Consigned To Death Part 1

Consigned to death.

Jane K. Ctetand.

THIS IS FOR JOE.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

The author is grateful for the information and a.s.sistance provided by Dayle Hinman, criminal profiler, and Hans van den Nieuwendijk, fingerprint expert. Thanks also to Mary Ann Eckels, Susan A. Schwartz, Deborah Miller, and Katie Scheding. Special thanks to Ben Sevier, my editor, for his astute observations, and Denise Marcil, my agent, for her wise counsel.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events are imaginary. While there is a seacoast region in New Hampshire, there is no town called Rocky Point, and many other geographic liberties have been taken.

CHAPTER ONE.

Eric!" I shouted from under the table.

"Yo!" he answered cheerfully, close by.

"Didn't I tell you to use linseed oil on this one?"

"I did."

I pushed myself out from under and stood up, brushing the grit from my hands onto my jeans. "Not on the back of the legs, you didn't."

"I thought I did," he said, beginning to hedge.

I'd been working hard and I was tired. Fighting an inclination to snap, I reminded myself that Eric was only nineteen, basically untrained but willing to learn, reliable, mostly honest, and pleasant to be around-overall, a much-better-than-average employee. I smiled a little, hoping to blunt the force of my next comments.

"I just looked at it, Eric. You missed the backside of all four legs. Everyone considering bidding on this table will know its quality. And if they're willing and able to pay the price I expect it to fetch, they will d.a.m.n sure get down on their hands and knees and examine it closely."

He began to look embarra.s.sed. The Mission-style table dated from the early twentieth century and featured select quarter-sawn oak finished in a warm brown. When properly oiled, the finish became lush and supple. It was a beautiful piece.

"The problem with poor-quality work," I continued, "is that it creates a negative image for the firm, implying that we're lazy or sloppy. People may even think we're sleazy. For instance, potential buyers might figure that we slapped some oil on the table as a quick fix, to disguise its previous ill-treatment. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," he said, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry. I was in a hurry."

"Don't be. I pay you by the hour-you don't need to be in a hurry with a job like this."

"Got it."

I nodded and smiled again, sincerely this time. "Don't get me wrong. Being in a hurry is a good thing most of the time-you know me, I hate slow."

"Don't I know it," he responded, grinning back.

"Josie!" Gretchen called, her voice echoing in the cavernous warehouse. "Josie? Where are you?"

"Here, in the Wilson corner!" I answered, projecting my voice, referring to a roped-off area near the back where the Wilson estate's goods were being catalogued and readied for Friday's auction preview.

"There's a police officer to see you."

"What?" I called back to her, startled.

"A police chief," she answered, as if that helped to clarify the situation.

Leaving Eric at the table, I walked quickly toward the front, my unpolished engineer boots click-clacking on the concrete. I spotted a tall, broad-shouldered man, somewhere near forty, with dark, pockmarked skin and graying hair, waiting by the door that led from the warehouse to the entryway. He wasn't smiling. My heart began to thud. The last time a cop had asked to see me, it had d.a.m.n near ruined my life.

Gretchen, my a.s.sistant, stood beside him, her copper-colored hair falling in cascades below her shoulders. Her green eyes were big with news, and her flawless ivory skin showed a slight flush.

"Hi," I said to the man as I approached. "I'm Josie Prescott."

"I'm Chief Alverez. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Sure," I answered, my internal trouble spotter whirring into high alert. "What's going on?"

"I'm the chief of Rocky Point," he told me, flipping open a worn leather case, showing me his badge. Rocky Point, a city of about hundred thousand, included almost three miles of New Hampshire's eighteen-mile coastline about ten miles south of Portsmouth.

"Chief of police?" I queried. "What's up?"

"I have a few questions about a case. ... Maybe it would be better if we talked in private."

"Sure ... Gretchen," I said, turning to her, "you can go back to work."

She left, and I moved away from the door toward some used, oversized crates stacked like bricks in a corner of the warehouse near the office door. "Is this all right?"

"Sure."

From where I stood, I could see the entire warehouse, stocked with furnishings of various types, periods, and quality. To unknowing eyes it probably looked chaotic, but I knew better ; it was a production line in perfect working order. Items came in for sorting; the good stuff got primped and primed and sent to auction, usually in-house; the junk, with a good piece or two thrown in to entice the faithful, was left in "as-is" condition for our weekly tag sale. Right now the warehouse was about half-full, and half-full was good. We were busy, and growing.

"Okay," I said. "We're private. What's going on?"

"I understand you knew Nathaniel Grant." It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

" 'Knew' him?" I responded.

"Did you?"

"'Did' I? Are you saying ... Is he ... What are you saying?"

"You haven't heard the news?"

"What news?"

"Where have you been this morning?"

In a nanosecond, I went from confused and slightly impatient to angry and rebellious. Tired of playing cat-and-mouse, I got mad, almost like a switch had been thrown. I stood still and stayed silent, eyeing him, waiting for information.

"Answer my question, please," he said quietly after a pause, his calm contrasting with my agitation. "Where were you this morning?"

Words my father used to speak heading into a difficult business meeting came to mind: the best defense is a good offense. "Not another word will I say," I stated, "until you answer my question about what's going on."

Alverez took a step closer to me. He was probably a foot taller than I was, which made him six one or better, and I suspected that he was using his height and bulk to try to intimidate me. It was working. I felt my palms become moist. I was shaking, but not enough, I hoped, for him to notice.

"Nathaniel Grant was murdered this morning," Alverez said.

I stared at him. "Mr. Grant was murdered?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, watching me.

Tears came to my eyes. I swallowed and brushed them away. "Oh, my G.o.d! Poor Mr. Grant!" I exclaimed. "What happened?"

"I'm hoping you can help me sort that out."

I turned away, tears spilling down my cheeks. I couldn't speak.

"Seems like you knew him pretty well," Alverez said.

I shook my head, swallowed again, and used the back of my hand to dry my cheeks. I'd always felt things deeply, but I used to be good at controlling my emotional displays. I could hear my father saying, Feel all you want, Josie, but show nothing. In business, the more you show, the more you lose.

When I'd worked at Frisco's, the big auction house in New York City, before I'd been the prosecutor's star witness at my boss's price-fixing trial, I'd shown nothing. It wasn't the trial that got to me, although it was grueling; it was my co-workers' reaction to my involvement that stunned me speechless. Once my partic.i.p.ation was known, colleagues whom I'd previously trusted wouldn't give me the time of day. I was shunned, and within weeks, I was forced out of the company. And then, a month later, my father died, and it was as if the world tilted, leaving me utterly off balance.

I was closer to being on even footing now, but I wasn't there yet. To say that I found it harder to contain my feelings didn't even begin to describe my lack of emotional control. It was as if my nerve endings were a little nearer to the surface.

I shook my head a bit to chase the memory away. I took a deep breath and looked up at Alverez, trying for a smile. "I'm being stupid, I know," I said. "I didn't know Mr. Grant, not really. I only met him a couple of weeks ago. And look at me." I swept away more tears. "It's just such a shock. And he was such a sweetheart."

"Tell me about him," Alverez said, leaning against the concrete wall.

I paused, thinking of what to say. "He looked like Santa Claus, except that he was short and sort of shriveled. But he had the beard and the belly and he was jolly as all get out."

"How did you come to meet him?"

"He wanted to sell a lot of furniture and art."

"Out of the blue?"

I swallowed again, fighting back sudden emotion. "Not really. His wife died, you know, about three months ago. The house is huge. Well, I suppose you know that. It was too much for him, I guess."

"So," Alverez said softly, "where were you this morning?"

"Is that when ... I mean ... when was he killed?"

"The medical examiner is still working on it."

I nodded. "I just can't believe it. Mr. Grant! I'm sorry ... Okay ... Let me think." I sighed and paused. "Okay. I got in around eight and was here working," I said, gesturing with a sweep of my hand that I meant inside the warehouse, "until around eleven-ten or eleven-fifteen. Then I drove out to Mr. Grant's house. I got there around eleven-thirty. We had an appointment, but he wasn't there."

"How do you know he wasn't there?"

"I knocked and rang the bell. I went around back and knocked on the kitchen door. I even peeked in windows, but I didn't see anything."

"What did you do then?"

"I thought Mr. Grant had mistaken the day. He's pretty old."

Alverez nodded. "So then what?"

I shrugged. "I sat in my car awhile. At quarter to twelve I rang the bell again, in case he hadn't heard it the first time. Then I left a message on his answering machine and came back here." I wiped away another tear. "I was planning on calling him again later today because I wasn't sure he knew how to use his answering machine." I smiled a little. "He was such a nice man. What happened?"

"We don't know yet. Do you?"

"Me? I don't know anything."

"Sure you do. You knew him and you were there this morning. What would be best is if you came with me to the station."

"Why?" I asked, startled, and immediately wary.

"To answer some more questions."

"I can't. I have too much work."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist. It's important. And I could really use your help."

I looked at him, wondering what I should do. The Wilson estate needed careful sorting, and there were only two days until the auction preview. Sasha, an art-historian-turned-appraiser who worked for me, could handle that, I supposed. I'd remind Eric to be diligent. Or maybe not. I'd made my point earlier. Gretchen would hold the fort as she always did.

"I guess," I said. "I'd better call my lawyer."

"Why don't you have him meet you at the station house," he suggested.

"I'll let him decide."

"Who's your lawyer?"

I worked with lawyers in my business all the time, but I'd never needed one personally before. I swallowed, trying to focus. Who should I call?

Max Bixby came to mind. He was one of the first people I'd met when I'd moved to Portsmouth. I remembered his friendly welcome at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast, and he'd been pleasant and accessible ever since. "I'm going to call Max Bixby," I said.

"He's a good man."