Consigned to Death (22 page)

“You going to be okay on your own tonight?”

I swallowed, fighting sudden tears. “You bet,” I said, aiming for perky.

He paused, then said, “If anything else occurs to you, don’t wait. Call me right away. Even in the middle of the night, okay?”

I shivered at the urgency conveyed by his words, and turned to look at him. In the glinty white moonlight, I could see the outline of his features, but not his eyes.

“Okay.”

“Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Take another card so you’ll have my number handy.”

I took it and slipped it into my purse. After a pause, I asked, “Do you know how the person got in?”

“Looks like they just popped the lock.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe it’s that easy.”

“Yeah,” Alverez said. “That lock is probably original to the house. A credit card would do it, no problem.”

“But the back lock requires a key.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Apparently Mr. Grant didn’t use the back door much, so he thought it ought to be secure.”

“Really? How can you know that?”

He paused, then said, “It’s what I do, actually. I find things out. Like, for instance, the grocery-store delivery folks always came to the front door, by request.”

I nodded. “Funny, isn’t it? We’re in the same business. We both are paid to find things out.”

“Yeah. Same, but different.”

“Yeah.” I thought about what he said about the lock. “Should I tell Mrs. Cabot to change the lock?”

“Absolutely. I plan on telling her, too. We’ll be providing security until we figure out what’s going on. But she might want to add more, like an alarm system. Until the contents are removed.”

“That’ll be pretty soon, I guess. In a week or so, probably Dobson’s will take control of everything and put it all in storage in New York. So they can do their own research.” After a short silence, I added, “Well, I guess I better go.”

“Will you be all right to get home?”

“Sure. I’m glad to be away from the Grant place, I’ve got to tell you.” As I spoke, I decided not to be alone there again. “When you said you’re going to be providing security, does that mean that you’re going to station men at the Grant house?”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Call me crazy, but I don’t really want to be there on my own again. And I don’t think I ought to let Sasha be alone there, either.”

“Makes sense. For the foreseeable future, I’ll have someone there.”

“Good. We’re scheduled to start the appraisal tomorrow morning. Will it be all right for us to enter?”

“Yeah, no problem. The technicians are just about done already. They’ll be out of here within an hour. I’ll tell the man on duty that you’re expected.”

“Thanks. Well, then ...”

“You need me,” he interrupted, “you call. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed, grateful for his attention, yet still feeling self-conscious about my emotional spectacle. He came around the car to hold the door for me as I jumped down from the SUV. When I had my motor running, I waved a quick “See ya,” and he nodded and stepped back. As I pulled out and drove north, I glanced in the rearview mirror, and saw him, standing still, watching me.

 

 

Home again after spending more than fifty dollars at the grocery store, I put on a CD of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
and made a martini. I broiled a hamburger and ate it with sliced tomatoes standing at the kitchen counter.

I was feeling better, more energized and less fearful. Even though it was approaching 10:00, I decided to proceed with preparing Monterey chicken. I was definitely not ready to rest, and it tasted better if it sat overnight in the refrigerator before baking anyway. I was grating Parmesan cheese for the bread-crumb mixture when Wes called.

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s meet tomorrow. Same time, same place, okay?”

“What do you have for me?” I asked.

“Another doughnut.”

“Please, God, no,” I said, understanding that he wasn’t going to give anything away on the phone. “Seven? At the beach?” I asked to confirm.

“Yup.”

“I’ll drive myself.”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“See you then,” I said.

I turned back to my butterflied chicken breasts, white-hot curious about what he had to tell me. While I prepared the recipe, I went over everything I knew about Mr. Grant’s murder and the missing paintings. Where would Mr. Grant have hidden the masterpieces? I wondered if I had walked past them secreted somewhere and not even known it.

I ran water over my hands, rubbing my fingers to rid them of the breading mixture I’d used to coat the rolled chicken breasts, and stretched the plastic wrap taut over the roasting pan. I smiled as I placed it in the refrigerator and saw a carton of eggs. Tomorrow, I’d bring breakfast and show Wes an alternative way to eat. I put water on to boil.

Twenty minutes later, hard-boiled eggs and fruit salad ready to go for the morning, I finished wiping down the counter, turned the dishwasher on, and with my mind still absorbed in thinking of possible hiding places, I went to bed.

But sleep eluded me. I was exhausted, yet fretful and exhilarated as well. Tossing and turning so relentlessly that I jelly-rolled myself in the sheet, I finally gave up and turned on the light.

I decided to read for a while, to try to relax. I selected a favorite romance that I knew well,
The Reluctant Widow,
by Georgette Heyer.

It didn’t work. I found myself staring into space, pages unturned, for minutes at a time. Suddenly, just before two in the morning, I found the answer I’d sought.

I put the book aside and sat up in bed. I had it. I thought it through, methodically working through the various issues involved. Satisfied, I nodded, convinced that I knew where the paintings were and how they were hidden.

And I had a plan to protect them.

I smiled, satisfied, and to the mournful whine of a screech owl, my still-active brain succumbed to my body’s fatigue, and at last. I slept.

 

 

When the alarm went off, I hit the snooze button repeatedly until I finally forced myself out of bed, dawn’s light seeping into the room through ill-fitting curtains. When I saw that it was after five, I panicked, and flew into the shower.

I planned to secure the missing paintings and set the protocol we’d use in the appraisal before meeting Wes, and that required that I get to the Grant house by 5:30.

I didn’t make it. It was closer to 5:45 when I pulled up in front. A police officer stepped out onto the porch as I got out of my car. He was one of the young men I’d seen at the Rocky Point police station during one of my interrogations, and he looked tired.

I started up the walk, smiled, and said hello. “I’m Josie,” I said.

He nodded. “Chief Alverez said you’d be coming by.”

“And you are? ...” I asked.

“Officer O’Hara.”

“May I enter?”

“Sure.” Officer O’Hara stepped aside and I went in.

“I’ve got to tell you,” I said to O’Hara, looking back with a smile, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

He looked surprised, as if he was more used to people objecting to him or something he was doing than he was to receiving thanks. Or maybe he thought I was being cagey, a murder suspect trying to lull a cop into believing in her innocence.

“I’ll stay out of your way, but I’ll be around,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Okay.” I shut the door, and through the window, I saw him sit on a bench and stretch his legs out in front of him.

I hurried into the study, turned on the lamps, and looked at the three Taverniers sitting side by side on the far wall, hanging from the crown molding on metal brackets. Reaching up, I lifted the painting closest to the door off its brackets, and gently lowered it until it rested on the carpet and against the wall. I examined the frame carefully, rotating the painting one turn at a time, carefully searching all sides. I twisted it so I could see the back, spotting nothing unusual in its construction, except that it was oversized, perhaps four or five inches deeper than it needed to be. The second Tavernier seemed to be constructed in the same way. I saw nothing odd. The third one, when I lifted it down, was noticeably lighter than the first two, and as soon as I positioned it against the wall, I saw a gap, as I expected.

The three-sided structure in the basement was designed to slip into the top of this frame like a drawer, sliding into place, meshing perfectly. No doubt, that was where the Renoir had been stored.

Returning my attention to the first painting, with its three-sided removable frame still in place, I tried to pry it loose. Nothing happened. I couldn’t see how to wedge it free. There was no handle or pulling device visible.

I unhooked my flashlight and leaning back on my heels, I examined the frame inch by inch, and there it was. On the top, in the center, was a tiny square plastic button, painted black to match the rest of the frame, and inlaid so perfectly, it was only by the closest examination that it ever would be found.

I pushed the button, and felt the spring-loaded apparatus nudge the top of the frame upward. Enough wood was now available that I could get a handhold and pull.

The frame was too large and heavy for me to extract standing up, so I laid the painting on the carpet and pulled it out that way. “Oh, my God,” I whispered as the Cezanne came into view. The cobalt blue and muted shades of orange and green were indescribably breathtaking. I shook my head, dazed.

I heard a scuffing sound, realized that Officer O’Hara could enter at any moment, and rushed to lay the other Tavernier down on the rug. I pushed the button releasing the hidden drawer and slid the Matisse out of its secret place. It was gorgeous, the perspective complex, and the colors vivid.

Both canvases lay flat against plywood backing, clamped at the top to hold them in place. I was easily able to release them, lift them out, and roll them up. Sliding the three-sided structures back in place, I left the paintings leaning against the wall.

As I passed through the hall, I was relieved to see O’Hara perched against a porch column, staring at the ocean, smoking a cigarette. I headed for the basement, cradling the two rolled paintings. I shivered a little as I entered the cooler, darker environment, whether from the chill of the cellar, the memory of yesterday’s panic attack, or the thrill of my discovery, I couldn’t tell.

I tenderly placed the paintings on the top of the leather truck, and squatted down to open the hard-to-find bottom drawer. It slid out smoothly, and unrolling the paintings, I laid them one on top of the other in the oversized space, closed the drawer, and ensured that the two handles were snuggled into their openings.

Standing, I realized that I’d been hyperventilating, and I forced myself to take several slow, calming breaths. I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I grabbed the three-sided frame from the workbench and held it upside down. Under the targeted beam of my flashlight, I could see the small spring. From the top, when nuzzled in place, it was essentially invisible. I carried it upstairs, inserted it into the opening in the third painting’s frame, and pushed it home.

I was done, and I sat down on the floor to catch my breath. “Whew,” I said aloud.

When I’d first examined Mr. Grant’s treasures, all three Tavernier frames were intact. I wondered what the police had thought when they’d looked at the gap. Probably nothing more than that a piece of a frame had broken off.

Last night, with sleep eluding me, I concluded that Mr. Grant had intended to destroy all three of the fabricated frames as soon as the stolen paintings had been sold, thus eliminating evidence of his deception. He’d taken the Renoir from its hiding place, and since he never intended that it would return to its home behind the Tavernier, he’d brought the three-sided frame to his workroom to demolish. No doubt he’d eventually expected to reframe the Taverniers, and I was willing to bet that somewhere, in the back of a closet, or in the attic, for instance, we’d find three traditional gilt frames ready to go.

I stood up, took a deep breath, and rehung all three paintings. It was exhausting.

I allowed myself a private grin and an “atta girl.” I brushed hair out of my eyes, excited that I’d discovered the missing paintings, and proud that I’d found a way to keep them safe.

But my pride was mitigated by icy fear. Another thought I’d had last night, as I’d struggled to sleep, was that maybe someone had killed Mr. Grant in order to have unfettered access to the Cezanne and the Matisse.

If Mr. Grant hadn’t liked how the negotiations over the Renoir had gone, and had decided not to proceed, killing him had been the only way of getting the art. Or maybe, I thought, Mr. Grant was killed not because he’d withdrawn his offer to sell the Renoir but because his death allowed the killer to avoid receiving only a small percentage of the proceeds of its sale. With Mr. Grant out of the way, the murderer could take it all. But only if he—or she—could locate the missing paintings.

It seemed obvious to me that the Renoir had been stolen at the same time that the murder occurred. What a disappointment it must have been for the murderer to realize that everyone seemed to know that the Renoir existed. Too risky to keep, and too risky to sell, it must have seemed clever to the killer to plant it at my warehouse in order to try to frame me for Mr. Grant’s murder.

I shook my head, sickened at the thought that someone could do such a thing to me. Whoever it was, I could imagine their growing frustration. The Renoir might be off limits, but if Mr. Grant had mentioned the other paintings, perhaps dangling them as a carrot during the negotiations, and if the killer hadn’t known that Mrs. Grant’s ledger would reveal the paintings’ existence to the police, the murderer might think he—or she—was sitting pretty.

Of course, a search couldn’t be undertaken while the house was under police custody as a crime scene, but as soon as the authorities unsealed it, someone had entered and had, apparently, started to hunt for the paintings while I was in the basement.