organization whose Web site I was on,
The phone rang, and I was so intent on what I was reading, I nearly missed the call. “Prescott’s,” I said, “May I help you?”
“You run tag sales, right?” a stranger asked, wanting driving directions.
Hanging up the phone, I read on. After the war, in 1957, Helga Brander Mason, married and living in London, had petitioned the Austrian government to locate and return the pillaged works. They’d promised to try, but whether they’d done anything more than register her request was anybody’s guess. Almost fifty years later, her son, Mortimer Mason, had picked up the search. He was listed as the contact for information regarding the seven missing paintings.
Reeling from my discovery, I stared into space, stunned and disbelieving.
“Things are looking great out there!” Gretchen said as she walked into the office. She looked at me and stopped, tilting her head. “Are you all right?”
“What?” I asked, distracted, having trouble switching my attention to her.
“Are you okay? You look, I don’t know, funny.”
“Yeah. I’m okay,” I answered. I bookmarked the URL and closed the browser. “How’s Eric doing?”
“Fine. He says he doesn’t need help.”
I nodded. “Good.”
“Any calls?” Gretchen asked.
“Just one. A woman wanting directions.”
Gretchen sat at her desk, and soon I heard tapping as she typed something. The phone rang and I heard her answer it.
It was inconceivable to me that Mr. Grant had owned a Renoir that had been stolen by the Nazis. Maybe, I thought, the purchase was innocent. Perhaps he hadn’t known the painting’s sordid history. I shook my head in disbelief. Mr. Grant was a sharp businessman, way too savvy to buy a multimillion-dollar painting without first verifying its authenticity. Since he hadn’t mentioned the painting when we’d talked about the sale, it was more likely, I thought, that he’d purchased it knowing full well that it was stolen. Or that he’d stolen it himself during or after the war.
I was beyond speechless. I was in shock.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wiping my hands on one of the small napkins the pizza parlor had included, I thanked Gretchen for ordering the food, and added, “Hand out the rest to anyone who wants it, okay?”
I knew that I needed to pull myself out of what, increasingly, felt like a quagmire, but I was uncertain how to proceed. I considered calling Mortimer Mason, the alleged lawful owner of the Renoir, but I thought better of that idea almost immediately. Since his painting was safe, and I didn’t know what to say to him, or even what questions I should ask, and since I had no clue what I should say in response to whatever he might ask me, I decided to delay making the call. Maybe, instead of calling, I thought with an unexpected thrill of excitement, I’d go to London and knock on his door.
I started toward the tag sale grounds, but stopped as I approached the stacks of crates that were still segregated from the main area of the warehouse by waist-high, crisscrossed lines of yellow police tape. Seeing the tape reminded me that prudence is an important aspect of bravery. Since I didn’t know what was going on, it occurred to me that I ought to keep my research private.
I reentered the office, and blocking the monitor from Gretchen’s watchful eyes, I deleted the Web site URL I’d just added to my “favorite” listing. I also deleted all temporary Internet files for good measure. I hoped that the police wouldn’t impound the computer, since I suspected that an expert could easily track my Internet movements despite my attempts at subterfuge, but it was the best I could do, and I hoped that it would outwit a less experienced spy.
At the tag sale venue, I surveyed the rows of six-foot tables that stretched for just shy of a hundred and fifty feet. Every ten feet, a shorter table jutted out, forming a sea of U-shaped booths.
The weekly tag sales were my bread and butter, and it pleased me to see that the booths were well stocked. Since most items were relatively inexpensive, profitability depended on volume. I’d modified my father’s often- repeated admonition to buy cheap and sell high-I bought cheap and sold just a little higher. Tag sales were close to the bottom of the antiques-business food chain, and it was important to remember that fact when setting prices. About a month ago, I’d witnessed a middle-aged woman showing off a Sandwich glass salt cellar she’d just purchased for $21. She’d whispered to her friend, “I can’t believe the deal I just got! There must have been a mistake in the pricing.” With that one sale, a loyal customer was born.
About halfway down the back row I saw Paula Turner, a regular part-timer, carefully sorting boxes of art prints. Paula, a sophomore at the University of New Hampshire, had worked for me for two years on the tag sales. She was wearing low-cut jeans and a cropped white T-shirt that read There Are No Devils Left in Hell… They’re All in Rwanda. She was a serious young woman, earnest and hardworking. She wore no makeup; her ash blond hair hung straight to her shoulders; and she had surprisingly small feet. No way they were size nine narrow.
“Hey, Paula,” I said as I approached the table where she was working.
“Hey, Josie,” she said.
“How’s it going?”
“Pretty well.”
“Have you seen Eric around?”
“Yeah,” Paula said. She turned toward the parking lot. “There he is,” she said, pointing.
Spotting him standing just outside the wire mesh gate, smoking a cigarette, chatting to Wes Smith, I felt a flutter of anxiety. I was beginning to feel stalked.
“See you, Paula,” I said. I turned and walked at what I hoped appeared to be a casual pace.
“Hey, Eric,” I said as I approached. “Hey, Wes,” I added with a fake smile, “long time no see. Whatcha doing?”
“Eric and I were just getting acquainted,” he said.
“You got a sec, Eric?” I asked.
“Sure.” He stamped out his cigarette and picked up the extinguished butt, as promised. He could smoke on my property, I’d agreed, but only outside, and only if no trace remained.
We walked by two young women I didn’t recognize who were discussing how to position Chinese vases on a table. New temp workers.
“What did Wes want?” I asked without preamble.
He tossed his extinguished butt into a box half filled with trash. “I don’t know. He’d just introduced himself when you got there.”
I nodded. “I can’t tell you not to talk to him, or any reporter, for that matter. Do what you want. But I would ask that if you do talk to them, tell them the truth and tell me what you told them. Okay?”
“Sure. But I don’t want to talk to that guy-or any reporter.”
“Well, don’t, then.”
“It’s hard,” he said, seeming embarrassed. “I’ve seen them work. They keep asking things.”
His question made me realize how young he was, and how inexperienced. I nodded, and said, “Yeah. Persistence is part of a reporter’s job description. Say ‘No comment.’ Just repeat it over and over. Eventually they’ll go away. You don’t owe them cooperation.”
“Okay,” he said. “I guess I can do that.”
