burgundy carpet, the smaller space was a world apart from the warehouse proper, more welcoming than utilitarian. Plus, it felt warmer.