Consigned to Death (25 page)

“Do you understand what’s going on with Andi?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “She’s pissed.”

“But why?”

“What do you think?”

I paused, uncertain whether to open up, and well aware that Sasha was within earshot. I shrugged. “I think she’s eager to get money.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That much, at least, seems clear.”

We finished our conversation, neither of us revealing anything that the other one didn’t already know, and he left.

Stepping into the living room, I found Sasha on the floor, using a flashlight to examine the underside of the inlaid chess table Mrs. Grant had bought in Boston half a century ago.

“You’re okay?” I asked.

“This is incredible workmanship,” she said reverentially.

“Yeah,” I agreed. She started to slide out from under. “Don’t get up. I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking off.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding fretful.

“You have your cell phone, right?”

“Yes.”

“Call if you need me,” I said, sounding chipper. “And a police officer will be around. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Keep your phone nearby. I’ll call in a while.”

“Okay.”

At the front door, I looked back, and she was already absorbed by her task, examining the table’s dovetail joints, searching for a Maker’s Mark, and as always, alert for telltale signs of refinishing.

 

 

I called Gretchen on my way back to Portsmouth. Knowing her penchant for gossip—celebrity and otherwise—I wasn’t surprised at her prodding questions about the Grant situation, and deflected them easily. All I told her was that I had left Sasha hard at work. Neither Andi nor Alverez’s names came up. I asked what was going on and she told me that she hadn’t reached Don, the recruiter I was counting on to send us a research assistant, but had left an urgent message with his secretary. Other than that, all was well. She was busy reconciling the receipts from the auction and the tag sale, and had just confirmed my appointment with the professor.

An English literature professor from the University of New Hampshire was retiring and wanted to sell his collection of books. Roy, the picker who’d called on Saturday with an offer of rare books, had let us down. He’d never shown up, and we didn’t have a clue why. Probably another dealer had nabbed him en route. It happened all the time. So another lead on books, even if they weren’t particularly valuable, was good news. Inventory was low. And buyers expected to see fresh stock every time they came to shop. If they didn’t see new goods, they stopped coming.

At the warehouse, I said hello to Gretchen on the fly, grabbed the keys to the company van, and left. The van was old and blue, and clean and serviceable. I’d bought it for $3,000 when I’d first arrived in Portsmouth, a bargain at the time, and now, 110,000 miles later, an unbelievable find. It took us to book and antique fairs and buys without complaint, but it was a struggle to drive because it lacked power steering and was an absolute bear to park.

I found the professor’s address on Ceres Street without a problem. There was even a space available pretty close to the single-family row house where he lived. It took me ten minutes to inch my way into the spot. It was a nightmare, but I did it.

The professor greeted me cordially and led me straight into his den. A brief conversation and quick perusal revealed that there were no leather-bound volumes or first editions of note. It wasn’t a collection of rare books, it was a book-lover’s assortment of what are referred to as reading copies, undistinguished volumes of no particular value.

I randomly checked several books’ title pages to confirm that there were no book club volumes, which, except on rare occasions, have no resale value. Finding none, I was ready to make an offer. I did a quick estimate by counting ten volumes to a shelf, six shelves to a unit, and fourteen units; 840 books. None of which would sell for more than a few dollars, most of which wouldn’t sell at all.

The professor stood nearby, watching me work, his hands latched behind him. He looked sad. I needed to gauge his mood before I could begin to negotiate.

“Are you looking forward to retiring?” I asked. “North Carolina, right?”

“Well, young lady,” he said, “it’s one thing to think about retiring and plan for it, and another thing altogether to sort through thirty-five years of possessions, donate clothes that haven’t fit you for a decade, or sell books you love to a stranger. No offense intended.”

“None taken,” I said, and smiled. “I think moving is the hardest thing in the world under the best of circumstances, and it’s harder still when you have mixed feelings about doing it.”

“Exactly.” He sighed.

“I think you’re going to be disappointed in my offer, but as an expert in English lit, you know there’s nothing special here. That doesn’t mean you don’t love the books, but there’s nothing that has a lot of resale value.”

“Really?” he said, surprised. “What do you mean by value?” he asked.

I shrugged. “There are very few books here that would retail for more than a dollar or so.”

“There are a lot of Civil War books there.” He pointed to a shelf on the right, near the door. “They’re worth more than that. I know because I bought them at a used bookstore myself. The prices are still in the front.” He reached for a volume and showed me the pencil mark that read twelve dollars.

I flipped through it. “It’s not in good enough condition to fetch a price like that anymore. Do you see?” I pointed to the gap in the binding. “The spine is broken, and here, several pages are dog-eared.”

He began to get irritated. “That’s because it’s been read. It’s still a wonderful book.”

“I understand.” I gestured toward the shelves, sweeping my hand to indicate all volumes. “They’re all reading copies.” I smiled. “I have shelves of books like that myself. But as a businesswoman, I can’t offer you more than two hundred dollars for the lot.”

“What?” he asked, looking and sounding outraged, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

“I know you love them,” I said, meeting his eyes and speaking softly, “and I’m sorry I can’t offer more. Try other places, if you want. That’s what they’re worth to me.”

He paused, calming down, shaking his head, resigned. “It’s a shock, that’s all, to learn that something you cherish has such limited market value.”

I nodded. “It hurts.”

“You can have them for three hundred dollars,” he said, recovering from his disappointment enough to negotiate. Fancy that. I suspected mine wasn’t the first bid he’d received.

I paused, as if I was thinking hard. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. The best I can do is, maybe, okay, two hundred and ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars more! That’s an insult.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew my margins. I certainly didn’t intend to insult you. I came up five percent from my original, fair offer.” I met his eyes and watched him think it over.

“Two-fifty, then.”

I smiled and headed for the door. “Try other places if you want, but two hundred and ten dollars, here and now, cash on the barrelhead, that’s all I can do.”

As I crossed the threshold, he called out, “Wait.”

I turned. “Okay,” he said. “Take ’em away.”

He was a good guy. He might not know anything about the resale value of used books, but he agreed to let me send Eric to collect them in the morning, and he waved cheerfully as I drove away.

As I headed back to the warehouse, I allowed myself a grin. Those 840 books would flesh out our dwindling inventory of used books nicely, and I’d kept to the price limit I’d set of twenty-five cents a volume. All in all, a job well done.

 

 

I decided on impulse to go to Mr. Grant’s funeral. On the one hand, I wasn’t a friend, or family, and I was a little afraid it might seem intrusive for me to show up. On the other hand, I wanted to show respect to Mrs. Cabot, who was, I thought, fighting the good fight alone. Also, from a business perspective, I knew that it wouldn’t hurt my reputation to be seen at a church event.

I hadn’t planned well, though. I was wearing jeans and a flannel plaid big shirt over an ordinary tee. Hardly a proper outfit for a church funeral. I decided to go and at least make an appearance. Arriving at the church after everyone was seated, I scanned the names in the guest book, then added my own. There were only about twenty people total, including, to my surprise, Chief Alverez. I stayed in the atrium until the minister began to speak, then slid into a pew at the rear.

I spotted Barney and Martha, hovering as near to Mrs. Cabot as they could. Barney leaned over Andi and whispered something to Mrs. Cabot, apparently just a word or two. She didn’t respond, but Andi turned and said something. Alverez sat near the back, his eyes on the move. He nodded in my direction when he saw me.

Epps, Mr. Grant’s lawyer, was sitting near Mrs. Cabot. As if he sensed my gaze, he looked over his shoulder, saw me, and stared with disapproving eyes. I inferred that he still thought I was a shark. After a moment, he turned back to face the front, and from the tilt of his head, I guessed he was listening to the minister’s invocation.

The minister’s well-considered and well-delivered words only served to accentuate my grief, to remind me of my own loss, and to underscore that my wounds were still raw. After a few minutes, I left.

As I drove, I rolled down the window, allowing the chilly air to numb my skin. I wasn’t sorry I’d gone to the church, but I was glad I hadn’t stayed. It was too hurtful for me to hear words of mourning, and I’d learned in the years since my father’s death that my best strategy to dull the pain was to insulate myself with work.

 

 

I returned to the warehouse and took some time reviewing the preliminary financials from the weekend’s activities. Things looked good. I pushed the papers aside and turned to look out my window.

It was a bright day, but not very warm, and the tree remained barren. Wes was right. I needed to focus on the threat that Barney might present. He was competitive as all get out, and more by smooth talking than discerning judgment he’d won a reputation as an arbiter of quality. One bad word from him would be enough to cast doubt over my company’s abilities. Not everyone would believe him, but some people would. Look at Epps. Mr. Grant’s lawyer believed I was a shark based on an uncorroborated indictment. If Barney intended to take me on, I needed to be ready.
Screw you, Barney
, I thought.
And the horse you rode in on
.

I used the toe of my right boot to pull open the bottom desk drawer far enough for me to perch my feet on comfortably. I leaned back, my hands behind my head. What could I do to create an effective barrier to competition? What could I offer that Barney couldn’t? What value-added service could I provide that would create loyal customers and enhance my reputation?

I sat forward.
Bingo
, I thought.
What about an instant appraisal service
? A homegrown version of the PBS television show?

Sasha and I could take turns staffing a booth at the tag sale for an hour each Saturday. We could hook up a computer so we could use our subscription services to easily find values for the better items. I stood up and walked to the window, excited at the thought. Barney couldn’t compete because he had no access to professional research. Martha’s work certainly didn’t count. I smiled devilishly.

Not only would I create a barrier to competition but I’d be able to make on-the-spot offers for items people might want to sell. We could call it Prescott’s Instant Appraisals. We’d highlight that it was free.

I began to pace, my mind racing, coming up with ideas, discarding some and keeping others. I thought of how the ad I’d use to announce the new service should read. I considered what the booth itself should look like, and I planned how to control a crowd if we were lucky enough to get one.

The phone rang.

“Barney Troudeaux’s on the phone,” Gretchen told me. “He wants to know if he can stop by and talk to you. He said it’s important.”

“Sure,” I said, my attention caught.

I couldn’t imagine what Barney wanted to say to me that would be in the category of important. I tapped the desk, anxiety replacing confidence and creativity. I glanced at the computer clock and realized that Mr. Grant’s funeral was over. Mr. Grant, a man I’d liked, yet apparently a thief and a liar. A man who’d been stabbed ... murdered—why? To protect the paintings? Or to keep the secret that the paintings had been stolen? What did Barney know, and did his coming here have anything to do with the murder? Increasingly apprehensive, my heart begin to thud.

I paced. I stood in front of the window looking out. I sat down again.

Gretchen called up and told me Barney was there, and I asked her to send him up.

I walked to the spiral staircase and watched as he ascended.

“Hi, Barney,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Josie, great to see you! I love a spiral staircase! Clever use of space.”

“Thanks, Barney. That’s right, you haven’t been up to my office before, have you?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“Well, come on in.”

I got him settled on the yellow love seat, offered him a beverage, which he declined, and holding my bottle of water in my lap the way a child holds a favorite blanket for security, I waited for him to speak.

“Josie,” he began, his beaming smile morphing into an oh-so-sincere, I-hate-to-be-here-but-duty-calls look, “I’m here to offer help.”

“Really,” I said, unsure of my ground.

“This situation with the Grant estate ... it’s truly awful.” He shook his head sorrowfully.

“Yes,” I said, wary. Whatever was going on, the longer it took him to get to the point, the worse I figured the news would be.

“I understand you’re helping Mrs. Cabot.”