Jane Cleland - Consigned to Death

“Wow, that’s great.”

“Should I come in tomorrow? We’re awfully busy.”

“No. Thanks, but I want you to take your day. We’ll be fine without you for a few hours.”

“Okay, but I can come in if you need me. Trust me, I prefer work to laundry and dusting, which is all I’d planned to do tomorrow.”

I laughed. “You’re a gem,” I told her, meaning it. “Are Sasha and Fred there?”

“No, they’re at the Grant house.”

“Call Sasha for me, okay, and tell them they can’t work late tonight after all. Tomorrow’s fine, but something came up for tonight.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I said, evading her question. “Is Eric there?”

“Yes, do you want him?”

“You can tell him for me. I need him to get a twelve-footer and a helper and get over to the Durham place by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Whew!” she exclaimed. “That’s great! I’ll get cracking setting it up.”

“I’ll give him instructions when I get there today. Tell him that he should stop by the office en route in the morning to pick up the cash.”

“Okay,” she said.

Getting a truck and helper arranged so quickly wasn’t as big an accomplishment as it sounded, since we were regular customers of a truck-rental firm less than a mile away, and they were always glad to subcontract one of their employees to us when Eric needed help with the heavy lifting.

Arriving back at the warehouse, Eric showed me where he’d stacked the boxes of books he’d picked up that morning from the professor, and I warned him to be certain and count the ducks when he packed up everything in Durham the next day. It wasn’t unheard-of for a seller to show off a collection and then hold one or two favorite pieces back. Writing out the details in advance, and getting them to sign off on it, prevented a lot of headaches. But only if the person charged with the pickup actually confirmed the count.

Explaining that something had come up, without providing details, I shooed everyone out at 5:00. Alverez arrived, technicians and other police officers in tow, on schedule at 5:15, and Max drove up at 6:00, looking troubled but willing. A man of intellect, I thought, most comfortable when he had a pen in his hand and time to think. Not a man of action.

By 6:30, the stage was set and, with the automatic taping in place, Alverez listening in from the front office, and Max standing nearby, I made the call.

I panicked when Barney answered the phone, thinking, Oh , my, you just called a murderer, but took a breath, and willing myself to sound composed no matter how I felt, I said, “Barney, it’s Josie.” My voice cracked, as if my mouth was dry. I cleared my throat and drank a sip of water.

“Hello, Josie,” he said, sounding plainspoken, neither cordial nor irritated.

“Barney, I found something I want to show you.”

“What’s that?”

“I can’t explain on the phone. I know it’s late, but can you stop by this evening?”

“Come to your location?”

“Yes.”

“You’re making it sound rather urgent,” he said, after a pause.

“Yes, it is. It’s something, well, it’s a special piece that I think you’ll want to buy.”

“What kind of piece?”

“It really would be better to talk in person,” I said, my words measured.

“Well, all right, you’ve succeeded in enticing me. I’ll be glad to stop by.”

I closed my eyes. Thank you, God, I said to myself. First hurdle, done.

“Good,” I asked. “What time is good for you?”

Another pause. “I have a dinner engagement at eight. How’s, say, seven-thirty?”

I glanced at my computer clock. “About fifty minutes or so from now, right?”

“Right.”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll see you then.”

I hung up the phone and tears of relief that the first ordeal was over welled up. I shut my eyes for a moment and was easily able to stem the flow. As I wiped away the last moisture from my cheeks, I heard Alverez clamoring up the spiral steps.

I looked toward the door as he entered, forced myself to smile, spread my hands, and said, “Any other little tasks you need doing?”

“Good job, Josie. That was perfect.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s just review the next phase. Where’s the key to the cabinet?”

“In my jeans.”

“Show me.”

I stood up, reached into my pocket, and extracted a shiny golden key.

“I think you should put it on your key ring. It’ll look more natural that way.”

I nodded and opened my purse, found my ring with its engraved Tiffany silver circle, a birthday gift from my dad, and added the gold-colored key. I slipped the ring into my pocket.

“Are you ready?” Alverez asked.

“Yes,” I said, and I almost believed it. “I am.”

“Max and the others are moving their cars out of sight. I want everyone in place by seven o’clock. Let’s go on downstairs.”

All of the cars except mine were to be parked at the truck-rental site. A police officer shuttled everyone back in an unmarked car, then left on his regular cruising detail. I followed Alverez down the spiral staircase, past the newly installed taupe-colored metal cabinet, and into the office. I sat at Gretchen’s desk.

Everyone returned and moved into their preassigned positions out of sight in the warehouse or upstairs. Max, who joined a police officer upstairs, looked worried. Alverez slipped into the closet near the coffee machine where we stored office supplies, closed the door but didn’t latch it, and silently we waited.

Too tense just to sit, I grabbed one of the books that Roy had sold us and began to research it. It was volume one of a twelve-volume, calf-bound, gold-tooled set of the complete works of Shakespeare, complete with hand-colored illustrations and gilt edges, published in 1804. There was minor foxing on several pages, nothing unexpected in a book more than two hundred years old. The leather needed cleaning-we mixed our own beeswax paste-but other than that, it was in near-perfect condition. I brought up a search engine and looked for comparable sets. After only about fifteen minutes, I realized we had a real find. It wasn’t unique, but it was a pretty set in wonderful condition.

I decided to start stockpiling fine books and bindings. With any luck, we’d be able to devote an entire auction to them next year. I typed up the catalogue entry, stating the expected price range as $575 to $650, printed it, inserted the paper in the front of volume one, and set it aside.

As I reached for the next book, I heard a car drive up and stop. My heart began to pound, and momentarily I felt as if I might faint. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I heard a car door close, then faintly, footsteps. I opened my eyes as Barney walked into the room.

“Josie,” he said, smiling, his eyes impervious, his manner stiff.

I stood up. “Thanks for coming, Barney. Especially on such short notice.”

“My pleasure.”

“Have a seat,” I invited, gesturing to the guest chair, where, not long ago, Mrs. Cabot had sat while she waited to offer me the appraisal job.

“I found the Matisse,” I said, jumping in.

“What Matisse?”

“It seems that Mr. Grant had three masterpieces, a Renoir, a Cezanne, and a Matisse.”

I could see the change in Barney’s eyes as his demeanor transitioned from professionally attentive to guarded and wary. He said, watching me closely, “You’re kidding! Mr. Grant?”

I shrugged. “It’s true. I’ve got the Matisse, and I’m offering it for sale. Knowing that you sometimes deal in fine art, I thought you might be interested.”

“May I see it?”

“Certainly. Come this way.”

I walked him into the area of the warehouse near the spiral staircase where we’d placed the cabinet, pulled out my key ring, and selected the right key. The unit stood about four feet tall. Two doors opened outward, revealing three deep shelves. It was empty except for the Matisse, laid flat.