“Hell, Barney, I’m not stubborn. I’m steadfast.”
He laughed, patted my shoulder, and left. But as he turned away, I noted that his eyes stayed hard. He was not amused at my refusal.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Don, the recruiter, called with questions about the skill level required, and I explained that in addition to a solid foundation of knowledge, we were looking for half diligence and half common sense. He chuckled and told me he had someone in mind and would call back, he hoped, within the hour.
I realized that whoever Don found as our temporary researcher, he or she, as a newcomer, would need the appraisal protocol explained in more detail than Sasha had required. I sighed, resigned to doing what felt like busywork. It was too complex to delegate, but it had to be done.
“Gretchen,” I said, calling her, “I need a binder. Would you bring one up?”
“Sure. Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling. “Good idea.”
I heard the clickity-clack of her heels on the steps, swung around in my chair, and saw her enter with a big smile, then accepted the steaming mug of coffee she proffered. She placed the burgundy binder, preprinted with our logo and name on the cover, on my desk.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“No, thanks. It’s a research thing.”
“Well, let me know if I can do anything.” With a cheery wave, she was gone.
I thought for a moment about what to include in the binder. I started with a description of the grandfather clock and added the protocol itself along with the explanation of how I calculated the value. Since the researcher would be new to the region, I added a paragraph explaining my distrust of Troudeaux’s research. Deciding that more information was better than less, I photocopied the title pages of the two catalogues I consulted, Shaw’s and Troudeaux’s, along with the pages containing the specific entries about the clock. I retraced my steps on the Web sites, found the information I’d discovered previously, and printed out the relevant pages.
I was trying to determine the best sequence when Max called, just before 1:00. “Hey, Max,” I said, “I was just thinking about lunch. Do you have time? I’ll buy.”
“Thanks, Josie. I’ll take a raincheck. Alverez called.”
I sat up straight, alert for trouble. “What now?”
“I don’t know. He wants to see us this afternoon.”
As if a switch had been flipped, I lost my appetite. Whatever Alverez wanted, I figured it must be dire if he was calling Max out of the blue. I began to shake, and swallowed twice to try to control my visceral reaction. “Okay,” I said, as calmly as I could. “When?”
“Is three o’clock all right?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you there, okay?”
I hung up the phone and began to think about what might have led to this unanticipated request. Nothing came to mind, but I became increasingly disquieted and tense. Stop it! I told myself. Until I had cause, tormenting myself with unanswerable what-if questions was way south of pointless. I’d know whether I had reason to be concerned soon enough. Just as I was chastising myself and wondering how to stop worrying, Don called back and gave me the name of the researcher I was going to hire for five days at $400 a day, Fred Reynolds.
“He’s perfect, Josie,” Don said. “He’s young and eager. Smart as a whip. With absolutely no social skills at all. But give that boy an antique and a computer and look out.”
I laughed, and it felt good. “Thanks, Don. You’re the best.”
Don told me that Fred was already en route. He was flying to Boston, where he’d rent a car, and with any luck, be at my warehouse by 4:00. I passed on the information to Gretchen, who made a hotel reservation at a small bed-and-breakfast in downtown Portsmouth.
As soon as I hung up the phone, anxiety returned. Keep busy, I admonished myself. I took a long drink of water, and turned my attention back to the protocol.
I played around a little, designing a jazzy title page on letterhead, and using a three-hole punch, thumped all the pages and inserted them into the binder. I flipped through, admiring my work, and smiled. I was ready to dazzle anyone. Don’s researcher, Fred, would have an unequivocal understanding of what I meant by “professional standards.”
Thinking about the schedule, I decided I’d better consult Sasha.
“Sasha,” I said, when I had her on the phone, “how’s it going?”
“Good. I’m working on the sofa, and have two tables and the plant stand to go.”
“That’s great,” I said. “You’re working quickly.”
“I’m trying. There’s so much.”
“Yeah. Listen, Don has called back. A young guy named Fred Reynolds, a terrific researcher, according to him, will be here by four o’clock or so.”
“Great.”
“I’m going to be out for most of the rest of the day. When Fred arrives, it might make sense for you to get him settled in at the extra desk near Gretchen, make sure he can get on-line, then show him around. Okay?”
“Okay. What about the protocol?”
“I’ll do that. Are you okay to meet at the office at eight o’clock tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“Arrange that with him, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You can watch the video with him first thing and show him how the tape relates to Mrs. Grant’s ledger. After that, I’ll go over the protocol with him. Then we should be good to go.”
Hanging up, I realized that I ought to take the binder with me. I wanted to know the material cold when I reviewed it with Fred in the morning.
I headed downstairs.
Gretchen was on the phone arranging an appointment for me. From what I gathered as I waited for her to finish, a couple was downsizing after their kids had left for college. They were moving from a big Colonial in Durham into a small condo overlooking South Mill Pond in Portsmouth. She passed me a note reading “2:00 P.M. tomorrow?”
I nodded that 2:00 was fine. When she was off the phone, she said, “This is a good one, I think.”
“Yeah? What do they have?” I asked.
“Loads of stuff, it sounds like.” She glanced at her notes. “A set of china, nothing special. A dinette set from the ’40s. End tables. Some hand-carved decoys. Japanese screens. A pool table, in pretty good shape. Boxes full of miscellaneous goods.”
“That’s great! Where did the lead come from?”
“The tag sale. Eric got this one.”
“Excellent.”
I slipped the address she handed me into my purse.
“Eric’s off today, right?”
“Right.”
Since we all work on Saturdays, everyone gets a weekday off. Eric usually took Mondays. Gretchen rarely did, since she was responsible for reconciling the weekend receipts. She and Sasha worked it out between them which day they took, so we always had coverage in the office. “When are you off?” I asked.
“Wednesday.”
“When Eric gets in tomorrow, have him go to the professor’s and pick up the books. He ought to have a helper. There’s a lot of them.”
She nodded, jotted herself a reminder, and taped it to her computer monitor. “I’ll get a temp right now.”
