Consigned to Death (33 page)

It didn’t take long to find the information I needed. There were loads of comps. The trunk’s silky-soft leather was a sign of the quality of its construction, and its unusually large size and remarkable condition set it apart from similar pieces. I estimated that it would sell for between $1,750 and $2,000.

Eric arrived just as I was finishing writing it up. He called out a general hello, and I shouted back that I’d be right down.

“Hey, Eric,” I said as I hurried down the steps, “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

“Yeah, if we stay this busy you’re going to have to schedule staff meetings so we see each other.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears!” I said, laughing. “Are you ready?”

“Yup. I just got to pick up the money and the paperwork.”

“I’ll get you the money. Just give me a minute.”

I went to the safe and counted out a dozen hundred-dollar bills. We’d need to replenish our cash reserves soon. Returning to the office, I handed the money to him. He was swift to insert the bills in the envelope containing the inventory and a receipt that Gretchen had prepared, but I stopped him.

“Count it, Eric.”

“Ah, Josie, I know you’re not going to screw me over.”

“Right. But everybody makes mistakes. Even me.”

“Nah. Don’t believe it.”

“I’m flattered, but indulge me. Always count money, Eric. And always read papers before you sign them. I shouldn’t have to tell you this over and over again. When you accept money, you’re responsible. Take it seriously.”

“I do,” he said, almost, but not quite, whining.

“I know you do, theoretically. But I’m focused on practicality. Remember the old saying, ‘Trust, but verify’? Well, do that every time. Always ... even with me, Eric. Trust, but verify.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, not quite casting his eyes heavenward, but acting as if he wanted to. He counted the bills, grinned, and said, “See, I knew it would be right.”

“This time.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

“Go,” I told him, shaking my head and smiling, “I’ll see you later. And don’t forget to count the damn ducks!”

 

 

Since all I wanted to do was talk to Alverez, everything I did felt like busywork. I wanted an update. I wanted to know the details about what was happening. Instead, I was in limbo, waiting and wondering. Curiosity and anxiety consumed me, and, as a result, I had trouble focusing.

Fred arrived as I was considering my options. Wearing a gray sweater vest and black jeans, he looked ready for whatever came his way, office work or rolling on the floor examining the bottoms of furniture.

“Is Sasha here?” he asked.

“Not yet. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.”

He got settled at the spare desk, and I decided to go to the Grant house and do some appraisal work. Sasha would, I was certain, arrive soon to cover the office, and if not, well, we had voice mail. I told Fred not to worry about the phone, gave him my cell phone number, just in case, and asked him which room I should work on at the Grant house.

He consulted his notes, thought about it, and finally suggested that I start on a small room on the top floor that had been used, apparently, as a sewing room. I grabbed a notebook and my purse, and left.

Max called as I drove. “When I called before, I left a message for Alverez,” he explained, “asking whether it was all right for you to tell Mrs. Cabot that the paintings had been found. I just got a call back with his answer—yes. That’s it. No other information or news.”

“Thanks, Max,” I said. We ended the call by agreeing that our curiosity about what Alverez was doing—and with whom—was white hot and growing.

When I arrived at the Grant house, I saw that O’Hara, the police officer who’d kept an infuriated Andi at bay while Alverez entered the house with me, was sitting on the porch steps smoking a cigarette. He stood as I approached and we exchanged greetings.

Ten minutes after I entered the sewing room, while rummaging through loose photos stuffed in the bottom drawer of a tallboy, I found a picture labeled on the back, “Us and Arnie Zeck, Paris, 1945.” Mrs. Grant’s ledger had stated that the Renoir, the Cezanne, and the Matisse had all been purchased from someone or something called A.Z. It wasn’t much of a stretch to conclude that I was looking at the man who’d sold the Grants paintings that had been stolen from Jewish families.

I sat back on my heels and studied it. The grainy black-and-white image showed three people, two men and a woman, sitting at a table near a grass tennis court, drinks in hand, laughing. All three appeared healthy, happy, and carefree. Neither of the men looked familiar, and I wondered whether one of them was Mr. Grant, and if so, which one.

I sorted through the rest of the photographs. They were a jumble, and I doubted that they had any market value. I put them aside to send to Mrs. Cabot.

I turned my attention to the Chippendale-style walnut tallboy. It was beautifully built. Lying on my side to better examine the lower portion of the piece in detail, I noted restoration to the ogee feet. I’d already noticed that several spots along the fluted, canted corners were slightly nicked. Still, it was a bold and desirable piece, dating from the 1770s, and I expected that it would sell for more than $3,000. If it hadn’t been restored, it might have been worth twice that.

I finished jotting down the imperfections and thought about calling Mrs. Cabot. According to my cell phone, it was 9:30, a reasonable time to call. I stood up, stretched, and walked across the room to stand at the window and look out at an unobstructed view of the ocean.

I found her number where I’d written it in my calendar, and thought about what I wanted to say. After a moment of indecision, I realized I was in deep avoidance mode. I didn’t want to make the call. I didn’t want to deliver more pain to that nice, stoic woman. When I’d faced the fact that my father was dead, I’d been in shock, ragged with emotion, unable to focus on anything except my incalculable loss. If she was like me, she wouldn’t even register that the paintings had been located, and if she did, she wouldn’t care.

I wondered if she knew about Andi. With her father just dead, murdered, she was, no doubt, overwhelmed with grief. How could she bear knowing that her daughter was the killer? I shook my head, weighed down at the thought of the anguish she must be enduring.

Still, she had to be told that I’d found the paintings. The stolen art had to be returned. Do it, I told myself.
Talk to her, and, as Max suggested, follow her lead
. If she didn’t want to know the details, I wouldn’t force them on her.

I dialed, and after six rings, I got an answering machine. I made a fist and soft-punched the window frame. Having girded myself to speak to her, it was a real disappointment to get a machine. I closed my eyes again, and focused on the message.

“Mrs. Cabot,” I told the machine, “this is Josie Prescott. I found both the Cezanne and the Matisse, and I have important news about them. I look forward to filling you in. You can reach me on my cell phone anytime.” And I gave my number.

I felt satisfied with my message, and it was only when I noticed that my hands were trembling that I realized how hard that call had been to make. I hated disappointing people that I cared about. And, it seemed, I’d come to care about Mrs. Cabot.

I turned my attention to a small sampler hanging on the back wall, but before I reached it, Mrs. Cabot called me back.

“I’m sorry I missed your call,” she said. “I stepped outside for a moment.” She sounded the same as always, polite and pleasant.

“No problem. Thanks for calling back so quickly.”

“Chief Alverez called as well, but he wasn’t available when I tried to reach him back. By any chance ... do you know if he has news?” she asked.

My throat constricted and my heart began to race. I swallowed twice, panicked, uncertain what to say. Max’s standing instructions came to me. Tell the truth and give short answers. And the truth was that I didn’t know anything. Speculation wasn’t fact.

“No, I don’t know anything.” I gripped the phone, hoping she wouldn’t ask additional questions. Poor Mrs. Cabot.

“He’s very good about staying in touch,” she remarked. “I’ll try him again when we’re done talking.”

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

There was a long pause. “All right. This is a difficult time.”

“Yes,” I agreed. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted her to know how much I’d liked her father, and that he’d been laughing and seeming to enjoy life in the days before his death. I determined to write her a note. The sympathy cards people had sent me had provided great comfort, more so than spoken words. When they’d talked to me, I’d had to respond, to hold up my end of the conversation, and during those first weeks, that had proven impossible. Reading meaningful recollections, though, had consoled me.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cabot,” I said, finally.

After a pause, she said, “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, well ... you said in your message that you found the two paintings?” she asked.

“Yes. They were hidden here in the house, quite cleverly.”

“Where are they now?”

I swallowed. “The police have them.”

“For safekeeping?”

“Well, not exactly,” I said, hating that I had to be the one to tell her.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems that there’s no clear proof of ownership, I’m afraid. In fact, I have to tell you that I have reason to believe they’re stolen.”

“I see,” she said in a tone so low I could barely hear her. She cleared her throat and I could picture her troubled eyes. “I thought as much.”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

“No, no, don’t be. I’ve been troubled by the thought for more than forty years. Certainty is always better than speculation. From whom were they stolen?”

I wondered if her suspicions about the paintings had led to the argument with her parents forty years ago, but I didn’t want to ask. Instead of trying to find out what might have happened when she was a girl, I answered her question directly. “My research suggests that they were taken from three different Jewish families before or during World War Two. Probably by the Nazis.”

I heard her inhale. “How awful.”

“Yes. They were all sold, apparently, by a man named Arnie Zeck.”

“Arnie Zeck. He was a friend of my parents. They knew him in Europe. I’ve seen photos.”

“Yes, there’s one mixed in with a bunch of others in a drawer of the tallboy in the sewing room.”

“I never knew. ...” she started, her voice trailing off.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I should have investigated those paintings’ histories myself. Instead I kept quiet. More shame on me. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, ‘The cruelest lies are often told in silence.’ I’ve kept many secrets in my life out of misplaced loyalty.” She laughed derisively.

I didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Cabot continued speaking before I had to decide how to respond. “No more,” she said. “I decided not to enable my daughter in her drug abuse either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I arranged an intervention last night.” Her voice cracked with emotion, but I also heard pride of accomplishment. It was a long moment before she continued. “I convinced Andi to drive down with me yesterday. When we got home, I surprised her with the intervention.”

My mouth fell open. I was astonished. More than astonished, I was shocked.

I’d persuaded myself that Andi was guilty of murder—of killing her own grandfather. To learn otherwise was staggering, and I had trouble focusing on the conversation with Mrs. Cabot. Alverez’s message was clear—he’d referred to the suspect as “her.” If it wasn’t Andi he had in custody, who was it? I was speechless, yet I needed to react. What had Mrs. Cabot said? An intervention? She’d arranged an intervention? I shut my eyes, leaned against the window frame, and forced myself to concentrate. With my mind still reeling, I asked, “What was it like?”

“It was extremely emotional. The professionals from the rehabilitation facility coordinated everything. We invited several of her friends from New York, and we all told her the truth.”

“What was her reaction?” I asked, unable to imagine anything less than a calamitous explosion.

“She was upset,” Mrs. Cabot said, in what I assumed was yet another example of understatement.

“What happened?”

“She decided to try and get over her addiction.” Her voice cracked again. “You know, perhaps, that the goal of an intervention is that the addict immediately admits herself to the program. Thank God, she agreed.” I could sense the fear behind her words, and my heart went out to her.

“You must be so relieved,” I said.

“I am.” She stopped, her wrenching emotion palpable. She cleared her throat and when she spoke again, it was in the calm, pleasant voice I’d come to expect. “It’s only the first step, of course, in what will be, no doubt, a very difficult process. But at least it’s a step in the right direction.”

I shook my head. Having seen Andi in action, I was a non-believer, yet I needed to say something positive. I gazed out the window toward the ocean. Under the cement-colored sky, the ocean looked bleak, seaweed dark, a green deeper than bottle green, and endless.

Nothing positive came to mind. I wondered whether Andi had any sense of the anguish her actions caused others. Finally, I said, “It must have been very hard for you.”

She paused. “Yes, well, I suppose so. But I am confident that I won’t be in this position again. If nothing else, my recent liberation from the conspiracy of silence precludes it.”

We agreed to talk in a day or two about the appraisal.

Hanging up the phone, I stayed at the window for a long moment, watching the forbidding-looking ocean, trying to make sense of what I’d learned.

Since last evening, Andi was in rehab somewhere in the Boston area. I shook my head. If she was in a secure location, who then, did Alverez have in custody? I felt the icy chill of uncertainty wash over me again.