Two of my office walls were stocked with various guidebooks and auction catalogues. In addition, we subscribed to several Web sites that tracked and reported auction results worldwide.
As a test case, I selected the now-silent Queen Anne grandfather clock standing in Mr. Grant’s hallway. I wanted to see how long it took me to set a price. It was a reasonable test selection, since it was representative of the bulk of the items in the Grant estate: valuable, but not unique.
Noting my starting time, I quickly sorted through the American furniture catalogues that filled about a quarter of my bookshelves and found two clocks that were similar to Mr. Grant’s. One had been sold by a Florida dealer, Shaw’s Antiques, in 2003. Mark Shaw described it as “magnificent.” Barney’s firm, Troudeaux’s New Hampshire Auctions, had auctioned the second in 2002. M. Turner described the clock’s condition as “very good.” Which meant it wasn’t “magnificent.”
Most antique dealers used “excellent” or “mint” to indicate pristine condition, but some were more poetic, and used terms like “magnificent.” The bottom line was that there was no standardization in the industry, so it was important for buyers to know how a dealer used words. “Magnificent” implied perfection. “Very good” usually meant there was some minor or normal wear.
Shaw’s had estimated that the clock would sell for $9,000 and it had actually sold for $10,300. Troudeaux’s had expected the clock to bring in $10,500, so its sales price of $6,750 must have been a huge disappointment. That was quite a spread-the Florida clock fetched $3,550 more than the one Barney sold.
Big differentials in prices between two similar items usually reflected differences in quality-which was, I knew from experience, impossible to define precisely. In this case, however, it seemed obvious why Shaw’s clock did so much better. First, it was in better condition than the one Barney sold. Second, according to Shaw’s description, the clock had been owned by a former governor of Georgia. That kind of connection often led to higher prices. Prestige by association. Besides which, Barney’s estimate might reflect wishful thinking or whimsy. His firm’s research was always suspect; whether from indifference or sloppiness, his estimates were wrong more often than they were right.
Searching through the Web sites we subscribed to, I found another similar clock, described as being in “excellent condition.” It had sold at a Pennsylvania auction six months ago within its range. Estimated to fetch between $7,000 and $8,500, it had brought in $8,100.
From a low of $6,750 to a high of $10,300. Calculating both the average and the median, and considering the effect of condition and the Georgia governor’s prior ownership, I estimated that Mr. Grant’s clock should sell for $7,000 to $9,000. Maybe more if Dobson’s got lucky.
I typed out the description, including the estimated price range, and glanced at the clock on my computer. From first look at my bookshelves to the completed catalogue entry, half an hour. Not bad. In a separate document, I specified the details of my calculation.
The protocol was set: I would require that we research three sales of comparable items within the last five years. I e-mailed the file to Gretchen and Sasha, and printed out a copy for me to take. I smiled with satisfaction. Step one of the appraisal, done.
I called Wes en route and told him that I was running late.
It was twenty after seven when I pulled to a stop behind Wes’s old Toyota. He was leaning against the hood, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, hurrying to join him, the bag of food in my hand.
“If only you knew what I know, you would have been on time,” Wes said, popping a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.
“Don’t be a tease, Wes. Tell me.”
“Let me turn on the radio.”
“Wes, you’re not still thinking I’m wired, are you?”
He chuckled, a snorting sort of sound, and ate more nuts. “Nah, but I got news, and I’m not taking any chances.”
Wes sat down, and leaving the car door open, turned on the motor and punched a button for an oldies station. I got settled in the passenger seat and pulled plastic-wrapped hard-boiled eggs out of the bag, laid out napkins on his dusty dashboard, and handed him a plastic fork.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Food,” I answered. “You ought to try it sometime.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I looked in the back of your car, remember? I ate your doughnut. You don’t eat food. You eat junk. An egg and fruit salad. That’s food.”
He looked skeptical. “Thanks,” he said, but made no move to eat.
I unwrapped my share and took a bite of egg.
He gestured that I should lean closer. Accompanied by the familiar, gotta-dance rhythm of “Under the Boardwalk,” he whispered, “Barney kept the three P.M. appointment at Mr. Grant’s house. Alverez was the one who told him about the murder.”
Either Barney was telling the truth and had called the night before to change his appointment from 9:00 to 3:00 or he was lying, and had called for some other reason altogether.
Goose bumps rose on my arms as I had the startling realization that maybe Barney had shown up at 9:00 and killed Mr. Grant. There was plenty of time for him to cover his tracks. It was simple. All he had to do was leave and return at 3:00, pretending he was there for his rescheduled appointment.
I stepped out of the car and walked a few steps, starting up the dune, wanting to see the ocean. I watched the frothy waves make rivulets as they rushed along the sand.
Wes stepped out of the car, and called, “What are you doing?”
After a moment, I came back and sat down again.
“What do you think?” Wes asked, watching me consider options.
“Interesting,” I said.
“That’s one of those comments…”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Interesting,’” he said, mocking me. “Don’t give me that. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that it’s interesting,” I insisted, aiming to look and sound sincere. “What do you think I mean?”
“Give me a break.”
I shook my head. I took out my plastic container of fruit salad, popped the lid, and ate some pineapple and cantaloupe pieces. “Anything else?” I asked.
Wes sighed loudly. “You owe me. You know that, don’t you? You owe me big.”
“Wes, you and I both know we owe each other. You’ll get yours.”
“I better. That’s all I’ve got to say. I better.”
“You will. So, what else?”
He sighed again. “What the hell. You know those two business calls?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Mr. Grant’s doctor and the Taffy Pull.”
“Right. Well, the doctor made that call to tell Mr. Grant about the results of some tests he’d taken a week earlier.”
“And?” I prodded.
“And,” he said, drawing it out, enjoying his moment, “Mr. Grant received a diagnosis of late-stage pancreatic cancer.”
“You’re kidding! That’s terrible.”
“Yeah. Apparently, it’s terminal about ninety-six percent of the time. It looks like Mr. Grant had only weeks or months to live.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. That’s so sad.”
I felt unsettled, hearing yet another example of my not being able to trust my instincts. The older I got, the more I realized that the chasm that exists between perception and reality is huge. I shook my head, disheartened at the thought. I pictured Mr. Grant standing in his kitchen, jovial and lively. It was hard to think that at that moment, he’d been deathly ill. Sadness swathed me like fog clouding a distant view. Taking a deep breath to clear my mind, I looked up and saw Wes waiting for me to speak.
“When was that call made?” I asked.
Wes pulled out his much-used notepaper. “March twelfth.”
I nodded. “Just before Mr. Grant called me. That must be why he decid
ed to sell everything-and why he wanted to move so quickly.”
“Makes sense,” Wes acknowledged. “But what does it mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to understand everything I can.”
“How about you? What have you learned?”
It seemed low risk to confide that I’d been retained by Mrs. Cabot. It wasn’t a secret, and if he published it, I’d get some good press. “You didn’t get this from me. All right?”
“Sure. What?”
In a hushed voice, I told him what Mrs. Cabot hired me to do, sticking to the in-the-open reasons: to verify, authenticate, and value the estate.
Impressed, Wes shook his head a little, and whistled. “What a coup. What are you going to do about Troudeaux?”
“What do you mean?”
“Good ol’ Barney’s gonna be pissed.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but he might be right. “It’s just business,” I said with a dismissive shrug.
“You wish,” Wes responded with a grimace.
If he was right, it was a real problem because Barney had the power to hurt me. A rumor here, an innuendo there, and my business would be ruined. Just in case Barney would resent that I won the job, I had to anticipate and block an attack. I remembered my father talking to me about barriers to competition, and tried to recall what he’d said.
The echoing, lonely sound of a sea gull startled me. I looked up and saw it spike and dive.
“What do you think?” Wes asked, recalling me to the conversation.
“You might be right,” I admitted. “So I’d better prepare for the fallout, huh?”
“What can you do?”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”
“Let me know, huh? It might make for a good story.”
“Wes, you’re something else.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. You’re like an ambulance chaser, you know, looking for ways to find a nicely battered accident victim.”
“Man, you’re brutal in the morning, aren’t you? All I’m doing is my job. I don’t make anyone a victim, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged and smiled a little. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Nothing personal, anyway. It’s a comment on the breed, not on you as an individual, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever. Back to the subject at hand… Don’t forget-when you find the Matisse and the Cezanne, I’m your first phone call, right?”
I thought for a moment about what to say. I needed to remember how I’d felt before I found the paintings, and consider how I would have acted around a reporter. I looked back toward the rising dunes. Upbeat and noncommittal, I decided. “Keep your fingers crossed that I find them,” I said, trying to for a casual tone.
“And then you’ll call me, right?”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
“Why not? I’m the guy that clued you in to Mrs. Grant’s ledger, remember? You owe me.”
“I’ll tell you what I can when I can. And that’s a promise.”
He sighed loudly and tried to look hurt. I laughed. “Wes,” I added, “you’re a hoot and a half.”
“A ‘hoot and a half’?” he asked. “What’s that?”
“You’re a good reporter. Persistent. But we’re done now. Unless you learned anything about the Taffy Pull phone call.”
“Not yet.”
“How about who left that fingerprint in Mr. Grant’s house?”
He shook his head. “Still unidentified.”
We shook hands, and agreed to talk if and when.
I arrived back at the Grant house a couple of minutes before Sasha and sat in my car, glad for the chance to rest. She pulled up and parked in back of me. As I got out to greet her, I spotted the Taffy Pull box that had sat on the passenger seat overnight.
“Do you like taffy?” I asked her.
“What?”
“I have a box of taffy, but I don’t really care for it. So you can have it if you want.”
“Sure, thanks. I like it.”
As I handed her the box, I thought of Paula and her family business. I wondered what she and Barney had been discussing on Saturday at the tag sale.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Absolutely. I can’t wait! I knew that the Grants had special things, but I had no idea.”
“I know. It’s unbelievable. Wait ’til you see. First thing we’ll do is walk the house so you can get a feel for the layout. Then I’ll go over the research protocol and we’ll discuss procedures. Then, off we go!”
Sasha smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Will you be here the whole time?”
“No. I need to follow up on some of the buying leads we got over the weekend. But I’ll be available whenever you need me.”
Officer O’Hara was still standing on the porch. “Hi,” he said as we approached.
“Hello,” Sasha said shyly, looking down.
I introduced them, took her inside, and began the tour. Sasha followed along in stunned silence. It’s one thing to watch a video and another thing altogether to see and touch the real thing.
When we finished, we sat at the kitchen table, agreeing that Sasha would go room by room, starting in the living room. “The only thing for you to look at in the basement,” I told her, “is the lamp. I don’t know if it’s worth including in the auction. There’s a leather trunk down there, but I’ll take care of that. I’ve already begun some of the research.” It wasn’t true, but I needed a good reason to keep her away from it.
“Okay. I’ll look at the lamp later.”
“Should I get you a helper?” I asked.
“A research assistant would be helpful,” she said. “There’s so much to do.”
I nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.” I took out my cell phone and called Gretchen. “Good morning,” I said. “Everything okay?”
“You bet,” she answered, sounding chipper.
“Do me a favor, will you? Call Don in New York,” I said, referring to an executive recruiter I knew who placed a lot of curators and art historians in temporary and permanent positions, “and tell him I’m going to need a researcher for a week. Explain about the Grant appraisal, and warn him that the collection is eclectic, so we’ll need someone with a broad knowledge base. Tell him I’ll call him later if he has any questions. And ask him to get the person up here today.”
“Got it.”
I hung up and turned to Sasha. “Let me explain the protocol that I think makes sense,” I said, showing her the printout I’d prepared that morning, reviewing what I learned about the grandfather clock, and detailing the standards I’d established. She listened closely, and agreed that the approach was appropriate.
As Sasha and I sat and talked about the catalogue format we’d use in preparing the written appraisal, I heard a commotion outside. I was glad I wasn’t alone, anxiety replacing the comfortable feeling of being in charge that I’d had all morning.
“Let me see what’s going on,” I said.
I headed to the front and pulled aside the sheer curtain enough to see Andi Cabot, scary-skinny in a formfitting yellow spandex dress and French heels, righteous and rigid, arguing with Officer O’Hara. Her features were scrunched in anger.
“Let me in,” she berated. “It’s my grandfather’s house and you have no right to stop me.”
I couldn’t hear Officer O’Hara’s reply, so I cracked the door, gesturing to Sasha, who’d begun to walk forward, that she should stay back.
“I demand to see that Prescott woman.”
“Calm down, ma‘am,” O’Hara said. His words had the opposite effect, enraging her further.
“Don’t you tell me what to do. Where is she?”
I stepped forward. “I’m here. What do you want?”
Andi tried to push past him, to get to me, but O’Hara thrust out his arm and stopped her. “Don’t touch me,” she shrieked. To his credit, he didn’t budge.
To me, she sai
d, “Get out, and get out now. You’re fired.”
The angrier Andi got, the calmer I felt. “You can’t fire me, I’m afraid,” I said softly. “I don’t work for you.”
“Me, my mother… it’s all the same. I damn well can fire you. Get out!”
I shook my head, mystified about her motivation, but confident of my position. “I don’t know what your issue is, Ms. Cabot. But you can’t fire me and I’m not getting out. I have a signed paper authorizing me to be here. Do you?”
“How dare you speak to me that way?” she raged, trying again to push past O’Hara.
“Officer O’Hara,” I said, still calm, “I’m going inside now. Would you like me to call Chief Alverez and tell him what’s happening?”
“Yes, thanks,” he said, moving in tandem with Andi, keeping her in check as she tried to forge ahead.
“I’ll get you,” she shrieked, “you can’t do this to me!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sasha stood in the kitchen doorway, big eyed and pale. smiled to reassure her, and said, “A tempest in a teapot. Why don’t you head to the living room and get started?”
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Absolutely. Just ignore the huffing and puffing.”
“Okay,” she said, “if you think I should.”
“I do. Go!” I said, gesturing with both hands, whisking her away.
She walked slowly, as if she was giving me a chance to change my mind. When she was out of sight, I pulled out my cell phone, found Alverez’s card, and dialed his number. He answered curtly, “Alverez.”
“It’s Josie.”
“Hey,” he said, changing his tone, seeming to relax a bit.
“You know what I said yesterday, about being a mess?”
Consigned to Death Page 18
