form, that he’d given Mr. Grant Troudeaux’s name on the phone when he first called and asked.”
“What?” I exclaimed, shocked.
“He said Mr. Grant was very appreciative for the referral.”
“When was this?”
“According to Epps, it was two weeks ago.”
I did a quick mental calculation. That was just about when Mr. Grant and I began to talk. I felt sick. I closed my eyes and leaned against the desk.
“I can’t believe it,” I murmured. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Why? Wouldn’t it be good business for Mr. Grant to have consulted more than one appraiser?”
“You’re right, of course,” I answered. “I just had no idea, and from the way he acted, it seems so unlikely.” I sat up and opened my eyes, startled by a thought. “Wait!” I said. “That means I’m not the only suspect.”
“Except that you were at Grant’s the morning he was killed. And Epps said that he was certain that Barney had pretty much locked in the deal.”
“How can he be so sure?” I asked, sounding calmer than I felt.
“Well,” Max said, and hesitated for a moment. “Troudeaux told Epps how excited he was about the Renoir, and said that Mr. Grant had agreed to sell it to him privately.”
“The Renoir?”
“I have the title here somewhere…” I heard the rustle of papers being shifted. “Here it is. It’s called Three Girls and a Cat. Epps explained that Troudeaux wanted to buy it for his wife for her birthday.”
The world seemed to reel, and I held on to the desk. Gretchen finished her call, and I heard her get up and open a file drawer. I forced myself to ignore her presence and focus instead on Max.
“Max,” I said.
“What?”
“Mr. Grant didn’t have a Renoir.”
After a long pause, Max said, “Maybe he’d already sold it to Troudeaux.”
“Or maybe Barney’s lying.”
“Maybe,” Max acknowledged.
“Oh, jeez,” I said, startled by a new thought. “I think I might have the answer.”
“What?”
“If there was a Renoir it had to have been hidden somewhere because I never saw it.”
“Okay, that makes sense.”
“So, what we need to do is find the hiding place.”
“Maybe he had a safe,” Max suggested.
“Not a conventional one. I would have spotted it.”
“We could explain our thinking to Alverez and ask him to search the house.”
“We don’t need to,” I said confidently. “I know how to find out.”
“How?”
“The video. Don’t you remember, Max? I videotaped every inch of that place!”
CHAPTER FOUR
As I hung up the phone, Eric came into the office, grime streaked on his face and T-shirt, looking tired clear through.
Forcing a smile, I said in as light a tone as I could muster, “Man, if I didn’t know better, I’d guess you’ve been working.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, grinning, “just a little. Anything else right now?”
“Are all of the lots in place and approved by Sasha?”
“Yup. I let the temp guys go.”
I nodded. “Good job.” Turning to my assistant, I asked, “Gretchen? Anything for Eric?”
She shook her head. “No. We’re set, I think.”
“You heard the woman. You’re free to go.”
Eric left with a wave, saying he’d be in by eight the next morning. I watched from the window as he made his way across the parking lot to his old truck and signaled his turn from the lot even though there was no one behind him or on the road in either direction. I smiled. A man who follows rules, even in private. I bet he was heading home to Dover, a small town about twelve miles northwest of the warehouse. I’d driven past his house once, an old Victorian in depressing disrepair. He lived there with his widowed mother and two much-loved dogs, a black Lab named Jet and a German shorthaired pointer named Ruby. I spoke to his mom once when she’d called to remind him to pick up some potatoes on his way home. She’d sounded uninterested in speaking to her son’s boss, irritable, and tired.
I picked up the catalogue pages Gretchen had set aside for me. “You should leave soon, too,” I told her. “Tomorrow’s going to be a killer day.”
“In a little while,” she said. “I want to finish updating the roster for the Wilson preview and I have some calls to return about tag-sale stuff.”
“Okay. I’ll be in my office,” I said, and left her transferring names from her handwritten notes onto a spreadsheet.
Before going to my office, I crossed the span to the auction-site corner, shivering a bit as I made my way across the cold concrete floor. It was always dim inside the huge space, even with fluorescent overhead lighting, and somehow the darkness made it seem colder than it really was. Eerie shadows shifted as I walked. I was glad to reach the smaller, more homey-looking zone, and I flipped the light switches illuminating hanging chandeliers and wall sconces. Between the soft, incandescent lighting and the thick burgundy carpet, the smaller space was a world apart from the warehouse proper, more welcoming than utilitarian. Plus, it felt warmer.
I walked the aisles looking carefully at each roped area. The lot numbers were in place. All items were positioned well, dust free, and labeled with small typed cards. Scanning the center area, I noted that Eric had added rows of chairs and lined them up properly. A sign reading Prescott’s hung from the podium. Skirted registration tables stood near the side door through which the registered bidders would pass tomorrow. I felt pride and accomplishment as I stood alone near the stage. We were ready. I turned off the lights as I left and headed for the spiral stairs that led to my office.
I had a television/VCR combo set up in a bamboo armoire in a corner, and looking at it made me want to skip proofing Sasha’s typed catalogue pages. I was eager to get to the Grant tape, but duty called. With a sigh, I forced myself to read carefully and stay alert for typos, inconsistent formatting, and information gaps.
Just before six, as I finished proofing the catalogue, Sasha poked her head into my office, and said, “Gretchen asked me to tell you that she left for the day.”
“Okay.”
“How are you doing?” she asked.
I felt an unaccountable urge to confide in her. I had no one to talk to and it would be a relief to bounce ideas off someone. With my dad gone, and my friends in New York a world away, I felt alone. Since arriving in New Hampshire, I’d focused on building my business. Fleetingly, I wondered what it would be like to be married, to have an ally waiting at home, eager to share confidences.
Sasha was brilliant, with the instincts of a collector. Confiding in her might be foolhardy, though. Without doubt, she was smart and educated, but she was also a scared mouse of a woman, eager for approval, yet continually braced for censure. Only when discussing art or related subjects was she confident and well-spoken. Otherwise, her anxiety was apparent in everything she did, from the way she twirled her limp brown shoulder- length hair to her inability to meet people’s eyes. I couldn’t risk trusting her. Challenged by a stronger being, she’d probably fold, trading my confidences for goodwill.
Pushing aside my lonely need, I answered, “Thanks for asking. Everything’s fine.”
Better to lie than reveal a vulnerability. I wondered what my father would think about that decision.
She gestured toward the catalogue pages. “How does it look?” she asked.
