Consigned to Death (24 page)

“Okay. I’ll look at the lamp later.”

“Should I get you a helper?” I asked.

“A research assistant would be helpful,” she said. “There’s so much to do.”

I nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.” I took out my cell phone and called Gretchen. “Good morning,” I said. “Everything okay?”

“You bet,” she answered, sounding chipper.

“Do me a favor, will you? Call Don in New York,” I said, referring to an executive recruiter I knew who placed a lot of curators and art historians in temporary and permanent positions, “and tell him I’m going to need a researcher for a week. Explain about the Grant appraisal, and warn him that the collection is eclectic, so we’ll need someone with a broad knowledge base. Tell him I’ll call him later if he has any questions. And ask him to get the person up here today.”

“Got it.”

I hung up and turned to Sasha. “Let me explain the protocol that I think makes sense,” I said, showing her the printout I’d prepared that morning, reviewing what I learned about the grandfather clock, and detailing the standards I’d established. She listened closely, and agreed that the approach was appropriate.

As Sasha and I sat and talked about the catalogue format we’d use in preparing the written appraisal, I heard a commotion outside. I was glad I wasn’t alone, anxiety replacing the comfortable feeling of being in charge that I’d had all morning.

“Let me see what’s going on,” I said.

I headed to the front and pulled aside the sheer curtain enough to see Andi Cabot, scary-skinny in a formfitting yellow spandex dress and French heels, righteous and rigid, arguing with Officer O’Hara. Her features were scrunched in anger.

“Let me in,” she berated. “It’s my grandfather’s house and you have no right to stop me.”

I couldn’t hear Officer O’Hara’s reply, so I cracked the door, gesturing to Sasha, who’d begun to walk forward, that she should stay back.

“I demand to see that Prescott woman.”

“Calm down, ma‘am,” O’Hara said. His words had the opposite effect, enraging her further.

“Don’t you tell me what to do. Where is she?”

I stepped forward. “I’m here. What do you want?”

Andi tried to push past him, to get to me, but O’Hara thrust out his arm and stopped her. “Don’t touch me,” she shrieked. To his credit, he didn’t budge.

To me, she said, “Get out, and get out now. You’re fired.”

The angrier Andi got, the calmer I felt. “You can’t fire me, I’m afraid,” I said softly. “I don’t work for you.”

“Me, my mother ... it’s all the same. I damn well can fire you. Get out!”

I shook my head, mystified about her motivation, but confident of my position. “I don’t know what your issue is, Ms. Cabot. But you can’t fire me and I’m not getting out. I have a signed paper authorizing me to be here. Do you?”

“How dare you speak to me that way?” she raged, trying again to push past O’Hara.

“Officer O’Hara,” I said, still calm, “I’m going inside now. Would you like me to call Chief Alverez and tell him what’s happening?”

“Yes, thanks,” he said, moving in tandem with Andi, keeping her in check as she tried to forge ahead.

“
I’ll get you
,” she shrieked,
“you can’t do this to me
!”

S
asha stood in the kitchen doorway, big eyed and pale. smiled to reassure her, and said, “A tempest in a teapot. Why don’t you head to the living room and get started?”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Absolutely. Just ignore the huffing and puffing.”

“Okay,” she said, “if you think I should.”

“I do. Go!” I said, gesturing with both hands, whisking her away.

She walked slowly, as if she was giving me a chance to change my mind. When she was out of sight, I pulled out my cell phone, found Alverez’s card, and dialed his number. He answered curtly, “Alverez.”

“It’s Josie.”

“Hey,” he said, changing his tone, seeming to relax a bit.

“You know what I said yesterday, about being a mess?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have good news. I’m in the midst of a crisis, and I’m handling it well.”

“I’m pleased for you. But what’s the crisis?”

“Being fired.”

“What?” he asked, startled.

“Well, not really, since Andi has no authority.”

“What’s going on, Josie?”

“Andi Cabot, Mr. Grant’s granddaughter, is here, enraged and mean. She told me I was fired. I told her she couldn’t fire me, that I didn’t work for her, and came back inside. Officer O’Hara is wrestling with her as we speak, trying to keep her from charging into the house and physically putting me out.”

“I’ll be right there. Stay inside.”

I heard the click as he disconnected and looked mockingly at the phone. “Guess he had to run,” I said aloud.

Andi continued to harangue Officer O’Hara. I dialed directory assistance and got the Sheraton’s number, and asked the operator for room 319. After several rings, Mrs. Cabot said, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Cabot?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Josie Prescott.”

“Oh, yes. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Mrs. Cabot, I’m at your father’s house. My chief researcher, Sasha, and I have begun the appraisal. But, well, I need to tell you that your daughter is here.”

“At the house? Now?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. She’s pretty angry.”

“Where is she?”

“Out on the porch. You know that the police are guarding the house?”

“Yes, Chief Alverez told me. He called last night.”

“Yes, well, a police office is keeping her on the porch. Actually, I can hear her from here. She’s pretty upset.”

“I’m so sorry, Josie. I just told her that I’d hired you. I was confident that I’d convinced her that you’d get us the most money from the auction because of your expertise. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” She sounded mortified.

“Yes, I’m fine. Do you know why she’s so angry?” I hated to ask, but felt as if I needed to know what I was dealing with.

There was a long pause. “Mr. Epps, my father’s lawyer, told us, when we met with him, that Mr. Troudeaux was the person best equipped to assist us. That was when we first arrived. I think Andi heard his words and turned off her brain.”

I thought about what she’d said. “Why?” I asked. “What did Epps say?”

After a pause, Mrs. Cabot said, “You know that my father, apparently, asked Mr. Epps for suggestions about selling the Renoir?”

“Not in any detail,” I said.

“Mr. Epps said that my father called him and asked for suggestions as to who would best be able to arrange a private sale of the Renoir. He said he’d given my father Mr. Troudeaux’s name. Andi was very excited about the painting, and what it might fetch. Mr. Epps told her that he didn’t know, but he’d mentioned that he’d run into Mr. Troudeaux at some meeting and had told him about the opportunity. I gathered from what Mr. Epps said that Mr. Troudeaux was interested, perhaps, in purchasing it for himself. Knowing my father, he would have liked that idea, since it would have implied that Mr. Troudeaux was a man of means. My father admired the wealthy almost as much as he admired wealth.”

“And Andi was there the entire time?”

“Yes. She wanted to call Mr. Troudeaux then and there and negotiate the sale as soon as the painting was released from police custody.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, besides the fact that I wanted to do more research before I authorized anyone to sell anything, Mr. Epps pointed out that we’d have to go through probate first.”

I nodded to myself, taking in what she was telling me. “Has Andi seen the police inventory? Or your mother’s ledger?”

“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t shown them to her. She’d have no way of knowing about the ledger, I don’t think. Why?”

As near as I could tell, that meant Andi didn’t know about either the Cezanne or the Matisse. I didn’t want to bring them up, and risk having to tell Mrs. Cabot an outright lie. Soon, I’d talk to her about them, but not now. Not with Sasha in the house and the police nearby. Not on the day she was due to bury her father.

Nothing I’d learned explained what Andi had against me. Ignoring Mrs. Cabot’s question, I asked, “Do you know why Andi’s so anti-Josie?”

“This is so awful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. And please forgive my directness. I can’t imagine how horrible this must be for you, having to answer questions like this hours before your father’s funeral.”

“Thank you, Josie. But your directness is appreciated. I know my daughter is difficult. She’s always been difficult. Lately, she’s been more and more motivated by money. I don’t know more than that. I don’t think she’s well. I mean, look at her. I think she has problems. But I don’t think she’s anti-Josie, as you put it. I think she’s antianything that will delay her access to money.”

Everyone likes money. But her desire seemed more of a need. More of a craving. Gambling, blackmail, or drugs, I thought. Picturing her sick-thin look, I concluded drugs, and at a guess, crystal meth. When I was in college, there was a guy who looked and acted like her. Sunken cheeks, passionless eyes, temper on a short fuse, needing more and more money to pay for the crystal meth that kept him going. Maybe Andi shared his demon.

I heard a siren. Alverez was arriving. “She told me I was fired.”

“Oh, my goodness. Please forgive her, Josie. Of course you’re not fired.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cabot. May I tell the police that she doesn’t have your permission to enter the house?”

A pause, then, “Yes. Absolutely.”

“Thank you, I think Chief Alverez has arrived, so I’d better go.”

“Thank you for calling. I’ll be here until eleven. Please call again if you need me.”

“Never a dull moment, huh?” I said to Sasha as I passed the arched entry into the living room, making a silly face.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice barely audible, her lack of confidence conveying fear and angst. Poor Sasha, a shadow of a soul.

“Perfect. Our working papers have just been reconfirmed.”

As I approached the porch, the voices got louder. I opened the door and looked out. Alverez stood with his back to me, Andi’s vociferous accusations buffeting him like waves powerful enough to wear glass shards to sand. He didn’t speak, and seemed, from the back at least, to not even react.

“I’m going to have your badge, you fucking son-of-a-bitch ass-hole. And yours,” Andi screeched, turning to confront a hapless O’Hara. “You groped me, you sick fuck. You son of a bitch.”

Switching effortlessly from hysterical attack to cajoling entreaty, she turned back to Alverez, and continued, “Please, please, please. Okay, okay, if you won’t let me in to my own grandfather’s house, you won’t. No problem. Okay, okay. I can live with that. But you don’t need the Renoir anymore, right? Your technicians have examined it six ways to Sunday. They probably know everything about it. So you’re done with it, right? Come on now, please. Let it out of police custody, and I’m gone. History. I promise. You’ll never see me again. My mother has said I can have it, so there’s no problem there, okay? What do you say, let’s make a deal, okay?”

Whew. Definitely crystal.

“Chief Alverez,” I whispered from inside. “I have relevant information.”

He leaned his head sideways, indicating that he’d heard me and understood my message.

“Wait here. O’Hara, keep her on the porch. Got it?”

I heard a grunt of affirmation.

“Stay here,” Alverez told Andi. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He swung around and strode inside, and led the way to the kitchen. “What?”

“Having fun with Andi?” I asked, smiling.

“Not now, Josie,” he said, half smiling. “Tell me what you know.”

I became all business, matching his mood. “I just got off the phone with Mrs. Cabot. She’s reaffirmed that she wants me to complete the appraisal and has asked that you keep Andi out of the house. She explicitly stated that Andi has no rights or power in this situation.”

He nodded. “Thanks. What’s her number?”

I didn’t bother to resend it. Instead, I got my cell phone, hit the Redial button, and told him to ask for room 319. I leaned against the sink and listened.

“Mrs. Cabot?” he asked. “Yes ... This is Chief Alverez ... Ms. Prescott told me of your conversation.... Yes ... I wanted to hear it from you. ... No ... no ... Are you sure? ... Okay ... What about? ... I understand. ... Do you want her on the property at all? ... Got it ... I’m sorry to disturb you. ... Yes ... Yes ... No ... That’s all right. ... Is there anything else? ... All right, then ... Thank you. ... Yes ... I’ll do my best. ... Good-bye.”

He handed me the phone and headed out, brushing my shoulder as he passed, a kind of connection, hinting at intimacy.

I followed him and stood just inside the door with my back to the outside wall, out of sight, leaving the porch door open about two inches, wide enough so I could eavesdrop, but not open enough so I’d be seen.

Alverez said, “No, you can’t come in. No, you can’t have the Renoir. That’s it. If you don’t like it, sue someone. But you have to get off the property now.”

I made a teeth-clenching face to the empty hall. Very impressive.

“I’ll sue you,” Andi screeched.

“And the New Hampshire courts,” Alverez answered, his voice calm, not a hint of sarcasm apparent. “Don’t forget them. They’re the ones that issue probate rulings.”

Without another word, Andi pulled away and tore down the path. The small Asian driver I’d seen with Mrs. Cabot dashed around the Town Car and beat her to the back door before she got there. He opened it, and she charged in headfirst, fleeing from I didn’t know what, but looking for all the world as if she were hunted.

 

 

It took about 15 minutes to reassure Sasha that everything was okay. Alverez told me that Griff would relieve O’Hara at 10:00, and that he’d be on duty until 4:00.