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.”
“And yet, here you are-”
“I’m not rich, and I don’t suppose you are either.”
He snorted. “Hardly. People think we’re all rich.”
“They don’t know our costs.”
“Exactly.”
“Still,” I said, smiling, “it’s a living.”
He smiled back, but as he was about to comment, the phone rang, as arranged. Hattie, one of the police officers, was calling from upstairs.
“Hello,” I answered, “Prescott’s. May I help you?”
Hattie, pretending to be Sasha, asked me if it was all right to come over and do some work.
“When?”
“In an hour.”
I looked away from Barney, the better to maintain my part of the pretence. “Sure. That’s not a problem. How long do you think you’ll be here?”
Hattie faltered. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Okay,” I responded to the nonexistent answer. “Ten or ten-thirty? That’s fine. I tell you what, I’ll leave the alarm off tonight, okay? Tomorrow we can get Fred set up with a key and the code to the alarm.”
“Okay,” she said.
“See you in the morning!” I said brightly, and hung up. To Barney, I said, “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” he said, his eyes remote and calculating. “I was about to leave anyway. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?” He stood up, and headed for the door.
“By noon, okay?”
“What happens at noon?” he asked.
“I find another buyer.”
He looked at me, maybe to assess my veracity. I perceived agitation and anxiety in his demeanor, and it frightened me. I struggled to control an urge to back away from him, shifting my focus instead to watching as he evaluated his options and framed his response.
“Well, then,” he said, “I’ll do my best to get back to you by then.”
We shook hands, and I watched as he drove away.
Alverez’s plan had worked exactly as he’d expected. My work was done, and I felt the pressure subside.
I’d helped, it had been easy and straightforward, and it was over, so now I could relax.
I sensed, more than heard, Alverez approach. When I turned I saw that he was grinning. He reached out and squeezed my shoulder.
“Way to go, Josie,” he said.
I smiled back. “It was pretty easy,” I said.
Max came in, the worry lines gone. “How did it go?” he asked.
“Perfect,” Alverez said. “Now, git. Both of you. Out of here.”
It was a weird feeling to leave my warehouse in the hands of the police. I didn’t know what Alverez expected would happen. He wouldn’t say.
But assuming that Barney would break in and try to steal the painting, well, it was frightening to think about, and while I was glad I wouldn’t be there on-site, I knew that I’d be spending an anxious and sleepless night.
Max and I said our good-byes as I drove him to his car.
“I confess that I’m relieved our part is over,” he said. “I don’t think I’d make a very good spy.”
I laughed. “But you’d do a great job planning what the actual spies should do.”
He smiled, and sighed deeply. “I guess,” he acknowledged, stretching as best he could in the confined space. “But you, I think you might have to change careers.”
“Thanks,” I said, pleased at the compliment. “I admit it-I think I have a knack for deception.”