altogether to simply sit back and wait for Alverez to make his judgment about my guilt or innocence. Maybe Max was right and it wasn’t time to act, but still, I was getting prepared for the worst. I’d be ready to act if I needed to do so. All my adult life, I’d found that the only reliable antidote to feelings of powerlessness was action.
We drove in silence for several minutes. As we passed the Grant house, shielded from sight by dense boxwood hedges, I said, “I wonder who gets the contract now.”
“The decision will be made, presumably, by whoever inherits. Whether to sell at all, and if so, to whom.”
“How can we find out who that is?” I asked Max.
“That’s one question we can follow up on right away. I’ll ask Epps.”
I lifted and lowered my shoulders a few times, trying to relax my muscles a bit. It had been as if I’d been locked in a cold, dark, windowless room, and now I felt a surge of relief, as if the door had only been latched after all, and outside it was sunny and warm. Max and I, we had a plan. It was the first bit of hope I’d felt since Alverez had walked into my warehouse two days earlier, and it felt damn good.
But I remained wary. While it felt damn good to have a plan of action, I had no illusions.
I got back to the warehouse just before two. Gretchen was talking on the phone with the receiver wedged between her shoulder and ear, her head tilted, and her red hair spilling over the unit, falling nearly to her waist. She looked uncomfortable, but she sounded as relaxed and pleasant as ever. I stood and waited while she finished.
“Yes, the preview is still on,” she said. “No, absolutely no change. Uh-huh. Right. Registered bidders only. Right. Yes, sir. The auction is on Saturday, starting at two.”
Listening to Gretchen’s cheery words reminded me of the first time I met her. It was a Thursday, the day after I’d closed on the warehouse. When I drove up at eight in the morning, she was waiting at my front door wearing a navy blue suit, white blouse, and heels, clutching a Seacoast Star opened to the classifieds with my ad circled in pink highlighter. Observing her as I walked from my car and noting her outfit, I’d hoped she was a prospective client. She gave me a dazzling smile, and said, “Hi, are you Josie Prescott? I’m here for the job. I wanted to be first. Am I first?”
I hired her forty-five minutes later, an oddly impulsive act for a systematic, research-oriented sort like me. Especially since she was reticent to the point of mysterious about her background. She volunteered that she moved to Portsmouth from a small town upstate, but when I asked which one, she rolled her eyes, and said, “Oh please, I escaped, let’s leave it at that.” And gave me another blinding smile.
Awed at her dictation and typing skills as much as her light-hearted, engaging charm, and her can-do attitude toward customer service, I speculated on whether she was too good to be true. I told her that I would certainly want to invite her back for a second interview while thinking that I needed to check her references. “I’ll look forward to seeing you next week,” I started to say.
She stopped me cold when her smile faded away. Her eyes became mournful, and she reached across the desk and touched my arm. “Hire me. I’ll help your company grow. Really. I will. I’m honest and hardworking. You won’t be sorry. Offer me the job now. Please.”
“Why? What’s your hurry?”
“I’ve just moved. I need a job and this is the one I want.”
I paused, thinking. She seemed perfect. “Why did you move, Gretchen? Is there something I should know?” I asked quietly, watching her for any sign of deception.
She shook her head. “No, nothing. It’s just that I need a fresh start.”
“Why here? I’m an antique appraiser. Not the best place for a fresh start.”
“Why not? Why isn’t it a good place for a fresh start? You’re starting a new business. It’s a perfect place for a fresh start.”
Warning myself that I’d probably regret it, I offered her the job and she accepted it. Two years later, I knew that hiring her was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. And I still didn’t know where she’d lived before she’d arrived on my doorstep.
She hung up the phone.
I said, “Hey, kiddo. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. How about you? Are you okay?” she asked me.
“A little the worse for wear, but okay. How are things here?”
Gretchen smiled a little. “Busy. In a good way. Sasha’s done with the catalogue and wants you to review it so we can get it copied and bound.” She reached to a corner of her desk and handed me a thick document held together with a black clamp. “We have more than a hundred people registered for the preview and the phone keeps ringing with inquiries.”
“More than a hundred?” I asked, slightly awed. “That’s almost double the number we had last time. Wow. The Wilson stuff is good, but it’s not that good.”
Gretchen nodded and looked away. “I think there may be a curiosity factor at work here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, several reporters are among the registered bidders. I’m guessing it’s about the, you know, the Grant situation.”
I froze for a moment, then brushed hair out of my eyes. I nodded. “Yeah, probably that’s it. Have any reporters called to talk to you?”
“Yes. I keep saying ‘No comment,’ and eventually they go away.”
“Good,” I responded. “Keep it up.” After a pause I added, “Thanks, Gretchen.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Change of subject. We lost two regular part-timers for Saturday. The tag sale. Mae and Gary.”
“Why?”
“The flu.”
“Oh, boy. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”
“I’ve already called Peter at Temp Pros.”
“Thanks, Gretchen. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing,” she said. “So. What’s the latest news?”
“Well,” I said, trying for light and frothy, “let me put it this way… it’s pretty clear that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She nodded with a sympathetic grimace, but before she could comment, the phone rang.
“Where are Eric and Sasha now?” I asked as she reached for the unit.
“Helping with the auction setup. Along with the temp guys. They’ve been at it since about noon.”
“Good. I’ll go there now. Anything else I should know?”
She shook her head as she picked up the phone and answered with her usual upbeat “Prescott’s. May I help you?”
It was another inquiry about attending the auction. Under normal circumstances, I’d be thrilled at such a stellar response. But the circumstances were anything but normal. Instead of pride and pleasure, I felt edgy discomfort. Some of the people coming to the auction preview tomorrow would be there not to buy but to judge me, and maybe even to intrude. I could picture ambitious young television reporters, with their earnest crews wielding spotlights, pushing microphones in my face. It made me feel anxious, vulnerable, and cranky.
I walked across my warehouse to an area on the left, passing the sliding dividers that, with a push of a button, would segregate the far corner from the rest of the space. When the partitions were in place, it became an elegant, spacious room, not a concrete cavern. The design and layout were my own, and I thought it was a clever way to transform an oversized industrial space into an attractive and utilitarian venue on an as-needed basis. Clever, but expensive.
I stepped onto the maroon industrial carpeting that covered the concrete floor and served to subdue the sounds that echoed through the rest of the warehouse. I made my way to the low platform at the front, skirted in black polyester. A podium faced the seating area. The outside concrete walls, to my right and ahead of me, were whitewashed. Acres of burgundy brocade hung from big black wrought-iron rings dangling from two-inch pipes I’d
