She handed the document to me. I reached across and accepted the pages. Flipping through, I saw a list of furniture, artwork, and decorative items detailed in a fine up-and-down hand. The first entry was dated April 3, 1943; the last on the 15
th
of March, a year ago.
I looked up. “What do you want me to do?” I asked quietly.
“Confirm that everything is there, and as described.”
“In other words, you want a detailed appraisal?”
“Yes. What I want you to do is make certain that everything my mother listed is there, intact, and genuine—that her list was accurate and is complete. And I want to know how much you think I can expect to receive when the items are sold.”
“I can provide you with a range of values.”
“That will be fine,” she said.
“What will you do with the information?” I asked.
“Ensure that Dobson’s does a proper job.”
I considered whether she was telling me the truth. This approach, sending the auction house an independently authenticated listing, was smart. It helped keep everyone honest. But given the situation, I couldn’t help wondering if that was her only motivation. “Why did you say that your father showing the list to Mr. Troudeaux isn’t a compliment to him?”
She paused and looked away. “I can’t be certain, but I’m concerned that my father was ... perhaps he thought he could ...” She seemed to shake off her uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Perhaps he was talking to Mr. Troudeaux about a private sale so he could avoid paying taxes. I’m not sure, of course, but knowing my father, it’s certainly possible. I don’t know Mr. Troudeaux, so I hesitate to imply that he might be involved with something unethical. But I did know my father, and I must confess that he had been known to skirt rules more than once or twice.”
“Oh, my.”
She nodded. “Yes. A bit dispiriting.”
She’d referred to Andi, her daughter, as impatient, when she was, in fact, a termagant. Now she was describing her father’s dishonesty as “dispiriting.” Another masterful example of understatement. I glanced at the papers wondering what to do about the missing Cezanne and Matisse. I knew the paintings hadn’t yet been found, but I didn’t know whether she was aware of it or not. Surely, I thought, the police had told her. Taking a deep breath for courage, I asked the question that was foremost in my mind. “What if something’s missing?”
Looking at me dead-on, her eyes clear and her focus intense, she answered, “I trust that you’ll find it.”
I wondered what she thought I could do that the police hadn’t done. I tilted my head, watching her watch me think it through. I had a startling thought. I wondered if she thought the paintings were hidden somewhere in the house, somewhere an antique dealer would know about, but that the police might not discover.
“Did the police tell you that I helped them look for the Renoir?”
“No. What did you do?”
“I remembered having seen a partners desk. And I knew that it was pretty common for the old English partners desks to have hidden cabinets.” I shrugged. “I found the secret cabinet, but not the painting.”
Speaking slowly, as if she were carefully choosing her words, she said, “There may well be other places you will discover.”
I nodded. We continued to look at each other, and I was struck by her composure. I stood up and stretched, then walked to my desk for a bottle of water. I looked out of the window. A big old maple sat right outside, and it looked fine. Last summer, a huge branch fell in a thunderstorm, and I had worried that the tree would die.
“Does Andi know that you’re hiring me? And Dobson’s?” I asked, my back to her.
“No. I thought it best ... that is ... I’ll explain after ... no.”
I didn’t know what to say. I would have bet big money that even if she knew where the paintings were hidden, she didn’t want to tell me. If she found the missing paintings on her own, Andi would try to bulldoze her into selling them privately. If she helped me find them, Andi would go ballistic. But if I located them, no matter how many fits Andi threw, there’d be no choice but to return them to their rightful owners. My best guess was that Mrs. Cabot wanted to bring me in to help her do the right thing in the face of nearly overwhelming familial pressure.
“Thank you for explaining the situation,” I said, turning to her.
I could see the relief on her face. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll give your name to Dobson’s. And no matter what,” she said, clearing her throat and looking down, “I won’t let Andi disturb you.”
I nodded, wondering how she could stop Andi from disturbing me.
Probably
, I thought,
Mrs
.
Cabot held the purse strings, and used the threat of withholding money to keep Andi under control
. I bet she hated her role as enforcer. And heaven only knew what havoc Andi would wreak once she got her hands on her share of her grandfather’s fortune. Poor Mrs. Cabot. I shook my head, feeling sad for her and powerless.
For some reason I thought of Eric, maybe because he needed money, too. I recalled the day that I’d driven by his house en route to a buy. His mother was sweeping the walkway and I’d waved as I went past. She’d glared at me, perhaps not recognizing me, but still, her glower was uncalled for and odd. When I got back to the warehouse, I mentioned that I’d driven by and had seen his mom outside. I was immediately sorry that I’d spoken.
He was embarrassed, explaining inarticulately, “Mom works so hard taking care of the place. I plan to fix it up, but, you know, everything costs so much.”
“I hadn’t noticed that anything needed fixing,” I said politely. “All I noticed was how big and beautiful the house is. And those apple trees! I can taste the pie now!”
“Yeah,” he responded. “My mom makes a great apple pie, that’s for sure.”
I got the sense at the time that he was grateful that I ignored his dilapidated house and crabby mother. But now it made me wonder what he would do if he inherited a fortune. Would he fix up the house and buy mom luxuries? Or, like many nineteen-year-olds, would he flee, deserting both the run-down structure and the fractious woman who held him close?
My father once told me that money didn’t buy happiness, it bought freedom. The trick is to decide what sets you free. I didn’t know with Eric. I sometimes thought that there was a lot I didn’t know about him, hidden layers of his personality. Mostly though, I thought he was just what he appeared to be—a devoted son, a nice guy who was good with his hands and loved his dogs, an able worker who lacked ambition.
I realized that Mrs. Cabot was waiting for me to comment. “I’ll plan on getting started on Monday,” I said.
“About your fee ... what would be reasonable, do you think?”
“The identification of items is easy. The verification is tough. Assessing value is time-consuming and detail oriented, and requires a lot of judgment. Finding missing items, if there are any, might be impossible.”
She nodded, and paused. “How’s twenty-five thousand dollars as a retainer?”
I swallowed. That was more than my company grossed in a month during most of the year. “That will get us started,” I said. “And the final fee? How should we set it?”
“You’ll know how hard you worked, and what was involved. At the end, you’ll bill me, and I’ll pay it.”
“I’ll be fair,” I assured her.
“I know you will. Remember,” she said, smiling again, “I checked you out.”
While she wrote a check, I printed out my standard letter of agreement. She read it carefully and signed it without comment. She also gave me a key to the Grant house and a note authorizing me and my staff to enter at will.
We stood just outside the front door in the parking lot. The sun was steady now, and bright. I noticed two dozen or so cars, a good omen since it was barely ten and both the preview and the tag sale had just opened.
“I’ll call you Monday evening. Is that all right?” I asked.
“Yes, thank you. I won’t be leaving until Tuesday.”
“And then you’ll be back in Boston?”
“Chestnut Hill, yes,” she answered, naming an affluent suburb just west of the city.
A black Lincoln pulled up, and a small Asian man got out, leaving the engine running. He nodded at me and opened the back door for her.
“Does your daughter live in Boston, too?”
“No,” she said. “New York. Why?”
“Just curious. One more thing,” I said, changing the subject. “I was just thinking that I might stop by the house tomorrow, if it’s all right.”
“I don’t know. You’ll need to check with the police.”
“May I call them directly?”
“Yes, certainly. In this endeavor, you’re my representative.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Cabot. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.”
“What’s your room number at the Sheraton?”
“Room three-nineteen.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
She turned to step into the car, then paused. As she swung her feet inside, I noticed that they were average sized, and at a guess, her shoes were about a seven.
“How long do you think it will take you?” she asked.
I wondered which task she was referring to—generating an independent inventory, verifying authenticity, assessing value, or finding the missing paintings.
“
If
I can find everything, and
if
it’s all as described, no more than a couple of days for the inventory itself. For the verification, a week to ten days. For the appraisal, another two to three weeks.” I shrugged and made a Murphy’s Law joking grimace. “
If
this,
if
that.
If
it rained in the Sahara, it wouldn’t be a desert. You know how that goes.”
“Of course. I understand. Obviously time is of the essence. I know you’ll work as quickly as you can.”
I nodded. “Realistically, I expect it will take a month to six weeks, soup to nuts. I’ll do my best to speed the process along.” Wes had told me that the police had made an inventory. I wondered if she was aware of it. “One thing that might save time,” I added, pleased at my boldness, “is if we can work off an existing list. For instance, do you know if the police made an inventory?”
“Ask Chief Alverez. As I said, in this matter, you’re my representative.”
She reached out her hand and we shook. Her entire attitude conveyed something more than the confirmation of a business deal with a new partner. There was that, but there was also a melancholy resignation, as if she was proceeding along the best path she’d found, but that while it might be the best, it was none too good. I had the sudden realization that, to her, anything I discovered was likely to be bad news. If I found the paintings, Andi would be furious. If I didn’t, Andi would go crazy, perhaps accusing me or others of stealing them. An ugly scene was almost guaranteed, regardless of the outcome.
I stood for a moment and watched as the car drove away. Walking inside, I wondered if Mrs. Cabot had already planned how she’d handle Andi’s explosion when it came.
“Good news?” Gretchen asked when I stepped inside.
I grinned. “Well, we didn’t get the estate sale, but we get to appraise everything.”
“Yowzi! That’s great!”
“And it’s interesting work, too. Sasha’s going to love it.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s a tribute to us all.” I waved it away. “Tell me both the preview and tag sale are open.”
“Yup. On time, and looking good.”
“Great. I’m going to the tag sale. Would you go ask Tom if he’d like a cup of coffee?”
“Okay,” she said, whining, stretching out the last syllable for effect. “Only for you.”
“He’s not that bad,” I argued.
“Yes, he is,” she responded, laughing. “He’s a jerk! But he’s our jerk, right?”
“He’s talented,” I said, wanting to quash her open expression of dislike and remind her of his value. I shrugged. “I don’t care about his personality. He does a great job for us.”
“I know, I know. I wouldn’t say anything to anyone else, even joking. For your ears only.”
Not for the first time, I was struck by her loyalty. “Okay, then,” I said with a smile, and added in a whisper, “Just between us, he’s a huge jerk.”
She laughed again, and I smiled back, grateful that her breezy, sunny spirit lightened my load.
I headed to the tag sale to make sure Eric was okay. He served as on-site manager, and that was a lot of responsibility for a relatively young man. I trusted him, but thought it made sense to keep in fairly constant touch.
My father always encouraged giving responsibility to young people. When I’d got the job at Frisco’s and expressed wonder that they’d entrust both valuable antiques and clients to me, an untested and unknown twenty-one-year-old, he’d remarked that we, as a nation, entrusted our security to eighteen-year-olds with guns, and that that strategy had worked out pretty well for us so far.
As I pushed open the door from the warehouse into the tag-sale section, the first thing I saw and heard was Martha Troudeaux making herself obnoxious.
“But it’s mislabeled,” she said, her voice shrill.
“Hi Martha,” I said calmly, approaching with a smile.
“Ah, Josie. I’m glad you’re here. There’s a major problem with your pricing.”
“Really? I’m surprised. We try so hard to get it right. What’s the problem?”
“This stool. It’s not from the Empire! Why is it priced as if it were?” She sneered, her self-righteous tone of outrage making me long to slap her face.
I looked at the small bamboo stool. The tag, tied onto a leg, stated that it was a reproduction. The price was twelve dollars. If it were genuine, dating from around 1890, a stool of this size and quality would fetch more than ten times twelve dollars. Rude and ignorant. What Barney saw in her mystified me. It occurred to me that maybe she was neither rude nor ignorant; maybe she was trying to create a scene, to make me look bad.