Deadly Appraisal (12 page)

Eric was young, barely out of his teens. He was a willing worker, but I’d discovered the hard way that he was literal, not imaginative. If I gave him specific and detailed instructions, he did a meticulous job. But if my instructions were broad, he’d miss things and skip steps that, to a more experienced person, were self-evident.

I reached Max at his office and told him what I knew, and he said he would call Rowcliff for an update and get back to me.

I lay down again, wondering whether I had the strength to persevere in the face of my physical wounds and emotional distress. Apparently, Trevor was determined to kill me, and I felt utterly unable to stop him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

M

ax called back and told me that Rowcliff would be talking to me later. “No news so far,” he said.

“Do you know where my car is?”

“The police have it.”

“When will they be releasing it? Did Rowcliff say?” I asked.

After a pause, Max said, “I think it’s pretty much totaled, Josie.”

“Oh, wow, I hadn’t realized. I guess that means I should call my insurance agent.”

“Yeah.”

“And get a rental car,” I added, thinking aloud.

“Are you able to drive?” Max asked, sounding doubtful.

“If my right ankle was the one that had gotten messed up, it would be more problematic,” I said, brushing off his concern.

“Before we hang up,” he said, “there’s something you need to think about.”

“What’s that?” I asked warily.

“I think you need someone with you,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Some security—someone to keep an eye out.”

I paused before I responded, trying to think logically. “Can’t I just be super careful or something?”

“It’s not so simple,” he explained, his voice even and unemotional. “You’ve never been trained to know what to be careful about.”

His words were terrifying. “Detective Rowcliff said he’d have someone around,” I offered.

“No doubt he’ll do what he can,” Max said, “but the truth is that he can’t do much. He doesn’t have the manpower. And you don’t live in Portsmouth proper, so he’s got to ask another department to increase its patrol when you’re at home. Don’t get me wrong. He will ask. And so will I. And they will help out as best they can. But it’s not enough.”

How do you find a bodyguard?
I wondered.
Do I look in the Yellow Pages under
B
for “body guard” or
G
for “guard, body”?

“What should I do?” I asked.

“I can call someone I know.”

“Okay,” I agreed, the burden of fear weighing me down.

“I’ll let you know when I hear from him,” he added. “If he’s not available, I know other good men I can contact.”

“How much will it cost?” I asked.

He gave me a range and I did a quick calculation. It wouldn’t take many days before the fees added up to many thousands and made quite a dent in my savings. But what choice did I have? If there was a realistic alternative, I couldn’t think of it.

I redialed Gretchen’s number and asked her to arrange for a rental car and then pick me up ASAP. Twenty minutes later, she pulled up in front of my house, leaped out of her car, and ran up the pathway. I stepped out of my front door. I’d expected her to do something like clutch her heart and scream when she saw me, but I was wrong. She took one look at me and zipped into high-octane caretaker mode.

“Take my hand,” she offered when she reached me.

“I’m okay, Gretchen,” I responded, waving her away. “Just moving a little slowly. Please don’t fuss.”

“I put a pillow on the front seat so it would be more comfortable. Sorry the car’s so small. You’re going to be pretty scrunched. I saw you limping. If you’d like, I can move the pillow to the floor and you can use it to support your leg. What do you think? Would that be better? Is anything broken? No, of course not, because if it was, you’d have a cast on. Can you see out of that eye? It’s swollen. I can’t believe this happened to you. I’ll be quiet now because I can tell that you’re in pain and are just being strong the way you always are.”

She didn’t stop chattering until we reached the rental-car location on Route 1 in Hampton. I had her wait outside while I limped into the small office alone. The clerk sneaked apprehensive looks at me as she hurried to complete the paperwork, and having seen myself in the mirror, I understood completely. My face looked bad.

Out on the lot, I found my car and sat for a moment familiarizing myself with its gauges and setting the mirrors, and then I headed off to work. It felt odd to drive a strange vehicle and odder still to look into the rearview mirror and see Gretchen following me.

When we got to Prescott’s, I parked close to the front door and used the rearview mirror to scan the lot. Nothing. I stepped out and walked in the warming sun to the door, holding it so Gretchen could enter first.

Unlike Gretchen, who calmly accepted my bruised and battered appearance, Fred took one look at me and almost fainted. He bounced up from his desk, then froze, his mouth agape, the color fading from his face.

“Sit here,” Gretchen told me, swooping down on the guest chair, sliding it out, and holding it in place until I sat, then hovering nearby. “I’ll make tea. What else can I do? I could move up this other chair for your ankle. I can’t believe you decided to come in today, but you’re in good hands. I’ll make sure that everything you need is close by, okay? Fred, do you see? Josie is doing fine and—”

I held my hand up to stop her stream of blabber. “Thank you, Gretchen. I’ll take the tea, but as to the rest, as you can see, I’m okay.”

I turned to Fred, whose mouth was still hanging open. He was about Gretchen’s height, taller than I, but short for a man, and slight. I knew that he was young, in his mid-twenties, but his demeanor was serious and he looked and acted older. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and asked, “Are you really okay?”

I smiled as best I could and said, “You bet.”

Fred was a terrific researcher, methodical and cautious, but interpersonal skills were not his strong suit. He gawked.

I tried another smile and said as casually as I could, “You can stop staring now.”

He closed his mouth and sat down.

I wanted to shift our conversation to work-related issues. I didn’t want to review my injuries or discuss how I was feeling. Talking about work would distract me from pain and worry, and confidently directing a technical discussion would succor me.

“How are you doing, Fred? Is everything under control?” I asked, hoping he’d follow my lead.

“Absolutely,” he replied quickly, probably as relieved as I was to move the conversation to more familiar ground.

“Where are you with the Picasso?” I asked, shifting a little, trying to find a more comfortable way to position my ankle.

“I have an inquiry out to the grandson of the restaurateur about the Picasso sketch.”

“Really? What did you ask him?”

“Well, we’re having trouble following the print across the ocean.”

“Tell me,” I instructed.

“We know that Mrs. Finn—you remember, the lady we got the sketch from—well, we know that her mother bought the print from a Little Rock dealer in 1973—we spoke to the gallery owner himself, and he was able to verify the sale by looking through his old ledgers. But the boxes with the records of purchases were lost in a fire twenty years ago. And he doesn’t remember how he acquired it.” He shrugged. “It’s a complete dead end.”

“So then what?” I asked.

“We start at the other end. We’ve verified that the Picasso was, in fact, given to the owner of the café, M. Roi, as payment for a meal.”

I smiled. “That’s terrific. How did you do that?”

“Sasha found a photo of the sketch in an old Paris newspaper.”

“Terrific. When from?”

“Nineteen fifty-two. It was in a restaurant review. M. Roi was standing next to it, gesturing toward it proudly.”

“That’s great work,” I commented admiringly.

“Yeah. But from that newspaper photograph in 1952 until the sale in Little Rock in 1973, we have no information. That’s a gap of twenty-one years.”

That was bad.

I nodded, and my head began to throb painfully. In order to sell fine art for top dollar, we needed to be able to document an object’s provenance. Without demonstrating an unbroken chain of ownership, we couldn’t offer a guarantee of authenticity. And without that warranty, we couldn’t expect big money. I bit my lip and closed my eyes for a moment until the dull ache faded.

“What else do you know?” I asked, trying to ignore my discomfort, hoping for at least a glimmer of good news.

“The restaurateur, M. Roi, died that same year, just a few months after the review appeared. We located his death certificate, and his will. According to the will, his estate was divided equally among his three children, but we don’t know which one got the Picasso or whether it was sold upon his death. The worst part is that all three of the children are dead, too.” He paused and thumbed through a manila file on his desk, looking for something. “Two of them died in a car wreck in 1980, along with their spouses. The other one never married and died of a heart attack in 2000.”

“How many grandchildren are there?”

“Four. We’ve heard back from one, who says she knows nothing, but she put me in touch with her cousin—the grandson I mentioned contacting.”

I nodded. “And the other two?”

He sighed. “One is a missionary in the Philippines. The other is traveling in a caravan in Scotland—I gather a caravan is like an RV.”

“Egad. I don’t suppose they have e-mail.”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said, shifting position again as more muscles made their presence felt. “What else are you working on?”

“I’m dating Mrs. McCarthy’s silver.”

Rosie McCarthy had called one day and asked me to come and take her silver away. “I want it all gone,” she explained with a self-conscious laugh. “I haven’t used it in years—decades, if the truth be told. My kids don’t care about it. At eighty-four, it’s time for me to lighten the load.”

“These are beautiful things,” I said, lifting a sugar bowl, appreciating its heft.

“Well, it used to be beautiful when I kept it looking good.” Another embarrassed laugh. “Now everything needs polishing. After my husband died, I tried to keep it up, but after a while, well, it was just too much for me.”

I nodded. “Where did they come from?”

“My husband’s aunt. Augusta Mayberry. She was from Londonderry, you know, never married, and her passion was collecting silver. We were very fond of her.”

“Did she buy it all locally?” I asked, knowing that Londonderry, like many small New Hampshire towns, was home to several excellent antique shops.

“No. Well, some she did, but she bought most of the pieces in England. She traveled there every June with her friend Hazel Waters.”

“Well, they’re wonderful pieces and I’m sure whoever owns them next will love them.”

She smiled warmly and patted my hand. “That’s very thoughtful of you to say so, dear. Thank you.”

Eric, my jack-of-all-trades, had inventoried the thirty-seven tarnished items—eighteen bowls, five pitchers, and fourteen serving pieces—and polished every one to a mirrorlike shine. And now, one unit at a time, Fred was authenticating their pedigrees and estimating their values. His desk was covered with files and notes and Mrs. McCarthy’s silver.

“Are you having any trouble identifying hallmarks?” I asked Fred, referring to the small symbols stamped or engraved on items to designate various attributes, usually the town and date of manufacture, the quality of the material, the maker, and, sometimes, that taxes had been paid.

“Not yet. So far, every mark is on the date chart,” Fred said, pointing to the guides we kept on our reference shelves, books that displayed every symbol ever used by silversmiths to identify their wares.

I wasn’t surprised at his answer, since Augusta Mayberry had collected English silver, and authenticating it is almost always a straightforward process.

“Where’s that one from?” I asked Fred, pointing to a mediumsize pitcher with fruit swags and paw feet.

“Chester,” he replied without hesitation. “Eighteen ten. Gregory Winslow, maker.”

“That’s just great,” I said as I stood up, my motions a little rickety.

I turned to Gretchen, who’d begun fussing with the tea. “Is Eric here?” I asked.

“Yes. He’s getting packing stuff together,” she told me.

“Good. I’m going to make my way—slowly, I admit—to my office. Give me half an hour, then send him up, okay?”

“Sure,” Gretchen replied. “I told him what you said,” she added, “about checking things off on the list and packing each cut-glass bowl separately.” I pictured Verna’s living room. The vintage evening gowns would be snapped up early on Saturday at the tag sale, but the glassware needed appraising to determine whether it was worthy of going to auction. Whether it was rare and valuable or merely pretty, it wouldn’t be worth anything if it was chipped.

“Excellent,” I said. “Good job.”

She smiled and her pretty features lit up.

“Would you take the tea upstairs?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“And order pizza for us all to be delivered around eleven thirty. Eric needs to leave around noon, and I want him to be sure and get a slice or three before he goes.”

She nodded and wrote a note.

All I wanted to do was crawl into a fetal position and suck my thumb, but I knew from experience the positive effect of work. During the months when I was shunned by my coworkers at Frisco’s, before I was let go, it was only the hands-on work with antiques that enabled me to maintain my equilibrium. And in the weeks after Rick and I broke up and the dark days after my father died, it was my ability to concentrate in the midst of turmoil and heartbreak that got me through.

I hobbled toward the warehouse and the spiral staircase that led to my private office.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

S

itting at my desk upstairs, waiting for my computer to boot up, I reached for a pad of notepaper and a pen. Even that small motion hurt.

“Lewis,” I wrote, followed by “cruise money,” and “Trevor’s alibi.”

I wanted to know whether Trevor’s favorite photographer, Lewis, was still in business; if Maisy had had the money to go on a long cruise—and if so, how she’d acquired it; and whether Trevor had been at the Gala disguised as a waiter. I could research Lewis’s current whereabouts and I had some thoughts about how to discover more about Maisy’s cruise plans, but investigating Trevor’s alibi had me stymied. Wes might uncover something, especially if he went to New York. So might Rowcliff, if he took the threat seriously. All I could think of to do was approach the question about Trevor’s whereabouts from the other angle—not whether he could have traveled from New York to New Hampshire, but whether he had, in fact, been at the Gala disguised as a waiter.

I knew it was a far-fetched idea, but having had the thought, it was like an itch I couldn’t scratch. Until Eddie confirmed that he hadn’t hired a waiter who looked just like Trevor, or a stranger who appeared out of the blue on his doorstep, I couldn’t relax.

I turned toward the maple outside my window. The opalescent leaves fluttered in the soft breeze, glowing in pink and gold, orange and red, and bright, glossy yellow. I marveled at their colors and satin smoothness, and as I watched, a small brown bird landed on the tree branch closest to my window. It dipped its head, seeming to listen to some private message. After a moment, with a head bob and a ruffling of its tail feathers, it flew away. I turned back to watch the leaves sparkling in the sun. The quiet, restful moment was interrupted when Gretchen buzzed up that Max was on the line.

I thanked her and picked up the receiver. “Hey, Max,” I said, trying to sound perky.

“Josie. You sound pretty good for a woman who was nearly run over.”

“Painkillers and grit.”

“Especially grit, I suspect. Well, let me tell you. I just got off the phone with Detective Rowcliff.”

My heart began to pound against my bruised chest. “And?” I asked.

“I called him to find out if he had any news before I called you. I knew you’d want to know.”

“Right. Thank you.”
And? So tell me! What did he say?
I nudged silently.

“Unfortunately, it looks like there were no witnesses. You know how little traffic there is that time of night.”

“But what about the man who came to help me?”

“He came on the scene after you were already on the ground. He heard your screams, but the car that hit you was long gone.”

“Oh,” I remarked, disappointed.

“There’s a little good news, though. The forensic evidence is significant. It seems that they’ll be able to pinpoint the make and model of the automobile that ran into your car from paint scrapings and glass particles. The car broke a headlight.”

“That’s great! Did he give you specifics?”

“No, but he said to tell you that he’ll probably be calling later to ask you some questions. Do you remember that he wanted you to look at illustrations of vehicles?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Well, apparently they expect to be able to narrow their search by measuring the height of the impact.”

“That makes sense.”

“So between the color of the paint and the height of the car, the number of options is limited. Based on that, Rowcliff wants you to look at some automobile shapes.”

“Sure. When?” I asked.

“Later today, probably. I told him to call you directly. I don’t need to be there unless you want me to.”

“You’re making me face Rowcliff alone in my battered condition? That’s cold,” I said in a determinedly playful tone.

“You know what to do. Don’t rise to his bait. And if he asks you about anything other than the hit-and-run, or if you feel uncomfortable at any time, call me.”

“Okay.” I paused. I turned to look out the window and forced myself to focus on the sun-dappled maple tree instead of my embarrassment at discussing personal issues.

“One more thing,” Max said. “I asked Rowcliff about security. He said he thought that police protection would be adequate but that if you’d feel better having private coverage, he wouldn’t discourage you.”

“Okay, then. It’s better to be extra safe, I guess, until we know what’s going on.” I noted how calm I sounded, when the truth was that I was agitated and upset.

“I agree. Just to be sure, I checked up on that guy I mentioned, Chi.”

“What’s his name?” I asked, uncertain I’d heard right.

“Chi.” He spelled it.

“Chi?”
I confirmed.

“Yeah.”

“That’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”

“He’s Asian. Chinese, I think. He told me once that the word
chi
means ‘energy.’ ”

I cleared my throat. “So, how did you check up on him?”

“One of my clients, a woman whose ex wouldn’t leave her alone, used him last summer. I wanted to hear her views, so I called her.”

“Well, the fact that she’s still alive to talk to you is a good sign.”

“Good point.”

“And?” I asked.

“And she was very encouraging. So I called Chi. He’s available and can start today. I’ll ask him to check in with you, introduce himself, take a look around, okay?”

“Sure.”

“You won’t necessarily see him, his associates, or the police patrols, but someone will be keeping an eye on you.”

I trembled at the thought that I needed watching out for. But I acknowledged that no matter what was going on, it was reassuring to think that the good guys were keeping an eye on me. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

As I hung up the phone, Gretchen appeared at the door with a steaming mug in her hand.

“You are so good to me,” I said.

“Wait ’til you taste the tea,” she said with a giggle, her titian-colored hair glinting with mahogany highlights as she passed through the rays of sun that stippled the carpet. “I think I made it too strong.”

She placed the mug on my desk and said, “You remember that Mitch Strauss and his wife, Rochelle, won the Qing dynasty soup tureen?”

“Right.”

“He’s picking it up today, coming with someone named Dr. Kimball, an expert from Boston, I think it was, to authenticate it. They should be here around three.”

“Good. The quicker we can move stuff out, the happier I’ll be.”

The phone rang and Gretchen answered it at my desk. “Prescott’s,” she said, as cheery as ever. “I’ll check. Please hold.” Turning to me, she said, “It’s Detective Rowcliff. He says it’s important.”

She handed me the receiver, and as I accepted it, I told her she could go. “Don’t forget,” I said, “get Dr. Kimball’s card. You never know when we might need an outside expert on Chinese porcelain.”

She said she would, and headed out slowly.

I could tell that she didn’t want to go, no doubt hoping that she could pick up a spicy nugget of gossip if only she were allowed to stay. I waited until I heard the click-clack of her heels against the concrete flooring at the bottom of the stairs before pushing the button that took Rowcliff off hold.

As I girded myself for the interrogation I was certain would follow, I crossed my fingers.
Please, God
, I said to myself,
let him tell me I’m safe
. It was probably a futile hope, I knew, but still, it could do no harm to pray that he was calling with answers, not questions.