Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  Eric looked painfully uncomfortable.

  “Right,” I replied. “I remember. Did she say why she’s holding it there and not at her own place?”

  “She said his place has the better view—it’s on the ocean.”

  I nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Nope. That’s it!”

  “So, Sasha,” I said, turning in her direction. “How are you doing?”

  “Great, actually. I heard from Monsieur Roi’s grandson.” Her eyes were dancing. “The Picasso sketch was sold by this fellow’s father in the late sixties to a family friend who’d married an American woman. Guess where she was from?”

  “Tell me it was Arkansas.”

  “Yes! And I spoke to her myself—she sold the print to the gallery in 1973—the same year Mrs. Finn’s mother bought it!”

  “Which means you’ve done it! You’ve confirmed its history!”

  She slid her desk chair back on the plastic carpet protector and smiled confidently. “Yup!”

  “Isn’t that great!” Gretchen chimed in.

  “Have you called Fred?” I asked, thinking that he wouldn’t object to the interruption on his day off.

  Sasha blushed and looked down. “I did. I couldn’t wait.”

  “And?” I asked, smiling.

  “And he shouted, he was so happy,” she said with another blush, embarrassed, I suspected, at Fred’s unprecedented exclamation of victory.

  “This is just great. Good job, Sasha.” She blushed again, this time with pleasure and pride. “Next step: Would you prepare a list for me of which museums have collections of Picasso—and if you can find out, which ones want to?”

  “Yes,” she replied, her smile fading into a look of concentration, her mind already on the job.

  “How’s it going for you guys?” I asked, turning back to Eric and Gretchen.

  “Fantasmic!” Gretchen answered, never shy. “Eric is in a state of shock, I think, now that he sees in black and white how much he does!”

  I glanced at him and saw that he was smiling awkwardly, enjoying Gretchen’s teasing.

  “No wonder he looks so tired!” I joked, playing along.

  “I’m not,” he protested, still smiling.

  “Well, you should be!” Gretchen said, laughing a little. “And I have the spreadsheet to prove it!”

  Eric stood up. “Are we done for now? I’ve got work to do,” he said with a self-conscious laugh.

  “We’ll pick up tomorrow,” Gretchen said. “Keep thinking!”

  He nodded, and as he pushed through the door to the warehouse, the phone rang.

  Gretchen swung around to answer it. “Prescott’s,” she said with her usual verve, and a moment later, she said, “Absolutely. We’d be pleased to look at it. Anytime, until five.”

  As she hung up, she said, “A woman who inherited a box of old leather books wants to sell them and wondered if she could stop by later today.”

  “Excellent!” I said, hoping they were volumes of interest, and that she’d cover them in plastic to protect them from the rain.

  I was stockpiling rare books for an auction I hoped to hold next year, and it would be terrific if we could acquire some additional volumes of merit—eighteenth-century English literature, for example, or important volumes published in America. Maybe, with luck, tucked into the box might be a first edition of something written by Samuel Johnson, the one so many people know only as “the dictionary fellow.” Or perhaps there would be a book or two of hand-colored illustrations of flowers or costumes used in opera. Just don’t let it be filled with battered textbooks from the thirties, I thought. Those little leather volumes were charming, yet they had essentially no resale value.

  Refocusing on the pressing issue at hand, I asked, “Were you able to open Detective Rowcliff’s attachment?”

  “I can open it with no problem,” Gretchen assured me. “The file’s from the same database program we use.”

  I explained what we were looking for and she nodded, listening hard.

  “I can do a dupe check. No problem.”

  “A ‘dupe check’?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I can eliminate duplicate entries, so if I create a new file containing both our database and Detective Rowcliff’s, I can use that function for this purpose.”

  “Good. Let me know as soon as you learn anything. Okay?”

  “Anything?” I asked Max when he entered the office. I hadn’t heard him come down the stairs.

  “Rowcliff thanked you and said he’d be in touch,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t do an ad hoc revision,” I told him, trying to keep the mood light. “Rowcliff never thanked me. But I can believe that he said he’d be in touch.”

  Max laughed. “True enough. I did use a little editorial license.”

  “So, tell me the truth. Is he mad at me again?”

  “Nothing he won’t recover from. I told him to call me to schedule an appointment whenever he’s ready to meet with you again.”

  I tried to smile, but I didn’t have the strength to fake it. Max shrugged into his coat and turned up the collar. He gave me an empathetic shoulder pat, then ran for his car.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  S

  oon after Max left, the chimes sang out, announcing an arrival. I turned and saw Wes’s stocky form awkwardly pushing through the door. He was breathing hard, winded by the run from his car to our office. He wasn’t wearing a raincoat and the small black umbrella he carried had a broken spoke. Drops of water dripped steadily on the floor.

  Gretchen popped up from her desk and took the sodden umbrella from his hands. “Oh, wow, it’s really coming down, isn’t it?” she said with her bright, welcoming smile. “I’ll just put your umbrella here in the stand, okay?”

  “Thanks. It’s pretty wet,” he agreed.

  “Hey, Wes,” I said.

  “Got a sec?”

  I couldn’t imagine why he was here. After all our circumspection, for him to boldly walk in was an anomaly that smacked of danger. My trouble meter whirred into high alert. “Sure,” I said. “Follow me.”

  I led the way through the warehouse and unlocked the door to the tag-sale area where we’d met before. Tomorrow, Thursday, the place would become a beehive of activity as Eric and a gaggle of temporary and part-time workers began to set up the displays for Saturday’s all-day tag sale. By Friday midday, they’d be done. But today, the tables were bare.

  Sometimes I questioned my policy of returning all unsold items to inventory and starting the setup from scratch each week, because the procedure added hours of extra work, but I couldn’t think of an easier way to ensure that our displays always looked fresh. Over the years, I’d concluded that merchandising was an art form. For instance, I’d observed that a cobalt blue bud vase looked different when it was positioned among glassware than it did when it was placed next to a lamp in a display of living room knickknacks. One buyer wouldn’t even notice the vase in the midst of all the glasses, but would leap on it in the living room display. Another buyer, who collected only items made of cobalt-colored glass, might not even visit the living room display area.

  “I’m surprised you’re here,” I said. “I expected you to call, not just show up.”

  Wes nodded. “I need to talk to you. On the record.”

  Rain pounded at the building and rivulets of water streamed down the windows. It was a good day to be inside. I turned on the lights and the globe-covered high-wattage bulbs overcame the dull grayness of the stormy day.

  I tilted my head, considering him. “What about?”

  “The theft of the tureen.”

  Damn, I thought, just what I need—another hit of bad publicity. “What do you know about the theft?” I asked.

  “Why? So you can see how little you have to tell me?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything, Wes,” I said, unyielding.

  “I’m writing tomorrow’s lead about it—and don’t be thinking that it’s covered by our off-the-reco
rd arrangement, because it’s not. That only applies to the murder.”

  “Wes, if you write one word about this, you’ll be sorry forever. I promise you. Not one word, do you hear me?”

  “Josie, it’s my job to write about crimes. Theft is a crime. Talk to me. Control the spin,” he said, his tone reasoned.

  The more rational Wes sounded, the more worried I became. The inevitability of seeing my name in print in the morning loomed large. I flashed on Detective Rowcliff’s last admonition—not to talk to reporters—and smiled. How could I resist? Talk about killing two birds with one stone. With one innocuous quote, I’d help Wes and irritate Rowcliff.

  “Okay. Here goes. Are you ready?”

  Wes pulled his crumpled notepad out of his pocket and nodded. “Go,” he said.

  “Everyone at Prescott’s is shocked and appalled by the theft. The circumstances are under investigation by the police and we have every confidence that the tureen and the perpetrator of this terrible crime will be located quickly. All staff members at Prescott’s are cooperating fully with the police. It was an isolated incident, a fluke, an unfortunate onetime event. Prescott’s has state-of-the-art security and a highly professional staff.” I paused to think if there was anything else I should add, taking solace from the thought that Wes must hate my white-bread statement.

  “Come on, Josie. That sounds like a press release.”

  “Well, why not? You’re the press. Those are my only words on the subject. Our other arrangement stands, right, Wes?”

  “What did you discuss with Detective Rowcliff?” he asked.

  “The theft. He asked if I knew who stole it and I told him no.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “No way, Josie.” He looked up. “All you told me was that you met with the police.”

  “No comment.”

  “Okay, okay. Let me ask you to verify some facts.”

  Wes peppered me with questions that revealed a detailed knowledge of the crime, once again suggesting that he had access to inside sources. He knew about the smudged fingerprints, Eddie’s surprise reappearance at my building Monday afternoon, and the limited distribution of reproduction tureens. Britt, I guessed, the old gossip, was responsible for some of his inside scoop. But he also had to have a police source.

  I neither confirmed nor denied anything. “Would you agree that I have refused to discuss the details of the case with you?” I asked.

  “Hell, yes!”

  “Do you have any reason to think I have any guilty knowledge of the theft?”

  “No.” He looked at me for a minute. “Why?”

  “I expect to read both of those facts in your article tomorrow.”

  He made a note. “Fair enough.”

  “I’ll tell you something else—but it’s got to be off the record,” I said.

  He sighed, acting put-upon. “Okay. What?”

  “Eddie is MIA.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You heard me—but you can’t quote me. The police can’t find him.”

  Wes’s eyes lit up in anticipation of a new lead. “What do you know?” he demanded, all business.

  “The police think he’s in Arizona. I have him in Oklahoma.”

  “Got it.” He made a note. “What else?”

  “That’s it. They can’t reach him.” I shrugged and paused as he wrote. “Can I ask you something?” I said when he looked up.

  “Sure,” he replied.

  “Do you have any new information about the origin of the money in Maisy’s account?”

  “Yeah. It takes us nowhere, though.”

  “How so?”

  “It was moved through six U.S. cities—starting in New Orleans and ending in Atlanta. From there, it went to Montreal, and then offshore to Belize.”

  “And then to Europe?”

  “No record. Belize keeps banking private.”

  “I thought those days were gone.”

  “No way. Have you ever heard of the MLAT?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “The Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty. Belize doesn’t adhere to it.”

  “Wow. So the whole point of moving the money around is to muddy the waters?”

  “Exactly. To make it harder to trace.”

  “But it sounds as if you were able to do so.”

  “Yeah, but tracking it is of no real value, because at each stop along the way, there’s a different name. Some accounts are personal, some corporate. Sometimes the money moved in one lump payment, sometimes in several payments over a few weeks.”

  “All electronic transfers?”

  “Yup.”

  “I wonder who’s behind it.”

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Wes said.

  “My mom used to say that. ‘The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,’ ” I commented, remembering.

  “Mine, too.”

  Funny to think about Wes having a mother. I smiled at him but didn’t pursue the conversation. Instead, I asked, “What about Britt? Were you able to trace the origin of the four hundred thousand?”

  “No dice. Britt Epps has not made a big withdrawal, nor sold any asset of record, during the last year.”

  “Really?” I asked, astonished. How can that be? I thought. I was so certain that we were onto something.

  “Yup, looks like he’s not the one we’re looking for.”

  I sat for a moment, thinking. “Unless he keeps a lot of money under his mattress or something.”

  “I suppose,” he said without enthusiasm. “To tell you the truth, Josie, I think it’s another false lead.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “And you know what that means. No money, no blackmail. No blackmail, no motive.”

  I shook my head. “Yeah.”

  He gave me a long, penetrating look. I didn’t flinch.

  “Anything else?” I asked indifferently.

  “Yeah, but you won’t discuss it.”

  “My word is good, Wes. You know that,” I responded, knowing the importance of maintaining good relations with the press. “As soon as I can tell you more, I will. Exclusive to you.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, then.”

  “You’ll let me know about Eddie?” I asked as I led the way back toward the warehouse.

  “Yeah. So how are you, anyway?” he asked as we walked.

  Ignoring the fact that his solicitous inquiry was his last thought, not his first, I told him I was improving.

  Wes was in a hurry to leave and seemed oblivious to Gretchen’s good-natured chat as he got his umbrella opened; then, with a final wave, he dashed across the lot to his car. The rain seemed to be coming sideways now, heavier than ever.

  It has to be Britt, I thought. How can it not be? But if Wes was right, and it wasn’t Britt who’d poisoned Maisy and funded her Swiss account, who had? Eddie? No way did he have access to that kind of money. Unless, I thought, shocked at the idea, he has, in fact, been stealing for a while, and the four hundred thousand dollars sitting in Maisy’s account are the ill-gotten proceeds of his thievery.

  Britt or Eddie? Or, I suddenly wondered, was there someone else responsible for the murder, theft, and the attack on me? Someone I hadn’t even considered as a possible suspect? I had no idea. I was overwhelmingly confused. Not knowing who might lurk around the next corner, or what they might do next, was terrifying. I had no control over events, and I knew it. And I was on my own.

  Shivers of fear rippled up my arms like goose bumps.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  G

  retchen called to say there were no matches between our database and the police listing of Mitsubishis. “I ran a dupe check for each field,” she said.

  I sighed. I’d felt so hopeful, and now I was, once again, baffled and disheartened.

  I racked my brain trying to think of who else might own the Mitsubishi—or if it had been stolen specifically to attack me, why it hadn’t been reporte
d missing. Maybe the owner is out of town, I thought, and no one has noticed that it is gone. If so, the report would come in sooner or later, I supposed. I shook my head, frustrated.

  A thought occurred to me and I gripped the phone in a spasm of panic. Unless Gretchen lied—all she’d have to do is delete one of the entries in our database before sending it on to the police and comparing the lists herself, and neither the police nor I would ever know that we had a hit. It felt as if I’d catapulted through time into the petrifying hall of mirrors of my childhood and I could no longer trust my perceptions.

  Work the problem, I reminded myself. Don’t make things worse by panicking. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment. How can I test Gretchen’s integrity?

  “How many names are there in the combined file?” I asked, opening my eyes and reaching for the up-to-date customer list that I kept in a three-ring binder on my desk.

  One of Gretchen’s thousands of duties was replacing the pages whenever she updated the database so that I always had a hardcopy backup, just in case of computer failure. I flipped to the last page—a man named Martin G. Yardley was last on the list, customer number 1,429.

  “Let me see . . .” Gretchen said. “Fifteen hundred and sixty-nine.”

  The 140 names on Rowcliff’s list plus 1,429 on ours totaled 1,569. Tears stung my eyes, but I managed to thank her and hang up without revealing my emotionalism. I felt drained. I can’t take the anxiety—the struggle—the not knowing who’s out to get me, I thought. I’m so sorry, Gretchen, for doubting you. I just can’t stand it. But I knew I could—and would—endure. After a moment, I took a deep breath and considered what to do next.

  I swiveled toward the window, anxiety fading away. It was early afternoon, but darker than dusk. Most of the branches had been stripped bare by the relentlessly driving rain. I turned back to my desk and dialed Max.

  “No luck, Max,” I said when I had him on the line. “There’s no match.”

  He paused. “That’s too bad, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. And worse, I think I’m going crazy.” My voice cracked. “This whole thing is making me see devils in the shadows.”