lay undisturbed on every flat surface. I felt my normal Sunday melancholy descending on me like a shroud.
An oversized leather trunk in the basement caught my eye. Sitting on wooden planks about six inches off the concrete floor, it had probably been made in the 1920s. The cordovan-colored leather was butter soft and only slightly scuffed. I’d opened it when I’d surveyed the house for Mr. Grant, so I knew it was designed in two parts. On top was a tray, about eighteen inches deep, sized to rest perfectly on a small ridge. When I’d removed it, a larger section, maybe four by six feet, was revealed. Mr. Grant had used it to store stacks of old clothing. What had just occurred to me was that there might be a third section below the other two. Some old traveling trunks were built with a narrow but deep drawer at the bottom. Under the dim light cast by the single overhead bulb, I couldn’t see well enough to tell, so I stooped down and used my flashlight to examine it carefully, and there it was. Two slots had been fabricated on the front side of the trunk, about 4 inches from the bottom, and in each slot, a metal handle lay flush with the leather surface.
My heart began to race. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a perfect hiding spot. I reached down and wedged my fingers under the handles, and pulled. It resisted my efforts, and I tugged harder. The drawer slid out smoothly, and it was empty.
I felt deflated, but less so than when I’d sat on the floor in front of the partners desk and cried. Then not finding the missing paintings had left me disconsolate. Now the hunt got my dander up.
I stood and stretched, turned off my flashlight, and stowed it on my belt. I looked around. The basement was a labyrinth of small rooms, and most were empty of items that would go to auction. One room housed the oil burner, another the washer and dryer, and a third was lined with wooden shelves filled with Mason jars of homemade preserves and pickles.
In a small workshop, presumably awaiting Mr. Grant’s attention as a handyman, stood a nonworking lamp, a chair that needed caning, and two pieces of a broken china platter. I doubted they were worth our time, but decided to examine them more closely tomorrow. Next to the platter, on the chipped surface of the worktable, was a three-sided wooden frame painted black with a plywood backing, waiting, I guessed, for the final piece to be attached. Sitting nearby were plastic containers of screws, nails, and bolts.
I switched off the light and was ready to head upstairs when I heard a creak, the sound of a floorboard bearing weight. I felt my heart suddenly stop, then thud so hard I almost felt sick. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I stood and listened. Nothing.
I shook off the concern, telling myself I was still skittish.
At the top of the stairs, halfway in the kitchen, I heard a soft scroop as the front door latch clicked home. Shocked, I recoiled and almost tumbled down the steps. Then I froze again. Someone was in the house.
As the footsteps moved confidently and quickly away from the door, heading, I guessed from the direction of the sound, to the study in the front, I moved forward, trying to glide, my boots leaden as I moved. I tried to think who it could be, but no one made sense. It certainly wasn’t Mrs. Cabot. And she’d assured me that she’d keep Andi away. Could the police officer have returned? Maybe.
I left the basement door ajar, not wanting to risk the sound the latch would make if I closed it, and listened. I heard what sounded like drawers opening and closing. A loud scrape startled me, and I tried to imagine what could have caused it. Something big, I thought, like a chair or an ottoman, being dragged across the floor would sound like that. Then I heard a soft thud, as if the item had tipped over and landed hard on a thick carpet. No, I said to myself, whoever it is, it’s not a policeman.
I thought of calling 911, but quickly dismissed the idea. No. I’d make too much noise rummaging through my purse to locate my cell phone, and my voice would carry easily through the empty rooms.
All I could think of was how to get out. I headed for the back door, aiming to keep as much distance between me and the intruder as I could. I stepped gingerly into the mud room, and paused to let my eyes adjust. I had trouble catching my breath. In the gathering twilight, I could barely see the doorknob, and a rush of fear streamed over me. My heart hammering, tears welled in my eyes, making it hard to see. I brushed them away, forcing myself to focus on the problem at hand-getting out-and not think about my anxiety.
As soon as I could make it out, I reached for the doorknob, turned it, and pulled. Nothing. I tried again, pulling harder, then spotted a latch and turned it. Still, the door didn’t budge. I looked at it more closely, and felt my stomach lurch as I realized it was a dead bolt and required a key to open, even on the inside. I was trapped, with no way out.
Peeking around the corner, my mouth was so dry, I struggled not to cough. I saw and heard nothing.
I slipped back into the kitchen and crept forward, and stood beside the refrigerator, shielded from view. Purposeful steps headed in what sounded like my direction, and looking around wildly, I ran across the room to a door that swung into the butler’s pantry, connecting the kitchen to the dining room, and unsure where to go or what to do, I crouched down.
Even tucked away in a small room in the middle of the house, I heard a car pull up in the alley and stop. I could picture it. My thighs began to ache, but I seemed paralyzed with dread. Heavy steps approached the back door, and I heard the faint click of the dead bolt turning. Someone was entering the door that had held me prisoner.
A moment later, I heard a rush of scurrying steps, then a long moment later, a car starting and squealing away. I stayed huddled in the butler’s pantry, rocking a bit, tears running down my cheeks unchecked.
“Josie?” I heard. I recognized Alverez’s voice.
I sat down, hard, nearly fainting with relief, dropped my head forward, and began to cry in earnest. “In here,” I called faintly after a moment, my voice muffled with tears. I tried again, using as much willpower as I could muster to stem the flow. I swallowed. “I’m here.”
I heard a soft whoosh as Alverez pushed open the swinging door from the kitchen. I looked over and saw faded jeans and brown boots. I didn’t have the energy to lift my head higher.
“What happened?”
“Someone,” I said, my voice cracking. “Someone was here. They left out the front.”
“Are you all right?”
I nodded, and struggled to speak, but before I could translate my scattered thoughts into a coherent explanation, he was gone, running toward the front. “Stay there,” he called.
I stayed, unmoving, listening. I heard his running steps, heavy thumps, then silence. After several minutes, he again pushed his way into the pantry and squatted beside me. “Can you tell me what happened? What’s wrong?”
I hated that he was seeing me like this. I felt mortified. “I don’t know. Someone was here. I heard noises and I panicked. I tried to leave, but I couldn’t get out.”
I started up, wiping away the remnants of my tears. “I never used to cry. You must think I’m a mess.”
“No, no,” he said. He helped me stand, holding my elbow. “Let’s get you a glass of water and you can tell me what happened.”
Meekly, I followed him into the kitchen and stood silently while he let the water run and opened cabinet doors until he found a glass. He filled it with water and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, accepting it. I took a sip.
“I called for backup. People will be here in a minute, but in the meantime, I’m going to call the lab and get some technicians up here. Don’t move.”
“I don’t mean to sound wussy, but don’t leave me alone. Okay?”
Alverez smiled. “Okay. I’m just heading to the front door. Tag along if you want. But don’t touch anything.”
I followed him, carrying my water, taking an occasional sip. The front door was wide open.
“I take it you closed the door when you came in.”
“Of course,” I said. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.” I shook my head, the evidence of the open door startling me. I shivered.
“Was the door locked when you got here?”
“I guess. I used the key. I assumed it was.”
He nodded. I listened as Alverez called someone and issued a series of instructions. When he was done, he
