Consigned to Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  I hadn’t planned well, though. I was wearing jeans and a flannel plaid big shirt over an ordinary tee. Hardly a proper outfit for a church funeral. I decided to go and at least make an appearance. Arriving at the church after everyone was seated, I scanned the names in the guest book, then added my own. There were only about twenty people total, including, to my surprise, Chief Alverez. I stayed in the atrium until the minister began to speak, then slid into a pew at the rear.

  I spotted Barney and Martha, hovering as near to Mrs. Cabot as they could. Barney leaned over Andi and whispered something to Mrs. Cabot, apparently just a word or two. She didn’t respond, but Andi turned and said something. Alverez sat near the back, his eyes on the move. He nodded in my direction when he saw me.

  Epps, Mr. Grant’s lawyer, was sitting near Mrs. Cabot. As if he sensed my gaze, he looked over his shoulder, saw me, and stared with disapproving eyes. I inferred that he still thought I was a shark. After a moment, he turned back to face the front, and from the tilt of his head, I guessed he was listening to the minister’s invocation.

  The minister’s well-considered and well-delivered words only served to accentuate my grief, to remind me of my own loss, and to underscore that my wounds were still raw. After a few minutes, I left.

  As I drove, I rolled down the window, allowing the chilly air to numb my skin. I wasn’t sorry I’d gone to the church, but I was glad I hadn’t stayed. It was too hurtful for me to hear words of mourning, and I’d learned in the years since my father’s death that my best strategy to dull the pain was to insulate myself with work.

  I returned to the warehouse and took some time reviewing the preliminary financials from the weekend’s activities. Things looked good. I pushed the papers aside and turned to look out my window.

  It was a bright day, but not very warm, and the tree remained barren. Wes was right. I needed to focus on the threat that Barney might present. He was competitive as all get out, and more by smooth talking than discerning judgment he’d won a reputation as an arbiter of quality. One bad word from him would be enough to cast doubt over my company’s abilities. Not everyone would believe him, but some people would. Look at Epps. Mr. Grant’s lawyer believed I was a shark based on an uncorroborated indictment. If Barney intended to take me on, I needed to be ready. Screw you, Barney, I thought. And the horse you rode in on.

  I used the toe of my right boot to pull open the bottom desk drawer far enough for me to perch my feet on comfortably. I leaned back, my hands behind my head. What could I do to create an effective barrier to competition? What could I offer that Barney couldn’t? What value-added service could I provide that would create loyal customers and enhance my reputation?

  I sat forward. Bingo, I thought. What about an instant appraisal service? A homegrown version of the PBS television show?

  Sasha and I could take turns staffing a booth at the tag sale for an hour each Saturday. We could hook up a computer so we could use our subscription services to easily find values for the better items. I stood up and walked to the window, excited at the thought. Barney couldn’t compete because he had no access to professional research. Martha’s work certainly didn’t count. I smiled devilishly.

  Not only would I create a barrier to competition but I’d be able to make on-the-spot offers for items people might want to sell. We could call it Prescott’s Instant Appraisals. We’d highlight that it was free.

  I began to pace, my mind racing, coming up with ideas, discarding some and keeping others. I thought of how the ad I’d use to announce the new service should read. I considered what the booth itself should look like, and I planned how to control a crowd if we were lucky enough to get one.

  The phone rang.

  “Barney Troudeaux’s on the phone,” Gretchen told me. “He wants to know if he can stop by and talk to you. He said it’s important.”

  “Sure,” I said, my attention caught.

  I couldn’t imagine what Barney wanted to say to me that would be in the category of important. I tapped the desk, anxiety replacing confidence and creativity. I glanced at the computer clock and realized that Mr. Grant’s funeral was over. Mr. Grant, a man I’d liked, yet apparently a thief and a liar. A man who’d been stabbed… murdered-why? To protect the paintings? Or to keep the secret that the paintings had been stolen? What did Barney know, and did his coming here have anything to do with the murder? Increasingly apprehensive, my heart begin to thud.

  I paced. I stood in front of the window looking out. I sat down again.

  Gretchen called up and told me Barney was there, and I asked her to send him up.

  I walked to the spiral staircase and watched as he ascended.

  “Hi, Barney,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “Josie, great to see you! I love a spiral staircase! Clever use of space.”

  “Thanks, Barney. That’s right, you haven’t been up to my office before, have you?”

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  “Well, come on in.”

  I got him settled on the yellow love seat, offered him a beverage, which he declined, and holding my bottle of water in my lap the way a child holds a favorite blanket for security, I waited for him to speak.

  “Josie,” he began, his beaming smile morphing into an oh-so-sincere, I-hate-to-be-here-but-duty-calls look, “I’m here to offer help.”

  “Really,” I said, unsure of my ground.

  “This situation with the Grant estate… it’s truly awful.” He shook his head sorrowfully.

  “Yes,” I said, wary. Whatever was going on, the longer it took him to get to the point, the worse I figured the news would be.

  “I understand you’re helping Mrs. Cabot.”

  I thought about avoiding the question, but saw no point. It wasn’t confidential. In fact, knowing Wes, it would be in tomorrow’s paper. “Yes, she’s hired us to do an appraisal.”

  He nodded. “That’s a big job.”

  I smiled. “Yeah.”

  “Her daughter, Miranda, she’s concerned about her mother. She’s elderly, as you know.”

  Dressing up her name from Andi to Miranda didn’t make the bald-faced lie true. Andi had no thoughts for or about her mother. All she cared about was money. Money for Andi.

  “Not so old,” I said.

  “You can’t always tell by looking,” he said, as if he were the bearer of bad news.

  “Do you have a point, Barney?”

  “Miranda feels obliged to challenge her mother’s decisions about the Grant estate, I’m afraid.”

  Well, well, well. Chief Alverez told her to sue. And I would have bet money she wasn’t listening.

  “I suppose she has the legal right to do so, but it’s hard to believe that anyone would think Mrs. Cabot isn’t competent to handle her own affairs.”

  “Well, luckily, that’s nothing you or I will have to sort out.”

  “True,” I agreed.

  “Here’s the thing. Miranda has hired me to help her sort through the complicated issues related to Mr. Grant’s estate.”

  I felt like cursing him, but gripped the side of the chair instead. No emotiozzal display, my father told me, and I took a long moment remembering his admonition. Breathing slowly, I was able to smile and stay silent, conveying, I hoped, disinterest and mild curiosity.

  “I thought, and tell me if I’m out of line here, that maybe, just maybe, if you and I work together, we can help this mother and daughter find it in their hearts to settle their differences without resorting to the court system.”

  The son of a bitch, I thought, half admiring his sterling ability to make his outrageous encroachment seem like a sacrifice he was willing to make for the greater good of others. I wished Alverez was here, confident that he’d share my appreciation of Barney’s ridiculous and transparent offer, except it was probably a good thing that he wasn’t in the room. If he were, I’d look up to share the joke, and once our eyes met, I doubted that I’d be able to keep a straight face. As it was, I was having a hard
time maintaining professional decorum.

  “Andi’s going to do what she needs to do, including, I guess, hire you. Thanks for the offer, Barney, but we don’t need any help.”

  He stayed another twenty minutes, trying to find a wedge into my defenses. Finally he gave up. “Josie, you’re a stubborn young bird.”

  “Hell, Barney, I’m not stubborn. I’m steadfast.”

  He laughed, patted my shoulder, and left. But as he turned away, I noted that his eyes stayed hard. He was not amused at my refusal. Too bad, Barney, I said to myself as I escorted him out to his truck. Too bad for you, you devious son of a bitch, but you don’t get a piece of this one.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Don, the recruiter, called with questions about the skill level required, and I explained that in addition to a solid foundation of knowledge, we were looking for half diligence and half common sense. He chuckled and told me he had someone in mind and would call back, he hoped, within the hour.

  I realized that whoever Don found as our temporary researcher, he or she, as a newcomer, would need the appraisal protocol explained in more detail than Sasha had required. I sighed, resigned to doing what felt like busywork. It was too complex to delegate, but it had to be done.

  “Gretchen,” I said, calling her, “I need a binder. Would you bring one up?”

  “Sure. Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling. “Good idea.”

  I heard the clickity-clack of her heels on the steps, swung around in my chair, and saw her enter with a big smile, then accepted the steaming mug of coffee she proffered. She placed the burgundy binder, preprinted with our logo and name on the cover, on my desk.

  “Can I help?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. It’s a research thing.”

  “Well, let me know if I can do anything.” With a cheery wave, she was gone.

  I thought for a moment about what to include in the binder. I started with a description of the grandfather clock and added the protocol itself along with the explanation of how I calculated the value. Since the researcher would be new to the region, I added a paragraph explaining my distrust of Troudeaux’s research. Deciding that more information was better than less, I photocopied the title pages of the two catalogues I consulted, Shaw’s and Troudeaux’s, along with the pages containing the specific entries about the clock. I retraced my steps on the Web sites, found the information I’d discovered previously, and printed out the relevant pages.

  I was trying to determine the best sequence when Max called, just before 1:00. “Hey, Max,” I said, “I was just thinking about lunch. Do you have time? I’ll buy.”

  “Thanks, Josie. I’ll take a raincheck. Alverez called.”

  I sat up straight, alert for trouble. “What now?”

  “I don’t know. He wants to see us this afternoon.”

  As if a switch had been flipped, I lost my appetite. Whatever Alverez wanted, I figured it must be dire if he was calling Max out of the blue. I began to shake, and swallowed twice to try to control my visceral reaction. “Okay,” I said, as calmly as I could. “When?”

  “Is three o’clock all right?”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you there, okay?”

  I hung up the phone and began to think about what might have led to this unanticipated request. Nothing came to mind, but I became increasingly disquieted and tense. Stop it! I told myself. Until I had cause, tormenting myself with unanswerable what-if questions was way south of pointless. I’d know whether I had reason to be concerned soon enough. Just as I was chastising myself and wondering how to stop worrying, Don called back and gave me the name of the researcher I was going to hire for five days at $400 a day, Fred Reynolds.

  “He’s perfect, Josie,” Don said. “He’s young and eager. Smart as a whip. With absolutely no social skills at all. But give that boy an antique and a computer and look out.”

  I laughed, and it felt good. “Thanks, Don. You’re the best.”

  Don told me that Fred was already en route. He was flying to Boston, where he’d rent a car, and with any luck, be at my warehouse by 4:00. I passed on the information to Gretchen, who made a hotel reservation at a small bed-and-breakfast in downtown Portsmouth.

  As soon as I hung up the phone, anxiety returned. Keep busy, I admonished myself. I took a long drink of water, and turned my attention back to the protocol.

  I played around a little, designing a jazzy title page on letterhead, and using a three-hole punch, thumped all the pages and inserted them into the binder. I flipped through, admiring my work, and smiled. I was ready to dazzle anyone. Don’s researcher, Fred, would have an unequivocal understanding of what I meant by “professional standards.”

  Thinking about the schedule, I decided I’d better consult Sasha.

  “Sasha,” I said, when I had her on the phone, “how’s it going?”

  “Good. I’m working on the sofa, and have two tables and the plant stand to go.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “You’re working quickly.”

  “I’m trying. There’s so much.”

  “Yeah. Listen, Don has called back. A young guy named Fred Reynolds, a terrific researcher, according to him, will be here by four o’clock or so.”

  “Great.”

  “I’m going to be out for most of the rest of the day. When Fred arrives, it might make sense for you to get him settled in at the extra desk near Gretchen, make sure he can get on-line, then show him around. Okay?”

  “Okay. What about the protocol?”

  “I’ll do that. Are you okay to meet at the office at eight o’clock tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Arrange that with him, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You can watch the video with him first thing and show him how the tape relates to Mrs. Grant’s ledger. After that, I’ll go over the protocol with him. Then we should be good to go.”

  Hanging up, I realized that I ought to take the binder with me. I wanted to know the material cold when I reviewed it with Fred in the morning.

  I headed downstairs.

  Gretchen was on the phone arranging an appointment for me. From what I gathered as I waited for her to finish, a couple was downsizing after their kids had left for college. They were moving from a big Colonial in Durham into a small condo overlooking South Mill Pond in Portsmouth. She passed me a note reading “2:00 P.M. tomorrow?”

  I nodded that 2:00 was fine. When she was off the phone, she said, “This is a good one, I think.”

  “Yeah? What do they have?” I asked.

  “Loads of stuff, it sounds like.” She glanced at her notes. “A set of china, nothing special. A dinette set from the ’40s. End tables. Some hand-carved decoys. Japanese screens. A pool table, in pretty good shape. Boxes full of miscellaneous goods.”

  “That’s great! Where did the lead come from?”

  “The tag sale. Eric got this one.”

  “Excellent.”

  I slipped the address she handed me into my purse.

  “Eric’s off today, right?”

  “Right.”

  Since we all work on Saturdays, everyone gets a weekday off. Eric usually took Mondays. Gretchen rarely did, since she was responsible for reconciling the weekend receipts. She and Sasha worked it out between them which day they took, so we always had coverage in the office. “When are you off?” I asked.

  “Wednesday.”

  “When Eric gets in tomorrow, have him go to the professor’s and pick up the books. He ought to have a helper. There’s a lot of them.”

  She nodded, jotted herself a reminder, and taped it to her computer monitor. “I’ll get a temp right now.”

  “Good. I’m heading out,” I told her. “When Fred arrives, remember that he’s a stranger to these parts. Make sure he has everything he needs and that he can find his way to the B-andB, okay?”

  She gave me an of-course-I-will look.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, of course you wi
ll.” I smiled.

  I stopped at a grocery store and circled their deli-style salad bar picking and chose whatever grabbed my fancy, drove to the beach, and ate sitting in my car. It tasted pretty good, but not as good as homemade. I missed cooking for someone. Rick, my former boyfriend, loved my cooking. It was one of his best qualities.

  I wondered what Rick was doing now. When I’d called to let him know that I was leaving New York for New Hampshire, he’d told me that he thought it was a good idea for me to get away, that maybe the physical distance would help me put my father’s death behind me. I didn’t respond to either his insensitivity or his bitter tone. His lack of empathy was why we’d broken up a month or so after my father’s death, and it still seemed incredible to me that he thought I ought, somehow, to simply turn the other cheek, and get on with things. I had wished him good luck, and hung up, relieved that I was no longer dating him.

  I shook my head. We’d had such good times for almost two years, I still felt surprised at how quickly things had changed. In only a matter of weeks, we’d gone from cruising the farmer’s market looking for the freshest produce to strangers laboring to maintain a conversation.

  I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, a sudden memory bringing tears to my eyes. I’d been making a Newburg sauce, slowly stirring sherry into cream, when he came behind me, his hands encircling my torso. He brushed my hair aside and began kissing my neck, his lips electric on my skin.

  I sat up and pushed the memory aside. I didn’t want to be with him, but I wanted to be with someone. I was aware that I was exerting a lot of mental energy coping with loneliness. I tried my best, without much success, to shake off my growing depression. I had a sense of impending doom. Not only was I alone but I was having to deal with being suspected of murder. I swallowed, fighting tears.

  Whatever Alverez was going to say or do, I felt certain it would be bad news.