existed. Too risky to keep, and too risky to sell, it must have seemed clever to the killer to plant it at my warehouse in order to try to frame me for Mr. Grant’s murder.
I shook my head, sickened at the thought that someone could do such a thing to me. Whoever it was, I could imagine their growing frustration. The Renoir might be off limits, but if Mr. Grant had mentioned the other paintings, perhaps dangling them as a carrot during the negotiations, and if the killer hadn’t known that Mrs. Grant’s ledger would reveal the paintings’ existence to the police, the murderer might think he-or she-was sitting pretty.
Of course, a search couldn’t be undertaken while the house was under police custody as a crime scene, but as soon as the authorities unsealed it, someone had entered and had, apparently, started to hunt for the paintings while I was in the basement.
My final conclusion, and I shivered with fear at the thought, was that if someone had murdered once to acquire priceless masterpieces, that person wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.
It was almost 6:30 when I got to my office. I ran inside, punched the code to turn off the alarm, and dashed upstairs to my office.
The best way to establish protocols is to actually do research. Otherwise, your decisions are based only on theory and can be arbitrary. Still, research only isn’t enough. Setting reasonable price ranges requires knowledge, intuition, and street smarts. You have to consider factors such as the condition of the piece relative to other examples that have sold, current market demand compared to what economic conditions existed when other similar pieces were auctioned, and unique factors such as a distinctive provenance-and determine which ones matter most.
Two of my office walls were stocked with various guidebooks and auction catalogues. In addition, we subscribed to several Web sites that tracked and reported auction results worldwide.
As a test case, I selected the now-silent Queen Anne grandfather clock standing in Mr. Grant’s hallway. I wanted to see how long it took me to set a price. It was a reasonable test selection, since it was representative of the bulk of the items in the Grant estate: valuable, but not unique.
Noting my starting time, I quickly sorted through the American furniture catalogues that filled about a quarter of my bookshelves and found two clocks that were similar to Mr. Grant’s. One had been sold by a Florida dealer, Shaw’s Antiques, in 2003. Mark Shaw described it as “magnificent.” Barney’s firm, Troudeaux’s New Hampshire Auctions, had auctioned the second in 2002. M. Turner described the clock’s condition as “very good.” Which meant it wasn’t “magnificent.”
Most antique dealers used “excellent” or “mint” to indicate pristine condition, but some were more poetic, and used terms like “magnificent.” The bottom line was that there was no standardization in the industry, so it was important for buyers to know how a dealer used words. “Magnificent” implied perfection. “Very good” usually meant there was some minor or normal wear.
Shaw’s had estimated that the clock would sell for $9,000 and it had actually sold for $10,300. Troudeaux’s had expected the clock to bring in $10,500, so its sales price of $6,750 must have been a huge disappointment. That was quite a spread-the Florida clock fetched $3,550 more than the one Barney sold.
Big differentials in prices between two similar items usually reflected differences in quality-which was, I knew from experience, impossible to define precisely. In this case, however, it seemed obvious why Shaw’s clock did so much better. First, it was in better condition than the one Barney sold. Second, according to Shaw’s description, the clock had been owned by a former governor of Georgia. That kind of connection often led to higher prices. Prestige by association. Besides which, Barney’s estimate might reflect wishful thinking or whimsy. His firm’s research was always suspect; whether from indifference or sloppiness, his estimates were wrong more often than they were right.
Searching through the Web sites we subscribed to, I found another similar clock, described as being in “excellent condition.” It had sold at a Pennsylvania auction six months ago within its range. Estimated to fetch between $7,000 and $8,500, it had brought in $8,100.
From a low of $6,750 to a high of $10,300. Calculating both the average and the median, and considering the effect of condition and the Georgia governor’s prior ownership, I estimated that Mr. Grant’s clock should sell for $7,000 to $9,000. Maybe more if Dobson’s got lucky.
I typed out the description, including the estimated price range, and glanced at the clock on my computer. From first look at my bookshelves to the completed catalogue entry, half an hour. Not bad. In a separate document, I specified the details of my calculation.
The protocol was set: I would require that we research three sales of comparable items within the last five years. I e-mailed the file to Gretchen and Sasha, and printed out a copy for me to take. I smiled with satisfaction. Step one of the appraisal, done.
I called Wes en route and told him that I was running late.
It was twenty after seven when I pulled to a stop behind Wes’s old Toyota. He was leaning against the hood, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, hurrying to join him, the bag of food in my hand.
“If only you knew what I know, you would have been on time,” Wes said, popping a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.
“Don’t be a tease, Wes. Tell me.”
“Let me turn on the radio.”
“Wes, you’re not still thinking I’m wired, are you?”
He chuckled, a snorting sort of sound, and ate more nuts. “Nah, but I got news, and I’m not taking any chances.”
Wes sat down, and leaving the car door open, turned on the motor and punched a button for an oldies station. I got settled in the passenger seat and pulled plastic-wrapped hard-boiled eggs out of the bag, laid out napkins on his dusty dashboard, and handed him a plastic fork.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Food,” I answered. “You ought to try it sometime.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I looked in the back of your car, remember? I ate your doughnut. You don’t eat food. You eat junk. An egg and fruit salad. That’s food.”
He looked skeptical. “Thanks,” he said, but made no move to eat.
I unwrapped my share and took a bite of egg.
He gestured that I should lean closer. Accompanied by the familiar, gotta-dance rhythm of “Under the Boardwalk,” he whispered, “Barney kept the three P.M. appointment at Mr. Grant’s house. Alverez was the one who told him about the murder.”
Either Barney was telling the truth and had called the night before to change his appointment from 9:00 to 3:00 or he was lying, and had called for some other reason altogether.
Goose bumps rose on my arms as I had the startling realization that maybe Barney had shown up at 9:00 and killed Mr. Grant. There was plenty of time for him to cover his tracks. It was simple. All he had to do was leave and return at 3:00, pretending he was there for his rescheduled appointment.
I stepped out of the car and walked a few steps, starting up the dune, wanting to see the ocean. I watched the frothy waves make rivulets as they rushed along the sand.
Wes stepped out of the car, and called, “What are you doing?”
After a moment, I came back and sat down again.
“What do you think?” Wes asked, watching me consider options.
“Interesting,” I said.
“That’s one of those comments…”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Interesting,’” he said, mocking me. “Don’t give me that. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that it’s interesting,” I insisted, aiming to look and sound sincere. “What do you think I mean?”
“Give me a break.”
