Consigned to Death

troubled but willing. A man of intellect, I thought, most comfortable when he had a pen in his hand and time to think. Not a man of action.

By 6:30, the stage was set and, with the automatic taping in place, Alverez listening in from the front office, and Max standing nearby, I made the call.

I panicked when Barney answered the phone, thinking, Oh, my, you just called a murderer, but took a breath, and willing myself to sound composed no matter how I felt, I said, “Barney, it’s Josie.” My voice cracked, as if my mouth was dry. I cleared my throat and drank a sip of water.

“Hello, Josie,” he said, sounding plainspoken, neither cordial nor irritated.

“Barney, I found something I want to show you.”

“What’s that?”

“I can’t explain on the phone. I know it’s late, but can you stop by this evening?”

“Come to your location?”

“Yes.”

“You’re making it sound rather urgent,” he said, after a pause.

“Yes, it is. It’s something, well, it’s a special piece that I think you’ll want to buy.”

“What kind of piece?”

“It really would be better to talk in person,” I said, my words measured.

“Well, all right, you’ve succeeded in enticing me. I’ll be glad to stop by.”

I closed my eyes. Thank you, God, I said to myself. First hurdle, done.

“Good,” I asked. “What time is good for you?”

Another pause. “I have a dinner engagement at eight. How’s, say, seven-thirty?”

I glanced at my computer clock. “About fifty minutes or so from now, right?”

“Right.”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll see you then.”

I hung up the phone and tears of relief that the first ordeal was over welled up. I shut my eyes for a moment and was easily able to stem the flow. As I wiped away the last moisture from my cheeks, I heard Alverez clamoring up the spiral steps.

I looked toward the door as he entered, forced myself to smile, spread my hands, and said, “Any other little tasks you need doing?”

“Good job, Josie. That was perfect.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s just review the next phase. Where’s the key to the cabinet?”

“In my jeans.”

“Show me.”

I stood up, reached into my pocket, and extracted a shiny golden key.

“I think you should put it on your key ring. It’ll look more natural that way.”

I nodded and opened my purse, found my ring with its engraved Tiffany silver circle, a birthday gift from my dad, and added the gold-colored key. I slipped the ring into my pocket.

“Are you ready?” Alverez asked.

“Yes,” I said, and I almost believed it. “I am.”

“Max and the others are moving their cars out of sight. I want everyone in place by seven o’clock. Let’s go on downstairs.”

All of the cars except mine were to be parked at the truck-rental site. A police officer shuttled everyone back in an unmarked car, then left on his regular cruising detail. I followed Alverez down the spiral staircase, past the newly installed taupe-colored metal cabinet, and into the office. I sat at Gretchen’s desk.

Everyone returned and moved into their preassigned positions out of sight in the warehouse or upstairs. Max, who joined a police officer upstairs, looked worried. Alverez slipped into the closet near the coffee machine where we stored office supplies, closed the door but didn’t latch it, and silently we waited.

Too tense just to sit, I grabbed one of the books that Roy had sold us and began to research it. It was volume one of a twelve-volume, calf-bound, gold-tooled set of the complete works of Shakespeare, complete with hand- colored illustrations and gilt edges, published in 1804. There was minor foxing on several pages, nothing unexpected in a book more than two hundred years old. The leather needed cleaning-we mixed our own beeswax paste-but other than that, it was in near-perfect condition. I brought up a search engine and looked for comparable sets. After only about fifteen minutes, I realized we had a real find. It wasn’t unique, but it was a pretty set in wonderful condition.

I decided to start stockpiling fine books and bindings. With any luck, we’d be able to devote an entire auction to them next year. I typed up the catalogue entry, stating the expected price range as $575 to $650, printed it, inserted the paper in the front of volume one, and set it aside.

As I reached for the next book, I heard a car drive up and stop. My heart began to pound, and momentarily I felt as if I might faint. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I heard a car door close, then faintly, footsteps. I opened my eyes as Barney walked into the room.

“Josie,” he said, smiling, his eyes impervious, his manner stiff.

I stood up. “Thanks for coming, Barney. Especially on such short notice.”

“My pleasure.”

“Have a seat,” I invited, gesturing to the guest chair, where, not long ago, Mrs. Cabot had sat while she waited to offer me the appraisal job.

“I found the Matisse,” I said, jumping in.

“What Matisse?”

“It seems that Mr. Grant had three masterpieces, a Renoir, a Cezanne, and a Matisse.”

I could see the change in Barney’s eyes as his demeanor transitioned from professionally attentive to guarded and wary. He said, watching me closely, “You’re kidding! Mr. Grant?”

I shrugged. “It’s true. I’ve got the Matisse, and I’m offering it for sale. Knowing that you sometimes deal in fine art, I thought you might be interested.”

“May I see it?”

“Certainly. Come this way.”

I walked him into the area of the warehouse near the spiral staircase where we’d placed the cabinet, pulled out my key ring, and selected the right key. The unit stood about four feet tall. Two doors opened outward, revealing three deep shelves. It was empty except for the Matisse, laid flat.

Barney picked it up by the edges and looked at it. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“It would need to be authenticated,” he said.

I thought of Dr. Snow, the expert Alverez had brought down from Dartmouth who had, in fact, authenticated the paintings. I wondered if Barney had ever used his services. “Of course,” I said.

“Assuming it’s what it appears to be, I might be interested.” He continued to look at the painting. I had no sense of what he was thinking or feeling. “How much are you asking?”

“A quarter of a million.”

“That much?” Barney asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

I reached for the canvas and slid it back into the cabinet, locked the door, pocketed the key ring, and gestured that Barney should precede me into the office.

“Research it yourself. You’ll find that a quarter million is a bargain and a half.”

“Not on the private market.”

“Then say no.” I shrugged. “That’s my price.”

After a long pause, Barney said, “I can hardly believe we’re having this conversation, Josie.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“What about Mrs. Cabot?”

I shrugged, and, under the desk, out of sight, crossed my fingers. “The painting has blood on it. She knows it, and doesn’t care. I do. Think of me as a variation of Robin Hood.”

“How so?”

“I won’t let the rich get richer from thievery.”