“No,” I answered.
“Toolshed? Anything else?”
I shook my head. I accompanied them outside and watched as they walked the grounds. Back inside, they surveyed the empty basement, poked their heads into the tiny attic, and then they were done.
They dropped me at the warehouse side entrance. I saw Eric talking to Paula, and the other two temps were setting up Plexiglas display shelving for the dolls and dollhouse section. Circling the fencing, I entered through the front door.
“Are the police still here?” I asked Gretchen.
“Yes,” she said, her contempt apparent.
“They’re just doing their jobs,” I remarked, and shrugged.
“I don’t care. I just hate it.”
Funny, I thought, since I was the chief suspect, and it was my property they were searching, that I was able to remain more philosophical about the process than Gretchen. On some level, she had no vested interest in the outcome. I wondered if her concern was personal, based on affection, because she liked me, or practical, based on the rational fear that if I were arrested, she’d be out of a job. Or maybe there was a simpler explanation: since Max had alerted me to the likelihood of a search, I’d had time to get used to the idea.
She handed me a note. Someone named Dana Cabot and her daughter, Miranda, were at the Sheraton in Portsmouth awaiting my return call. Gretchen had written the phone number and their room number.
“Who are they?” I asked.
She looked over her shoulder. We were alone. Still, she lowered her voice. “Mr. Grant’s daughter and granddaughter.”
“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. “What do they want?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Cabot just said she wanted to talk to you. She said it was urgent.”
I stared at the paper, incredulous. Mr. Grant’s lawyer, Epps, had told her I was a shark. What, I wondered, with a shiver of anxiety,
CHAPTER NINE
Do me a favor, would you?” I handed Gretchen the note. “Call them now and ask if I can call them after the preview-about nine-thirty tonight. Okay?” Gretchen nodded and took the paper.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Nope. Sasha said everything’s AOK at the preview.”
I nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll be around.” I went into the warehouse and paused. Heading toward a rustling noise, I found Alverez standing with a uniformed officer. Following the instructions Max gave me on the phone, I kept away from them as they worked. Alverez selected an item from the shelf and read the numbers above the bar code aloud as the other man compared them to what was printed on the inventory.
I felt pulsating anxiety as I watched because even though I knew that I possessed no stolen goods, I was aware that whoever had snuck the Renoir into the crate might have left something else behind as well.
Alverez saw me and said something to the officer, who nodded in response, and turned away, toward the back of the warehouse. Alverez walked toward me.
“How you doing?” he asked as he approached.
“Okay.” I shrugged, and after a pause, added, “It’s pretty much a nightmare.”
He nodded. “We’re making good time. We’ll be gone soon.”
“I didn’t mean that,” I said. “It’s not just the search.”
“I know.”
I looked at him and felt a fresh wave of attraction. It was more than his appearance, although I was drawn to his weathered good looks. For some unknown reason, I felt that I could trust him, that maybe we could be friends.
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Did you check the schedule with Macon Cleaners?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And?”
“And they mopped the area by the crates two days before we found the Renoir, on schedule.”
“So the footprint could have been left anytime during those two days?”
“Right.”
“So, is it a clue?”
“I don’t know.”
I nodded. “Did you look for the wall safe?” I asked.
“Yes. And we’ve examined the bottoms of furniture, fake cushions, hidden holes in the floor, et cetera. Nothing.”
I shook my head, allowing mystification to show. “Have you met Mr. Grant’s daughter?”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just curious,” I said, circumspect in the face of Max’s warning about not volunteering information.
“Yes,” he said, “I have.”
“What’s she like?”
“What are you up to, Josie? Are you going to try and get work on the estate?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Do you think there’s a chance?” Whatever Mrs. Cabot wanted, I doubted it was to offer me work.
“You know that Epps recommended Barney?”
“Yeah. It’d be a long shot, I know.”
“Probably. There is something I can tell you. I don’t know whether it’ll help you get the job or not.”
I looked at him, brushed hair out of my eyes, and smiled. “What’s that?”
“She’s thinking of bringing in a New York firm.”
“Makes sense, actually.”
“Because of the value of the items?”
I nodded. “That, but not really. If the family wants to sell everything outright, they just have to contract with an outfit that’s got access to that kind of cash. What I was thinking about is the uniqueness of some of the pieces. A lot of research will be required to optimize value.”
“Well, good luck with it.”
I smiled again. “Thanks.” After a short pause, I asked, “So what did Mrs. Cabot know about the Renoir?”
He looked at me for several seconds, expressionless, then said, “We’re still investigating.”
“Josie?” Gretchen called from a distance.
“Back here!” I answered, and stepped into the main corridor so she could see me easily.
Gretchen glared at Alverez with icy disdain as she approached, and handed me a note reading “You have an appointment to meet the Cabots in the hotel coffee shop at 9:30.”
“Excuse us, please,” I said to Alverez. “Business beckons.” He nodded and headed toward the other officer. I watched him walk, the confident stride of a man with a purpose. When he was several paces away, I turned to Gretchen.
“Meet them? I thought you were going to set up a phone call,” I asked in a low tone, surprised.
“They said they wanted to discuss Mr. Grant’s estate,” she whispered. “I was sure you’d want to meet them.”
I nodded agreement. “Good job.”
Mr. Grant’s family wanted to see me to discuss his estate? It hardly seemed possible, but maybe I still had a chance of closing the deal. Plus, perhaps I could work in a question or two about the Grant family’s
