times with no luck. So finally she called us.”
“Someone trying to strong-arm Mr. Grant! That’s terrible! Who would do such a thing? Did the lawyer give a name?”
“Yeah, he did. He told Grant’s daughter that it was a shark named Josie Prescott.”
CHAPTER TWO
I started, speechless. What Alverez said simply didn’t register. I watched as he waited for me to react. But I couldn’t. I felt frozen. I couldn’t think.
A shark. Epps had called me a shark. I shook my head, my confidence shattered. So much for my hopeful future, I thought, and fought back tears. I should have known not to trust in hope.
In the dark days after the price-fixing scandal hit the news, after I wore the wire that recorded my boss conspiring with his chief competitor to hold commissions steady, I’d learned that hope could be a mirage. Day after day, I’d maintained optimism as I joined thousands of other New Yorkers in expressing shock that such a well- respected executive as the CEO of Frisco’s would participate in such a dastardly crime. I cringed as I remembered going to work the day after the news broke, expecting to be treated as a hero for blowing the lid off the conspiracy. I’d been naive enough to expect my peers to admire me, and even after it became clear that they did not, I persevered in trying to win their acclaim. I’d developed a keen ability to deny facts that, to others who were less emotionally involved, were patently obvious. I’d learned the bitter lesson that, no matter what winning football coaches and inspirational motivational speakers claim, desire isn’t enough. My former colleagues turned their backs on me then, and here, today, I was being called a shark. A shark!
I took a breath, reminding myself of the promise I’d made as I drove my loaded rental van past Frisco’s en route to my new home in New Hampshire-never again would I allow despair to lead to wishful thinking. Paralysis lifted, replaced by righteous rage.
“A shark?” I snapped, outraged.
Max told me to be quiet.
“That’s what Epps said.”
“Britt Epps?” I asked, ignoring Max’s admonition.
“Yes.”
“The son of a bitch.”
“Josie,” Max repeated. “Be quiet.”
“You know him?” Alverez asked me.
“Josie,” Max said quietly, “Don’t speak.”
“I want to answer, Max. Yes, I know him. I thought we were friends. Well, sort of friends. Business friends. I like Britt Epps! Or I thought I did.” I couldn’t believe it. “I can’t believe it!” I said aloud. “A shark? He called me a shark?”
“Yeah,” Alverez said.
I heard compassion in his voice as he spoke that one word, and it made me uncomfortable. I hated the thought that my situation led him to feel sorry for me.
“How well do you know him?” Alverez asked.
I flipped a hand up. “I don’t know. I’ve met him here and there at fund-raisers and Chamber of Commerce breakfasts, things like that. I’ve been trying to get in to see him to pitch my company. I’m new in town, well, a couple of years, now, but that’s still considered new around here. So I’m trying to meet people. Anyway, most of my business comes from referrals from lawyers and he’s one of the most respected in town. So naturally I’ve been trying to get an appointment. He’s always been polite and friendly. I thought we’d never connected because of scheduling snafus. I can’t believe he called me a shark. I just can’t believe it.”
“Why not? With a house full of valuable items up for sale, wouldn’t you expect sleazeball dealers to come out from under rocks? Wouldn’t it make sense for relatives of older people who decide to sell off their possessions to worry on their behalf?”
“Yes, everything you say is true-but I’m not one of those sleazeball dealers and Epps knows it! I have a stellar reputation-one I’ve worked hard to develop-and anyone who knows me knows I’m not a shark!”
“I’ll be asking him more about it,” Alverez said. “Did a lawyer introduce you to Grant?”
“No.” I shifted in the chair, the horizontal slats hurting my back.
“How did you hook up with him?”
Max touched my arm, and whispered, “Is there anything I should know about this? Any personal relationships involved? Anything unusual?”
“No. Utterly aboveboard,” I answered in an undertone.
He nodded, indicating that I could answer.
“Mr. Grant called me.”
“How did he get your name?” he asked.
“How do you
“Fair enough,” Alverez said, sounding relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world.
“He got my name from the NHAAS brochure,” I answered.
“What’s that?”
“The New Hampshire Antiquarian Appraisal Society. It’s an industry association. I’m a member. I’m local. As far as I know I was the only person Mr. Grant called.”
“Luck?” he asked. “Was it random?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It’s not unusual for someone to select the appraiser based only on proximity.”
He nodded. “So he called and you made an appointment?”
“You bet I did.”
“And what happened next?”
“And as soon as I got there, I recognized that I’d walked into a great opportunity. Did you see his stuff?”
“Yeah, but not to notice. Why, was it special?”
“Extraordinary. I wouldn’t even know how to start to describe it. He had an eighteenth-century American oak game table with a chessboard built in-it’s magnificent-inlaid in mahogany and rosewood. He had three Jules Tavernier paintings, all garden scenes. He had a Paul Revere silver tea service. Hell, he had a set of Louis XV chairs in perfect condition-including the original fabric. No joke.”
“How much are we talking here?”
“Unclear. Some of the items, nothing like them has been to auction in a generation. Some items are probably unique and priceless.”
Alverez whistled. “And he had locks you could pick with a credit card.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Amazing.”
“What was his reaction to your appraisal?”
“I didn’t do a formal appraisal. Nothing in writing, and I didn’t go piece by piece or anything. I just saw enough to know I wanted the lot.”
“And his reaction to your reaction?”
“Believe it or not, he didn’t seem much interested in the things themselves. I got excited by the chess table, for example. He said his wife had bought it in Boston more than fifty years ago. But he didn’t want to talk about the table. He wanted to talk about his wife. How he’d met her during the war. World War Two. It was a real love story.” I shook my head. “He refused to go to auction. He said that it would just drag the process out.”
“That doesn’t sound smart.”
“No, but it’s not unusual. Some people, after a spouse dies…” I paused. “I just can’t believe this. Mr. Grant was a nice old man. Epps knows I’m not a shark. None of this makes sense.” I felt shell-shocked, somewhere between incredulous and hurt. I teared up again.
“So if he didn’t want to go to auction, what did he want?”
