I smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Cabot. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.”
“What’s your room number at the Sheraton?”
“Room three-nineteen.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
She turned to step into the car, then paused. As she swung her feet inside, I noticed that they were average sized, and at a guess, her shoes were about a seven.
“How long do you think it will take you?” she asked.
I wondered which task she was referring to-generating an independent inventory, verifying authenticity, assessing value, or finding the missing paintings.
“
“Of course. I understand. Obviously time is of the essence. I know you’ll work as quickly as you can.”
I nodded. “Realistically, I expect it will take a month to six weeks, soup to nuts. I’ll do my best to speed the process along.” Wes had told me that the police had made an inventory. I wondered if she was aware of it. “One thing that might save time,” I added, pleased at my boldness, “is if we can work off an existing list. For instance, do you know if the police made an inventory?”
“Ask Chief Alverez. As I said, in this matter, you’re my representative.”
She reached out her hand and we shook. Her entire attitude conveyed something more than the confirmation of a business deal with a new partner. There was that, but there was also a melancholy resignation, as if she was proceeding along the best path she’d found, but that while it might be the best, it was none too good. I had the sudden realization that, to her, anything I discovered was likely to be bad news. If I found the paintings, Andi would be furious. If I didn’t, Andi would go crazy, perhaps accusing me or others of stealing them. An ugly scene was almost guaranteed, regardless of the outcome.
I stood for a moment and watched as the car drove away. Walking inside, I wondered if Mrs. Cabot had already planned how she’d handle Andi’s explosion when it came.
“Good news?” Gretchen asked when I stepped inside.
I grinned. “Well, we didn’t get the estate sale, but we get to appraise everything.”
“Yowzi! That’s great!”
“And it’s interesting work, too. Sasha’s going to love it.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s a tribute to us all.” I waved it away. “Tell me both the preview and tag sale are open.”
“Yup. On time, and looking good.”
“Great. I’m going to the tag sale. Would you go ask Tom if he’d like a cup of coffee?”
“Okay,” she said, whining, stretching out the last syllable for effect. “Only for you.”
“He’s not that bad,” I argued.
“Yes, he is,” she responded, laughing. “He’s a jerk! But he’s our jerk, right?”
“He’s talented,” I said, wanting to quash her open expression of dislike and remind her of his value. I shrugged. “I don’t care about his personality. He does a great job for us.”
“I know, I know. I wouldn’t say anything to anyone else, even joking. For your ears only.”
Not for the first time, I was struck by her loyalty. “Okay, then,” I said with a smile, and added in a whisper, “Just between us, he’s a huge jerk.”
She laughed again, and I smiled back, grateful that her breezy, sunny spirit lightened my load.
I headed to the tag sale to make sure Eric was okay. He served as on-site manager, and that was a lot of responsibility for a relatively young man. I trusted him, but thought it made sense to keep in fairly constant touch.
My father always encouraged giving responsibility to young people. When I’d got the job at Frisco’s and expressed wonder that they’d entrust both valuable antiques and clients to me, an untested and unknown twenty- one-year-old, he’d remarked that we, as a nation, entrusted our security to eighteen-year-olds with guns, and that that strategy had worked out pretty well for us so far.
As I pushed open the door from the warehouse into the tag-sale section, the first thing I saw and heard was Martha Troudeaux making herself obnoxious.
“But it’s mislabeled,” she said, her voice shrill.
“Hi Martha,” I said calmly, approaching with a smile.
“Ah, Josie. I’m glad you’re here. There’s a major problem with your pricing.”
“Really? I’m surprised. We try so hard to get it right. What’s the problem?”
“This stool. It’s not from the Empire! Why is it priced as if it were?” She sneered, her self-righteous tone of outrage making me long to slap her face.
I looked at the small bamboo stool. The tag, tied onto a leg, stated that it was a reproduction. The price was twelve dollars. If it were genuine, dating from around 1890, a stool of this size and quality would fetch more than ten times twelve dollars. Rude and ignorant. What Barney saw in her mystified me. It occurred to me that maybe she was neither rude nor ignorant; maybe she was trying to create a scene, to make me look bad.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Barney stood not far away, his back to us, near the boxes of art prints. He seemed absorbed in a conversation with Paula, the blond part-timer who preferred T-shirts with messages to the Prescott one, but wore it as instructed. Barney was probably trying to weasel the name of my art source out of her, but she couldn’t tell what she didn’t know, so that was no worry.
Turning back to Martha, I spotted Alverez half-hidden by a post near the mechanical toys section. I bristled. Alverez’s presence was more troubling than Barney’s. I glanced around, considering whether customers knew who he was and thought less of me because of his presence. I also wondered whether I should call Max and report his unexpected arrival.
Focusing instead on Martha’s nasty aspersions, I forced myself to smile. “Perhaps you didn’t see the word reproduction,’ ” I said politely.
“The price is too high!” she complained.
I tilted my head to really look at her. She was a pretty woman, tall and thin. Her very short, almost black hair was layered and suited her. It was unfortunate that her eyes were calculating, with no hint of warmth, and that her tone was always strident, never pleasant. She was eminently unlikable.
“Then don’t buy it,” I said, smiling a little, trying to convert her attack into a semipleasant interaction.
She was having none of it. “It’s not worth more than five dollars, and I wouldn’t buy it even at that price because it’s in terrible condition. And one more thing…”
I listened to her for a moment longer, my attention drifting to Alverez who seemed to be watching me while pretending not to, and to Barney, still talking with Paula. I scanned the venue. There were about fifty customers, par for a nonholiday weekend at this time of day. I noted that Alverez had moved on to housewares and appeared to be interested in a stainless-steel bar set from the ’50s.
“Excuse me, Martha. Someone’s calling me,” I fibbed. I headed straight to Alverez.
“Hey,” I said, approaching him.
“Josie,” he answered. “Things look great.”
I felt the familiar tug of connection, the inexplicable chemistry we shared, but ignored it. “Interested in barware?”
“Not really,” he answered, grinning.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, not smiling.
“Isn’t this open to the public?” he asked, gesturing broadly.
“Yes, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
He paused. “That’s the only answer I have to give you right now.”
“Should I call Max?” I asked.
