background.
When I reached the auction preview site, Barney Troudeaux was standing in front of a pair of George II mahogany drop-leaf tables with cabriole legs and ball-and-claw feet, his hands latched behind his back, looking like a military man at rest. He was big and broad, about fifty, with easy manners and a quick smile. Yet his smile didn’t always seem to reach his eyes, and his kindness sometimes seemed calculated, not warm. I forced a grin as I approached him, knowing that the appearance of unconcern was an important business tool. My father always said that the more difficult the negotiation, the more important it was never to let them see you sweat.
“Barney,” I said. “I’m glad you were able to get here.”
“Hi, Josie,” he said, offering his hand. “I wouldn’t have missed it. You’ve done a wonderful job with the display.”
“Thanks.”
“You date these tables from when, 1750?”
“Just about. Probably 1745.”
He nodded. “They’re beauties.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you expect they’ll go for?”
I smiled. “A lot, I hope.”
He smiled appreciatively, then remarked, “Terrible situation about Mr. Grant, isn’t it?”
“Awful,” I agreed.
“I understand you’ve been talking to the police,” he said compassionately.
“Yeah,” I acknowledged, on guard.
Over the years, I’d found interacting with Barney consistently confusing, and this time, trying to understand his relationship with Mr. Grant, and his interest in me, was proving to be no exception. He was always charming, apparently supportive, and seemingly sincere. Yet sometimes there seemed to be a disconnect between what he said and what he did. I worked at resisting the lure of his gentle and pleasing personality.
“How was it?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I couldn’t tell them much. How about you?”
“How about me, what?”
“Haven’t you met with the police about Mr. Grant?”
“Oh, that. Yes, briefly.” He shook his head. “It’s just so sad.”
“What were you doing for him?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“Mr. Grant? We were discussing estate planning.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to sound both dumb and naive. “What kind?”
“Not clear. We hadn’t gotten far in our conversation. His lawyer, Britt Epps, mentioned that Grant wanted to sell a couple of things. Do you know Britt?”
“We’ve met.”
“Great guy.”
“Do you know what Mr. Grant wanted to sell?”
“Not for sure. Martha talked to him more than me.”
“Mr. Grant? Or Epps?”
“Mr. Grant. She just had a fondness for that old man. They enjoyed a great rapport.” He shook his head and looked sad.
The thought of Mr. Grant being sweet to Martha Troudeaux made me crazy with jealousy. My fingers curled like claws. I silently chastised myself, repeating that it was completely stupid to feel jealous about a dead man’s business dealings with a rival, no matter how much I disliked her. I looked at Barney as he smiled kindly at me. I wished I had the gift of mind-reading. What, I wondered, did he really want? Was he trying to pick my brain? About what?
Another mystery was what he saw in Martha. Their relationship bewildered me. How could Barney stand her? She was abrasive, aggressive, and greedy. The only answer I’d ever come up with was that they, as a team, had her play that role on purpose. Her job was to take the heat for him. Whenever a situation got tricky, like competing for business, or vying for the best booth position at a major antiques fair, Barney became unavailable, and I’d been forced to deal with Martha. Barney maintained his friendly, open manner, and she was the bad guy, his bastard, my father would have said. Every leader has a bastard, he’d told me. In any negotiation, figure out who’s in that role right away, greet them with a smile and a hearty handshake, and watch your back.
I realized that Barney was waiting for a response about Martha’s and Mr. Grant’s rapport. “He sure was sweet,” I said finally.
“Yes. Horrific how he died.”
I shook my head. “Terrible, just terrible.” I sighed, pretending to be upset, so Barney wouldn’t think my question odd. “When did you see him last?”
“Not for a few days before he died.”
“And Martha?”
“The same. How about you? I hear you saw him the morning he died.”
Who’d spread that diabolical rumor? “No. I had an appointment, but I guess he was already dead by the time I got there.” I shivered.
“Yeah.”
We stood without speaking for a moment. I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I asked, in as light a tone as I could muster, “So, are you thinking of bidding on the tables?”
He smiled and winked. “I might just.”
I knew, and he knew I knew, that it was extremely unlikely he’d bid on anything. Our research, unlike Martha’s, was accurate and complete, so he couldn’t expect bargains, and he knew it.
He walked down the aisle and paused at a white jade marriage bowl, dating from the mid-1700s.
“This is a special piece,” he said.
“Best of show,” I agreed.
He leaned over to better examine the underside. All of it was visible because it was positioned at an angle in a raised Plexiglas display case. Intricately carved with chrysanthemums, asters, and bamboo, it was a nearly flawless example of craftsmanship from the reign of Emperor Qianlong.
If the truth be known, I didn’t expect much from the drop-leaf tables, maybe $750 each, if I got lucky. But the bowl was unique and might fetch as much as $50,000. And the Wilson executor had entrusted it to me. I felt a rush of pride.
At nine that night, Sasha and I said good-bye to the last preview customers, and locked the doors. The police had finished their search, and I’d felt vindicated when Alverez informed me that they were taking nothing away from my business, my home, or my car. Max had agreed, when I told him, that it was good news.
Sasha sank into a chair near the registration table and kicked off her loafers, wiggling her toes. She rubbed her eyes and sighed from exhaustion. She’d been at work for more than twelve hours.
I looked at her loafers. They looked to be about the right size. “Do you wear size nine shoes?” I asked.
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Just curious,” I said.
She shrugged. “It depends on the shoe. Eight and a half or nine, usually.”
“Narrow?”
“Yes.”
Her feet might be the right size, but if those footprints were hers, it had to be that she’d walked by in all innocence. No way could I believe that Sasha was involved in a crime. Sasha was a woman of scholarly ambition and, seemingly, little passion. She didn’t seem to care about money, politics, religion, or even people. All she
