Consigned to Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  The two police officers, a middle-aged black man with a pot-belly and thinning hair at the wheel, and a tall, thin redhead in her thirties sitting beside him, spoke so softly that I couldn’t make out their words.

  “That’s it,” I called as we approached my house. He pulled in to the gravel driveway.

  Never having observed an official search before, I watched with a kind of grim curiosity. They opened closets, drawers, and chests and moved things around a little bit, looking for I don’t know what, maybe a tube containing another stolen painting. They examined the bottom of furniture, poked a long, narrow, needlelike tool into cushions, and lifted mattresses to see what was underneath.

  “Any garage?” the woman asked me.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Toolshed? Anything else?”

  I shook my head. I accompanied them outside and watched as they walked the grounds. Back inside, they surveyed the empty basement, poked their heads into the tiny attic, and then they were done.

  They dropped me at the warehouse side entrance. I saw Eric talking to Paula, and the other two temps were setting up Plexiglas display shelving for the dolls and dollhouse section. Circling the fencing, I entered through the front door.

  “Are the police still here?” I asked Gretchen.

  “Yes,” she said, her contempt apparent.

  “They’re just doing their jobs,” I remarked, and shrugged.

  “I don’t care. I just hate it.”

  Funny, I thought, since I was the chief suspect, and it was my property they were searching, that I was able to remain more philosophical about the process than Gretchen. On some level, she had no vested interest in the outcome. I wondered if her concern was personal, based on affection, because she liked me, or practical, based on the rational fear that if I were arrested, she’d be out of a job. Or maybe there was a simpler explanation: since Max had alerted me to the likelihood of a search, I’d had time to get used to the idea.

  She handed me a note. Someone named Dana Cabot and her daughter, Miranda, were at the Sheraton in Portsmouth awaiting my return call. Gretchen had written the phone number and their room number.

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  She looked over her shoulder. We were alone. Still, she lowered her voice. “Mr. Grant’s daughter and granddaughter.”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Cabot just said she wanted to talk to you. She said it was urgent.”

  I stared at the paper, incredulous. Mr. Grant’s lawyer, Epps, had told her I was a shark. What, I wondered, with a shiver of anxiety, could she possibly want with me?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Do me a favor, would you?” I handed Gretchen the note. “Call them now and ask if I can call them after the preview-about nine-thirty tonight. Okay?” Gretchen nodded and took the paper.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Nope. Sasha said everything’s AOK at the preview.”

  I nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll be around.” I went into the warehouse and paused. Heading toward a rustling noise, I found Alverez standing with a uniformed officer. Following the instructions Max gave me on the phone, I kept away from them as they worked. Alverez selected an item from the shelf and read the numbers above the bar code aloud as the other man compared them to what was printed on the inventory.

  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 calcu
lated, 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.

  I realized that Barney was waiting for a response about Martha’s and Mr. Grant’s rapport. “He sure was sweet,” I said finally.

  “Yes. Horrific how he died.”

  I shook my head. “Terrible, just terrible.” I sighed, pretending to be upset, so Barney wouldn’t think my question odd. “When did you see him last?”

  “Not for a few days before he died.”

  “And Martha?”

  “The same. How about you? I hear you saw him the morning he died.”

  Who’d spread that diabolical rumor? “No. I had an appointment, but I guess he was already dead by the time I got there.” I shivered.

  “Yeah.”

  We stood without speaking for a moment. I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I asked, in as light a tone as I could muster, “So, are you thinking of bidding on the tables?”

  He smiled and winked. “I might just.”

  I knew, and he knew I knew, that it was extremely unlikely he’d bid on anything. Our research, unlike Martha’s, was accurate and complete, so he couldn’t expect bargains, and he knew it.

  He walked down the aisle and paused at a white jade marriage bowl, dating from the mid-1700s.

  “This is a special piece,” he said.

  “Best of show,” I agreed.

  He leaned over to better examine the underside. All of it was visible because it was positioned at an angle in a raised Plexiglas display case. Intricately carved with chrysanthemums, asters, and bamboo, it was a nearly flawless example of craftsmanship from the reign of Emperor Qianlong.

  If the truth be known, I didn’t expect much from the drop-leaf tables, maybe $750 each, if I got lucky. But the bowl was unique and might fetch as much as $50,000. And the Wilson executor had entrusted it to me. I felt a rush of pride.

  At nine that night, Sasha and I said good-bye to the last preview customers, and locked the doors. The police had finished their search, and I’d felt vindicated when Alverez informed me that they were taking nothing away from my business, my home, or my car. Max had agreed, when I told him, that it was good news.

  Sasha sank into a chair near the registration table and kicked off her loafers, wiggling her toes. She rubbed her eyes and sighed from exhaustion. She’d been at work for more than twelve hours.

  I looked at her loafers. They looked to be about the right size. “Do you wear size nine shoes?” I asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious,” I said.

  She shrugged. “It depends on the shoe. Eight and a half or nine, usually.”

  “Narrow?”

  “Yes.”

  Her feet might be the right size, but if those footprints were hers, it had to be that she’d walked by in all innocence. No way could I believe that Sasha was involved in a crime. Sasha was a woman of scholarly ambition and, seemingly, little passion. She didn’t seem to care about money, politics, religion, or even people. All she seemed to care about was art. That thought gave me pause. She’d care about a Renoir, all right.

  “What’s your sense of the preview crowd?” I asked, pushing away the uncomfortable thought.

  “There seemed to be a lot of genuine interest,” she said, and yawned. “But there were some people who came just because they were curious, about, you know, the Grant situation.”

  “Like who?”

  “A woman named Bertie,” Sasha reported. “From the New York Monthly.”

  “The New York Monthly? Why would they send a reporter?” I wondered.

  “She said they’re doing a piece on scandals in the world of antiques.”

  “Oh, jeez. Just what I need. What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing. I had to let her in since she was a registered bidder, but I didn’t talk to her. I kept pretending I saw someone gesturing to me.”

  I smiled. “That was smart thinking, Sasha.”

  “I couldn’t figure out how else to get away from her,” she said, shrugging.

  I shook my head sympathetically. “Well, it’s over now. You heading home?”

  “Yeah. To a hot bath and bed.”

  “Oh, that sounds delicious,” I agreed, my word choice reminding me that I’d had nothing to eat since the pizza hours earlier. “Let’s call it a night.”

  We walked together to the front office. As I set the alarm, I watched Sasha drive off in her small car, and
I was alone.

  Unexpectedly, I began to cry. I felt awash in melancholy and I knew why. Hearing the New York Monthly reporter’s name brought back the dreadful memories. After my boss at Frisco’s arrest, but before his trial began, I’d confided my role as whistle-blower and confidential police informant to a co-worker.

  Two hours later, when I stepped out for lunch, Bertie lay in wait, and even though I said nothing, not even “No comment,” she was on a local television station within hours delivering an “exclusive report.” That night, the siege began in earnest. Bertie and a dozen others were my constant companions for the three months of the trial. I never spoke to any of them. Not one word. I kept my head lowered, and never even made eye contact.

  I was in the right, yet despite my ethical stance and stubborn refusal to discuss any aspect of the case with reporters, my colleagues treated me with icy disdain. It was as if it were I, and not my boss, who’d done wrong. And because they avoided me, I had no way to counteract their unspoken contempt. It was crippling.

  I’d never before been shunned, and I hoped I never would experience anything like it again. No wonder many cultures use it as a punishment for errant behavior; I could see that it would be a potent tool to ensure conformity.

  I’d learned a bitter lesson that year. I’d learned that I couldn’t trust anyone but my father. And he was dead.

  Standing at the door, Sasha long since gone, I realized that my sadness was aggravated by stress, hunger, and fatigue. And my growing anger helped still the tears. I was plenty tired of feeling sad, and so I greeted the anger with relief. I shrugged, trying to relax my shoulder and neck muscles, with no success.

  I wondered what the Cabots wanted with me, and why it was so urgent. A glimmer of hope that the business might not be lost heightened my curiosity. Still, to cover myself, I called Max as the car warmed up, and got him at home. He sounded tired, but, as always, pleasant and interested.