“Good. I’m heading out,” I told her. “When Fred arrives, remember that he’s a stranger to these parts. Make sure he has everything he needs and that he can find his way to the B-andB, okay?”
She gave me an of-course-I-will look.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, of course you will.” I smiled.
I stopped at a grocery store and circled their deli-style salad bar picking and chose whatever grabbed my fancy, drove to the beach, and ate sitting in my car. It tasted pretty good, but not as good as homemade. I missed cooking for someone. Rick, my former boyfriend, loved my cooking. It was one of his best qualities.
I wondered what Rick was doing now. When I’d called to let him know that I was leaving New York for New Hampshire, he’d told me that he thought it was a good idea for me to get away, that maybe the physical distance would help me put my father’s death behind me. I didn’t respond to either his insensitivity or his bitter tone. His lack of empathy was why we’d broken up a month or so after my father’s death, and it still seemed incredible to me that he thought I ought, somehow, to simply turn the other cheek, and get on with things. I had wished him good luck, and hung up, relieved that I was no longer dating him.
I shook my head. We’d had such good times for almost two years, I still felt surprised at how quickly things had changed. In only a matter of weeks, we’d gone from cruising the farmer’s market looking for the freshest produce to strangers laboring to maintain a conversation.
I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, a sudden memory bringing tears to my eyes. I’d been making a Newburg sauce, slowly stirring sherry into cream, when he came behind me, his hands encircling my torso. He brushed my hair aside and began kissing my neck, his lips electric on my skin.
I sat up and pushed the memory aside. I didn’t want to be with him, but I wanted to be with someone. I was aware that I was exerting a lot of mental energy coping with loneliness. I tried my best, without much success, to shake off my growing depression. I had a sense of impending doom. Not only was I alone but I was having to deal with being suspected of murder. I swallowed, fighting tears.
Whatever Alverez was going to say or do, I felt certain it would be bad news.
It was exactly 3:00 when I entered the Rocky Point police station.
Max was leaning against the counter chatting with Alverez. I saw the big blonde, Cathy, at a file cabinet in the rear. We walked down the now-familiar hallway to the interrogation room, and I took my usual seat. I doubted that I’d ever enter that room and see the cage in the corner without wincing.
Once we were settled, Alverez turned on the tape recorder, spoke the date and time, listed our names as those present, and then said, “Thanks for coming in. Our investigation has progressed and I wanted to give you some information.”
“Okay,” Max responded.
Alverez leaned back, stretching out his legs. He looked the same as always, his demeanor providing no clue about his message. I was anxious, but braced to deal with whatever came my way.
“Unless new information comes up, which I don’t expect, Josie has been cleared as a suspect.”
“What?” I exclaimed, stunned.
Alverez half smiled, and nodded. “We don’t think you were involved in the murder.”
Max gripped my shoulder for a long minute, a contained gesture of celebration. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I didn’t try to stop the flow. I took a deep breath, realized I’d had a death-grip on the sides of my chair, and lifted my hands to the table top, clenching and unclenching my fists to relax. I reached over and put a hand on top of Max’s, still on my shoulder, and squeezed, then reached into my purse for a tissue, and wiped away my tears.
As stress and anxiety receded, anger rushed in. I stuffed the crumpled tissue in my purse, turned to Alverez, and asked, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean ‘What do I mean’? You drag me down here to tell me that I’m no longer a suspect? Don’t you think I might have been interested in hearing that news right away? Would it have killed you to have called and told me?”
He shrugged, and I took the gesture to mean that he thought I was overreacting. “Sorry. There’s something else I need to discuss, so I knew we’d be talking anyway.”
I looked at him and shook my head, his cavalier dismissal of my distress fueling my rage. “You needed to talk to
“I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry. Guess it was a little insensitive of me not to have called.”
“A little!” I exclaimed.
Max reached for my arm and squeezed, gently. “Josie,” he said. “Point taken. Let’s move on.”
I shook off his hand. “No, Max. This is too important.” I pushed hair aside. “It seems I should be grateful that you have something else to talk to me about,” I said to Alverez. “Otherwise I might have learned that I’ve been cleared-when? Tomorrow? The next day. Oh, I know! Probably you’d have given Cathy a note to call me when she got a chance, right?”
“Okay, Josie,” Alverez said, unsmiling. “I get it. I was thoughtless. I apologized once and I meant it. I’m sorry. Can we move on now?”
I felt awkward, uncertain what to do or say next. One emotion after another washed over me-the fatigue that had eclipsed my fury now gave way to an almost giddy volatility. I smiled again, broadly this time. Alverez smiled back, and I found myself admiring the flecks of gold that glistened in the brown of his eyes. His eyes were hypnotic, drawing me in. After a long minute, Max cleared his throat and the mood was broken. I looked away. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I guess this situation has made me a little emotional. I don’t normally rant like a fishwife.”
Alverez smiled. “It wasn’t so bad. I’ve been called worse than insensitive.”
“Really? Like what?”
Alverez smiled and shook his head slightly. “That’ll be a topic for another time, if you don’t mind,” he said, shifting in his chair.
“So,” I asked, pleased at his obvious discomfort, “what made you realize I wasn’t guilty?”
“That too can be covered later. We have something important to discuss now, if that’s all right.”
“Sure. What?”
“The reason I asked you to come in is to ask for your help. We’ve reached a point in the investigation where we need an expert.”
“An expert in?…” Max asked.
“Appraisals.”
“Why Josie?”
“She’s the logical choice. We can bring in an outside expert if we have to, but my plan is more likely to work if Josie will help us.
“What do you need?”
Alverez cleared his throat and idly tapped his pen against the wooden table. “A couple of things. First, what do you know about the Renoir? I mean, according to Mrs. Grant’s ledger, the three paintings, the Renoir, the Matisse, and the Cezanne were all bought from someone or something called A.Z. Do you know what, or who, that is?”
“One second,” Max said to Alverez, reaching out his hand to stop me from speaking. He leaned over toward me and whispered, “Do you know what it means?”
“No,” I whispered back.
“Do you know anything about the paintings.”
I paused, then decided to tell Max the truth. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“What?”
