and-mouse, I got mad, almost like a switch had been thrown. I stood still and stayed silent, eyeing him, waiting for information.
“Answer my question, please,” he said quietly after a pause, his calm contrasting with my agitation. “Where were you this morning?”
Words my father used to speak heading into a difficult business meeting came to mind: the best defense is a good offense. “Not another word will I say,” I stated, “until you answer my question about what’s going on.”
Alverez took a step closer to me. He was probably a foot taller than I was, which made him six one or better, and I suspected that he was using his height and bulk to try to intimidate me. It was working. I felt my palms become moist. I was shaking, but not enough, I hoped, for him to notice.
“Nathaniel Grant was murdered this morning,” Alverez said.
I stared at him. “Mr. Grant was murdered?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, watching me.
Tears came to my eyes. I swallowed and brushed them away. “Oh, my God! Poor Mr. Grant!” I exclaimed. “What happened?”
“I’m hoping you can help me sort that out.”
I turned away, tears spilling down my cheeks. I couldn’t speak.
“Seems like you knew him pretty well,” Alverez said.
I shook my head, swallowed again, and used the back of my hand to dry my cheeks. I’d always felt things deeply, but I used to be good at controlling my emotional displays. I could hear my father saying, Feel all you want, Josie, but show nothing. In business, the more you show, the more you lose.
When I’d worked at Frisco’s, the big auction house in New York City, before I’d been the prosecutor’s star witness at my boss’s price-fixing trial, I’d shown nothing. It wasn’t the trial that got to me, although it was grueling; it was my co-workers’ reaction to my involvement that stunned me speechless. Once my participation was known, colleagues whom I’d previously trusted wouldn’t give me the time of day. I was shunned, and within weeks, I was forced out of the company. And then, a month later, my father died, and it was as if the world tilted, leaving me utterly off balance.
I was closer to being on even footing now, but I wasn’t there yet. To say that I found it harder to contain my feelings didn’t even begin to describe my lack of emotional control. It was as if my nerve endings were a little nearer to the surface.
I shook my head a bit to chase the memory away. I took a deep breath and looked up at Alverez, trying for a smile. “I’m being stupid, I know,” I said. “I didn’t know Mr. Grant, not really. I only met him a couple of weeks ago. And look at me.” I swept away more tears. “It’s just such a shock. And he was such a sweetheart.”
“Tell me about him,” Alverez said, leaning against the concrete wall.
I paused, thinking of what to say. “He looked like Santa Claus, except that he was short and sort of shriveled. But he had the beard and the belly and he was jolly as all get out.”
“How did you come to meet him?”
“He wanted to sell a lot of furniture and art.”
“Out of the blue?”
I swallowed again, fighting back sudden emotion. “Not really. His wife died, you know, about three months ago. The house is huge. Well, I suppose you know that. It was too much for him, I guess.”
“So,” Alverez said softly, “where were you this morning?”
“Is that when… I mean… when was he killed?”
“The medical examiner is still working on it.”
I nodded. “I just can’t believe it. Mr. Grant! I’m sorry… Okay… Let me think.” I sighed and paused. “Okay. I got in around eight and was here working,” I said, gesturing with a sweep of my hand that I meant inside the warehouse, “until around eleven-ten or eleven-fifteen. Then I drove out to Mr. Grant’s house. I got there around eleven-thirty. We had an appointment, but he wasn’t there.”
“How do you know he wasn’t there?”
“I knocked and rang the bell. I went around back and knocked on the kitchen door. I even peeked in windows, but I didn’t see anything.”
“What did you do then?”
“I thought Mr. Grant had mistaken the day. He’s pretty old.”
Alverez nodded. “So then what?”
I shrugged. “I sat in my car awhile. At quarter to twelve I rang the bell again, in case he hadn’t heard it the first time. Then I left a message on his answering machine and came back here.” I wiped away another tear. “I was planning on calling him again later today because I wasn’t sure he knew how to use his answering machine.” I smiled a little. “He was such a nice man. What happened?”
“We don’t know yet. Do you?”
“Me? I don’t know anything.”
“Sure you do. You knew him and you were there this morning. What would be best is if you came with me to the station.”
“Why?” I asked, startled, and immediately wary.
“To answer some more questions.”
“I can’t. I have too much work.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. It’s important. And I could really use your help.”
I looked at him, wondering what I should do. The Wilson estate needed careful sorting, and there were only two days until the auction preview. Sasha, an art-historian-turned-appraiser who worked for me, could handle that, I supposed. I’d remind Eric to be diligent. Or maybe not. I’d made my point earlier. Gretchen would hold the fort as she always did.
“I guess,” I said. “I’d better call my lawyer.”
“Why don’t you have him meet you at the station house,” he suggested.
“I’ll let him decide.”
“Who’s your lawyer?”
I worked with lawyers in my business all the time, but I’d never needed one personally before. I swallowed, trying to focus. Who should I call?
Max Bixby came to mind. He was one of the first people I’d met when I’d moved to Portsmouth. I remembered his friendly welcome at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast, and he’d been pleasant and accessible ever since. “I’m going to call Max Bixby,” I said.
“He’s a good man.”
I turned away, heading for the office to talk to Gretchen. Before I reached the door, I stopped and turned back to him. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were dark and knowing.
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure. Whether I answer, well, that depends.”
I nodded. Tears came again, unexpected and unwanted. I turned away and wiped them away.
“How was he killed?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head. “That’s under investigation.”
I shut my eyes and shook my head. “Was he in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“This morning?”
“Probably.”
I shivered. Murdered and left alone to die in his own home.
After trying his office, I reached Max at home. I could hear a child crying in the background and a woman’s raised voice.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at home,” I said.
“It’s okay, Josie. I’m glad to have an excuse to remove myself from the situation,” he said with a laugh. “What started as a nice family lunch has disintegrated into a temper tantrum.”
