“How was it that you cut the cake?” Max asked, keeping me focused.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Max asked, tapping his pen on the pad, “did you take the knife from him? Did he hand it to you?”
“I took it from the knife block on the counter.”
“Why would you do that? I mean, you don’t just walk into someone’s kitchen and grab a knife.”
“No, no,” I exclaimed. “It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t grab the knife. When we got to the kitchen, Mr. Grant had everything ready.”
“In what way?” Max asked.
“Well, he’d set out cups and saucers, teaspoons, some little plates, and a Bundt cake. He’d brewed real tea and the pot was sitting on the table along with a sugar bowl.”
“Okay. Then what happened?”
“He started opening drawers and pawing around, looking, he said, for the cake knife. Finally, he said he couldn’t find it. He wasn’t upset or anything. I remember we spoke about how odd it is that things disappear on their own. I told him about my father. How when I was growing up and something was misplaced-you know what I mean-when the can opener that lived in the top drawer was found, after an exhaustive search, in the bottom drawer, well, my father used to blame it on Oscar, the poltergeist. Mr. Grant laughed and said that made perfect sense and explained a lot of things.”
Max nodded. “Then what?”
“Then I said it didn’t matter that he couldn’t find the cake knife, that any knife would do. But he wanted to use the right knife. He said his wife was a stickler about things like that, using the right fork for the pickles and the right spoon for the jelly. But finally he gave up. He asked me to take a knife from the block on the counter. I took one randomly. We laughed about it because the knife I selected was huge! It had, I don’t know, maybe an eight-inch blade.” I looked away for a moment, remembering Mr. Grant’s jolly laugh.
“Mr. Grant made a joke,” I said softly, “saying that he’d paid full price for the Bundt cake, so it had better not be stale and need a knife that big to cut it.”
Max shook his head sympathetically. “And after you had tea?”
“After we were done,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I helped him put the dishes in the dishwasher and I took a sponge and wiped down the table. Then I washed the knife by hand.” I thought back, remembering standing at the oversized sink and enjoying the ocean view. “I watched the waves awhile as I dried the knife, not well, apparently, and put it back in the slot in the block.”
I began to tear up again. Using my middle fingers, I pushed the skin under my eyes until the tears stopped. I sniffed and wiped them away with the backs of my wrists. Max patted my shoulder while he made some notes.
“Okay,” he said. “I don’t want to mislead you, Josie. Chief Alverez obviously considers you a viable suspect.”
“But, I swear-”
Max raised a hand to stop me. “Look at it from his point of view. You were there. The knife was there. And your fingerprints are on it. As near as I can tell, his focus now will be to figure out a motive. He’s wondering why you might have killed Mr. Grant. You know, how it might benefit you to have him dead. Until he can answer that question, probably he won’t charge you with murder.”
I felt light-headed. Sitting in a police station listening to a matter-of-fact description of my vulnerability felt surrealistic. Someone was thinking of charging me with murder. I shook my head in disbelief.
“But if he can answer the motive question in a way that satisfies him,” Max continued, “well, we need to be prepared in case he does charge you.”
“It’s inconceivable,” I said.
“Expect the best, Josie, but prepare for the worst.”
My father used to say that, and hearing Max speak those words momentarily reassured me, but that comfortable delusion disintegrated into bone-deep sadness immediately followed by waves of overwhelming dread. Panic suddenly threatened to overtake reason. I gripped the table and blinked away tears of frustration and anger. I couldn’t risk thinking of my dad. Not in my current situation. Forcing myself to breathe calmly, I pushed thoughts of him aside, and swallowed. When I could speak again, I asked, “So, now what?”
“Now we try to be smarter than Alverez and get the answer first. You tell me. How do you benefit with Mr. Grant dead?”
I shook my head. “I don’t. Think about it-with Mr. Grant dead, I’ve lost a huge deal. A career-making deal.”
“Unless the deal was already lost. Unless when you went there yesterday morning, Mr. Grant let you in and told you he’d changed his mind for some reason. And you lost your temper.”
I stared, speechless. I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came. What he said made sense, and it terrified me into silence.
“Well?” Max prodded.
“I don’t know what to say,” I answered, my voice cracking. “It’s logical, but it didn’t happen.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Of course not. How can I prove something didn’t happen? We were due to sign the letter of agreement yesterday. I told you what happened when I got there.”
“I understand. But it’s going to be a problem.” He tapped his pen a few times on the table, staring into the middle distance, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Probably Alverez is looking into it right now. If he can find evidence that you lost the account, he’s got a motive.”
“What should I do?” I asked quietly.
“Tell the truth. Just like you’ve been doing. Keep repeating that you didn’t do it. Alverez is a good man, Josie. He’s not looking to railroad you.”
I nodded.
“Any questions?”
“No,” I answered.
“Let’s call Alverez in,” Max said. “Remember… tell the truth. And the shorter your answers, the better. Explain the whole thing, including how you came to take the knife.”
I felt dazed and only half listened as Alverez asked if it would be all right to tape my explanation about the knife for the record, and Max agreed. I watched as Alverez plugged in the tape recorder and wiggled the cord, tugging gently, making certain it was secure. It was as if I were watching a movie. It seemed to have nothing to do with me. Alverez pointed to the machine.
“Are you ready?” he asked me.
I looked at Max and he gestured that I could begin. Alverez spoke the date and time, gave our names, and told me to begin. As I spoke, I kept my eyes on Alverez, alert for clues to his thinking. He nodded encouragingly, and smiled a little when I spoke about Oscar, the poltergeist. I felt relieved, convinced that he believed me, and that therefore I was well on my way to clearing my name.
“So let me be sure I understand,” Alverez said when I’d finished. “You had a cup of tea and, directed by Mr. Grant, you put the cups, saucers, and plates in the dishwasher. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I answered. “That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you put the knife in the dishwasher, too?”
His handsome face gave away nothing. He either flat-out thought I was lying or he was trying to trap me. Fear morphed into anger. “You don’t put good knives in the dishwasher,” I answered sharply. “You wash them by hand.”
“Did Mr. Grant tell you that?” Alverez asked, unmoved by my tone.
“No,” I countered. “He didn’t need to. Everyone knows that.”
Alverez paused to think. I heard the soft whirr of the tape recorder and a heavy thud from outside as a truck lumbered by.
Finally, Max asked, “Is there anything else? Can we go now?” Alverez stopped the recorder. “How about if we plan on meeting again in the morning?” he asked Max.
I touched Max’s elbow before he could respond, and whispered, “No. I have to get ready for my regular Saturday tag sale and the Wilson auction preview starts tomorrow.”
“What hours will you be working?”
“I’ll start setting up the tag sale around seven. The auction preview starts at ten and runs until nin
e in the evening. Both the auction and the tag sale are on Saturday.”
“That makes for a couple of long days, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. Calling them long days was an understatement. I’d be running full tilt from dawn until late evening both days.
“Keep your cell phone on and with you at all times. Even when you sleep. Agreed?” he asked, his urgency palpable even in a whisper.
“Okay,” I said.
“No excuses? I’m about to promise our availability. Don’t make a liar out of me. Okay?”
“I promise. My cell phone will be with me always.” I gripped the edge of the table, sort of angry, but mostly intent and ready to respond.
“Tomorrow won’t work for us,” Max said to Alverez, and explained my situation. “I’ll keep my cell phone on, and Josie and I have arranged it so I can reach her on an as-needed basis. I think you have my number, but just in case, here.” He reached into his jacket pocket for a business card and slid it across the table.
Alverez picked up the card, but looked at me. I met his eyes, trying to look nonthreatening. I couldn’t read him at all. I realized that he might be weighing whether he should arrest me on the spot or let me go, thinking that maybe if he gave me enough rope I’d hang myself. Nonetheless, I was relieved when he turned to Max, and said, “Okay.” To me, he asked, “You won’t be leaving the area, right?”
“No,” I replied, swallowing. “I’ll be here.”
Alverez nodded and stood up. “All right, then.”
Cathy wasn’t in sight as we passed through the central room, but two young men in uniform were. They stared at me as I walked by. I was glad to escape to the parking lot, but didn’t feel free until Max had driven us away and the police station was out of sight.
I watched the ocean as we drove. The tide was high, so I could see waves roll in through breaks in the dunes. “Max…” I said.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve had a thought…”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe I’m not the only antique dealer that Grant contacted after all. I thought I was, but maybe the motive you suggested-losing the Grant deal-is true, but applies to someone else, not me.”
“That’s interesting,” Max agreed. “How much money are we talking about, anyway? For whoever got the deal.”
“Who knows? Mr. Grant wanted to sell items that would have fetched at least hundreds of thousands of dollars at auction. Maybe more than a million. To a dealer that represented tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars in commissions. Plus a worldwide reputation as a power player.”
“Sounds like motive enough to kill.”
“Yeah,” I acknowledged. “Well, I wonder if mine were the only fingerprints they found.”
“On the knife?”
“Yes, on the knife. Or anywhere. Under the furniture, I mean. Think about it… if they found prints from another antique dealer, auctioneer, or appraiser in places where only a professional would look, well, that implies that I wasn’t the only person with something to lose. Wouldn’t that person have a strong motive to have killed Mr. Grant if he thought that I was about to close the deal?”
“Makes sense, Josie. Besides fingerprints, there’s another way of tracking a competitor down. Phone records. To see if Mr. Grant had contacted anyone else. If he called another dealer, or if another dealer called him.”
“That’s a great idea!” I exclaimed enthusiastically. “Maybe we could ask Chief Alverez to look at the records for us.”
“The timing’s wrong. I’ll make a note of both ideas, but I think we should hold off.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well,” Max said and glanced at me. “In both cases, the fingerprints and the phone logs, what if the answer is no?”
“No” hadn’t occurred to me because I knew I was innocent. And if I was innocent, someone else was guilty. “Good point,” I acknowledged. “But should I just sit here and not defend myself?”
“From a strategic perspective, yes, you shouldn’t defend yourself, because you haven’t been charged with anything. If and when you are, we’ll hire private detectives to investigate. I don’t want to imply that our relationship with Alverez is adversarial, but it’s always a mistake to volunteer information. Remember what I told you? Short answers.”
“Thank you, Max,” I said. Having thought of a line of investigation that Max considered worth noting boosted my spirits a little. It was one thing to theoretically expect the best and prepare for the worst. It was another thing altogether to simply sit back and wait for Alverez to make his judgment about my guilt or innocence. Maybe Max was right and it wasn’t time to act, but still, I was getting prepared for the worst. I’d be ready to act if I needed to do so. All my adult life, I’d found that the only reliable antidote to feelings of powerlessness was action.
We drove in silence for several minutes. As we passed the Grant house, shielded from sight by dense boxwood hedges, I said, “I wonder who gets the contract now.”
“The decision will be made, presumably, by whoever inherits. Whether to sell at all, and if so, to whom.”
“How can we find out who that is?” I asked Max.
“That’s one question we can follow up on right away. I’ll ask Epps.”
I lifted and lowered my shoulders a few times, trying to relax my muscles a bit. It had been as if I’d been locked in a cold, dark, windowless room, and now I felt a surge of relief, as if the door had only been latched after all, and outside it was sunny and warm. Max and I, we had a plan. It was the first bit of hope I’d felt since Alverez had walked into my warehouse two days earlier, and it felt damn good.
But I remained wary. While it felt damn good to have a plan of action, I had no illusions. Hope, I repeated to myself, but also prepare for disappointment.
I got back to the warehouse just before two. Gretchen was talking on the phone with the receiver wedged between her shoulder and ear, her head tilted, and her red hair spilling over the unit, falling nearly to her waist. She looked uncomfortable, but she sounded as relaxed and pleasant as ever. I stood and waited while she finished.
“Yes, the preview is still on,” she said. “No, absolutely no change. Uh-huh. Right. Registered bidders only. Right. Yes, sir. The auction is on Saturday, starting at two.”
Listening to Gretchen’s cheery words reminded me of the first time I met her. It was a Thursday, the day after I’d closed on the warehouse. When I drove up at eight in the morning, she was waiting at my front door wearing a navy blue suit, white blouse, and heels, clutching a Seacoast Star opened to the classifieds with my ad circled in pink highlighter. Observing her as I walked from my car and noting her outfit, I’d hoped she was a prospective client. She gave me a dazzling smile, and said, “Hi, are you Josie Prescott? I’m here for the job. I wanted to be first. Am I first?”
I hired her forty-five minutes later, an oddly impulsive act for a systematic, research-oriented sort like me. Especially since she was reticent to the point of mysterious about her background. She volunteered that she moved to Portsmouth from a small town upstate, but when I asked which one, she rolled her eyes, and said, “Oh please, I escaped, let’s leave it at that.” And gave me another blinding smile.
Awed at her dictation and typing skills as much as her light-hearted, engaging charm, and her can-do attitude toward customer service, I speculated on whether she was too good to be true. I told her that I would certainly want to invite her back for a second interview while thinking that I needed to check her references. “I’ll look forward to seeing you next week,” I started to say.
She stopped me cold when her smile faded away. Her eyes became mournful, and she reached across the desk and touched my arm. “Hire me. I’ll help your company grow. Really. I will. I’m honest and hardworking. You won’t be sorry. Offer me the job now. Please.”
“Why? What’s your hurry?”
“I’ve just moved. I need a job and this is the one I want.”
I paused, t
hinking. She seemed perfect. “Why did you move, Gretchen? Is there something I should know?” I asked quietly, watching her for any sign of deception.
She shook her head. “No, nothing. It’s just that I need a fresh start.”
“Why here? I’m an antique appraiser. Not the best place for a fresh start.”
“Why not? Why isn’t it a good place for a fresh start? You’re starting a new business. It’s a perfect place for a fresh start.”
Warning myself that I’d probably regret it, I offered her the job and she accepted it. Two years later, I knew that hiring her was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. And I still didn’t know where she’d lived before she’d arrived on my doorstep.
She hung up the phone.
I said, “Hey, kiddo. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. How about you? Are you okay?” she asked me.
“A little the worse for wear, but okay. How are things here?”
Gretchen smiled a little. “Busy. In a good way. Sasha’s done with the catalogue and wants you to review it so we can get it copied and bound.” She reached to a corner of her desk and handed me a thick document held together with a black clamp. “We have more than a hundred people registered for the preview and the phone keeps ringing with inquiries.”
“More than a hundred?” I asked, slightly awed. “That’s almost double the number we had last time. Wow. The Wilson stuff is good, but it’s not that good.”
Gretchen nodded and looked away. “I think there may be a curiosity factor at work here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, several reporters are among the registered bidders. I’m guessing it’s about the, you know, the Grant situation.”
I froze for a moment, then brushed hair out of my eyes. I nodded. “Yeah, probably that’s it. Have any reporters called to talk to you?”
“Yes. I keep saying ‘No comment,’ and eventually they go away.”
“Good,” I responded. “Keep it up.” After a pause I added, “Thanks, Gretchen.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Change of subject. We lost two regular part-timers for Saturday. The tag sale. Mae and Gary.”
Consigned to Death Page 4
