Consigned To Death Part 23

"You need me," he interrupted, "you call. Okay?"

"Okay," I agreed, grateful for his attention, yet still feeling self-conscious about my emotional spectacle. He came around the car to hold the door for me as I jumped down from the SUV. When I had my motor running, I waved a quick "See ya," and he nodded and stepped back. As I pulled out and drove north, I glanced in the rearview mirror, and saw him, standing still, watching me.

Home again after spending more than fifty dollars at the grocery store, I put on a CD of Vivaldi's Four Seasons and made a martini. I broiled a hamburger and ate it with sliced tomatoes standing at the kitchen counter.

I was feeling better, more energized and less fearful. Even though it was approaching 10:00, I decided to proceed with preparing Monterey chicken. I was definitely not ready to rest, and it tasted better if it sat overnight in the refrigerator before baking anyway. I was grating Parmesan cheese for the bread-crumb mixture when Wes called.

"Hey," he said. "Let's meet tomorrow. Same time, same place, okay?"

"What do you have for me?" I asked.

"Another doughnut."

"Please, G.o.d, no," I said, understanding that he wasn't going to give anything away on the phone. "Seven? At the beach?" I asked to confirm.

"Yup."

"I'll drive myself."

"Ha, ha, ha."

"See you then," I said.

I turned back to my b.u.t.terflied chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s, white-hot curious about what he had to tell me. While I prepared the recipe, I went over everything I knew about Mr. Grant's murder and the missing paintings. Where would Mr. Grant have hidden the masterpieces? I wondered if I had walked past them secreted somewhere and not even known it.

I ran water over my hands, rubbing my fingers to rid them of the breading mixture I'd used to coat the rolled chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and stretched the plastic wrap taut over the roasting pan. I smiled as I placed it in the refrigerator and saw a carton of eggs. Tomorrow, I'd bring breakfast and show Wes an alternative way to eat. I put water on to boil.

Twenty minutes later, hard-boiled eggs and fruit salad ready to go for the morning, I finished wiping down the counter, turned the dishwasher on, and with my mind still absorbed in thinking of possible hiding places, I went to bed.

But sleep eluded me. I was exhausted, yet fretful and exhilarated as well. Tossing and turning so relentlessly that I jelly-rolled myself in the sheet, I finally gave up and turned on the light.

I decided to read for a while, to try to relax. I selected a favorite romance that I knew well, The Reluctant Widow, by Georgette Heyer.

It didn't work. I found myself staring into s.p.a.ce, pages unturned, for minutes at a time. Suddenly, just before two in the morning, I found the answer I'd sought.

I put the book aside and sat up in bed. I had it. I thought it through, methodically working through the various issues involved. Satisfied, I nodded, convinced that I knew where the paintings were and how they were hidden.

And I had a plan to protect them.

I smiled, satisfied, and to the mournful whine of a screech owl, my still-active brain succ.u.mbed to my body's fatigue, and at last. I slept.

When the alarm went off, I hit the snooze b.u.t.ton repeatedly until I finally forced myself out of bed, dawn's light seeping into the room through ill-fitting curtains. When I saw that it was after five, I panicked, and flew into the shower.

I planned to secure the missing paintings and set the protocol we'd use in the appraisal before meeting Wes, and that required that I get to the Grant house by 5:30.

I didn't make it. It was closer to 5:45 when I pulled up in front. A police officer stepped out onto the porch as I got out of my car. He was one of the young men I'd seen at the Rocky Point police station during one of my interrogations, and he looked tired.

I started up the walk, smiled, and said h.e.l.lo. "I'm Josie," I said.

He nodded. "Chief Alverez said you'd be coming by."

"And you are? ..." I asked.

"Officer O'Hara."

"May I enter?"

"Sure." Officer O'Hara stepped aside and I went in.

"I've got to tell you," I said to O'Hara, looking back with a smile, "I'm really glad you're here."

He looked surprised, as if he was more used to people objecting to him or something he was doing than he was to receiving thanks. Or maybe he thought I was being cagey, a murder suspect trying to lull a cop into believing in her innocence.

"I'll stay out of your way, but I'll be around," he said matter-of-factly.

"Okay." I shut the door, and through the window, I saw him sit on a bench and stretch his legs out in front of him.

I hurried into the study, turned on the lamps, and looked at the three Taverniers sitting side by side on the far wall, hanging from the crown molding on metal brackets. Reaching up, I lifted the painting closest to the door off its brackets, and gently lowered it until it rested on the carpet and against the wall. I examined the frame carefully, rotating the painting one turn at a time, carefully searching all sides. I twisted it so I could see the back, spotting nothing unusual in its construction, except that it was oversized, perhaps four or five inches deeper than it needed to be. The second Tavernier seemed to be constructed in the same way. I saw nothing odd. The third one, when I lifted it down, was noticeably lighter than the first two, and as soon as I positioned it against the wall, I saw a gap, as I expected.

The three-sided structure in the bas.e.m.e.nt was designed to slip into the top of this frame like a drawer, sliding into place, meshing perfectly. No doubt, that was where the Renoir had been stored.

Returning my attention to the first painting, with its three-sided removable frame still in place, I tried to pry it loose. Nothing happened. I couldn't see how to wedge it free. There was no handle or pulling device visible.

I unhooked my flashlight and leaning back on my heels, I examined the frame inch by inch, and there it was. On the top, in the center, was a tiny square plastic b.u.t.ton, painted black to match the rest of the frame, and inlaid so perfectly, it was only by the closest examination that it ever would be found.

I pushed the b.u.t.ton, and felt the spring-loaded apparatus nudge the top of the frame upward. Enough wood was now available that I could get a handhold and pull.

The frame was too large and heavy for me to extract standing up, so I laid the painting on the carpet and pulled it out that way. "Oh, my G.o.d," I whispered as the Cezanne came into view. The cobalt blue and muted shades of orange and green were indescribably breathtaking. I shook my head, dazed.

I heard a scuffing sound, realized that Officer O'Hara could enter at any moment, and rushed to lay the other Tavernier down on the rug. I pushed the b.u.t.ton releasing the hidden drawer and slid the Matisse out of its secret place. It was gorgeous, the perspective complex, and the colors vivid.

Both canvases lay flat against plywood backing, clamped at the top to hold them in place. I was easily able to release them, lift them out, and roll them up. Sliding the three-sided structures back in place, I left the paintings leaning against the wall.

As I pa.s.sed through the hall, I was relieved to see O'Hara perched against a porch column, staring at the ocean, smoking a cigarette. I headed for the bas.e.m.e.nt, cradling the two rolled paintings. I shivered a little as I entered the cooler, darker environment, whether from the chill of the cellar, the memory of yesterday's panic attack, or the thrill of my discovery, I couldn't tell.

I tenderly placed the paintings on the top of the leather truck, and squatted down to open the hard-to-find bottom drawer. It slid out smoothly, and unrolling the paintings, I laid them one on top of the other in the oversized s.p.a.ce, closed the drawer, and ensured that the two handles were snuggled into their openings.

Standing, I realized that I'd been hyperventilating, and I forced myself to take several slow, calming breaths. I wasn't out of the woods yet. I grabbed the three-sided frame from the workbench and held it upside down. Under the targeted beam of my flashlight, I could see the small spring. From the top, when nuzzled in place, it was essentially invisible. I carried it upstairs, inserted it into the opening in the third painting's frame, and pushed it home.

I was done, and I sat down on the floor to catch my breath. "Whew," I said aloud.

When I'd first examined Mr. Grant's treasures, all three Tavernier frames were intact. I wondered what the police had thought when they'd looked at the gap. Probably nothing more than that a piece of a frame had broken off.

Last night, with sleep eluding me, I concluded that Mr. Grant had intended to destroy all three of the fabricated frames as soon as the stolen paintings had been sold, thus eliminating evidence of his deception. He'd taken the Renoir from its hiding place, and since he never intended that it would return to its home behind the Tavernier, he'd brought the three-sided frame to his workroom to demolish. No doubt he'd eventually expected to reframe the Taverniers, and I was willing to bet that somewhere, in the back of a closet, or in the attic, for instance, we'd find three traditional gilt frames ready to go.

I stood up, took a deep breath, and rehung all three paintings. It was exhausting.

I allowed myself a private grin and an "atta girl." I brushed hair out of my eyes, excited that I'd discovered the missing paintings, and proud that I'd found a way to keep them safe.

But my pride was mitigated by icy fear. Another thought I'd had last night, as I'd struggled to sleep, was that maybe someone had killed Mr. Grant in order to have unfettered access to the Cezanne and the Matisse.

If Mr. Grant hadn't liked how the negotiations over the Renoir had gone, and had decided not to proceed, killing him had been the only way of getting the art. Or maybe, I thought, Mr. Grant was killed not because he'd withdrawn his offer to sell the Renoir but because his death allowed the killer to avoid receiving only a small percentage of the proceeds of its sale. With Mr. Grant out of the way, the murderer could take it all. But only if he-or she-could locate the missing paintings.

It seemed obvious to me that the Renoir had been stolen at the same time that the murder occurred. What a disappointment it must have been for the murderer to realize that everyone seemed to know that the Renoir existed. Too risky to keep, and too risky to sell, it must have seemed clever to the killer to plant it at my warehouse in order to try to frame me for Mr. Grant's murder.

I shook my head, sickened at the thought that someone could do such a thing to me. Whoever it was, I could imagine their growing frustration. The Renoir might be off limits, but if Mr. Grant had mentioned the other paintings, perhaps dangling them as a carrot during the negotiations, and if the killer hadn't known that Mrs. Grant's ledger would reveal the paintings' existence to the police, the murderer might think he-or she-was sitting pretty.

Of course, a search couldn't be undertaken while the house was under police custody as a crime scene, but as soon as the authorities unsealed it, someone had entered and had, apparently, started to hunt for the paintings while I was in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

My final conclusion, and I shivered with fear at the thought, was that if someone had murdered once to acquire priceless masterpieces, that person wouldn't hesitate to kill again.

It was almost 6:30 when I got to my office. I ran inside, punched the code to turn off the alarm, and dashed upstairs to my office.

The best way to establish protocols is to actually do research. Otherwise, your decisions are based only on theory and can be arbitrary. Still, research only isn't enough. Setting reasonable price ranges requires knowledge, intuition, and street smarts. You have to consider factors such as the condition of the piece relative to other examples that have sold, current market demand compared to what economic conditions existed when other similar pieces were auctioned, and unique factors such as a distinctive provenance-and determine which ones matter most.

Two of my office walls were stocked with various guidebooks and auction catalogues. In addition, we subscribed to several Web sites that tracked and reported auction results worldwide.

As a test case, I selected the now-silent Queen Anne grandfather clock standing in Mr. Grant's hallway. I wanted to see how long it took me to set a price. It was a reasonable test selection, since it was representative of the bulk of the items in the Grant estate: valuable, but not unique.

Noting my starting time, I quickly sorted through the American furniture catalogues that filled about a quarter of my bookshelves and found two clocks that were similar to Mr. Grant's. One had been sold by a Florida dealer, Shaw's Antiques, in 2003. Mark Shaw described it as "magnificent." Barney's firm, Troudeaux's New Hampshire Auctions, had auctioned the second in 2002. M. Turner described the clock's condition as "very good." Which meant it wasn't "magnificent."

Most antique dealers used "excellent" or "mint" to indicate pristine condition, but some were more poetic, and used terms like "magnificent." The bottom line was that there was no standardization in the industry, so it was important for buyers to know how a dealer used words. "Magnificent" implied perfection. "Very good" usually meant there was some minor or normal wear.

Shaw's had estimated that the clock would sell for $9,000 and it had actually sold for $10,300. Troudeaux's had expected the clock to bring in $10,500, so its sales price of $6,750 must have been a huge disappointment. That was quite a spread-the Florida clock fetched $3,550 more than the one Barney sold.

Big differentials in prices between two similar items usually reflected differences in quality-which was, I knew from experience, impossible to define precisely. In this case, however, it seemed obvious why Shaw's clock did so much better. First, it was in better condition than the one Barney sold. Second, according to Shaw's description, the clock had been owned by a former governor of Georgia. That kind of connection often led to higher prices. Prestige by a.s.sociation. Besides which, Barney's estimate might reflect wishful thinking or whimsy. His firm's research was always suspect; whether from indifference or sloppiness, his estimates were wrong more often than they were right.

Searching through the Web sites we subscribed to, I found another similar clock, described as being in "excellent condition." It had sold at a Pennsylvania auction six months ago within its range. Estimated to fetch between $7,000 and $8,500, it had brought in $8,100.

From a low of $6,750 to a high of $10,300. Calculating both the average and the median, and considering the effect of condition and the Georgia governor's prior ownership, I estimated that Mr. Grant's clock should sell for $7,000 to $9,000. Maybe more if Dobson's got lucky.

I typed out the description, including the estimated price range, and glanced at the clock on my computer. From first look at my bookshelves to the completed catalogue entry, half an hour. Not bad. In a separate doc.u.ment, I specified the details of my calculation.

The protocol was set: I would require that we research three sales of comparable items within the last five years. I e-mailed the file to Gretchen and Sasha, and printed out a copy for me to take. I smiled with satisfaction. Step one of the appraisal, done.

I called Wes en route and told him that I was running late.

It was twenty after seven when I pulled to a stop behind Wes's old Toyota. He was leaning against the hood, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

"Sorry I'm late," I said, hurrying to join him, the bag of food in my hand.

"If only you knew what I know, you would have been on time," Wes said, popping a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.

"Don't be a tease, Wes. Tell me."

"Let me turn on the radio."

"Wes, you're not still thinking I'm wired, are you?"

He chuckled, a snorting sort of sound, and ate more nuts. "Nah, but I got news, and I'm not taking any chances."

Wes sat down, and leaving the car door open, turned on the motor and punched a b.u.t.ton for an oldies station. I got settled in the pa.s.senger seat and pulled plastic-wrapped hard-boiled eggs out of the bag, laid out napkins on his dusty dashboard, and handed him a plastic fork.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Food," I answered. "You ought to try it sometime."

"What are you talking about?"

"I looked in the back of your car, remember? I ate your doughnut. You don't eat food. You eat junk. An egg and fruit salad. That's food."

He looked skeptical. "Thanks," he said, but made no move to eat.

I unwrapped my share and took a bite of egg.

He gestured that I should lean closer. Accompanied by the familiar, gotta-dance rhythm of "Under the Boardwalk," he whispered, "Barney kept the three P.M. appointment at Mr. Grant's house. Alverez was the one who told him about the murder."

Either Barney was telling the truth and had called the night before to change his appointment from 9:00 to 3:00 or he was lying, and had called for some other reason altogether.

Goose b.u.mps rose on my arms as I had the startling realization that maybe Barney had shown up at 9:00 and killed Mr. Grant. There was plenty of time for him to cover his tracks. It was simple. All he had to do was leave and return at 3:00, pretending he was there for his rescheduled appointment.

I stepped out of the car and walked a few steps, starting up the dune, wanting to see the ocean. I watched the frothy waves make rivulets as they rushed along the sand.

Wes stepped out of the car, and called, "What are you doing?"

After a moment, I came back and sat down again.

"What do you think?" Wes asked, watching me consider options.

"Interesting," I said.

"That's one of those comments. ..."

"What do you mean?"

"'Interesting,'" he said, mocking me. "Don't give me that. Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking that it's interesting," I insisted, aiming to look and sound sincere. "What do you think I mean?"

"Give me a break."

I shook my head. I took out my plastic container of fruit salad, popped the lid, and ate some pineapple and cantaloupe pieces. "Anything else?" I asked.

Wes sighed loudly. "You owe me. You know that, don't you? You owe me big."

"Wes, you and I both know we owe each other. You'll get yours."

"I better. That's all I've got to say. I better."