Consigned to Death

seemed to care about was art. That thought gave me pause. She’d care about a Renoir, all right.

“What’s your sense of the preview crowd?” I asked, pushing away the uncomfortable thought.

“There seemed to be a lot of genuine interest,” she said, and yawned. “But there were some people who came just because they were curious, about, you know, the Grant situation.”

“Like who?”

“A woman named Bertie,” Sasha reported. “From the New York Monthly.”

“The New York Monthly? Why would they send a reporter?” I wondered.

“She said they’re doing a piece on scandals in the world of antiques.”

“Oh, jeez. Just what I need. What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. I had to let her in since she was a registered bidder, but I didn’t talk to her. I kept pretending I saw someone gesturing to me.”

I smiled. “That was smart thinking, Sasha.”

“I couldn’t figure out how else to get away from her,” she said, shrugging.

I shook my head sympathetically. “Well, it’s over now. You heading home?”

“Yeah. To a hot bath and bed.”

“Oh, that sounds delicious,” I agreed, my word choice reminding me that I’d had nothing to eat since the pizza hours earlier. “Let’s call it a night.”

We walked together to the front office. As I set the alarm, I watched Sasha drive off in her small car, and I was alone.

Unexpectedly, I began to cry. I felt awash in melancholy and I knew why. Hearing the New York Monthly reporter’s name brought back the dreadful memories. After my boss at Frisco’s arrest, but before his trial began, I’d confided my role as whistle-blower and confidential police informant to a co- worker.

Two hours later, when I stepped out for lunch, Bertie lay in wait, and even though I said nothing, not even “No comment,” she was on a local television station within hours delivering an “exclusive report.” That night, the siege began in earnest. Bertie and a dozen others were my constant companions for the three months of the trial. I never spoke to any of them. Not one word. I kept my head lowered, and never even made eye contact.

I was in the right, yet despite my ethical stance and stubborn refusal to discuss any aspect of the case with reporters, my colleagues treated me with icy disdain. It was as if it were I, and not my boss, who’d done wrong. And because they avoided me, I had no way to counteract their unspoken contempt. It was crippling.

I’d never before been shunned, and I hoped I never would experience anything like it again. No wonder many cultures use it as a punishment for errant behavior; I could see that it would be a potent tool to ensure conformity.

I’d learned a bitter lesson that year. I’d learned that I couldn’t trust anyone but my father. And he was dead.

Standing at the door, Sasha long since gone, I realized that my sadness was aggravated by stress, hunger, and fatigue. And my growing anger helped still the tears. I was plenty tired of feeling sad, and so I greeted the anger with relief. I shrugged, trying to relax my shoulder and neck muscles, with no success.

I wondered what the Cabots wanted with me, and why it was so urgent. A glimmer of hope that the business might not be lost heightened my curiosity. Still, to cover myself, I called Max as the car warmed up, and got him at home. He sounded tired, but, as always, pleasant and interested.

“Max,” I said. “I’m en route to meet Mr. Grant’s daughter and granddaughter. I figured I ought to let you know.”

“Good. I’m glad you called. What are you meeting them for?”

“I’m not sure. They said they wanted to talk to me about the estate.”

There was a long pause before he asked, matter-of-factly, “That’s a surprise, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I acknowledged.

“Where are you meeting them?”

“A coffee shop in the Sheraton.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“Okay. Curious, I guess.”

There was another long pause. “If they ask anything about the murder, don’t answer. Say you don’t know or can’t comment. No matter what.”

“Okay.”

“And call me if you need me, all right?”

“Thanks, Max.”

Max’s palpable concern communicated itself to me. As I drove out of the parking lot, I became fearful that they might blame me for Mr. Grant’s death. Another worry added to the rest.

CHAPTER TEN

I nearly fell asleep driving into Portsmouth. I found myself drifting into a kind of stupor as the taillights in front of me rose and fell, gently undulating with the grade of the road. It was hypnotic. I was hungry, tired, stiff, and worried. When I reached the brightly lit hotel parking lot, I sat for a minute, waiting for a second wind. It didn’t come.

I found the coffee shop, mostly empty at this hour, and stood near the hostess stand, waiting. A large woman with crimped, silver-blue hair approached me.

“I’m supposed to meet the Cabots,” I told her.

“This way, dearie. They’re waiting for you.”

She led me to a table around a corner, past oversized windows and tall palm trees. Two people sat across from each other. One, an attractive woman in her sixties with white wavy hair and an ivory complexion, sipped from a coffee cup. The other, a younger woman of about my age, shook a tall glass of what looked like the dregs of iced tea. I heard the jiggling of the ice as we approached. They sat in stony silence, as if they were strangers.

“Here she is, dearies,” the hostess said as she placed a menu on the table.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

Both women looked at me. I suddenly felt conspicuously underdressed and unkempt. I shouldn’t have come straight from a long day at work. My jeans were dirty and stretched out, my plain-Jane T-shirt was covered by an oversized flannel shirt, and my engineer boots were scuffed.

“I’m Dana Cabot,” the older woman said politely, without warmth. “And my daughter, Andi. Miranda.”

“Hi,” I said.

Mrs. Cabot said, “Please, have a seat.”

The younger woman leaned back and stared at me. She looked and acted angry as she shook her glass, swirling the ice. Switching her attention to the hostess, she said, “I’ll take another.” She took a last, long drink and handed over the glass.

“And for you, dearie?” the hostess asked me.

“Give me a minute,” I answered, sitting down, looking from one to the other. They didn’t look alike. Dana Cabot looked well coiffed, well dressed, and well fed. Her daughter, Andi Cabot, looked sick.

“Have you eaten?” Mrs. Cabot asked.

“No, actually, I haven’t. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to get something.”

“Of course,” she answered.

I looked at the menu and, surreptitiously, at them. Mrs. Cabot looked like an affluent matron who hadn’t had a lot of worry in her life. Andi was too thin, the kind of thin that comes from a chronic, life-threatening disease, or maybe from doing a lot of drugs over a lot of years. Her eyes were clouded, her skin sallow, and she seemed enveloped in a cloud of resentment. Sitting next to her, I wanted to slide my chair a bit farther away lest I catch whatever ailed her.

“I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “And your grandfather. I hadn’t known him for long, but we’d had many