CHAPTER TWO
At noon the next day, while I was reviewing my accountant’s quarterly report, Gretchen called up, bubbling with good news.
Yesterday, after the weatherman had upped his prediction from a coating of snow to eight inches, Gretchen had come up to my office, her eyes clouded with worry.
“I don’t know what to do about that cat,” she’d said. “I called all the vets in town. No one has reported him missing.”
“And it’s supposed to snow tonight.”
“Exactly. The problem is that none of us can adopt him. Between people who have allergies, like Sasha’s roommate, people who have dogs who don’t like cats, like Cara, and people who aren’t home enough to care for him, like you—well, that idea just isn’t going to work.” She paused for a moment. “He seems so sweet … I was wondering … what would you think about … well, what would you think about his living here?”
I couldn’t possibly have resisted the appeal in her eyes even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. I’d happily agreed to welcome him to Prescott’s—if he got an all-clear from a vet.
Before I had time to turn around, she’d made an appointment with Cara’s vet, gratefully accepted the check I’d handed her to cover the expenses, and whisked him away. He’d gotten his shots and a flea bath, and had stayed at the animal hospital overnight pending the results of his blood work. With his tests back from the lab, the vet declared him—a two-ish-year-old neutered male—to be in perfect health. He was, it seemed, a Maine Coon, a very desirable breed, known for its friendly personality and for fetching like a dog. His coloring, we were told, was called chinchilla.
Gretchen’s voice on the phone was peppy and full of joy. She said she’d stop by a pet store to load up on supplies, then pick him up. I invited her upstairs for another check.
About ten of two, I went downstairs to greet the cat. Gretchen wasn’t back yet, but the office was bustling. Ava was just leaving for lunch as Fred, my other appraiser and a night owl, was arriving for work, grumbling about Big Brother. He’d been caught by Portsmouth’s newly installed red-light camera. As he was warning us about it, Gretchen pushed open the door, letting in the bright sunshine and a mild breeze. We’d only gotten a dusting of snow after all, and today it was in the mid-sixties, a perfect spring day.
“Come on in,” she called to someone behind her.
Gretchen moved out of the way and lowered the cat’s carry case to the floor as Riley Jordan stepped into the office, car keys in one hand and a Louis Vuitton Neverfull tote bag in the other.
“Welcome!” I said to her, smiling. “It goes without saying that we’re delighted to see you, but you do realize you’re hours early for the workshop, don’t you?”
Riley’s caramel-colored eyes met mine. She didn’t reply, and from her blank stare, I wondered if she’d even heard me. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders. Her Burberry trench coat was buttoned to the neck. Folds of her matching scarf peeked out from under the coat’s collar. Her brown leather knee-high boots gleamed. Appearance-wise, she looked as put together as always, but her eyes told another tale. She took a few steps toward Sasha’s desk, then stopped. She seemed to be in shock and fearful, as if she’d just seen a ghost.
“Are you okay?” I asked softly, no longer feeling any inclination to joke around.
Riley inhaled as if it were work. She placed her tote bag on the floor, brushed her hair out of eyes, took a deep breath, and smiled, barely. “I’m fine, thanks, Josie … just a little tired. I was driving by, so I thought I’d pop in rather than call. By any chance, are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I repeated, thinking aloud. “Wednesday.” I turned to Cara. “Do I have any appointments?”
She double-clicked to open our calendar program. “No,” she said. “You’re available.”
“Lunch sounds great,” I said, smiling at Riley. “Is twelve-thirty good? Shall we meet at the Blue Dolphin?”
“No,” she answered sharply. She seemed to register my surprised reaction, because she smiled again, another wan effort. “I’m in the mood for Italian. Is Gino’s all right? You know it, don’t you? On Route One?”
“Sure,” I said, curious why she didn’t want to have lunch at her husband’s restaurant. “Gino’s is fine.”
She glanced at her watch. “Thanks, Josie. I’ve got to run. I’ll see you at six-thirty tonight.” As she turned to leave, she noticed her books sitting on Gretchen’s desk. This time, her smile seemed sincere. “How lovely! You have my book!”
“Absolutely!” I said. “We’ll be selling them tonight and in the shop.”
“Thank you,” she said, sounding genuinely pleased. She waved good-bye to us all and left.
“She doesn’t look well, does she?” Gretchen said.
“I thought she looked drawn,” Cara said. “Maybe she’s coming down with a cold.”
I watched Riley cross the parking lot. Her shoulders were bowed. Her feet dragged. Something’s wrong, I thought. She looks as if she has the weight of the world on her shoulders. The kind of weight that comes from a heavy heart, not a head cold.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I said, wanting to nip pointless gossip in the bud. I smiled and looked at the cat’s carry case. “What have you there?”
“Prescott’s new cat!” Gretchen exclaimed, immediately distracted. “Everyone … gather around to meet our new resident!”
“Go ahead and call Eric,” I said to Cara.
Eric, in his twenties, was tall and twig-thin, with a serious demeanor. He’d worked for Prescott’s since his junior year in high school, joining us as a full-timer as soon as he’d graduated.
A minute later, Sasha, Fred, Cara, Eric, and I stood in a loose circle as Gretchen unzipped the end flap of the carrier. Sasha smiled shyly. Fred leaned back, his arms crossed, reserving judgment. Cara smiled welcomingly. Eric stood a step away, half-frowning, a die-hard dog person trying hard to keep an open mind.
A silvery face poked out of the opening. He looked at us, one at a time.
“He’s very good-looking,” Cara said.
The cat stepped out and sniffed around. He seemed mildly curious and totally at ease. As he ambled around checking us out, greeting us one by one, rubbing our legs, stretching leisurely by lowering first his front half, then his rear half, I found myself wishing that I handled change half as well as he did.
“What are we going to call him?” Fred asked.
I’d recruited Fred from New York City about five years earlier, and despite his big-city sophistication, he seemed content to live in small-town New Hampshire. He was one of the few New Hampshire men I knew who routinely wore suits. His were Italian made, and he wore them with starched white shirts and skinny black ties. His glasses were of-the-moment stylish—black, with small square frames. I preened myself on the hire. Fred was clever, savvy, and conscientious. As an added bonus, he and Sasha were a terrific team: No matter how much they argued about an appraisal, their disagreements were always professional, never personal. Plus, there was no backstabbing or one-upmanship; there was only mutual respect.
The cat’s name was Hank. I didn’t know how I knew that was his name—I just did.
“Hank,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the cat’s face. “His name is Hank.”
I could feel everyone’s eyes as they turned to look at me, then back to him.
“Why Hank?” Gretchen asked.
I smiled at her and shrugged. “I don’t know … I guess he looks like a Hank.”
After several seconds, Sasha said, “You’re right. He does look like a Hank.”
“Is he really a Henry?” Cara asked. “Are we calling him by his nickname?”
“No. He’s a Hank, not a Henry,” I replied.
“Yo, Hank,” Fred said, shooting him a cool-kid-in-the-’hood grin. “It suits him. I like it.”
“Come here, Hank,” Gretchen said, scooping him up and carrying him toward the warehouse. “It’s time to get
you settled into your new home. That’s a good boy.”
Eric followed her, and I heard him say, “I put all his stuff by the side like you told me. I’ll help you with the carpet.”
Hank has his own carpet, I thought. I wondered what else Gretchen had bought him.
“Fred,” Sasha said, “when you get a chance, would you look at one of the Bob Mackie labels for me? I’m having trouble authenticating it.”
“Sure,” he said. “What’s the problem?”
“There are several different label styles,” Sasha said as they headed into the warehouse, “and the differentiations aren’t clearly defined.”
The phone rang. Cara greeted the caller and began giving directions from Boston.
I started toward my office to resume reading my accountant’s report but decided to go see how Hank’s new quarters were coming along instead. Eric stood off to the side watching Hank with what looked to be forbearance.
“What do you think of him, Eric?” I asked.
“He’s okay, I guess.”
“Given that he’s not a dog,” I said, smiling.
“Exactly.” He grinned. “He seems pretty smart, I’ll give him that.”
“He is so smart, aren’t you, Hank,” Gretchen cooed.
Hank rubbed up against her leg, and she scratched him under his chin. He raised his head to provide better access and closed his eyes.
“Would that we were all so easy to please,” I said.
They’d laid a 9' × 12' forest green carpet in an empty area halfway along the left side of the warehouse. Hank’s covered litter box sat on a medium-sized black rubber mat at one end. On the other end, a second, smaller black rubber mat held Hank’s food and water bowls. Hank stood nearby, aloof but watchful.
“What do you think, Josie? Should we put his bed against the wall over here?”
“It looks like a good spot.”
She moved the basket against the concrete wall, then reached into the pet store’s shopping bag, extracted a small plastic package, and tore into it.
“He’s such a good boy,” she said, still cooing, “I got him a catnip mouse.”
She shook it and a tinny bell sounded. Hank’s expression changed from mildly engaged to engrossed. She tossed it toward him, and it landed about three feet from where he stood. He pounced on it, picked it up by its tail, shook it savagely, then brought it to me and dropped it at my feet.
“Look,” I said, astonished. I met their eyes. “He brought me the mouse. The vet said he’d fetch, but I didn’t really believe it.”
I lobbed the little felt mouse twenty feet or so, and when it landed, it bounced a few times on the concrete. Hank took off like a shot and jumped on it, sending it skittering toward the wall. He batted it like a soccer player running a ball downfield, then picked it up by the tail again and pranced back, dropping it at my feet a second time.
“Wow,” I said, petting his whiskers. “You’re a very clever boy.”
He nuzzled my hand, purring, then yawned and strolled to his bed. I watched as he curled up on his pillow, his eyes half closed, ready for a nap.
“Isn’t that something?” I said. “He went from flying through the air to attack a mouse to napping in a minute and a half.”
Gretchen giggled. “I think it only took a minute.”
Eric smiled. “It’ll be good to have him around.”
I gave Hank one last look. “Sleep tight, Hank,” I said. “Welcome home.”
I left them there and went upstairs. The next time I came down, about an hour later, I took another peek at Hank. He was solidly asleep, looking for all the world like a miniature lion.
* * *
I spent the next two hours on the phone with a potential client from Santa Barbara, California. Marianne Simpson was interviewing antiques auction houses before narrowing her choices and requesting formal proposals from those that made the short list.
Mrs. Simpson explained that she’d spent most of her adult life traveling the world with her husband, an archaeologist. While he’d overseen digs for major universities and museums, she’d collected rare maps. Now that they were retired, she’d decided to sell her collection to fund their travel. When she’d called to make the appointment to talk to me, I’d allocated half an hour, ample time, I’d thought, to answer her questions and ask some of my own.
Mrs. Simpson had a different idea on how to vet auction houses. She wanted far more detail about our policies and procedures than the typical consignee. To my mind, she was smart and I was lucky. In my experience, the more potential customers know about auction house practices, the more likely they are to choose Prescott’s. While it was a great opportunity for me to highlight our advantages, it required enormous concentration and sustained focus. Two hours is a long time.
“Thank you,” she said at the end of our call. “I’m putting Prescott’s on the short list.”
Woo hoo! I thought, silently congratulating myself. Her collection included fourteen examples of seventeenth-century maps, including a world view by Melchior the Younger dating from 1630, which would, I knew, sell for close to six figures. I grabbed a pen and started writing notes. I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities. Maybe, I thought, we could call the auction “A World View” and offer globes and astronomical devices in addition to the maps. I did some preliminary research on recent auctions of rare maps, then expanded my research to include auctions of related objects. As the proposal began coming together in my head, I found I couldn’t write fast enough.
The next time I looked up it was three minutes to six.
* * *
I hurried down the stairs to check out the tag sale venue. The workshop was due to begin in half an hour, not much time if the room wasn’t set properly. Eric had placed the chairs in a semicircle facing the central podium. A poster featuring a cross-section diagram of a shoe rested against the lower cubby. On either side, long tables stretched along the walls and were draped with tablecloths. I nodded, satisfied. The room was ready.
Back in the main office, everyone but Gretchen and Fred had left for the day. Fred was on the phone. I noticed the purses that had ranged on and around Sasha’s desk were gone.
“Want to help me wheel the cart in?” I asked Gretchen.
“Sure,” she said, standing up.
The cart, stocked with the designer and counterfeit handbags and shoes that Riley and I would be using at tonight’s workshop, made a cunkita-cunkita sound as its rubberized wheels rolled along the concrete flooring. When we reached the tag sale room, Gretchen opened the door and I guided the cart in.
“Everything looks in order,” I said. “Once you bring in the refreshments, I think we’re good to go.”
“I wonder where Riley went,” she said.
“Riley? She’s here already?”
“Uh-huh. She got here about four. She said her appointment ended earlier than she expected.” Gretchen walked to the window. “Her car’s still here.”
“I bet she got antsy. On a day like this, teasing us with warm sunshine, I know I’d have been seriously tempted to go for a walk.”
“I did see a car leaving the lot about, oh, I don’t know, about half an hour ago, I guess. Maybe a friend stopped by and they ran out for coffee.”
“You think? If so, I hope she gets back soon.”
We began placing the bags and shoes on the tables in the order Riley and I would be referring to them. I stepped back to consider the alignment.
“Why did she come in here?” I asked. “I mean, why didn’t she just hang out in the office with you guys?”
“I offered, but she wasn’t interested. I felt bad … I mean … she asked if she could hang out, and when I said of course, she went back to her car and got a book from the trunk. She said that if I didn’t mind, she’d just like to sit quietly and read. I told her that was fine and brought her into the tag sale room. That was all right to do, wasn’t it?”
“Absolutely. As long as she’s happy, I’m happy.” We c
ontinued to arrange the examples. After a moment, I asked, “How did she seem?”
“About the same,” Gretchen replied. She sighed, her ready empathy surfacing.
“I hope she’s okay,” I said, shaking my head.
Gretchen went to bring the tray of gingersnaps and the pitcher of lemonade while I finished up. I stepped back and scanned the tables. I nodded, pleased. The examples were appropriately balanced in terms of color, designer, and value.
“Okay, then,” I said, “we’re ready.”
I left Gretchen there to greet the arriving students and returned to the front.
I took a guest chair and told Fred, “Wait until you hear about the consignment we’ve been invited to bid on.”
“A Melchior the Younger,” he repeated, after I explained the map project’s scope. He pushed up his glasses. “That’s about as rare as it gets.”
I smiled, pleased at his enthusiasm. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed!”
We agreed to meet first thing in the morning to discuss the proposal, and I turned my attention to my workshop notes. I was wrestling with how much detail to provide. Riley and I had agreed that we wanted to equip the students, most of whom were novices, with the knowledge they needed to build their collections wisely, but we didn’t want to burden or bore them with minutiae. At the same time, we didn’t want to leave them with the impression that determining value was easy.
* * *
I never wear a watch since it always seems to get in the way when I’m working, so I’d placed my cell phone on the podium. As the time crept toward six-thirty, I found myself glancing at it every minute or so.
Riley still hadn’t returned.
At six twenty-five, I approached Becka Dowling, an English professor at Hitchens and one of Riley’s oldest friends. She was standing near the window with Kenna Duffy, Bobby’s bookkeeper, chatting.
“You haven’t heard from Riley, by any chance, have you?” I asked.
Deadly Threads Page 2
