Consigned to Death (3 page)

“I’ll be asking him more about it,” Alverez said. “Did a lawyer introduce you to Grant?”

“No.” I shifted in the chair, the horizontal slats hurting my back.

“How did you hook up with him?”

Max touched my arm, and whispered, “Is there anything I should know about this? Any personal relationships involved? Anything unusual?”

“No. Utterly aboveboard,” I answered in an undertone.

He nodded, indicating that I could answer.

“Mr. Grant called me.”

“How did he get your name?” he asked.

“How do you
think
he got your name?” Max interjected, stressing the word “think.”

“Fair enough,” Alverez said, sounding relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world.

“He got my name from the NHAAS brochure,” I answered.

“What’s that?”

“The New Hampshire Antiquarian Appraisal Society. It’s an industry association. I’m a member. I’m local. As far as I know I was the only person Mr. Grant called.”

“Luck?” he asked. “Was it random?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It’s not unusual for someone to select the appraiser based only on proximity.”

He nodded. “So he called and you made an appointment?”

“You bet I did.”

“And what happened next?”

“And as soon as I got there, I recognized that I’d walked into a great opportunity. Did you see his stuff?”

“Yeah, but not to notice. Why, was it special?”

“Extraordinary. I wouldn’t even know how to start to describe it. He had an eighteenth-century American oak game table with a chessboard built in—it’s magnificent—inlaid in mahogany and rosewood. He had three Jules Tavernier paintings, all garden scenes. He had a Paul Revere silver tea service. Hell, he had a set of Louis XV chairs in perfect condition—including the original fabric. No joke.”

“How much are we talking here?”

“Unclear. Some of the items, nothing like them has been to auction in a generation. Some items are probably unique and priceless.”

Alverez whistled. “And he had locks you could pick with a credit card.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Amazing.”

“What was his reaction to your appraisal?”

“I didn’t do a formal appraisal. Nothing in writing, and I didn’t go piece by piece or anything. I just saw enough to know I wanted the lot.”

“And his reaction to your reaction?”

“Believe it or not, he didn’t seem much interested in the things themselves. I got excited by the chess table, for example. He said his wife had bought it in Boston more than fifty years ago. But he didn’t want to talk about the table. He wanted to talk about his wife. How he’d met her during the war. World War Two. It was a real love story.” I shook my head. “He refused to go to auction. He said that it would just drag the process out.”

“That doesn’t sound smart.”

“No, but it’s not unusual. Some people, after a spouse dies ...” I paused. “I just can’t believe this. Mr. Grant was a nice old man. Epps knows I’m not a shark. None of this makes sense.” I felt shell-shocked, somewhere between incredulous and hurt. I teared up again.

“So if he didn’t want to go to auction, what did he want?”

“He wanted me to buy everything outright.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t afford to just give him cash. He was okay with consigning the goods to me. I promised everything would be sold within a month.”

“A month. Isn’t that pretty quick?”

“Unbelievable,” I agreed. “I would have had to bring in outside experts and begin advertising right away.”

“What was his hurry?”

“I don’t know. He mentioned that his family was coming for a visit. Maybe he wanted it over and done with before they arrived.”

“Because they’d be upset?”

I shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

“But you thought his selling out was unusual?”

“I wouldn’t say it was unusual, exactly. It wasn’t ordinary, that’s for sure. But on some level, every sale is unique. I mean, there is no such thing as a ‘normal’ sale.”

“What might have motivated him to sell out?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

“Fair enough. Speculate for me.”

I glanced at Max. “Just so long as you acknowledge that Josie is talking theoretically,” he said. “She’s made it clear that she has no specific knowledge of Mr. Grant’s motivation. Agreed?”

“Understood,” Alverez acknowledged.

Max nodded at me, indicating that I could answer. I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. “There are lots of reasons why people sell their possessions, and I’m sure there are more that I’m not thinking of.”

“Like?” Alverez prodded.

“Like routine estate planning. Or they want or need cash for some particular purpose, like college tuition or an around-the-world trip. Maybe they’re hoping to avoid a family feud somewhere down the line. Or they’ve tired of the items and want new or different things. Or they want a fresh start, like maybe after a divorce. Or, and this might apply to Mr. Grant, there’s some kind of grief reaction—you know, they want to get rid of objects that remind them of someone who’s died, in Mr. Grant’s case, his wife.” I shrugged. “Whatever was motivating him, he didn’t act troubled in any way.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t seem desperate for cash or anything, or like he was regretting having to sell out. He was chatty and pleasant every time I saw him.”

Alverez nodded. “Did you ask any questions to try and figure it out?”

“No. I never do. I mean, I need to know enough about what’s going on to gauge whether I should act happy or more serious, you know? But I never pry.”

“Can you guess? I know you don’t know,” he added, glancing at Max. “But I’m wondering if you took away a general impression. What do you think? Which of those reasons applied to Mr. Grant?”

“I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I just don’t know. I never know. That’s not my job. I took him at his word, just like I do everyone. He wanted to sell out. I wanted to put together the deal. That’s it.”

Alverez tapped his pencil on the edge of the table and leaned back in his chair, thinking it through. “Okay, then. So, all told, how often were you there?”

“Three times. Once to meet him and discuss what he wanted, once to catalogue and videotape the contents, and once to make the offer. Today’s meeting was to finalize the deal. On the phone, he said he was ready to go.”

We heard the recorder click off, and Alverez turned the tape over and pushed the Record button.

“What did you two talk about while you were there?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you said he was chatty, did he show you pictures of his grandchildren, talk about what he planned to do with the money, what?”

“Nothing like that. He always asked me how I was feeling, and usually he asked about my business. We chatted about the weather and inflation and nothing in particular.” I paused to think for another moment. “Once I got started, he left me alone to do my cataloguing.”

“How come you went there alone? Wouldn’t it have been quicker to bring in help for the cataloguing?”

“Would it ever! Jeez. But I’m a businesswoman. And I didn’t have a signed deal yet. It can be anxiety-producing to have strangers going through your possessions. So I went alone.”

“In the times you talked with Mr. Grant, did he mention anyone else? You know, that he’d be having dinner with a friend, that he’d stopped by a coffee shop, or maybe bought a newspaper at the corner store, anything like that?”

I thought for a minute. “No. No one in particular. But we talked some about how capable he was. I mean, he brought it up. The first time I was there, he made a point of telling me that I shouldn’t think he was decrepit—that’s the word he used, decrepit—just because he was old. That he could still drive and he still balanced his checkbook to the penny. We laughed about that because I told him I couldn’t.” I smiled a little. “He offered to work for me and be my bookkeeper. He winked and said he had a good head for numbers. Talking to him, I believed it. The questions he asked about my business showed without a doubt that all of his marbles were intact.”

Alverez nodded and paused. He looked at me and I looked back. He looked liked an outdoors man, rugged and fit. He also looked reliable and honest, but I reminded myself that looks can be deceiving, and that sometimes people use their good looks, youthful appearance, or innocent demeanor for devious ends.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“I’m okay.”

“Ready for that coffee?”

I asked him the time and was surprised that it wasn’t yet three. I’d thought it was later. “How about a martini?” I countered.

“No can do, ma’am.”

“Figures,” I said. “Still, it’s been a martini kind of day.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “So, change of subject. Have you ever been fingerprinted?”

I reacted as if Alverez had ripped a Band-aid off without warning, and I closed my eyes to shield my dismay.

Yes
, I answered him silently,
I’ve been fingerprinted
. It had happened on a Tuesday and I was thrilled. Frisco’s policy held that all new hires had to go through a comprehensive security check, and I’d passed. But I didn’t want to tell him that. I didn’t want to talk about my past at all. I didn’t want to reveal how much I’d loved my job, nor explain how hurt I’d been when I’d been forced to leave. I considered lying, rationalizing that a lie isn’t a lie if the information solicited is irrelevant. Yet I knew that in all probability, Alverez would expect that an art and antique auction house as prestigious as Frisco’s would fingerprint new staff. Plus, nothing said I had to talk about any other aspect of my years at Frisco’s except the fingerprinting. Certainly there was no need to reveal my involvement in the price-fixing thing. What was it Max had said? Not to volunteer information. Got it.

Suddenly, words my father spoke echoed in my head:
Stop, breathe, think. Stop, breathe, think
. It was a refrain he used to chastise me when I heedlessly rushed to action. Those words calmed me now and allowed me to regrasp control.

I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. Alverez’s face revealed nothing. His eyes stayed steady on mine.

Max cleared his throat and leaned toward me. “Are you okay?” he asked.

I smiled as best I could, took a deep breath, and said, “You bet.” To Alverez, I added, “Sorry. I just couldn’t believe my ears.”

“Is that a yes? Have you been fingerprinted in the past?” Alverez asked.

“What a question!” I replied, feigning indignation.

“No offense intended. There are lots of reasons people get fingerprinted. Security clearance, that sort of thing.”

Appearing slightly mollified, I shrugged. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I was fingerprinted once. For a job.”

“Then you’ll be familiar with the procedure,” he said.

“You want to take my fingerprints?” I asked.

“Yeah, we need to.”

“Why?” Max interjected.

“Because Josie was in the house looking at the contents carefully, touching everything, and we need to know which prints are hers.”

“We’ll consider it.”

“Come on, Max,” Alverez said. “Don’t drag it out. You know I can get a court order.”

Max looked at him for a moment, leaned over to me, and whispered, “Did you touch anything we don’t want them to know about?”

“No,” I answered softly, shaking my head in disbelief. “Max, I didn’t do anything wrong!”

He patted my arm again. “She’ll be glad to let you take fingerprints.”

“Let’s get it over with,” Alverez said, standing up.

“Then can I go?” I asked.

“Yeah, but we should plan on talking some more tomorrow.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Tomorrow I’ll know more about what’s going on. Will you be around?”

“Yeah, I’ll be working. I have an auction preview on Friday and our regular tag sale’s on Saturday.” I stood up and stretched.

“How about we touch base around noon?” he asked Max.

“Sure,” he said.

“What will happen then?” I asked, anxious for more information, dreading his answer all the same.

Alverez led the way to the main room as I spoke.

“By then I’ll know if I need to ask you some more questions,” he said.

Cathy was filling a coffee mug with water from a standing dispenser as we passed through the main room to a smaller area on the right. I watched her drink a little and return to her desk, ignoring us, as Alverez methodically took my fingerprints. Max stood nearby, watching the process, solemn and silent.

After I’d cleaned up, Alverez led us to the exit. He opened the front door and the rush of fresh chilly air felt good. I looked at him.

“Here,” he said to us. “Take my card. If you think of anything, call me.”

I slipped the card in my purse. Max put out his hand. “I’ll take one, too,” he said to Alverez. Turning to me, he added, “If you think of anything,
don’t
call him. Call me.”

 

 

Heading back to Portsmouth because I had nowhere else to go, I gave myself a mental shake. I felt lonely and afraid, and that would never do. Get over it, I told myself, and decided to go get a martini and drink to Mr. Grant, a decent man who’d died too soon. I called Gretchen and told her where I was going and why.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “Eric, Sasha, and I have everything under control.”

“Thanks, Gretchen. But there’s so much to do.”

“Sasha’s finished cataloguing the Wilson goods. She’s in the office doing some research.”

I could picture Sasha twirling her hair, biting her lip, concentrating as she read something on the computer. She’d earned a Ph.D. in art history, and research was her favorite part of the job.

“I might come back to work, I’m not sure.”

“No need,” she said, her instinct as a caretaker overtaking her business sense.