Jane Cleland - Consigned to Death

I felt pulsating anxiety as I watched because even though I knew that I possessed no stolen goods, I was aware that whoever had snuck the Renoir into the crate might have left something else behind as well.

Alverez saw me and said something to the officer, who nodded in response, and turned away, toward the back of the warehouse. Alverez walked toward me.

“How you doing?” he asked as he approached.

“Okay.” I shrugged, and after a pause, added, “It’s pretty much a nightmare.”

He nodded. “We’re making good time. We’ll be gone soon.”

“I didn’t mean that,” I said. “It’s not just the search.”

“I know.”

I looked at him and felt a fresh wave of attraction. It was more than his appearance, although I was drawn to his weathered good looks. For some unknown reason, I felt that I could trust him, that maybe we could be friends.

“May I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Did you check the schedule with Macon Cleaners?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And?”

“And they mopped the area by the crates two days before we found the Renoir, on schedule.”

“So the footprint could have been left anytime during those two days?”

“Right.”

“So, is it a clue?”

“I don’t know.”

I nodded. “Did you look for the wall safe?” I asked.

“Yes. And we’ve examined the bottoms of furniture, fake cushions, hidden holes in the floor, et cetera. Nothing.”

I shook my head, allowing mystification to show. “Have you met Mr. Grant’s daughter?”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just curious,” I said, circumspect in the face of Max’s warning about not volunteering information.

“Yes,” he said, “I have.”

“What’s she like?”

“What are you up to, Josie? Are you going to try and get work on the estate?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Do you think there’s a chance?” Whatever Mrs. Cabot wanted, I doubted it was to offer me work.

“You know that Epps recommended Barney?”

“Yeah. It’d be a long shot, I know.”

“Probably. There is something I can tell you. I don’t know whether it’ll help you get the job or not.”

I looked at him, brushed hair out of my eyes, and smiled. “What’s that?”

“She’s thinking of bringing in a New York firm.”

“Makes sense, actually.”

“Because of the value of the items?”

I nodded. “That, but not really. If the family wants to sell everything outright, they just have to contract with an outfit that’s got access to that kind of cash. What I was thinking about is the uniqueness of some of the pieces. A lot of research will be required to optimize value.”

“Well, good luck with it.”

I smiled again. “Thanks.” After a short pause, I asked, “So what did Mrs. Cabot know about the Renoir?”

He looked at me for several seconds, expressionless, then said, “We’re still investigating.”

“Josie?” Gretchen called from a distance.

“Back here!” I answered, and stepped into the main corridor so she could see me easily.

Gretchen glared at Alverez with icy disdain as she approached, and handed me a note reading “You have an appointment to meet the Cabots in the hotel coffee shop at 9:30.”

“Excuse us, please,” I said to Alverez. “Business beckons.” He nodded and headed toward the other officer. I watched him walk, the confident stride of a man with a purpose. When he was several paces away, I turned to Gretchen.

“Meet them? I thought you were going to set up a phone call,” I asked in a low tone, surprised.

“They said they wanted to discuss Mr. Grant’s estate,” she whispered. “I was sure you’d want to meet them.”

I nodded agreement. “Good job.”

Mr. Grant’s family wanted to see me to discuss his estate? It hardly seemed possible, but maybe I still had a chance of closing the deal. Plus, perhaps I could work in a question or two about the Grant family’s background.

When I reached the auction preview site, Barney Troudeaux was standing in front of a pair of George II mahogany drop-leaf tables with cabriole legs and ball-and-claw feet, his hands latched behind his back, looking like a military man at rest. He was big and broad, about fifty, with easy manners and a quick smile. Yet his smile didn’t always seem to reach his eyes, and his kindness sometimes seemed calculated, not warm. I forced a grin as I approached him, knowing that the appearance of unconcern was an important business tool. My father always said that the more difficult the negotiation, the more important it was never to let them see you sweat.

“Barney,” I said. “I’m glad you were able to get here.”

“Hi, Josie,” he said, offering his hand. “I wouldn’t have missed it. You’ve done a wonderful job with the display.”

“Thanks.”

“You date these tables from when, 1750?”

“Just about. Probably 1745.”

He nodded. “They’re beauties.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you expect they’ll go for?”

I smiled. “A lot, I hope.”

He smiled appreciatively, then remarked, “Terrible situation about Mr. Grant, isn’t it?”

“Awful,” I agreed.

“I understand you’ve been talking to the police,” he said compassionately.

“Yeah,” I acknowledged, on guard.

Over the years, I’d found interacting with Barney consistently confusing, and this time, trying to understand his relationship with Mr. Grant, and his interest in me, was proving to be no exception. He was always charming, apparently supportive, and seemingly sincere. Yet sometimes there seemed to be a disconnect between what he said and what he did. I worked at resisting the lure of his gentle and pleasing personality.

“How was it?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I couldn’t tell them much. How about you?”

“How about me, what?”

“Haven’t you met with the police about Mr. Grant?”

“Oh, that. Yes, briefly.” He shook his head. “It’s just so sad.”

“What were you doing for him?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“Mr. Grant? We were discussing estate planning.”

“Really?” I asked, trying to sound both dumb and naive. “What kind?”

“Not clear. We hadn’t gotten far in our conversation. His lawyer, Britt Epps, mentioned that Grant wanted to sell a couple of things. Do you know Britt?”

“We’ve met.”

“Great guy.”

“Do you know what Mr. Grant wanted to sell?”

“Not for sure. Martha talked to him more than me.”

“Mr. Grant? Or Epps?”

“Mr. Grant. She just had a fondness for that old man. They enjoyed a great rapport.” He shook his head and looked sad.

The thought of Mr. Grant being sweet to Martha Troudeaux made me crazy with jealousy. My fingers curled like claws. I silently chastised myself, repeating that it was completely stupid to feel jealous about a dead man’s business dealings with a rival, no matter how much I disliked her. I looked at Barney as he smiled kindly at me. I wished I had the gift of mind-reading. What, I wondered, did he really want? Was he trying to pick my brain? About what?

Another mystery was what he saw in Martha. Their relationship bewildered me. How could Barney stand her? She was abrasive, aggressive, and greedy. The only answer I’d ever come up with was that they, as a team, had her play that role on purpose. Her job was to take the heat for him. Whenever a situation got tricky, like competing for business, or vying for the best booth position at a major antiques fair, Barney became unavailable, and I’d been forced to deal with Martha. Barney maintained his friendly, open manner, and she was the bad guy, his bastard, my father would have said. Every leader has a bastard, he’d told me. In any negotiation, figure out who’s in that role right away, greet them with a smile and a hearty handshake, and watch your back.