Consigned to Death

“No,” Fred said. “This is all very useful.”

“Great. Well, go and do.”

They left, still chatting. I’d never heard Sasha speak so much, or with so much enthusiasm. Maybe she’d met her match in Fred.

As their voices faded away, I thought of Mr. Grant, and sadness swept over me. In all of our interactions, he’d been jovial, gregarious, and kind. I’d liked him, and he’d liked me. An image of Barney came to mind. I could picture him towering over the older, weaker man.

I shivered, upset and dispirited. How could he have clone such a thing? I began to cry, and I didn’t try to stop myself. Tears rolled down my cheeks and as they fell, I concluded that I needed to speak to Alverez.

To think that Barney had killed Mr. Grant in order to steal the Renoir. I shook my head, astonished that I hadn’t realized it before, and sickened at the thought.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

By the time Alverez called back, about an hour later, I’d remembered what Max had said about not volunteering information, and had thought better of telling him what I knew about Barney. Instead, I simply stuck with the original reason for my call and said that I was done with the research and had the pricing information he’d wanted.

“Can you meet in an hour?”

I glanced at the clock. It was only 9:30. “Sure,” I answered. “If Max can.”

“I’ll expect you here at ten-thirty then, unless I hear otherwise.”

“Okay,” I agreed, wondering whether I was imagining the urgency I perceived in his voice or whether, now that I had the information he needed, he was ready to act.

I reached Max at his office, and he told me that he could meet me at the police station at 10:30.

“Can we meet at ten-fifteen?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to you first.”

“Sure,” he said. “Our usual dune?” he asked in a joking tone of voice. “When we’re not in interrogation room two?”

I laughed. “Perfect.”

Passing through the office, I overheard Gretchen inviting someone on the phone who had, according to her, “an old set of flatware,” to stop by. An “an old set of flatware” could mean anything from two dozen fifteen-piece sterling silver place settings from Victorian England to a set of sixteen pieces of stainless steel from the ’70s.

Sasha and Fred were absorbed in a discussion about the use of a table’s height to validate its age. Sasha thought height was one of many factors that should be considered, but wasn’t a particularly reliable indicator.

“Not everyone in prior generations was short!” she argued.

“But all standard furniture was made as if they were,” Fred responded.

“So maybe the table was custom-made.”

“Well then, we would recognize that it was a custom piece, and consider whether the owner’s height was a factor.”

“What if someone simply sawed down the table legs?” she asked.

“What if the man in the moon made the table? Don’t be frivolous,” he said dismissively.

Frivolous? I repeated silently. Sasha? I shook my head, braced for her reaction. Not only was Sasha not frivolous-ever-but she took her work so seriously that any implication otherwise was more than an insult, it was an indictment. Tears, I figured. Or pained humiliation marked by long silences and an inability to meet Fred’s eyes ever again.

Instead, she chuckled. I stared, shocked that she’d laughed. “I wasn’t being frivolous,” she said, a bubble of laughter in her voice. “Facile, maybe. But not frivolous.”

Fred laughed, too. They were becoming friends. They shared rapport. Astonished, I shook my head. How little I knew of people, I mused.

“You both all set?” I asked, jumping in.

They turned to me as if they hadn’t really noticed that they weren’t alone.

“Yes,” Sasha said, blushing. “We’ll be going to the Grant house soon. Fred wanted to know if it was all right that he work evenings.”

“I’m kind of a night owl,” he explained.

“Sure,” I said, “no problem. How late do you think? Eleven? Midnight? Or are we talking all-nighters?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked uncomfortable. “I’ve been known to pull all-nighters. But I don’t want to guarantee it. And if it’s a problem…”

“No, not at all. I’m just thinking of how we can arrange to lock up.”

“I’ll be working alongside him, so I can take care of the alarm,” Sasha offered.

“Are you okay with the late hours?” I asked her.

Another blush. “Sure. It’s just for a few days, and that way, the work will get done faster.”

Satisfied that the building wouldn’t ever be left unprotected, I said, “Great. Then I’ll leave it to you to coordinate schedules and hours and lock up each night. Okay?”

Sasha nodded and smiled her little smile. Gretchen hung up the phone and I turned my attention to her. “I’m heading out. I expect to be back by, I don’t know, maybe by noon.” I shrugged and smiled. “Feel free to call if you need me.”

She looked as if she’d like to ask where I was going, but I pretended not to notice. I didn’t want to tell her I was, once again, meeting the police about a murder.

I hugged myself, shivering, as I waited for Max. The rain had stopped, but it was still overcast and the ocean was dark and rippling with two-foot swells. Seaweed had washed ashore overnight, and the sand was pockmarked from the pounding rain. With the gray sky and sharp wind, it felt more like fall than spring.

Max made his way across the street and joined me on the dune.

“Cold today,” he remarked.

“Raw,” I agreed.

“You have the price?”

“Yeah. I had to call New York and London, but I’ve got it.”

“Did you tell anyone why you were asking?”

“No. I stayed vague.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Are you ready for what Alverez is going to ask?”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But the research was just part of the plan.”

I nodded, but didn’t speak.

“Well,” Max said, sounding philosophical, “we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“There’s one more thing,” I said.

“What?”

“I think Barney killed Mr. Grant, and I think I know why,” I said, rushing to get it out.

Max turned to look at me. “What?”

I explained about Roy’s revelation, the call from the Taffy Pull, and how Barney and Paula were related.

“The Taffy Pull? What call? What are you talking about?”

I stared at Max for a stricken moment, then turned away to look out over the ocean and avoid his penetrating gaze. How could I have forgotten that he knew nothing about the research I’d done? In fact, he’d disapproved of conducting an outside investigation at all. Worse still, I realized I’d completely put my foot in my mouth. I couldn’t reveal anything, no matter how crucial, without betraying Wes’s confidence. And that was not an option.

I shrugged, trying for innocence. “I heard about the call, that’s all.”

“From whom?”

“Rumors spread, you know?” I shrugged again. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that,