antiques for clues about the missing paintings, convinced that if I found the art, I might also discover a secret that had led to Mr. Grant’s murder.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The day was a success. At the auction, everything sold, and we beat our estimates; several people told me they were impressed, including a woman who made an appointment for an appraisal; and Bertie, from the New York Monthly, looking for fodder for her article on scandals in the antique business, learned nothing.
The tag sale went well, too. Revenue from sales was flat, but three people invited us to make offers on selling miscellaneous household goods to spare them the hassle of running yard sales. Anyone in the antique business will tell you that buying is tougher than selling, and the search for quality goods is constant. So to have opportunities to acquire inventory was all that was needed to transform a good day into a megawinner.
Max called around seven that evening, just as we were getting ready to close up.
“I finally reached Alverez,” he said.
“And?”
“And it’s okay for you to go to the Grant place anytime.”
“That’s great.”
“He mentioned that they’re maintaining a loose patrol, so if you’re questioned, it would make your life easier if you had some kind of written permission on hand.”
“I have a letter from Mrs. Cabot.”
“Good. Go ahead and fax it to me, and carry it with you. Moving on… I asked him about the inventory.”
“And?”
“And everything is accounted for except two things. You’ve seen Mrs. Grant’s ledger, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know about the Cezanne and the Matisse?”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“Well, those are the only two items missing.”
I was prepared for the news. So far, Wes’s source, whoever it was, was batting a thousand. “Pretty amazing, huh?” I said.
“Just a little,” he said dryly.
“Yeah.”
“Also, I asked him about being at your place today.”
“And?”
“And he said he went to your tag sale because he likes tag sales.”
I paused. “Did you believe him?”
“Sure, why not? I like tag sales, too. And you should see my wife.”
“I don’t know… he just doesn’t strike me as a tag-sale sort of guy.”
“Well, whatever his reason was, I wouldn’t let it worry you.”
“Okay,” I said, willing to stop discussing it, but unconvinced. “Any other news? Did he indicate they’re making progress on the investigation?”
“No news. He said they’re still following up on several promising leads, whatever that means.”
“What do you think it means?” I asked, not liking the sound of it.
I could imagine Max’s shrug. “Probably just what it says. That he’s following up on several promising leads.”
The phrase “following up on promising leads” chilled me. Somehow, the wording sounded ominous.
We agreed to talk on Monday after I’d been through the Grant house, or sooner if I needed him. His rock-solid support was an enormous comfort to me. I pictured him sitting in his suit and bow tie, his brow furrowed as he listened, and I wished I was nearby to touch his elbow, to thank him for helping me navigate this unchartered sea.
As I hung up, Sasha came into the office.
“We’re all set,” she said, looking exhausted.
“You did a great job, Sasha,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she answered, blushing, her awkwardness at being complimented manifesting itself in a quick hair twirl.
“New project,” I said, changing the subject.
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“The Grant goods. We’ve been hired by Mrs. Cabot, Mr. Grant’s daughter, to verify, authenticate, and value the contents of the house. You and I will work together, but you’ll be doing most of the research.”
“That’s great!” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing at the prospect, exhaustion a thing of the past.
“The first step is for you to watch the tape I made. And read the inventory Mrs. Grant kept. Review them before Monday, okay?”
“Absolutely. This is so exciting! Thank you, Josie.”
“You’re welcome. It’s great, isn’t it? Let’s meet at the Grant house at, what? Nine on Monday morning? Is nine okay for you?”
“Sure, nine is good.”
“Okay. Make sure you have the address.”
She smiled and thanked me again. From her perspective, I was offering a rare treat. She was visibly excited at the prospect of spending her weekend studying the tape I’d made of Mr. Grant’s antiques and poring over the inventory. Lucky me.
I slept until noon on Sunday. When I awakened, I felt discombobulated, uncertain of the day or, even, momentarily, where I was. No remnant of a dream lingered, so I couldn’t blame my confusion on that. Shaking off the amorphous discomfort proved tough, and it wasn’t until I showered and ate eggs, cooked just the way I like them, scrambled soft with tomatoes and onion mixed in, that I began to feel more like myself.
At three, dressed in jeans and a lightweight sweatshirt, I headed for the Grant house planning to stop at a grocery store on the way back to buy the ingredients I needed to cook Monterey chicken. I took the scenic route, glad for an excuse to drive along the shore.
It was a warm day, the bright sun hinting at summer. I rolled down the windows, relishing the ocean breeze. As I drove, I spotted several sailboats coursing along, running parallel to shore. I’d never sailed, and I decided that once I was clear of the Grant situation, I’d learn. Why not? I asked myself.
Driving through the village, I saw that the Taffy Pull’s door was propped open, and impulsively, I swung right into a vacant parking space. According to Wes, someone from the Taffy Pull had called Mr. Grant shortly before he’d been murdered, and I wanted to know why.
I stepped out and looked around. The street was deserted, but there were several cars scattered along the stretch of Main Street where the shops were nestled.
The Taffy Pull’s front window was decorated with displays of small piles of sand, artistically arranged to suggest the beach. Miniature lawn chairs dotted the sand piles. Brightly colored saltwater taffy pieces somehow connected to fluffy clouds dangled on nylon threads from the ceiling. It didn’t make logical sense, but it was whimsical and cute.
I took a deep breath for courage, and entered the store. I blinked several times, trying to hurry my eyes along as they adjusted to the dim inside light.
A blonde stood with her back to me, stretching to pull down a small white box of candy from a high shelf.
“Hi,” I said, looking around, glancing at the woman’s back.
“Hello,” she answered over her shoulder.
Box in hand, she turned, and I’m certain surprise showed on my face. “Paula!” I exclaimed.
Paula, my part-time tag-sale employee who wore T-shirts emblazoned with her political views and causes, responded, “Josie?”
