Consigned To Death Part 14

"Narrow?"

"Yes."

Her feet might be the right size, but if those footprints were hers, it had to be that she'd walked by in all innocence. No way could I believe that Sasha was involved in a crime. Sasha was a woman of scholarly ambition and, seemingly, little pa.s.sion. She didn't seem to care about money, politics, religion, or even people. All she seemed to care about was art. That thought gave me pause. She'd care about a Renoir, all right.

"What's your sense of the preview crowd?" I asked, pushing away the uncomfortable thought.

"There seemed to be a lot of genuine interest," she said, and yawned. "But there were some people who came just because they were curious, about, you know, the Grant situation."

"Like who?"

"A woman named Bertie," Sasha reported. "From the New York Monthly."

"The New York Monthly? Why would they send a reporter?" I wondered.

"She said they're doing a piece on scandals in the world of antiques."

"Oh, jeez. Just what I need. What did you tell her?"

"Nothing. I had to let her in since she was a registered bidder, but I didn't talk to her. I kept pretending I saw someone gesturing to me."

I smiled. "That was smart thinking, Sasha."

"I couldn't figure out how else to get away from her," she said, shrugging.

I shook my head sympathetically. "Well, it's over now. You heading home?"

"Yeah. To a hot bath and bed."

"Oh, that sounds delicious," I agreed, my word choice reminding me that I'd had nothing to eat since the pizza hours earlier. "Let's call it a night."

We walked together to the front office. As I set the alarm, I watched Sasha drive off in her small car, and I was alone.

Unexpectedly, I began to cry. I felt awash in melancholy and I knew why. Hearing the New York Monthly reporter's name brought back the dreadful memories. After my boss at Frisco's arrest, but before his trial began, I'd confided my role as whistle-blower and confidential police informant to a co-worker.

Two hours later, when I stepped out for lunch, Bertie lay in wait, and even though I said nothing, not even "No comment," she was on a local television station within hours delivering an "exclusive report." That night, the siege began in earnest. Bertie and a dozen others were my constant companions for the three months of the trial. I never spoke to any of them. Not one word. I kept my head lowered, and never even made eye contact.

I was in the right, yet despite my ethical stance and stubborn refusal to discuss any aspect of the case with reporters, my colleagues treated me with icy disdain. It was as if it were I, and not my boss, who'd done wrong. And because they avoided me, I had no way to counteract their unspoken contempt. It was crippling.

I'd never before been shunned, and I hoped I never would experience anything like it again. No wonder many cultures use it as a punishment for errant behavior; I could see that it would be a potent tool to ensure conformity.

I'd learned a bitter lesson that year. I'd learned that I couldn't trust anyone but my father. And he was dead.

Standing at the door, Sasha long since gone, I realized that my sadness was aggravated by stress, hunger, and fatigue. And my growing anger helped still the tears. I was plenty tired of feeling sad, and so I greeted the anger with relief. I shrugged, trying to relax my shoulder and neck muscles, with no success.

I wondered what the Cabots wanted with me, and why it was so urgent. A glimmer of hope that the business might not be lost heightened my curiosity. Still, to cover myself, I called Max as the car warmed up, and got him at home. He sounded tired, but, as always, pleasant and interested.

"Max," I said. "I'm en route to meet Mr. Grant's daughter and granddaughter. I figured I ought to let you know."

"Good. I'm glad you called. What are you meeting them for?"

"I'm not sure. They said they wanted to talk to me about the estate."

There was a long pause before he asked, matter-of-factly, "That's a surprise, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I acknowledged.

"Where are you meeting them?"

"A coffee shop in the Sheraton."

"How do you feel about it?"

"Okay. Curious, I guess."

There was another long pause. "If they ask anything about the murder, don't answer. Say you don't know or can't comment. No matter what."

"Okay."

"And call me if you need me, all right?"

"Thanks, Max."

Max's palpable concern communicated itself to me. As I drove out of the parking lot, I became fearful that they might blame me for Mr. Grant's death. Another worry added to the rest.

CHAPTER TEN.

I nearly fell asleep driving into Portsmouth. I found myself drifting into a kind of stupor as the taillights in front of me rose and fell, gently undulating with the grade of the road. It was hypnotic. I was hungry, tired, stiff, and worried. When I reached the brightly lit hotel parking lot, I sat for a minute, waiting for a second wind. It didn't come.

I found the coffee shop, mostly empty at this hour, and stood near the hostess stand, waiting. A large woman with crimped, silver-blue hair approached me.

"I'm supposed to meet the Cabots," I told her.

"This way, dearie. They're waiting for you."

She led me to a table around a corner, past oversized windows and tall palm trees. Two people sat across from each other. One, an attractive woman in her sixties with white wavy hair and an ivory complexion, sipped from a coffee cup. The other, a younger woman of about my age, shook a tall gla.s.s of what looked like the dregs of iced tea. I heard the jiggling of the ice as we approached. They sat in stony silence, as if they were strangers.

"Here she is, dearies," the hostess said as she placed a menu on the table.

"h.e.l.lo," I said. "I'm Josie Prescott."

Both women looked at me. I suddenly felt conspicuously underdressed and unkempt. I shouldn't have come straight from a long day at work. My jeans were dirty and stretched out, my plain-Jane T-shirt was covered by an oversized flannel shirt, and my engineer boots were scuffed.

"I'm Dana Cabot," the older woman said politely, without warmth. "And my daughter, Andi. Miranda."

"Hi," I said.

Mrs. Cabot said, "Please, have a seat."

The younger woman leaned back and stared at me. She looked and acted angry as she shook her gla.s.s, swirling the ice. Switching her attention to the hostess, she said, "I'll take another." She took a last, long drink and handed over the gla.s.s.

"And for you, dearie?" the hostess asked me.

"Give me a minute," I answered, sitting down, looking from one to the other. They didn't look alike. Dana Cabot looked well coiffed, well dressed, and well fed. Her daughter, Andi Cabot, looked sick.

"Have you eaten?" Mrs. Cabot asked.

"No, actually, I haven't. If you wouldn't mind, I'd love to get something."

"Of course," she answered.

I looked at the menu and, surrept.i.tiously, at them. Mrs. Cabot looked like an affluent matron who hadn't had a lot of worry in her life. Andi was too thin, the kind of thin that comes from a chronic, life-threatening disease, or maybe from doing a lot of drugs over a lot of years. Her eyes were clouded, her skin sallow, and she seemed enveloped in a cloud of resentment. Sitting next to her, I wanted to slide my chair a bit farther away lest I catch whatever ailed her.

"I'm sorry about your father," I said. "And your grandfather. I hadn't known him for long, but we'd had many pleasant conversations over the last week or so."

"Thank you," Mrs. Cabot replied. "My father had many good qualities." She cleared her throat. "You're probably wondering why I asked to meet you."

"My a.s.sistant said you wanted to talk to me about your father's estate."

"Yes," she said, with a glance at Andi. "You saw my father's house?"

"Yes. Everything is very beautiful. Not just the antiques. Everything. The house, the grounds. Everything," I said.

She nodded. "It's funny to be in New Hampshire and staying in a hotel. But we couldn't stay at the house. Not after ..." she trailed off.

"I understand," I said.

The waiter arrived with Andi's drink and coffee to refill Mrs. Cabot's cup. He poured a cup for me, too. I ordered a hamburger, medium, and asked for water, no ice. I wanted a martini, but knew that even one would put me to sleep, facedown in my plate.

Andi shifted impatiently in her chair, continuing to look irritated. I wondered if it was annoyance I was perceiving, or contempt. Maybe she took my sloppy appearance as a personal affront, as if I were indicating that she and her mother weren't worth the bother of cleaning up.

"I should have mentioned," I said, "that I came straight from work. Please excuse my appearance."

"No problem. We understand completely, and are just pleased that you were able to come at all," Mrs. Cabot said.

I waited for her to continue, wondering if her polite words would mellow Andi's antipathy. Andi slapped her drink on the table, and opened her eyes wide at her mother. Having caught her attention, Andi wiggled her fingers. Hurry it up, Mother, she seemed to be signaling. Get on with it.

"Did my father talk to you about selling anything?" Mrs. Cabot asked, jumping in.

"Why do you ask?" I was curious about Andi's role in the family. It almost seemed that Mom was following cues from her daughter.

She sipped her coffee, and I noted that she drank it black. "I need to decide what to do about my father's estate. I'm trying to learn what my father intended." She shrugged. "Knowing his plans might help me decide what would be best to do at this point."

I didn't see the connection. What did Mr. Grant's former intention have to do with their current plans? Maybe she was a sentimental sort.

"Are you thinking of selling the contents of the house?" I asked, faking confusion, aware that I was avoiding answering her question. For some reason, it seemed smart to be cagey, but I wasn't sure why I was having that reaction. Maybe Andi's impatience and seeming disdain colored my view. Or perhaps it was Max's warning not to talk about the murder that made me wary. For whatever reason, my gut was telling me that until I knew more about what was going on, I shouldn't reveal too much.

"Perhaps. Did you look at everything?"

"I don't know about everything. I looked at some things." I flipped a hand. "If you're interested in selling, I'd be interested in buying, or auctioning, any or all of the goods. The items I saw were very special, and I'm sure you'll realize a large amount of money."

"If I decide to sell," Mrs. Cabot asked, "and if I ask you to help, how would the process work?"

I was spared the necessity of providing a quick response when the waiter brought my hamburger and asked if we wanted anything else. I asked for ketchup and he produced it from a pocket in his ap.r.o.n.

"How much do you know about the origin of the antiques?"

"Why?" Mrs. Cabot asked.

I wondered if she was being cagey, too. "It makes research easier," I answered. True enough, but I had another reason for asking. I was trying to discover how much she knew about her parents' buying habits. From that information I might be able to discover more about the history of the Renoir.

"Not much, I'm afraid. I left home when I married, forty years ago."

I nodded. Learning anything useful had been a long shot. So much time had pa.s.sed since the Renoir had been hidden, according to the Web site I'd consulted, in an Austrian barn. Memories fade and witnesses die.

"How much will you give us for the lot?" Andi asked abruptly.

"Andi!" her mother protested.

"Oh, come on, Ma. What's the problem?" To me she added, "Well? How much?"

"I don't know," I answered calmly, addressing Mrs. Cabot, not her daughter, while spreading ketchup on the bun. "As you know, your father hadn't actually retained my company's services before he died. What that means is that I didn't do a complete appraisal. If you'd like, I will. Then I can make you an offer, tell you how much you'd be likely to get at auction, or discuss other possibilities, like a consignment sale arrangement."

"How long would that take?" Andi asked, irritated.

"A few days. Not even," I replied, remembering that I still had the videotape as reference.

"How much do you charge for the appraisal?"

"You probably don't need a written appraisal." I shrugged. "For me to get enough information to make you a fair offer, no charge."

"Thank you. That's very clear," Mrs. Cabot said. "May I ask you ... do you know my father's lawyer, Mr. Epps?"

"Yes," I said.

"This is a little awkward, but I need to know, well, would you comment ... Let me ask you ... Did you know that Mr. Epps was recommending that Mr. Troudeaux help my father sell some items?"

I felt pinned by Andi's eyes and turned to look at her. Her antagonism was directed at me like bullets from a rifle, and I found myself getting angry. What on earth, I wondered, did I ever do to her?

"I wouldn't know," I answered, turning my attention back to Mrs. Cabot.

"What do you think of Barney Troudeaux?" Mrs. Cabot asked, ignoring her daughter.