Consigned to Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I have good news. I’m in the midst of a crisis, and I’m handling it well.”

  “I’m pleased for you. But what’s the crisis?”

  “Being fired.”

  “What?” he asked, startled.

  “Well, not really, since Andi has no authority.”

  “What’s going on, Josie?”

  “Andi Cabot, Mr. Grant’s granddaughter, is here, enraged and mean. She told me I was fired. I told her she couldn’t fire me, that I didn’t work for her, and came back inside. Officer O’Hara is wrestling with her as we speak, trying to keep her from charging into the house and physically putting me out.”

  “I’ll be right there. Stay inside.”

  I heard the click as he disconnected and looked mockingly at the phone. “Guess he had to run,” I said aloud.

  Andi continued to harangue Officer O’Hara. I dialed directory assistance and got the Sheraton’s number, and asked the operator for room 319. After several rings, Mrs. Cabot said, “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Cabot?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Josie Prescott.”

  “Oh, yes. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Mrs. Cabot, I’m at your father’s house. My chief researcher, Sasha, and I have begun the appraisal. But, well, I need to tell you that your daughter is here.”

  “At the house? Now?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. She’s pretty angry.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Out on the porch. You know that the police are guarding the house?”

  “Yes, Chief Alverez told me. He called last night.”

  “Yes, well, a police office is keeping her on the porch. Actually, I can hear her from here. She’s pretty upset.”

  “I’m so sorry, Josie. I just told her that I’d hired you. I was confident that I’d convinced her that you’d get us the most money from the auction because of your expertise. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” She sounded mortified.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Do you know why she’s so angry?” I hated to ask, but felt as if I needed to know what I was dealing with.

  There was a long pause. “Mr. Epps, my father’s lawyer, told us, when we met with him, that Mr. Troudeaux was the person best equipped to assist us. That was when we first arrived. I think Andi heard his words and turned off her brain.”

  I thought about what she’d said. “Why?” I asked. “What did Epps say?”

  After a pause, Mrs. Cabot said, “You know that my father, apparently, asked Mr. Epps for suggestions about selling the Renoir?”

  “Not in any detail,” I said.

  “Mr. Epps said that my father called him and asked for suggestions as to who would best be able to arrange a private sale of the Renoir. He said he’d given my father Mr. Troudeaux’s name. Andi was very excited about the painting, and what it might fetch. Mr. Epps told her that he didn’t know, but he’d mentioned that he’d run into Mr. Troudeaux at some meeting and had told him about the opportunity. I gathered from what Mr. Epps said that Mr. Troudeaux was interested, perhaps, in purchasing it for himself. Knowing my father, he would have liked that idea, since it would have implied that Mr. Troudeaux was a man of means. My father admired the wealthy almost as much as he admired wealth.”

  “And Andi was there the entire time?”

  “Yes. She wanted to call Mr. Troudeaux then and there and negotiate the sale as soon as the painting was released from police custody.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Well, besides the fact that I wanted to do more research before I authorized anyone to sell anything, Mr. Epps pointed out that we’d have to go through probate first.”

  I nodded to myself, taking in what she was telling me. “Has Andi seen the police inventory? Or your mother’s ledger?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I haven’t shown them to her. She’d have no way of knowing about the ledger, I don’t think. Why?”

  As near as I could tell, that meant Andi didn’t know about either the Cezanne or the Matisse. I didn’t want to bring them up, and risk having to tell Mrs. Cabot an outright lie. Soon, I’d talk to her about them, but not now. Not with Sasha in the house and the police nearby. Not on the day she was due to bury her father.

  Nothing I’d learned explained what Andi had against me. Ignoring Mrs. Cabot’s question, I asked, “Do you know why Andi’s so anti-Josie?”

  “This is so awful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. And please forgive my directness. I can’t imagine how horrible this must be for you, having to answer questions like this hours before your father’s funeral.”

  “Thank you, Josie. But your directness is appreciated. I know my daughter is difficult. She’s always been difficult. Lately, she’s been more and more motivated by money. I don’t know more than that. I don’t think she’s well. I mean, look at her. I think she has problems. But I don’t think she’s anti-Josie, as you put it. I think she’s antianything that will delay her access to money.”

  Everyone likes money. But her desire seemed more of a need. More of a craving. Gambling, blackmail, or drugs, I thought. Picturing her sick-thin look, I concluded drugs, and at a guess, crystal meth. When I was in college, there was a guy who looked and acted like her. Sunken cheeks, passionless eyes, temper on a short fuse, needing more and more money to pay for the crystal meth that kept him going. Maybe Andi shared his demon.

  I heard a siren. Alverez was arriving. “She told me I was fired.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Please forgive her, Josie. Of course you’re not fired.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cabot. May I tell the police that she doesn’t have your permission to enter the house?”

  A pause, then, “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Thank you, I think Chief Alverez has arrived, so I’d better go.”

  “Thank you for calling. I’ll be here until eleven. Please call again if you need me.”

  “Never a dull moment, huh?” I said to Sasha as I passed the arched entry into the living room, making a silly face.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice barely audible, her lack of confidence conveying fear and angst. Poor Sasha, a shadow of a soul.

  “Perfect. Our working papers have just been reconfirmed.”

  As I approached the porch, the voices got louder. I opened the door and looked out. Alverez stood with his back to me, Andi’s vociferous accusations buffeting him like waves powerful enough to wear glass shards to sand. He didn’t speak, and seemed, from the back at least, to not even react.

  “I’m going to have your badge, you fucking son-of-a-bitch ass-hole. And yours,” Andi screeched, turning to confront a hapless O’Hara. “You groped me, you sick fuck. You son of a bitch.”

  Switching effortlessly from hysterical attack to cajoling entreaty, she turned back to Alverez, and continued, “Please, please, please. Okay, okay, if you won’t let me in to my own grandfather’s house, you won’t. No problem. Okay, okay. I can live with that. But you don’t need the Renoir anymore, right? Your technicians have examined it six ways to Sunday. They probably know everything about it. So you’re done with it, right? Come on now, please. Let it out of police custody, and I’m gone. History. I promise. You’ll never see me again. My mother has said I can have it, so there’s no problem there, okay? What do you say, let’s make a deal, okay?”

  Whew. Definitely crystal.

  “Chief Alverez,” I whispered from inside. “I have relevant information.”

  He leaned his head sideways, indicating that he’d heard me and understood my message.

  “Wait here. O’Hara, keep her on the porch. Got it?”

  I heard a grunt of affirmation.

  “Stay here,” Alverez told Andi. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He swung around and strode inside, and led the way to the kitchen. “What?”

  “Having fun with Andi?” I asked, smiling.

  “Not now, Josie,” he said, half smiling. “Tell me wh
at you know.”

  I became all business, matching his mood. “I just got off the phone with Mrs. Cabot. She’s reaffirmed that she wants me to complete the appraisal and has asked that you keep Andi out of the house. She explicitly stated that Andi has no rights or power in this situation.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. What’s her number?”

  I didn’t bother to resend it. Instead, I got my cell phone, hit the Redial button, and told him to ask for room 319. I leaned against the sink and listened.

  “Mrs. Cabot?” he asked. “Yes… This is Chief Alverez… Ms. Prescott told me of your conversation… Yes… I wanted to hear it from you… No… no… Are you sure?… Okay… What about?… I understand… Do you want her on the property at all?… Got it… I’m sorry to disturb you… Yes… Yes… No… That’s all right… Is there anything else?… All right, then… Thank you… Yes… I’ll do my best… Good-bye.”

  He handed me the phone and headed out, brushing my shoulder as he passed, a kind of connection, hinting at intimacy.

  I followed him and stood just inside the door with my back to the outside wall, out of sight, leaving the porch door open about two inches, wide enough so I could eavesdrop, but not open enough so I’d be seen.

  Alverez said, “No, you can’t come in. No, you can’t have the Renoir. That’s it. If you don’t like it, sue someone. But you have to get off the property now.”

  I made a teeth-clenching face to the empty hall. Very impressive.

  “I’ll sue you,” Andi screeched.

  “And the New Hampshire courts,” Alverez answered, his voice calm, not a hint of sarcasm apparent. “Don’t forget them. They’re the ones that issue probate rulings.”

  Without another word, Andi pulled away and tore down the path. The small Asian driver I’d seen with Mrs. Cabot dashed around the Town Car and beat her to the back door before she got there. He opened it, and she charged in headfirst, fleeing from I didn’t know what, but looking for all the world as if she were hunted.

  It took about 15 minutes to reassure Sasha that everything was okay. Alverez told me that Griff would relieve O’Hara at 10:00, and that he’d be on duty until 4:00.

  “Do you understand what’s going on with Andi?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “She’s pissed.”

  “But why?”

  “What do you think?”

  I paused, uncertain whether to open up, and well aware that Sasha was within earshot. I shrugged. “I think she’s eager to get money.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “That much, at least, seems clear.”

  We finished our conversation, neither of us revealing anything that the other one didn’t already know, and he left.

  Stepping into the living room, I found Sasha on the floor, using a flashlight to examine the underside of the inlaid chess table Mrs. Grant had bought in Boston half a century ago.

  “You’re okay?” I asked.

  “This is incredible workmanship,” she said reverentially.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. She started to slide out from under. “Don’t get up. I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking off.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding fretful.

  “You have your cell phone, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call if you need me,” I said, sounding chipper. “And a police officer will be around. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Keep your phone nearby. I’ll call in a while.”

  “Okay.”

  At the front door, I looked back, and she was already absorbed by her task, examining the table’s dovetail joints, searching for a Maker’s Mark, and as always, alert for telltale signs of refinishing.

  I called Gretchen on my way back to Portsmouth. Knowing her penchant for gossip-celebrity and otherwise-I wasn’t surprised at her prodding questions about the Grant situation, and deflected them easily. All I told her was that I had left Sasha hard at work. Neither Andi nor Alverez’s names came up. I asked what was going on and she told me that she hadn’t reached Don, the recruiter I was counting on to send us a research assistant, but had left an urgent message with his secretary. Other than that, all was well. She was busy reconciling the receipts from the auction and the tag sale, and had just confirmed my appointment with the professor.

  An English literature professor from the University of New Hampshire was retiring and wanted to sell his collection of books. Roy, the picker who’d called on Saturday with an offer of rare books, had let us down. He’d never shown up, and we didn’t have a clue why. Probably another dealer had nabbed him en route. It happened all the time. So another lead on books, even if they weren’t particularly valuable, was good news. Inventory was low. And buyers expected to see fresh stock every time they came to shop. If they didn’t see new goods, they stopped coming.

  At the warehouse, I said hello to Gretchen on the fly, grabbed the keys to the company van, and left. The van was old and blue, and clean and serviceable. I’d bought it for $3,000 when I’d first arrived in Portsmouth, a bargain at the time, and now, 110,000 miles later, an unbelievable find. It took us to book and antique fairs and buys without complaint, but it was a struggle to drive because it lacked power steering and was an absolute bear to park.

  I found the professor’s address on Ceres Street without a problem. There was even a space available pretty close to the single-family row house where he lived. It took me ten minutes to inch my way into the spot. It was a nightmare, but I did it.

  The professor greeted me cordially and led me straight into his den. A brief conversation and quick perusal revealed that there were no leather-bound volumes or first editions of note. It wasn’t a collection of rare books, it was a book-lover’s assortment of what are referred to as reading copies, undistinguished volumes of no particular value.

  I randomly checked several books’ title pages to confirm that there were no book club volumes, which, except on rare occasions, have no resale value. Finding none, I was ready to make an offer. I did a quick estimate by counting ten volumes to a shelf, six shelves to a unit, and fourteen units; 840 books. None of which would sell for more than a few dollars, most of which wouldn’t sell at all.

  The professor stood nearby, watching me work, his hands latched behind him. He looked sad. I needed to gauge his mood before I could begin to negotiate.

  “Are you looking forward to retiring?” I asked. “North Carolina, right?”

  “Well, young lady,” he said, “it’s one thing to think about retiring and plan for it, and another thing altogether to sort through thirty-five years of possessions, donate clothes that haven’t fit you for a decade, or sell books you love to a stranger. No offense intended.”

  “None taken,” I said, and smiled. “I think moving is the hardest thing in the world under the best of circumstances, and it’s harder still when you have mixed feelings about doing it.”

  “Exactly.” He sighed.

  “I think you’re going to be disappointed in my offer, but as an expert in English lit, you know there’s nothing special here. That doesn’t mean you don’t love the books, but there’s nothing that has a lot of resale value.”

  “Really?” he said, surprised. “What do you mean by value?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “There are very few books here that would retail for more than a dollar or so.”

  “There are a lot of Civil War books there.” He pointed to a shelf on the right, near the door. “They’re worth more than that. I know because I bought them at a used bookstore myself. The prices are still in the front.” He reached for a volume and showed me the pencil mark that read twelve dollars.

  I flipped through it. “It’s not in good enough condition to fetch a price like that anymore. Do you see?” I pointed to the gap in the binding. “The spine is broken, and here, several pages are dog-eared.”

  He began to get irritated. “That’s because it’s been read. It’s still a wonderful book.”

  “I understand.” I gestured toward the shelve
s, sweeping my hand to indicate all volumes. “They’re all reading copies.” I smiled. “I have shelves of books like that myself. But as a businesswoman, I can’t offer you more than two hundred dollars for the lot.”

  “What?” he asked, looking and sounding outraged, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

  “I know you love them,” I said, meeting his eyes and speaking softly, “and I’m sorry I can’t offer more. Try other places, if you want. That’s what they’re worth to me.”

  He paused, calming down, shaking his head, resigned. “It’s a shock, that’s all, to learn that something you cherish has such limited market value.”

  I nodded. “It hurts.”

  “You can have them for three hundred dollars,” he said, recovering from his disappointment enough to negotiate. Fancy that. I suspected mine wasn’t the first bid he’d received.

  I paused, as if I was thinking hard. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. The best I can do is, maybe, okay, two hundred and ten dollars.”

  “Ten dollars more! That’s an insult.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew my margins. I certainly didn’t intend to insult you. I came up five percent from my original, fair offer.” I met his eyes and watched him think it over.

  “Two-fifty, then.”

  I smiled and headed for the door. “Try other places if you want, but two hundred and ten dollars, here and now, cash on the barrelhead, that’s all I can do.”

  As I crossed the threshold, he called out, “Wait.”

  I turned. “Okay,” he said. “Take ’em away.”

  He was a good guy. He might not know anything about the resale value of used books, but he agreed to let me send Eric to collect them in the morning, and he waved cheerfully as I drove away.

  As I headed back to the warehouse, I allowed myself a grin. Those 840 books would flesh out our dwindling inventory of used books nicely, and I’d kept to the price limit I’d set of twenty-five cents a volume. All in all, a job well done.

  I decided on impulse to go to Mr. Grant’s funeral. On the one hand, I wasn’t a friend, or family, and I was a little afraid it might seem intrusive for me to show up. On the other hand, I wanted to show respect to Mrs. Cabot, who was, I thought, fighting the good fight alone. Also, from a business perspective, I knew that it wouldn’t hurt my reputation to be seen at a church event.