“Sorry I’m late,” I said, hurrying to join him, the bag of food in my hand.
“If only you knew what I know, you would have been on time,” Wes said, popping a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.
“Don’t be a tease, Wes. Tell me.”
“Let me turn on the radio.”
“Wes, you’re not still thinking I’m wired, are you?”
He chuckled, a snorting sort of sound, and ate more nuts. “Nah, but I got news, and I’m not taking any chances.”
Wes sat down, and leaving the car door open, turned on the motor and punched a button for an oldies station. I got settled in the passenger seat and pulled plastic-wrapped hard-boiled eggs out of the bag, laid out napkins on his dusty dashboard, and handed him a plastic fork.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Food,” I answered. “You ought to try it sometime.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I looked in the back of your car, remember? I ate your doughnut. You don’t eat food. You eat junk. An egg and fruit salad. That’s food.”
He looked skeptical. “Thanks,” he said, but made no move to eat.
I unwrapped my share and took a bite of egg.
He gestured that I should lean closer. Accompanied by the familiar, gotta-dance rhythm of “Under the Boardwalk,” he whispered, “Barney kept the three P.M. appointment at Mr. Grant’s house. Alverez was the one who told him about the murder.”
Either Barney was telling the truth and had called the night before to change his appointment from 9:00 to 3:00 or he was lying, and had called for some other reason altogether.
Goose bumps rose on my arms as I had the startling realization that maybe Barney had shown up at 9:00 and killed Mr. Grant. There was plenty of time for him to cover his tracks. It was simple. All he had to do was leave and return at 3:00, pretending he was there for his rescheduled appointment.
I stepped out of the car and walked a few steps, starting up the dune, wanting to see the ocean. I watched the frothy waves make rivulets as they rushed along the sand.
Wes stepped out of the car, and called, “What are you doing?”
After a moment, I came back and sat down again.
“What do you think?” Wes asked, watching me consider options.
“Interesting,” I said.
“That’s one of those comments…”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Interesting,’” he said, mocking me. “Don’t give me that. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that it’s interesting,” I insisted, aiming to look and sound sincere. “What do you think I mean?”
“Give me a break.”
I shook my head. I took out my plastic container of fruit salad, popped the lid, and ate some pineapple and cantaloupe pieces. “Anything else?” I asked.
Wes sighed loudly. “You owe me. You know that, don’t you? You owe me big.”
“Wes, you and I both know we owe each other. You’ll get yours.”
“I better. That’s all I’ve got to say. I better.”
“You will. So, what else?”
He sighed again. “What the hell. You know those two business calls?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Mr. Grant’s doctor and the Taffy Pull.”
“Right. Well, the doctor made that call to tell Mr. Grant about the results of some tests he’d taken a week earlier.”
“And?” I prodded.
“And,” he said, drawing it out, enjoying his moment, “Mr. Grant received a diagnosis of late-stage pancreatic cancer.”
“You’re kidding! That’s terrible.”
“Yeah. Apparently, it’s terminal about ninety-six percent of the time. It looks like Mr. Grant had only weeks or months to live.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. That’s so sad.”
I felt unsettled, hearing yet another example of my not being able to trust my instincts. The older I got, the more I realized that the chasm that exists between perception and reality is huge. I shook my head, disheartened at the thought. I pictured Mr. Grant standing in his kitchen, jovial and lively. It was hard to think that at that moment, he’d been deathly ill. Sadness swathed me like fog clouding a distant view. Taking a deep breath to clear my mind, I looked up and saw Wes waiting for me to speak.
“When was that call made?” I asked.
Wes pulled out his much-used notepaper. “March twelfth.”
I nodded. “Just before Mr. Grant called me. That must be why he decided to sell everything-and why he wanted to move so quickly.”
“Makes sense,” Wes acknowledged. “But what does it mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to understand everything I can.”
“How about you? What have you learned?”
It seemed low risk to confide that I’d been retained by Mrs. Cabot. It wasn’t a secret, and if he published it, I’d get some good press. “You didn’t get this from me. All right?”
“Sure. What?”
In a hushed voice, I told him what Mrs. Cabot hired me to do, sticking to the in-the-open reasons: to verify, authenticate, and value the estate.
Impressed, Wes shook his head a little, and whistled. “What a coup. What are you going to do about Troudeaux?”
“What do you mean?”
“Good ol’ Barney’s gonna be pissed.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but he might be right. “It’s just business,” I said with a dismissive shrug.
“You wish,” Wes responded with a grimace.
If he was right, it was a real problem because Barney had the power to hurt me. A rumor here, an innuendo there, and my business would be ruined. Just in case Barney would resent that I won the job, I had to anticipate and block an attack. I remembered my father talking to me about barriers to competition, and tried to recall what he’d said.
The echoing, lonely sound of a sea gull startled me. I looked up and saw it spike and dive.
“What do you think?” Wes asked, recalling me to the conversation.
“You might be right,” I admitted. “So I’d better prepare for the fallout, huh?”
“What can you do?”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”
“Let me know, huh? It might make for a good story.”
“Wes, you’re something else.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. You’re like an ambulance chaser, you know, looking for ways to find a nicely battered accident victim.”
“Man, you’re brutal in the morning, aren’t you? All I’m doing is my job. I don’t make anyone a victim, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged and smiled a little. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Nothing personal, anyway. It’s a comment on the breed, not on you as an individual, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever. Back to the subject at hand… Don’t forget-when you find the Matisse and the Cezanne, I’m your first phone call, right?”
I thought for a moment about what to say. I needed to remember how I’d felt before I found the paintings, and consider how I would have acted around a reporter. I looked back toward the rising dunes. Upbeat and noncommittal, I decided. “Keep your fingers crossed that I find them,” I said, trying to for a casual tone.
“And then you’ll call me, right?”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
“Why not? I’m the guy that clued you in to Mrs. Grant’s ledger, remember? You owe me.”
“I’ll tell you what I can when I can. And that’s a promise.”
He sighed loudly and tried to look hurt. I laughed. “Wes,” I added, “you’re a hoot and a half.”
“A ‘hoot and a half’?” he asked. “What’s that?”
“You’re a good reporter. Persistent. But we’re done now. Unless you learned anything about the Taffy Pull phone call.”
“Not yet.”
“How about who left that fingerprint in Mr. Grant’s house?”
He shook his head. “Still unidentified.”
We shook hands, and agreed to talk if and when.