Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Josie!” she exclaimed. “How ya doing?”

  “Good. Really good. Business is strong up here. All is well.”

  “That’s great to hear. Do you have snow yet?”

  “Shelley, it’s only October!” I chided, laughing at her chauvinistic view of the world outside New York City.

  “Well, all I know is that you left us and moved to the frozen tundra or something.”

  “ ‘Or something’ is closer than ‘frozen tundra.’ Listen,” I said, trying for a casual tone, “I heard that Trevor got out of prison.”

  “Yeah, I heard that, too.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Not much. I haven’t seen him or anything.”

  “Have you heard what he’s up to?”

  “Just rumors that he’s determined to clear his name and regain his, ahem, proper place in the antiques world.”

  Clear his name? I protested silently. He confessed, for God’s sake! I closed my eyes in an effort to steady my rage-fueled shaking hands. “Really?” I asked, aiming to convey playful disbelief. “How does he plan to do that?”

  “Probably by trashing you,” she said with an embarrassed giggle.

  “Jeez,” I whispered, stunned at the thought. Her answer was logical, but I couldn’t help wondering if Shelley knew more than she was telling.

  “Especially since you’re not here to defend yourself,” she added.

  “Did you hear something in particular?” I asked as if it didn’t matter one way or the other.

  “No. I just know Trevor.”

  So do I, I thought. “You’re so right, Shelley. Well, I guess it’s another reason I’m glad to be out of the City. If I’m not in his face, maybe he’ll ignore me.”

  “Maybe,” she said, sounding unconvinced.

  “So, how are you?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

  We chatted about the new man she was dating and politics at Frisco’s, the weather in New York and when it really started snowing in New Hampshire, and who was up for a promotion and who’d been passed over, and by the end of the conversation, I realized that I was truly thankful to be out of the corporate fray and on my own.

  A truck rumbled into the lot.

  Making my way down the spiral stairs, across the warehouse, and into the desolate auction venue, I turned on lights while avoiding looking at the spot where Maisy had stood. The vision of her tumbling forward, shrieking, “Ahhh . . . al . . . alahaaa . . . dah . . .” in a panicked screech was forever branded in my memory. I didn’t want to remind myself of the scene. There’d be time enough to look at the platform again after the place was cleaned up.

  I unbolted the double doors and swung them wide, enjoying the rush of autumn air. Eddie was opening his truck’s back doors. I spotted two helpers.

  Eddie was tall, maybe six three or more, and he was big all over, with thick arms and powerful thighs. His short red hair was turning gray.

  “Hi, Eddie. How are you doing?”

  “Hey, Josie,” he replied. “I’m holding up pretty well, all things considered. How about you?”

  “Good.” I grimaced. “So-so, if the truth be known.”

  “Yeah. It’s a helluva situation.”

  “Yeah. Listen, you have our auction schedule, right? We’re still on for those dates.”

  He flashed a grateful grin. “Yeah. Thanks, Josie.”

  We weren’t friends exactly, but he was chatty and open. Whenever he set out the wine and snacks for our monthly auction preview receptions and I was around, he told me more about himself.

  “You never know, Josie, how things work out,” he’d told me with a chuckle as he set up for the Gala. “Never say never.”

  He recounted how, last year, at forty-eight, he had, on a whim, quit his boring corporate job and signed up for a fancy cooking course. Three months later, with his certificate of completion in hand, he opened his catering business.

  “With my contacts,” he confided to me, “it should have been a snap. But I wasn’t prepared for the competition.”

  We chatted briefly now and I watched as he directed his staff. After a minute, I said, “I’ll be up in my office if you need me. Okay?”

  “You bet. Thanks, Josie,” he said, and though his eyes looked worried, he waved a cheerful good-bye.

  I looked back as I reached the door to the warehouse. He stood between two of the display cases, overseeing his workers.

  To one side was a Plexiglas case containing a nineteenth-century “Theatre Gringalet” clock entitled “This Evening Grand Representation.” The elaborate scene showed a man playing a drum and a woman playing cymbals. Both figures stood on a stage, dressed in period costumes. Above them, a monkey looked down, observing their performance. Fabricated of metal, the clock measured fifteen by twelve inches and featured a French eight-day movement. The design was both practical and witty, and for someone who liked its style or who collected rare timepieces, it was a real find. We estimated that it would sell for around $2,300.

  To Eddie’s other side, also under clear Plexiglas, was the gorgeous faience pottery set I’d described to Detective Rowcliff.

  As I stepped into the warehouse, I heard Eddie shouting directions to someone named Randy. He sounded so in charge, I thought that maybe I was wrong to worry about him. Perhaps the depression I’d observed on Saturday night was a natural reaction to the shock and sadness of Maisy’s death, not, as I’d feared, from worry about his catering business.

  Upstairs, as ways and means of discovering information about Trevor and Maisy simmered on my mental back burner, I reviewed the preliminary tag-sale numbers. Dolls and dollhouses continued to sell well, which meant I needed more inventory. Tea sets and porcelain figures were down. So were wooden tools. Quilts were holding steady. The pursuit of quality goods was unending.

  I brought up a search engine and, with some trepidation, entered “Trevor Woodleigh” and “probation.” Four seconds later, eighty-one links appeared.

  The first one took me to the East Side Trumpet, a neighborhood newsletter serving the area where Trevor lived. The article confirmed what Wes had told me—Trevor had been released last week and was living with his sister.

  A longer article appeared in New York Monthly. I winced as I noted that the author was Bertie Rose. She’d been one of a dozen reporters who’d made my life hell during Trevor’s trial, following my every move, posing provocative questions, and trying hard to find a damning motive to account for my whistle-blowing. She still called me periodically looking for a quote, and I still refused to take her calls. I realized, stunned, that Trevor’s imminent release must have been why she’d called within the last month and left an urgent message.

  The phone startled me. It was Gretchen relaying the news that Dora and Britt would arrive at ten to discuss what to do about notifying the winning bidders. I glanced at the clock on my computer monitor. I had more than half an hour before they’d arrive. I turned my attention back to the on-line article.

  The so-called exposé alleged that Trevor was determined to salvage his reputation as the world’s premier expert on authenticating and appraising Impressionist art by writing a book on the subject. I was skeptical. Trevor’s gift was his people skills. From what I’d seen over the years I’d worked with him, neither his scholarship nor his writing ability were in any way remarkable. But as Shelley had made clear, his actual talent notwithstanding, all that mattered was whether he could create the perception that he was an expert.

  The story was probably colored by Trevor’s wishful thinking—he was promoting the image he hoped to create. Pretty slick, if he could pull it off. To me, it seemed a pathetic effort to redeem himself, to reclaim his place in the art world. Surely he realized that we who knew him would recognize his efforts for what they were: disingenuous at best and specious at worst, a cynical attempt to sway opinion for his own ends. Did he think that we were stupid? It galled me beyond words that Trevor would try to fake his redemption.

  I felt my th
roat tighten as I stifled an unwanted emotional display and I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes in an effort to suppress my too-easy tears. I stepped away from my desk and walked to the nearest window. The maple’s orange and yellow leaves shimmied in the light breeze. Why, I wondered, am I so irritated at Trevor?

  I knew the answer. He was trying to get what I sought, but without the work. I’d moved to New Hampshire to start anew, to build a business. He had no such intentions—he was manipulating the media to boost his status. My efforts at rejuvenation were sincere—I worked hard; Trevor’s were false—he wasn’t working at all.

  If redeeming himself was his intention, however, why would he try to kill me? I quaked at the thought. I knew that answer, too. Killing me would allow him to feel vindicated. It was irrational—and completely in keeping with what I knew of his character.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  N

  ew Hampshire was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen, filled with natural wonders. Everywhere you looked was something breathtaking: vivid reds and yellows in fall and subtle lilacs and cornflower blues in spring, opalescent whites in winter, and verdant greens in summer. It was a land of color, with every season representing hope. New Hampshire was my home. That Trevor might violate my adopted homeland with his presence made me crazy.

  Don’t speculate, I warned myself. Don’t guess about anything—neither Trevor’s anger nor his alibi, neither Maisy’s behavior nor her attitudes. Research and consideration, not conjecture, answered questions.

  Back at the computer, I searched for Trevor’s name in conjunction with Saturday’s date. A man determined to resume his place in the high-end art and antiques world in New York City might have attended a society event or gallery opening. And if he had attended something of that nature, his presence might merit a paragraph—or a sentence—in some publication. If I could confirm his attendance at the event, I could feel reassured that he hadn’t been in my building killing Maisy, and forget about him. I tapped the Enter key and was immediately disappointed. Nothing. No relevant hits. Now what? I asked myself. Should I sit back and wait for Wes to tell me more, hoping he can discover Trevor’s alibi? Way too passive for me. As my father repeated over and over again when I engaged in wishful thinking as a child, Work, not wishing, makes it so. I had to act.

  I was certain that Wes would roar like a charging lion if he knew that I was going to report Trevor’s existence to the police. But from where I stood, I had no choice. If there was any chance that Trevor was, in fact, out to get me, I had to protect myself. And unless I hired a New York City private eye to check out his alibi, I was out of options. I couldn’t even consult Ty. I dialed Max’s office.

  “Max,” I said when I had him on the line, choosing my words with care, “I’ve had a thought about someone who might actually wish me harm. I mean, I have no reason to think he is responsible for Maisy’s death, but, well, you asked me to tell you if anything came to me.”

  “I’m glad you called. Tell me.”

  “His name is Trevor Woodleigh.” I fought back unwanted tears, angrily brushing aside the dampness streaking down my cheeks, and forced myself to speak normally. “I testified against him at a trial a few years ago in New York, and it seems he’s been released from prison.”

  “And he blamed you?”

  “Yeah.” I half-laughed. “Pretty much, he hates my guts.”

  “Well, this is certainly relevant information. I’ll call Detective Rowcliff right away.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  After a small pause, Max said, “Probably you’re right. Still, it can’t do any harm to check it out.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, quoting my mother. If I was going to check out Trevor, I ought also to see what I could learn about Maisy. I brought up another window and Googled Maisy’s name.

  Of the fifty-seven hits, only three were unrelated to Maisy’s work with the Portsmouth Women’s Guild. I went through them all, starting with the items connected to the Guild. I scanned newsletter articles about past years’ Galas, press releases about awards the Guild had won, photos showing Maisy smiling as she handed someone a check or shook someone’s hand—looking more stiff than comfortable—until finally, I came to the three non-Guild references.

  The first one was a feature article in the Seacoast Star from two years ago, in which Maisy was quoted as supporting the arts in Portsmouth. The second reference was a photograph published in a service organization’s magazine, showing Maisy, her features relaxed and her behavior buoyant, raising a glass of what looked to be sparkling wine with someone called Pam Field. And the third one was an issue of Maisy’s church’s newsletter—apparently, she had baked chocolate chip cookies for a fund-raiser last July.

  I hit the back button until the magazine photograph reappeared. Maisy really did look lighthearted. The caption read “Maisy Gaylor and Pam Field celebrating Ms. Field’s new venture, Field Design Studio.” I studied the photograph. Pam Field looked familiar. Curious, I checked her name against the Gala invitation list—and there it was. She’d been at the Gala. The memory came back to me—I hadn’t met her, but I had noticed Maisy and her, laughing. Anyone who was able to get Maisy to relax and have fun—well, that was someone I wanted to meet.

  I found the Field Design Studio contact information in the White Pages and dialed the number. No answer. After six rings, a machine came on, but I hung up without leaving a message. I glanced at my computer monitor—maybe they weren’t open yet. I jotted the phone number and address down and slipped it into my pocket.

  As I walked downstairs, I wondered whether Pam Field would be able to shed any light on Maisy’s unexpectedly sprightly performance at the Gala. Were they friends? I also wondered what Rowcliff would think about Trevor and whether he would follow up in person, and if so, how he’d react to what, no doubt, would be Trevor’s vituperative condemnation of all things Josie.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  D

  o you think they’ll get divorced?” I heard Dora, the volunteer chairperson of the Gala, ask as I crossed the warehouse, heading toward the main office.

  “I think so,” Gretchen said. “It’s so sad, isn’t it? Their twins are only seven months old.”

  I wondered whom they were talking about. I didn’t know anyone with seven-month-old twins.

  “What do you think happened?” Dora asked.

  “Same old, same old. He fell in love with his costar on the movie set. It happens all the time,” Gretchen added, lowering her voice as if she were sharing a secret.

  To the uninitiated, Gretchen probably sounded like she had inside knowledge, but I knew that her juicy tidbits came from weekly tabloids and on-line scandal sheets.

  “You’d think that—” Dora said, breaking off abruptly as soon as she saw me. She slid off the desk where she was perched and walked to meet me, her hands outstretched. “Josie, how are you? Isn’t this awful? Are you completely overwrought?”

  I smiled in greeting, thinking how much I admired her graciousness. Reed-thin, Dora always looked like a million bucks. Today, she wore an ivory silk sweater set with a long gold chain-link necklace and dangling gold earrings. Her knee-length pencil skirt was rust-colored wool, and she wore high-heeled brown leather boots. She was stunning.

  “It’s no fun, that’s for sure. How are you holding up?” I responded.

  She grimaced. “I talked to that detective, Rowcliff, I think his name is. Isn’t he horrible?”

  “He’s intense, I know that,” I replied, avoiding saying anything negative. Never gossip at work, my father had warned me when I started at Frisco’s. If it would bother you to read it in tomorrow’s paper, don’t say it.

  Dora leaned toward me, her eyes expressing worry. “I got the impression that the detective thought you might have been the target. Is it true?”

  Dora’s question caught me off guard, and for a moment, I froze, aware that both Gretchen and Dora were awaiting my response.

&n
bsp; Of course Rowcliff would have asked Dora if she knew any reason why someone would want to kill me, just as he’d asked me. In fact, as I thought of it, I realized that in all probability, he’d asked everyone.

  I took in a deep breath and exhaled, trying to decide how I should answer. Turn the headlights in another direction, I thought, my pulse racing. All I wanted was to take the focus off myself.

  In as playful a tone as I could muster, I said, “Nah, he’s just covering all bases. Unless . . . Wait a minute. Gretchen, what do you think? Am I that tough a boss?”

  I thought it was pretty lame, so I was pleasantly surprised when both Gretchen and Dora laughed a little.

  “You’re a great boss!” Gretchen exclaimed, sounding ready to argue with anyone who said different.

  I was touched. “Thanks, Gretchen.”

  I turned to Dora. “I’m a simple soul. Who’d want to kill me?” I added, crossing my fingers behind my back for luck, hoping that what I said was true and that Trevor Woodleigh was busily plotting his redemption in New York City, not planning my murder in Portsmouth.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Dora said, shaking her head sadly. “Poor Maisy.”

  My deflection worked and the discomfort I felt passed. My pounding heart began to slow and I took another breath. “How about if we head toward the back, Dora, and wait for Britt there?”

  “Sure,” Dora agreed.

  She picked up her jumbo-size leather tote bag and together we headed toward the inner door that gave access to the warehouse.

  “Gretchen, when Britt arrives, bring him back, okay?”

  “Okay. It was nice talking with you, Dora,” she said.