Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Oh, you too! We’ll catch up more another time.” Dora gave an airy wave as we passed into the bone-cold warehouse.

  Our footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls. When we were about halfway across the expanse, Dora asked, “Did you know them well? Maisy and Walter, I mean . . .”

  I shook my head. “I never met Walter until the Gala. And Maisy, well, I got to know her a little, since we’d been working together. But nothing personal, you know? How about you?”

  “I only met Walter once before the Gala. It was at a cocktail reception over the summer, one of those ‘we’re all working together on the Gala, so bring your significant others and let’s bond,’ things,” she said, casting her eyes heavenward, a nonverbal commentary about what she thought of that idea. “I took Hank. You met him, right?”

  “The trombone player,” I said, remembering a tall guy with a blond ponytail. He’d been one of the brass quartet that had played soft music during the cocktail hour. He was maybe ten years younger than Dora, and cute as all get-out.

  “Right. He’s my honey.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said.

  “He’s a sweetie.”

  “That’s great,” I replied, unsure how to respond.

  “Anyway,” she said, “Hank is the most patient creature on earth, but after two minutes talking to Walter, he’s tugging on my shawl and whispering in my ear, ‘Get me away from this jerk before I pound him into the ground.’”

  “Really? Wow, that’s amazing. I mean, I got the impression that Walter was upset about something, you know? But I had no idea he’d inspire a patient man to violence.” As I spoke, I opened the door that led into the auction hall and switched on the overhead lights. “Well,” I said, “here we are.”

  Eddie was long gone, along with everything that wasn’t nailed down or on display. It was a little creepy. Whereas an hour earlier there had been tables and chairs, linens, dishes, and candles, now there was nothing except the antiques we were there to discuss.

  Dora glanced around and placed her tote bag against the wall near the display cases. I couldn’t read her expression, but I sensed she felt as uncomfortable as I did.

  “I wonder if Greg—he was my seatmate at the Gala—I wonder if he won the sideboard,” I remarked. “Do you remember?”

  “No,” Dora answered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. But I do remember that it sold for more than its estimate.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “It’s an excellent thing!” Dora agreed. “What was it estimated to go for?”

  “Nineteen thousand.”

  “That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. Not for this piece.”

  Attributed to Anthony Quervelle from Philadelphia, and dating from 1830, the mahogany sideboard featured a backsplash that was carved with acanthine scrolls and a bowl of fruit. There was a central long drawer flanked by a pair of pedestal cabinets, each with a drawer over a cabinet door, and columns leading to scrolled paw feet. It was in pristine condition, having been lovingly maintained by the Hillshaw family for more than 175 years. I knew because Fred, my researcher, had personally confirmed its provenance.

  “I don’t like it, do you?” Dora asked, her hand on her hip.

  “It’s a magnificent example of American craftsmanship,” I replied.

  “Fair enough, but do you like it?”

  “Well, yeah, I do, actually.”

  “Really? I didn’t know anyone—”

  Britt Epps stepped into the room. “Thank you, Gretchen, for the escort.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  I heard Gretchen’s French heels tapping as she made her way back through the warehouse.

  Britt spotted us and beamed. “Josie, it’s so good to see you,” he said, walking in our direction. “How are you holding up during this difficult time? Dora, my dear, how are you? Not that I need to ask. I can see that you’re looking as beautiful as always. My, my, I’m a lucky fellow this morning, aren’t I, surrounded by two such lovely ladies.”

  “Oh, Britt, you are such a flatterer!” Dora teased.

  “I never flatter, my dear.”

  I stood by, removed from their mindless interaction, half of me wishing that I could joke as deftly as they did and the other half wishing they’d just be done with it. After five long minutes of small tall, during which I smiled and said the little sillies that were expected of me, Britt finally got down to business.

  He opened a flap of his oversized briefcase, closer to the big square ones used by pilots than the more traditional kind typically carried by lawyers, and began to paw through it.

  “Here it is!” Britt exclaimed, standing up, waving the manila envelope containing the bid sheets that I’d handed him at the Gala. He closed the flap and latched it.

  Twenty minutes later, we’d tacked Post-it notes with the names of the winners and the sale price on every piece of furniture and display case, and we’d begun to write a script for Gretchen to use when making the calls to the winners, when Gretchen’s voice crackled over the PA system.

  “Josie,” she announced, “you have a call on one. It’s Ty.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  M

  y heart stopped.

  MI had to resist a white-hot urge to run full speed to the phone. Instead, I forced myself to smile politely and say, “Excuse me. I’ll just be a minute,” and walk at a normal pace toward the rear, where a telephone was tucked into a cleverly disguised cubbyhole.

  “Hello?” I said into the receiver.

  “Josie,” Ty exhaled, “finally. How are you?”

  “Fine,” I said, my tone neutral, acutely aware that Britt and Dora were within earshot. “You?”

  “Good. Aunt Trina is still undergoing tests—I have an appointment to review the results with the doctors later today. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about Maisy. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay. Actually, I’m sort of in a meeting right now,” I said, clearing my throat. “Can we talk later?”

  “Sure.”

  “How’s six o’clock my time?” I asked.

  “That won’t work—I have that doctor’s appointment.” Ty paused, thinking. “How’s one, your time?”

  “That won’t work for me. I have an appraisal.”

  “Maybe this evening,” Ty said.

  Neither Britt nor Dora spoke. I felt uncomfortably conspicuous. “Sure,” I agreed. “Let’s give it a try.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said as I walked back.

  “No problem,” Dora said, smiling.

  “I was just standing here considering something, and you know what?” Britt said. “I don’t think this process needs to be so complicated. I mean, there’s a lot of information we need to capture, but instead of writing a script, why don’t we just explain what we need to Gretchen and let her ask questions?”

  “That makes a lot of sense,” I responded, relieved that we wouldn’t have to take the time to write things out. Gretchen could take whatever notes she needed. And I could have some time to consider my next step in researching Trevor and Maisy before heading to my lunchtime appointment in Newington.

  “Good idea, Britt, you clever dog, you!” Dora said. “Why don’t you two go on ahead and talk to Gretchen. I’ll just take one last look at the names to be certain they’re spelled right. I know enough about donors to know that misspelling names is a surefire way to offend them.”

  “Are you sure? We could stay, if you want, and help,” I offered politely while heading toward the warehouse.

  “Nope, I’m all set. You both go on ahead and get started with Gretchen. I’ll just be a minute.”

  I gestured that Britt should precede me, and when I glanced back, I saw Dora looking back and forth between the papers in her hand and the Post-it on the sideboard, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

  Dora slipped into the office a few minutes later and placed a friendly hand on my shoulder for a moment, smiled, then sat next to
Britt.

  “So,” Gretchen said, “in addition to gathering payment information—check or credit card—I also need to confirm how they want the tax-deduction record to read, is that right?”

  “Exactly,” Britt said. “Some people might want their company to be the donor of record; others might want it to be recorded as an individual donation.”

  “What do I say if they ask about the tax rules?”

  “Tell them that because every situation is different, they need to consult their own tax adviser.”

  Gretchen nodded as she wrote.

  “Also, we need to consider how they want their names to appear in the donor listings,” Dora added. “John and Amy Smith, for instance, or Mr. and Mrs. John Smith.”

  Gretchen nodded again and jotted the instruction down.

  As they continued explaining what Gretchen needed to do, I allowed my mind to wander, my thoughts drifting from antiques and tracking donations to Ty, then to Trevor and Maisy, then back to Ty. On the phone just now, Ty had sounded good. Pleased to be talking to me. My skin warmed at the thought.

  Dora and Britt stood up, preparing to leave. I’d missed just about their entire conversation.

  Glancing at the pink Mickey Mouse clock on Gretchen’s desk, I was surprised to see that it was after eleven thirty. I’d need to get ready to leave soon.

  Dora air-kissed me and Britt, chattering all the way out the door. “What a beautiful day! It’s just gorgeous, isn’t it? Don’t you love this time of year? It’s so good seeing you both. And you, too, Gretchen. We’ll be in touch soon. Bye-bye. See you later!”

  I stood by the open door and watched as Dora pulled out of the lot in her jazzy gold Jaguar. Britt shrugged into his trench coat and picked up his briefcase.

  “Would it be possible to use the rest room?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “Gretchen will show you where it is.”

  “This way,” she said, leading him into the warehouse.

  When she came back a moment later, I asked, “Are you clear on what you need to do?”

  “Absolutely. There’s a lot of bits and pieces of information Britt and Dora want me to capture, but it will be easy—I’ll just add fields on the Gala spreadsheet to track the data.”

  I listened with half an ear as she summarized what they’d discussed and how she planned to approach the task.

  “Let me know if you run into any problems, okay?” I told her.

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you, ladies,” Britt said as he hurried into the office.

  “Gretchen will start on the calls today,” I told him, and he thanked her once again.

  I stood by the open door in a rectangle of sun and watched as he wedged himself into his silver Mercedes and took several minutes fussing with something or other before starting the engine. A careful man, I thought. Precise and thorough. No wonder he had the reputation of being one of the top lawyers in town.

  I turned back to Gretchen and told her that I was leaving.

  “Anything before I go?” I asked.

  Gretchen glanced at her desk and computer screen. “Nope. I think everything’s under control. I should have the tag-sale figures by the time you’re back.”

  “Good. Do you know which day you’re taking off this week?” I asked.

  Because we all worked Saturdays, everyone got a weekday off. Eric, my all-around handyman and assistant tag-sale cashier, usually took Mondays. Gretchen was charged with reconciling the weekend tag-sale receipts, so she almost always worked Mondays and coordinated with Sasha and Fred so that there was always office coverage.

  “I don’t know. I have nothing going on this week, so I’ll let Sasha and Fred pick first.”

  I nodded. “They were in yesterday, working on the Picasso.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said, spinning around to look at me. “What’s the word?”

  I raised crossed fingers and flashed a quick grin.

  Gretchen smiled. “Great!”

  I was halfway to Newington when my cell phone rang, interrupting my disordered thoughts. Between fanciful anticipation about my upcoming conversation with Ty and fretting about the implications of Maisy’s murder, I was agitated and perplexed.

  “Hello,” I said, angling my head to keep the phone in place.

  “Josie. It’s Max.”

  “Hi, Max,” I said, my worry meter spiking.

  “I just spoke to Detective Rowcliff. He wants to see us this afternoon.”

  “Why?” I asked, not really wanting to know. My heart began to thud.

  “Apparently, he has questions about a few things—including some about Trevor Woodleigh.”

  “Do you think there’s a problem?”

  “I think he just wants to clarify some things.”

  “That doesn’t sound bad.”

  Max paused. “Well, Rowcliff isn’t as forthcoming as I might like, so it’s a wait-and-see situation, I think.”

  The studied neutrality of his response added to my anxiety. If Rowcliff had bad news, he wouldn’t say a word to Max, no matter what Max asked, but if Rowcliff had good news, either he would have volunteered the information or Max would have discovered it. I felt a sense of impending doom.

  “So,” I said, knowing there was no alternative, “when?”

  “How’s three?”

  I thought about how long I’d be at the Newington house. Verna, the woman who had called to schedule the appointment, was on her lunch hour, so I guessed that an hour was the outside limit. Twelve thirty to one thirty, a quick lunch, yes, I could get to Portsmouth by three o’clock.

  “Sure,” I said, feeling resigned to my fate.

  “Rowcliff asked if we’d come to the police station. Are you okay with that?”

  “Why? Why does he want to meet there?” I asked, on the edge of panic.

  “His convenience. I could refuse, but that might make us appear uncooperative.”

  I swallowed as I turned onto Woodbury Avenue, pushing the panic aside. You’ve done nothing wrong, Josie. You’ve done everything right. “Sure,” I said as calmly as I could. “No problem.”

  “Let’s talk for a minute in the parking lot before we go in, okay?”

  “Okay. About ten of?”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you there.”

  I tried to recapture the giddy pleasure of fantasizing about Ty, but unease about my impending interview with Detective Rowcliff had taken hold.

  As I turned into Verna’s street and searched for house numbers, I found myself fighting tears. I winked away the dampness as I pulled into the pockmarked driveway of 11 Melody Lane.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I

  was a few minutes early, so I sat in my car and dialed the number for Maisy’s apparent friend, Pam Field.

  “Field Design Studio,” a woman answered briskly.

  “Pam Field, please.”

  “This is she.”

  “We’ve never met,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott. I don’t know if my name is familiar to you.”

  “Oh wow,” she said, suddenly somber. “The Gala.”

  “Right.”

  “Poor Maisy. It’s just so awful.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “I understand you and Maisy were friends.”

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said softly.

  “Thank you. It was quite a shock.”

  I paused, trying to find the words to ask my questions without offending her or seeming too pushy. I decided to keep things vague. “I didn’t know Maisy well. But now—well, this whole situation is so confusing—I’m trying to learn more so I can understand what happened.”

  “How can anyone understand murder?” she asked rhetorically.

  “Of course.” I cleared my throat. “Listen, you’re located on Market Street, right?”

  “Yes. Near Ceres.”

  “Can I buy you a drink later? Maybe we could just talk a little. I don’t want to impose, but I’d be very g
rateful.”

  I could almost hear Pam thinking it through, and I crossed my fingers, hoping that she’d agree to meet me.

  “Sure. A drink would be good,” Pam said with confidence, her mind made up. “I’d like to hear about Maisy from your perspective if it wouldn’t upset you to tell me about it.”

  “I’ll tell you anything I can. When’s good for you?”

  “I’m finishing up a project—I’m a graphic designer . . . Ummm . . . how’s eight? Is that too late for you?”

  “Eight is perfect,” I said, and suggested meeting in the lounge at the Blue Dolphin. She agreed.

  As I got out of the car, I thought again of Ty. It would be good to talk to him. I was missing him, and missing him felt good. Also, I was looking forward to getting his professional take on Maisy’s murder. Which made me think of my upcoming meeting with Rowcliff. All that interview promised was trouble.

  One look at Verna’s living room and all thoughts of trouble disappeared.

  The room was packed with items that shined and twinkled. In a battered old curio case, rays of sunlight glinted off of several cutcrystal bowls. Silver candlesticks sat on a copper tray. And hanging on a rolling coatrack, the kind we wheeled in on auction days for attendees to hang their wraps, were a dozen or more sequined and beaded evening gowns.

  “What exactly are you interested in selling?” I asked as dispassionately as I could.

  She gestured to include the entire room. “Everything. You want it, it’s yours.”

  I nodded. “Is that true of the entire house?”

  “Pretty much. I mean, we’re taking our clothes, of course, and some favorite pieces, but mostly we want it all gone.”

  I wondered why. I never get involved in the underlying reasons that drive people to sell their possessions, but sometimes I get curious. What would motivate a thirty-something woman and her husband to sell what seemed to be all of their possessions? Were Verna and her husband hoping to start fresh in Las Vegas? Or had they accepted a job that came with a furnished apartment, like managing one of the hotels on the Strip?

  After surveying the house, I made an offer and was turned down flat.