Consigned to Death

“You want to take my fingerprints?” I asked.

“Yeah, we need to.”

“Why?” Max interjected.

“Because Josie was in the house looking at the contents carefully, touching everything, and we need to know which prints are hers.”

“We’ll consider it.”

“Come on, Max,” Alverez said. “Don’t drag it out. You know I can get a court order.”

Max looked at him for a moment, leaned over to me, and whispered, “Did you touch anything we don’t want them to know about?”

“No,” I answered softly, shaking my head in disbelief. “Max, I didn’t do anything wrong!”

He patted my arm again. “She’ll be glad to let you take fingerprints.”

“Let’s get it over with,” Alverez said, standing up.

“Then can I go?” I asked.

“Yeah, but we should plan on talking some more tomorrow.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Tomorrow I’ll know more about what’s going on. Will you be around?”

“Yeah, I’ll be working. I have an auction preview on Friday and our regular tag sale’s on Saturday.” I stood up and stretched.

“How about we touch base around noon?” he asked Max.

“Sure,” he said.

“What will happen then?” I asked, anxious for more information, dreading his answer all the same.

Alverez led the way to the main room as I spoke.

“By then I’ll know if I need to ask you some more questions,” he said.

Cathy was filling a coffee mug with water from a standing dispenser as we passed through the main room to a smaller area on the right. I watched her drink a little and return to her desk, ignoring us, as Alverez methodically took my fingerprints. Max stood nearby, watching the process, solemn and silent.

After I’d cleaned up, Alverez led us to the exit. He opened the front door and the rush of fresh chilly air felt good. I looked at him.

“Here,” he said to us. “Take my card. If you think of anything, call me.”

I slipped the card in my purse. Max put out his hand. “I’ll take one, too,” he said to Alverez. Turning to me, he added, “If you think of anything, don’t call him. Call me.”

Heading back to Portsmouth because I had nowhere else to go, I gave myself a mental shake. I felt lonely and afraid, and that would never do. Get over it, I told myself, and decided to go get a martini and drink to Mr. Grant, a decent man who’d died too soon. I called Gretchen and told her where I was going and why.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “Eric, Sasha, and I have everything under control.”

“Thanks, Gretchen. But there’s so much to do.”

“Sasha’s finished cataloguing the Wilson goods. She’s in the office doing some research.”

I could picture Sasha twirling her hair, biting her lip, concentrating as she read something on the computer. She’d earned a Ph.D. in art history, and research was her favorite part of the job.

“I might come back to work, I’m not sure.”

“No need,” she said, her instinct as a caretaker overtaking her business sense.

As I headed back to town I again began to cry. At first I thought I was crying about Mr. Grant, but then I realized his death was only a small part of it. Of course I was sorry that such a kind man had died, but after all, I hadn’t really known him, so my grief was about something else-probably, my father.

Even though nearly four years had passed since my father’s death, I still felt raw. I missed him every day. He’d been my best friend and only family. I was thirteen when my mother died of cancer, but that loss had been nothing like as hard as the sudden loss of my father. When my mother died, I’d been able to say good-bye.

I rolled down the window and the rush of bitter air helped chase away the blues. I smiled, remembering the exhilaration I’d felt when I landed the Frisco job right out of college, a dream come true. I told my father that as excited as I was, I hated the thought of leaving him behind in Boston, and joked that he ought to move to New York, too.

“Ah, Josie,” he said, “why would you even think about that? You’re moving to New York, not Mars.”

And so I went. Luckily, since my new career required that I navigate the complex and unfamiliar terrain of the antique business, he came to visit often, offering wisdom and support. In fact, for the next decade, he came almost monthly. We were a team, my dad and I.

Until his death left a black hole in my heart and a vacuum in my life. Even Rick, the man I was dating at the time, couldn’t help fill the void, and our relationship had faded to nothing within weeks of my father’s death.

I shook my head, recognizing how far I’d come. I could barely even remember what Rick looked like. And mostly, I could think of my father without tears. To a greater extent than I realized, it seemed, I’d moved on, yet that accomplishment was tinged with regret. Every step that brought me closer to ending mourning seemed to take me further away from my father.

“Oh, Dad,” I whispered aloud, holding tightly to the steering wheel. “Goddamn it. Talk to me. Tell me what to do.”

And after a moment or two, I concluded that my tears weren’t shed for either Mr. Grant or my father. I was crying for myself because I felt scared and powerless, like a wood chip floating down a river, pummeled by rocks and a current that couldn’t be controlled.

I was sitting at the Blue Dolphin bar trying to decide if I wanted to nibble or eat. Jimmy, the bartender, a chubby-cheeked, freckle-faced redhead, had offered another bowl of mixed nuts, but I was thinking that I wanted something more substantial. I took a bitter-sharp sip of my martini. I liked the way it felt to hold and drink out of a martini glass.

“I’ll take the shrimp cocktail,” I said. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

An old George Benson tune was playing softly. Three groups of people were concentrated near the bow windows that overlooked the Piscataqua River and Portsmouth Harbor. Their conversations were indistinct. The candles positioned along the bar turned my glass into a prism. I half watched as colors shifted when I moved the glass, but mostly I thought about the murder.

“Are you Josie Prescott?” someone asked, breaking into my reverie.

I turned on my barstool. A short, pudgy young man, who looked barely old enough to vote, stood beside me.

“Yes,” I answered. “I’m Josie.”

“Wes Smith,” he said, offering his hand.

I shook it, feeling puzzled.

“From the Seacoast Star,” he said. He fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to me.

“Really?” I asked, looking at it. According to the card, he was a reporter.

“Why are you surprised?” he asked.

“I’ve never actually spoken to a reporter before.”

“May I join you?”

I shrugged. “Sure,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling, and sat on the stool next to mine.

“How ya doing, Wes?” Jimmy asked as he approached. “What can I get ya?”

“Bring me a cup of coffee, okay?”

“You got it.”

“Quite a situation-the Grant murder, I mean,” Wes remarked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“So I have a couple of questions for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. Since you’re involved.”