Consigned to Death

“Hello,” she said quietly, pushing herself upright. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me. Not at all. You met Gretchen?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Cabot said with a nod and half smile.

“Absolutely,” Gretchen responded. Turning to Mrs. Cabot, she asked, “Would you reconsider about coffee?”

“No, thank you, though.”

“Are you sure?” I asked Mrs. Cabot.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

“What can I do for you?”

She cleared her throat. “I was hoping… do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Sure.” Her look of relief piqued my curiosity.

As I was about to invite her to sit down again, her eyes flitted toward Gretchen, and I read the unspoken request. “Come up to my office. We’ll be more comfortable up there. It’s private.”

“Thank you.”

I gestured that Mrs. Cabot should walk ahead. “Gretchen,” I said, “will you go find Eric at the tag sale and make certain he’s okay?”

“You bet,” she answered.

My priorities had shifted in an instant. At that moment, nothing was more important to me than talking to Mrs. Cabot.

Mrs. Cabot, wearing a royal blue suit, sat on a bright yellow love seat. I took a chair across from her and waited for her to speak.

“It’s hard for me to be here,” she said softly.

“I can see that you’re upset,” I said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea? Or some water? Something?”

She shook her head and cleared her throat. “I’m here to ask you to help me. I have no reason to think you will, and I’ll certainly understand if you say no. But I thought… it occurred to me…” She glanced down and twirled her gold wedding band. A widow who still wore her wedding ring. A sign, I assumed, of a happy marriage.

“Please…” she continued, “I hope that you… I mean I am asking that you… I’m here because I don’t know whom else to ask.” She finished in a rush, as if she wanted to get the words out before she changed her mind.

“Help you do what?” I asked, wary.

“First, I must tell you that I’m not going to offer you the sale of my father’s estate. I’ve decided to bring in a New York firm, Dobson’s.”

I felt a stab of such great disappointment that I had to look away. I took a deep breath, my father’s warning against letting people see my emotional reactions to business frustrations resonating in my mind, stiffening my spine, and enabling me, after a moment, to look back and smile.

“I understand. There’s a lot of research to be done. Dobson’s is top drawer.”

She nodded. “Your role will be key. And your fee will be more than fair.”

I stared at her for a moment. “My fee for what?”

“For helping me.”

“Helping you do what?” I repeated, uncertain of my ground. On the face of it, it sounded as if Mrs. Cabot was trying to bribe me. And I figured that the longer she took to get to the point, the more troubling her proposal would be.

“It’s important that you understand why I chose you. I understand you moved from New York not long ago. I checked you out. You have an excellent reputation.”

“Thank you,” I said. Definitely a bribe, I thought. I couldn’t imagine what she wanted me to do, nor could I think of anything I possessed that she might want to buy.

“I’m paying not just for your knowledge but for your integrity. What you did to help the police during that price-fixing trial, you know, coming forward and testifying, well, I was impressed.”

Maybe what she said was true, and she wasn’t offering a bribe after all. If she was speaking the truth, and not setting me up somehow, it would be a huge relief. I found myself wanting to believe her and to smile. I was surprised at how pleased I felt that she knew about my past. It occurred to me that perhaps I’d discovered a reasonable litmus test of trust-be aware of my involvernent in the Frisco price-fixing scandal and think well of me because of it. Still, I didn’t know how to respond, so I stayed quiet.

After a long pause, she continued, “Chief Alverez has told me that he expects the technicians to be done by tomorrow.”

“Which technicians?”

“The ones investigating my father’s cause of death. And the scientists who’ve been working at the crime scene.”

“So they can release the body?”

“Yes.”

“And you can hold the funeral.”

“That’s right. It will be on Monday.”

I shook my head a little, the way people do to show empathy.

“Chief Alverez said the scientists have finished investigating the murder scene.”

“So that you can enter the house?”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Everyone is very impatient.”

I paused for a moment, thinking what to say. “Are you referring to your daughter?”

She nodded, a small movement, then half smiled. “I hate being hurried. Sometimes my daughter thinks I’m indecisive, but it’s not that.”

I nodded, understanding, I thought, what she was trying to express. “You just like to think things through before you act.”

“How nice of you to put it that way,” she said with more of a smile. “It’s true, though. I’m methodical, not impulsive. I never have been.”

I wondered about her sudden departure forty years ago. Wasn’t that an impulsive act? Maybe not. Maybe she’d planned to leave all along, and the shattering scene Wes had described was coincidental. I wanted to ask her about it, but the timing was wrong.

“Well, no matter,” she said, refocusing her attention. “I need to tell you about my mother’s lists.”

I waited for her to continue.

“I don’t know if my father showed you her ledgers? The inventories?”

“No, he didn’t.”

She nodded. “He showed them to Mr. Troudeaux.”

I shrugged.

“That isn’t a compliment to him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, how could you.” She sighed and shifted her position slightly. “I knew the ledgers existed. All my life, I knew. I’d see my mother update them every evening.” She shook her head. “She tracked everything. It was a kind of obsession with her.” She opened her purse and extracted a sheaf of papers, stapled and folded in thirds. “These pages were copied from the ledger that detailed household goods. As you’ll see, most of what’s listed are antiques.”

She handed the document to me. I reached across and accepted the pages. Flipping through, I saw a list of furniture, artwork, and decorative items detailed in a fine up-and-down hand. The first entry was dated April 3, 1943; the last on the 15^th of March, a year ago.

I looked up. “What do you want me to do?” I asked quietly.

“Confirm that everything is there, and as described.”

“In other words, you want a detailed appraisal?”

“Yes. What I want you to do is make certain that everything my mother listed is there, intact, and genuine-that her list was accurate and is complete. And I want to know how much you think I can expect to receive when the