Whew. Definitely crystal.
“Chief Alverez,” I whispered from inside. “I have relevant information.”
He leaned his head sideways, indicating that he’d heard me and understood my message.
“Wait here. O’Hara, keep her on the porch. Got it?”
I heard a grunt of affirmation.
“Stay here,” Alverez told Andi. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He swung around and strode inside, and led the way to the kitchen. “What?”
“Having fun with Andi?” I asked, smiling.
“Not now, Josie,” he said, half smiling. “Tell me what you know.”
I became all business, matching his mood. “I just got off the phone with Mrs. Cabot. She’s reaffirmed that she wants me to complete the appraisal and has asked that you keep Andi out of the house. She explicitly stated that Andi has no rights or power in this situation.”
He nodded. “Thanks. What’s her number?”
I didn’t bother to resend it. Instead, I got my cell phone, hit the Redial button, and told him to ask for room 319. I leaned against the sink and listened.
“Mrs. Cabot?” he asked. “Yes… This is Chief Alverez… Ms. Prescott told me of your conversation… Yes… I wanted to hear it from you… No… no… Are you sure?… Okay… What about?… I understand… Do you want her on the property at all?… Got it… I’m sorry to disturb you… Yes… Yes… No… That’s all right… Is there anything else?… All right, then… Thank you… Yes… I’ll do my best… Good-bye.”
He handed me the phone and headed out, brushing my shoulder as he passed, a kind of connection, hinting at intimacy.
I followed him and stood just inside the door with my back to the outside wall, out of sight, leaving the porch door open about two inches, wide enough so I could eavesdrop, but not open enough so I’d be seen.
Alverez said, “No, you can’t come in. No, you can’t have the Renoir. That’s it. If you don’t like it, sue someone. But you have to get off the property now.”
I made a teeth-clenching face to the empty hall. Very impressive.
“I’ll sue you,” Andi screeched.
“And the New Hampshire courts,” Alverez answered, his voice calm, not a hint of sarcasm apparent. “Don’t forget them. They’re the ones that issue probate rulings.”
Without another word, Andi pulled away and tore down the path. The small Asian driver I’d seen with Mrs. Cabot dashed around the Town Car and beat her to the back door before she got there. He opened it, and she charged in headfirst, fleeing from I didn’t know what, but looking for all the world as if she were hunted.
It took about 15 minutes to reassure Sasha that everything was okay. Alverez told me that Griff would relieve O’Hara at 10:00, and that he’d be on duty until 4:00.
“Do you understand what’s going on with Andi?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “She’s pissed.”
“But why?”
“What do you think?”
I paused, uncertain whether to open up, and well aware that Sasha was within earshot. I shrugged. “I think she’s eager to get money.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “That much, at least, seems clear.”
We finished our conversation, neither of us revealing anything that the other one didn’t already know, and he left.
Stepping into the living room, I found Sasha on the floor, using a flashlight to examine the underside of the inlaid chess table Mrs. Grant had bought in Boston half a century ago.
“You’re okay?” I asked.
“This is incredible workmanship,” she said reverentially.
“Yeah,” I agreed. She started to slide out from under. “Don’t get up. I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking off.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding fretful.
“You have your cell phone, right?”
“Yes.”
“Call if you need me,” I said, sounding chipper. “And a police officer will be around. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Keep your phone nearby. I’ll call in a while.”
“Okay.”
At the front door, I looked back, and she was already absorbed by her task, examining the table’s dovetail joints, searching for a Maker’s Mark, and as always, alert for telltale signs of refinishing.
I called Gretchen on my way back to Portsmouth. Knowing her penchant for gossip-celebrity and otherwise-I wasn’t surprised at her prodding questions about the Grant situation, and deflected them easily. All I told her was that I had left Sasha hard at work. Neither Andi nor Alverez’s names came up. I asked what was going on and she told me that she hadn’t reached Don, the recruiter I was counting on to send us a research assistant, but had left an urgent message with his secretary. Other than that, all was well. She was busy reconciling the receipts from the auction and the tag sale, and had just confirmed my appointment with the professor.
An English literature professor from the University of New Hampshire was retiring and wanted to sell his collection of books. Roy, the picker who’d called on Saturday with an offer of rare books, had let us down. He’d never shown up, and we didn’t have a clue why. Probably another dealer had nabbed him en route. It happened all the time. So another lead on books, even if they weren’t particularly valuable, was good news. Inventory was low. And buyers expected to see fresh stock every time they came to shop. If they didn’t see new goods, they stopped coming.
At the warehouse, I said hello to Gretchen on the fly, grabbed the keys to the company van, and left. The van was old and blue, and clean and serviceable. I’d bought it for $3,000 when I’d first arrived in Portsmouth, a bargain at the time, and now, 110,000 miles later, an unbelievable find. It took us to book and antique fairs and buys without complaint, but it was a struggle to drive because it lacked power steering and was an absolute bear to park.
I found the professor’s address on Ceres Street without a problem. There was even a space available pretty close to the single-family row house where he lived. It took me ten minutes to inch my way into the spot. It was a nightmare, but I did it.
The professor greeted me cordially and led me straight into his den. A brief conversation and quick perusal revealed that there were no leather-bound volumes or first editions of note. It wasn’t a collection of rare books, it was a book-lover’s assortment of what are referred to as reading copies, undistinguished volumes of no particular value.
I randomly checked several books’ title pages to confirm that there were no book club volumes, which, except on rare occasions, have no resale value. Finding none, I was ready to make an offer. I did a quick estimate by counting ten volumes to a shelf, six shelves to a unit, and fourteen units; 840 books. None of which would sell for more than a few dollars, most of which wouldn’t sell at all.
The professor stood nearby, watching me work, his hands latched behind him. He looked sad. I needed to gauge his mood before I could begin to negotiate.
“Are you looking forward to retiring?” I asked. “North Carolina, right?”
“Well, young lady,” he said, “it’s one thing to think about retiring and plan for it, and another thing altogether to sort through thirty-five years of possessions, donate clothes that haven’t fit you for a decade, or sell books you love to a stranger. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” I said, and smiled. “I think moving is the hardest thing in the world under the best of circumstances, and it’s harder still when you have mixed feelings about doing it.”
“Exactly.” He sighed.
“I think you’re going to be disappointed in my offer, but as an expert in English lit, you know there’s nothing special here. That doesn’t mean you don’t love the books, but there’s nothing that has a lot of resale value.”