Consigned To Death Part 6

"Right."

"What do you know about him?"

I forced myself to ignore my personal feelings about good ol' Barney and his b.i.t.c.h-queen wife. Instead I reported the truth as perceived by the vast majority in the industry. "Barney is very well respected. I mean, he's the head of the NHAAS."

"That's that industry a.s.sociation you mentioned?" Max asked.

"Right," I said, and shrugged. "It's pretty prestigious."

"So Epps recommending him wouldn't be out of line?"

"h.e.l.l, no. It would be an obvious choice. Not a good one, necessarily, but certainly it would be low risk."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, between you, me, and the gate post, Barney is lazy. His research is cursory, so he misses a lot of opportunities to maximize his clients' profits."

"So he's reputable but incompetent?" Max asked.

"I wouldn't say he's incompetent. He's knowledgeable and a terrific negotiator. The problem is he's lazy. He delegates research to other people, usually his wife, who knows nothing but acts as if she knows everything, and he never checks or corrects her work."

"How do you know?"

"Because on two separate occasions I've bought items he's sold, not because they were sort of a bargain and I knew I could mark them up and make a decent profit but because they were inaccurately described in his catalogues, and I got killer deals. I sure wouldn't want to be a client of his, but I doubt you'd find a client who'd say so, or even one who discovered the truth. He's great with people. His clients love him. But from where I sit, it's as if he doesn't care as much about the value of the items he's entrusted with as he does about getting the deal."

"Why would Epps recommend him?"

I made a noise involuntarily, a small snort of contempt. "Because he's low risk. Don't you see? He's the prez of a major industry a.s.sociation. He's personable. Forgive my cynicism, but from a lawyer like Epps's point of view, it doesn't matter how good a job an appraiser does. All that matters is that his client never comes back with a complaint. But I got to ask you, Max, what does all of this have to do with the price of eggs in China?"

"Well," he said after a pause, "here's the thing, Josie. Epps told me that Grant asked him to recommend a reliable dealer. This letter shows that Troudeaux's the dealer he selected. It might imply that, in fact, you'd lost the deal-or that you were about to."

"In other words, you're saying that, on paper at least, Alverez might think I had a motive for killing Mr. Grant."

"Yeah, but actually, I think it may be even worse than that. Epps told me that the letter was just a matter of form, that he'd given Mr. Grant Troudeaux's name on the phone when he first called and asked."

"What?" I exclaimed, shocked.

"He said Mr. Grant was very appreciative for the referral."

"When was this?"

"According to Epps, it was two weeks ago."

I did a quick mental calculation. That was just about when Mr. Grant and I began to talk. I felt sick. I closed my eyes and leaned against the desk.

"I can't believe it," I murmured. "I just can't believe it."

"Why? Wouldn't it be good business for Mr. Grant to have consulted more than one appraiser?"

"You're right, of course," I answered. "I just had no idea, and from the way he acted, it seems so unlikely." I sat up and opened my eyes, startled by a thought. "Wait!" I said. "That means I'm not the only suspect."

"Except that you were at Grant's the morning he was killed. And Epps said that he was certain that Barney had pretty much locked in the deal."

"How can he be so sure?" I asked, sounding calmer than I felt.

"Well," Max said, and hesitated for a moment. "Troudeaux told Epps how excited he was about the Renoir, and said that Mr. Grant had agreed to sell it to him privately."

"The Renoir?"

"I have the t.i.tle here somewhere...." I heard the rustle of papers being shifted. "Here it is. It's called Three Girls and a Cat. Epps explained that Troudeaux wanted to buy it for his wife for her birthday."

The world seemed to reel, and I held on to the desk. Gretchen finished her call, and I heard her get up and open a file drawer. I forced myself to ignore her presence and focus instead on Max.

"Max," I said.

"What?"

"Mr. Grant didn't have a Renoir."

After a long pause, Max said, "Maybe he'd already sold it to Troudeaux."

"Or maybe Barney's lying."

"Maybe," Max acknowledged.

"Oh, jeez," I said, startled by a new thought. "I think I might have the answer."

"What?"

"If there was a Renoir it had to have been hidden somewhere because I never saw it."

"Okay, that makes sense."

"So, what we need to do is find the hiding place."

"Maybe he had a safe," Max suggested.

"Not a conventional one. I would have spotted it."

"We could explain our thinking to Alverez and ask him to search the house."

"We don't need to," I said confidently. "I know how to find out."

"How?"

"The video. Don't you remember, Max? I videotaped every inch of that place!"

CHAPTER FOUR.

As I hung up the phone, Eric came into the office, grime streaked on his face and T-shirt, looking tired clear through.

Forcing a smile, I said in as light a tone as I could muster, "Man, if I didn't know better, I'd guess you've been working."

"Yeah," he agreed, grinning, "just a little. Anything else right now?"

"Are all of the lots in place and approved by Sasha?"

"Yup. I let the temp guys go."

I nodded. "Good job." Turning to my a.s.sistant, I asked, "Gretchen? Anything for Eric?"

She shook her head. "No. We're set, I think."

"You heard the woman. You're free to go."

Eric left with a wave, saying he'd be in by eight the next morning. I watched from the window as he made his way across the parking lot to his old truck and signaled his turn from the lot even though there was no one behind him or on the road in either direction. I smiled. A man who follows rules, even in private. I bet he was heading home to Dover, a small town about twelve miles northwest of the warehouse. I'd driven past his house once, an old Victorian in depressing disrepair. He lived there with his widowed mother and two much-loved dogs, a black Lab named Jet and a German shorthaired pointer named Ruby. I spoke to his mom once when she'd called to remind him to pick up some potatoes on his way home. She'd sounded uninterested in speaking to her son's boss, irritable, and tired.

I picked up the catalogue pages Gretchen had set aside for me. "You should leave soon, too," I told her. "Tomorrow's going to be a killer day."

"In a little while," she said. "I want to finish updating the roster for the Wilson preview and I have some calls to return about tag-sale stuff."

"Okay. I'll be in my office," I said, and left her transferring names from her handwritten notes onto a spreadsheet.

Before going to my office, I crossed the span to the auction-site corner, shivering a bit as I made my way across the cold concrete floor. It was always dim inside the huge s.p.a.ce, even with fluorescent overhead lighting, and somehow the darkness made it seem colder than it really was. Eerie shadows shifted as I walked. I was glad to reach the smaller, more homey-looking zone, and I flipped the light switches illuminating hanging chandeliers and wall sconces. Between the soft, incandescent lighting and the thick burgundy carpet, the smaller s.p.a.ce was a world apart from the warehouse proper, more welcoming than utilitarian. Plus, it felt warmer.

I walked the aisles looking carefully at each roped area. The lot numbers were in place. All items were positioned well, dust free, and labeled with small typed cards. Scanning the center area, I noted that Eric had added rows of chairs and lined them up properly. A sign reading Prescott's hung from the podium. Skirted registration tables stood near the side door through which the registered bidders would pa.s.s tomorrow. I felt pride and accomplishment as I stood alone near the stage. We were ready. I turned off the lights as I left and headed for the spiral stairs that led to my office.

I had a television/VCR combo set up in a bamboo armoire in a corner, and looking at it made me want to skip proofing Sasha's typed catalogue pages. I was eager to get to the Grant tape, but duty called. With a sigh, I forced myself to read carefully and stay alert for typos, inconsistent formatting, and information gaps.

Just before six, as I finished proofing the catalogue, Sasha poked her head into my office, and said, "Gretchen asked me to tell you that she left for the day."

"Okay."

"How are you doing?" she asked.

I felt an unaccountable urge to confide in her. I had no one to talk to and it would be a relief to bounce ideas off someone. With my dad gone, and my friends in New York a world away, I felt alone. Since arriving in New Hampshire, I'd focused on building my business. Fleetingly, I wondered what it would be like to be married, to have an ally waiting at home, eager to share confidences.

Sasha was brilliant, with the instincts of a collector. Confiding in her might be foolhardy, though. Without doubt, she was smart and educated, but she was also a scared mouse of a woman, eager for approval, yet continually braced for censure. Only when discussing art or related subjects was she confident and well-spoken. Otherwise, her anxiety was apparent in everything she did, from the way she twirled her limp brown shoulder-length hair to her inability to meet people's eyes. I couldn't risk trusting her. Challenged by a stronger being, she'd probably fold, trading my confidences for goodwill.

Pushing aside my lonely need, I answered, "Thanks for asking. Everything's fine."

Better to lie than reveal a vulnerability. I wondered what my father would think about that decision.

She gestured toward the catalogue pages. "How does it look?" she asked.

"It looks great," I said.

"Th-th-thanks," she whispered, embarra.s.sed. She blushed and looked down, her standard response to praise.

I pointed out the few typos I'd found, and Sasha said, "I'll make the corrections and go to the quick-copy place."

"Sounds good," I told her.

I heard the click-clack of her shoes as she descended the stairs, then nothing. I was alone.

Watching the tape was upsetting. Seeing certain items, like the inlaid chess table that had belonged to Mr. Grant's wife, triggered memories of the pleasant conversation we'd shared about its origin. I now perceived his jolly Santa Claus demeanor as a veneer disguising a big bad wolf licking his chops.

Well, I chided myself, maybe that was unfair. Just because his behavior felt like a betrayal didn't make it so. I sighed. Mr. Grant had owed me nothing, and I had no complaint. If, as it now seemed, he was just using my appraisal to benchmark value so he could negotiate wisely with Barney, well, that was his prerogative, and in fact, was probably a savvy business move.

I couldn't pretend that I wasn't disappointed, but I could learn from the experience. My naivete and gullibility had facilitated his research. I still believed he'd liked me. But now I understood that liking me hadn't mattered a whit. Don't be stupid, Josie, my father had told me once. In business, it's all about the business. If someone won't make money doing business with you, they won't do business with you no matter how much they like you.

It felt good to remind myself of my father's words. Doing so allowed me to view the tape with more objectivity than I otherwise might have been able to bring to the task.

As expected, there was no Renoir in sight, nor was there an empty s.p.a.ce on a wall where it might have hung. Either Barney had already purchased it, as Max thought, or someone else had done so. Either Barney or Epps was lying and there was no Renoir at all, which wouldn't surprise me a bit now that I was less naive and gullible, or the painting was secreted somewhere.

I paused the tape to consider why Mr. Grant might have wanted the painting hidden. He had three sterling-silver tea sets dating from the eighteenth century and two mint-condition seventeenth-century Chinese square porcelain bottles on display, a Regency period dining-room set constructed of perfectly matched rosewood that he used daily, and scores of other priceless and near-priceless items all in plain sight. Why would he hide one painting? Obviously, he didn't keep it hidden just because it was valuable. There had to be another reason.

It was hard to imagine, but maybe the painting had been stolen. Impulsively I turned to my computer and brought up an Internet browser, and then clicked on an Interpol site I'd bookmarked that was devoted to tracking stolen art. I typed in the painting's t.i.tle and "Renoir." Nothing.

I shook my head in frustration. I had no way of knowing if it was true that Mr. Grant had ever possessed the painting, nor did I have a clue whether, if he had, discovering his reason for hiding it mattered. I warned myself not to lose sight of my goal. Whether I was being framed for murder or was an accidental victim, I needed to arm myself with knowledge.

I went through the tape again and counted twenty-three paintings. Not one was even close to a Renoir in reputation, importance, or value. None was remarkable even when compared to the other treasures in the house. The only artist whom I recognized was the nineteenth-century ill.u.s.trator Jules Tavernier. Mr. Grant had three of his pastoral scenes oddly framed in contemporary-looking black boxes.

I did a quick Internet search for Tavernier prices. The paintings were lovely, but would be unlikely to fetch more than $7,000 to $8,000 each. A lot of money for a painting by some standards, but nothing compared to the millions a Renoir would bring.

The other twenty paintings were even less special than the Taverniers. Value aside, any of the paintings could hide a wall safe. The Renoir could have been taken out of its frame and rolled, fitting easily in a specially designed hole in the wall.

An hour into the tape, I was listening to my discourse on two Windsor chairs, a seventeenth-century hanging tapestry showcasing birds in a jungle, and an eighteenth-century English partners desk. I wondered if the painting could be attached to the underside of a chair via a fake cushion or tucked into a safe located behind the tapestry. And while I'd examined the desk at length and had spotted long, thin dovetail joints that had confirmed its pedigree, I realized I hadn't discovered the hinged cabinet door frequently found at the back of the desks' kneehole openings.

I paused the tape, and stared at the screen, my mouth opening, my mind racing. A thorough search would easily discover if there was a wall safe or if the painting was hidden in a closet or under a false bottom attached to a chair or table, but I bet I'd found the stash-a hidden cabinet in the partners desk. We needed to look. And we needed to look now.

"Max!" I exclaimed when I had him on the phone. "I think I'm on to something."

"Tell me," he said. I heard children's laughter in the background.

"I've watched the tape. Old partners desks had kneeholes. You know, an opening where your knees go. Many of them had cabinets built in at the bottom. Not exactly secret, since the hinges and lock unit were in plain sight, but semisecret, since someone would have to be on his hands and knees to spot it."

"And Mr. Grant's has one of these hidden cabinets?" he asked, excited.

"No. It doesn't seem to. But in reviewing the tape, I noticed that there's s.p.a.ce for one. Some of the partners desks had the cabinet secreted behind a wood panel. It's rare, and I'm betting that Mr. Grant's desk is one of those. Max, it would be a perfect place to stash art."

"Let me understand," Max said. "You're saying that even though no cabinet hardware, like hinges, is visible, you still think there's a cabinet there. Is that right?"