Jane Cleland - Consigned to Death

“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 down 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.

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.