Noting my starting time, I quickly sorted through the American furniture catalogues that filled about a quarter of my bookshelves and found two clocks that were similar to Mr. Grant’s. One had been sold by a Florida dealer, Shaw’s Antiques, in 2003. Mark Shaw described it as “magnificent.” Barney’s firm, Troudeaux’s New Hampshire Auctions, had auctioned the second in 2002. M. Turner described the clock’s condition as “very good.” Which meant it wasn’t “magnificent.”
Most antique dealers used “excellent” or “mint” to indicate pristine condition, but some were more poetic, and used terms like “magnificent.” The bottom line was that there was no standardization in the industry, so it was important for buyers to know how a dealer used words. “Magnificent” implied perfection. “Very good” usually meant there was some minor or normal wear.
Shaw’s had estimated that the clock would sell for $9,000 and it had actually sold for $10,300. Troudeaux’s had expected the clock to bring in $10,500, so its sales price of $6,750 must have been a huge disappointment. That was quite a spread-the Florida clock fetched $3,550 more than the one Barney sold.
Big differentials in prices between two similar items usually reflected differences in quality-which was, I knew from experience, impossible to define precisely. In this case, however, it seemed obvious why Shaw’s clock did so much better. First, it was in better condition than the one Barney sold. Second, according to Shaw’s description, the clock had been owned by a former governor of Georgia. That kind of connection often led to higher prices. Prestige by association. Besides which, Barney’s estimate might reflect wishful thinking or whimsy. His firm’s research was always suspect; whether from indifference or sloppiness, his estimates were wrong more often than they were right.
Searching through the Web sites we subscribed to, I found another similar clock, described as being in “excellent condition.” It had sold at a Pennsylvania auction six months ago within its range. Estimated to fetch between $7,000 and $8,500, it had brought in $8,100.
From a low of $6,750 to a high of $10,300. Calculating both the average and the median, and considering the effect of condition and the Georgia governor’s prior ownership, I estimated that Mr. Grant’s clock should sell for $7,000 to $9,000. Maybe more if Dobson’s got lucky.
I typed out the description, including the estimated price range, and glanced at the clock on my computer. From first look at my bookshelves to the completed catalogue entry, half an hour. Not bad. In a separate document, I specified the details of my calculation.
The protocol was set: I would require that we research three sales of comparable items within the last five years. I e-mailed the file to Gretchen and Sasha, and printed out a copy for me to take. I smiled with satisfaction. Step one of the appraisal, done.
I called Wes en route and told him that I was running late.
It was twenty after seven when I pulled to a stop behind Wes’s old Toyota. He was leaning against the hood, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
“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?”