"Wow."

"Yeah, a little a.n.a.l, wouldn't you say?"

"She probably grew up poor. You know what I mean ... like how for some people who survived the Depression, watching pennies was a way of life."

"Yeah, whatever. The point is, she listed everything in big ledgers. By category, in chronological order by date of acquisition."

"So?"

"So the police experts have accounted for everything on the ledger except two things."

"What?"

"Two paintings-one by Cezanne and one by Matisse."

"You're kidding!" I exclaimed.

"Nope."

"What paintings?"

Consulting his notes, he said, "Apples in a Blue Bowl with Grapes. That's the Cezanne. The Matisse is called Note-dame in the Morning."

I shook my head. "Think about it ... a Renoir, a Cezanne, and a Matisse."

"Good taste, huh?"

"When were they purchased?"

"September of 1945."

"Where?"

Wes shook his head. "Only initials. Apparently Mrs. Grant used a kind of shorthand. I guess since she knew where they bought things, she didn't bother spelling everything out." He shrugged. "According to my source, the paintings were purchased from an 'A.Z.' "

I nodded. "Sounds like a private party. You know, some person's initials. Were all three paintings bought at the same time?"

"Yeah."

"It's hard to picture, isn't it? At the end of the war, with everything going on, can you imagine buying art?"

"Who knows the circ.u.mstances? Things were completely chaotic over there. Maybe the Grants were helping a friend by taking the paintings off his hands when he needed hard cash, not art."

I nodded, letting Wes think he was making a valid point. I was willing to bet that the Cezanne and the Matisse would be on the Swiss Web site's listing of pillaged art, alongside the Renoir, and flirted with the idea of telling him about it. I decided to stay quiet. My knowledge of the Renoir's provenance was the only leverage I retained. Once revealed, its usefulness was gone. At some point, I might need to parlay what I knew for something, so it made no sense to offer it for free. Right now I had nothing to gain and, potentially, everything to lose.

"Maybe," I answered finally. "How much did they pay?"

"Ten thousand each. In U.S. dollars. Cash."

"Wow. They paid in cash?"

"Right. I bet most transactions in Europe at the end of the war were in cash."

"That makes sense. But would they be in U.S. dollars?"

"I guess the U.S. dollar was primo even back then."

"Interesting," I mused. "But only ten thousand dollars? Even for sixty years ago that sounds like a bargain. I wonder how much that would be in today's dollars?"

"I looked it up," Wes said, unfolding his paper to check the figure. "Close to a hundred grand. Each."

"That's unbelievable."

"Cheap, huh?"

"Just a little," I responded, opening my eyes wide and shaking my head, astonished.

"How much are they worth today?"

I shrugged. "I'd need to do research to be sure. There are lots of variables. But in 1999, a Cezanne sold at auction for more than sixty million."

Wes stared, disbelieving. "You're kidding."

"No. So if you bought a Cezanne for a hundred thousand dollars today, it would be fair to say that you got, ahem, a good buy."

"But we don't know the going price for a Cezanne back then."

"No," I acknowledged. "If I remember right, though, in the mid-1940s, a master would have sold for something like a few hundred thousand dollars."

"In other words, it's safe to a.s.sume that ten thousand dollars was low."

"Probably, but not necessarily. Sometimes art appreciates exponentially, sometimes prices stay flat, and sometimes, prices even decline. It's pure capitalism. Art sells for what a buyer will pay, and no more." I shrugged. "The bottom line is that there's no way to tell without extensive research what Cezannes sold for back then."

"If it's that complicated, how do you set prices?"

"Recency is a big factor. I can do a good job of accurately predicting today's values by looking at sales of similar items over the recent past-unless something has occurred to impact value-up or down. For instance, if a great artist's studio burns to the ground along with half of his works, whatever still exists is likely to shoot up in value. On the other hand, if an artist painted in a certain genre or style that falls out of favor, who knows why, the marketability of the paintings might plummet. That said, if all things are equal, the fact that a Cezanne sold for sixty million dollars in the last few years tells me that a similar piece is likely to go for many millions now-even if sixty million dollars is an aberration. But there are so many other factors to consider-provenance, historical value, condition, and so on." I flipped a hand. "The point is that not knowing what Cezannes typically sold for during the war, I have no way of knowing whether the Grants got a bargain or not."

He nodded. "And the Matisse? How much would it have sold for?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. A lot."

Wes leaned back and soft-whistled. "The things we don't know about our neighbors."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"Where do you figure the Grants got thirty thousand dollars cash back then?"

"Who knows? Didn't you tell me Grant came from money?"

"Successful ranchers, yeah, that's true," he agreed, and stretched. "So, what do you think?" he asked, putting his square paper away in an inside pocket. He smiled and half winked. "Did I earn my exclusive?"

"If we forget the winklike thing you just did ... yes."

"What 'winklike thing'?" he asked, sounding hurt.

"That thing you just did with your eye."

"That wasn't a 'winklike thing,'" he protested. "That was a suave move." He waved his hand dismissively. "Forget about it. So? Did I do okay?"

"Yeah. Wes, you did more than okay," I said, meaning it. He'd done an amazing job of discovering facts and uncovering hidden memories, and he'd done it quickly. I was impressed.

With a lopsided grin, he reached up to high-five me, and I looked to the sky, embarra.s.sed, but high-fived him back. Jeez Louise, kids today.

"Ready?" he asked.

"You bet."

He stood up, scooped up my mostly uneaten doughnut with a napkin, and dropped it in the Playmate while I shook sand from the blanket. We made our way through the shifting sand to the dunes. As we approached the street, the CD player still on, Frank Sinatra began singing "They Can't Take That Away from Me."

The drive back to Portsmouth was as bad as the drive to the beach had been. Wes jumped a red light in the center of the small downtown, and as I braced myself for the inevitable quick stop that I was certain would follow, we pa.s.sed a sliver of store-front called the Taffy Pull, the candy store that had come up in Mr. Grant's telephone records. Funny, I thought, that I'd never noticed it before. I didn't have much of a sweet tooth, maybe that was why.

I looked back as we sped by. At this hour, it was locked up tight. The entire block of tourist-oriented stores was deserted. Come July, even at 8:30 on a Sat.u.r.day morning, the place would be hopping.

"What's our next step?" I asked.

"I follow up," he said, patting the pocket where he'd placed the paper with his notes. "How about you? What will you do?"

"I'm not sure. There's so much to think about. You'll call me when you learn more, right?"

He a.s.sured me that he would, and when we arrived, he pulled up near my car and added, "I believe you, you know."

"Believe me about what?" I asked.

"I believe that you didn't kill Mr. Grant."

I swallowed, oddly touched by his unsolicited vote of confidence, and tried to smile. I reached over and touched his shoulder. "Thanks, Wes. That means a lot."

My stomach grumbled and I decided to get a real breakfast. I sat at the counter, ordered bacon and eggs, and shut my eyes. I heard voices, but no conversations, rustlings as people turned newspaper pages, and the clatter of coffeepots. In the midst of life, I felt coc.o.o.ned and able to focus on Wes's revelations.

I felt restless, anxious to be up and doing, not sitting and eating. But I wasn't sure what to do. The Grants owned a trio of paintings of nearly inestimable artistic and monetary value-where did the Cezanne and Matisse come from and where were they now?

A deepening sense of dread colored my outlook, yet my growing fear was nonspecific. It was as if I'd wandered unawares into Act II of a three-act drama, but didn't know my lines or even the role I'd been a.s.signed to play.

I opened my eyes and took a long drink of orange juice. I had more questions than before, and no idea about how I could get answers. Nothing made sense. In fact, it seemed that the more I learned, the less I knew.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

I didn't get back to the warehouse until almost 9:30. Greeting Gretchen on the fly, I ran upstairs to my office to change into my uniform. I, like everyone else on staff and all temporary workers, had to adhere to a dress code on auction and tag-sale days. We wore maroon collared T-shirts with the words Prescott Antiques printed in small white letters on the pocket and black slacks and shoes.

Only Tom McLaughlin, the auctioneer in for the day from upstate, was allowed to wear whatever he wanted. The first time he'd driven down to work for me, about eighteen months earlier, I'd asked him if he wanted to wear a Prescott T-shirt. His sour look had been answer enough.

Tucking in my shirt as I hurried down the stairs, I went directly to the auction site, where the final preview hours were about to begin. Sasha seemed to have everything under control.

"Ready?" I asked, entering through the back.

"As ready as I'm going to be," she answered, trying for a smile. Responsibility was new to her, and she took to it awkwardly, but with a quiet determination to succeed.

"You'll do fine," I said, responding to her underlying message, not her words.

"Thanks," she said with a quick smile.

"Anything I need to know about?"

"I don't think so. We're ready to open up on schedule. Katrina's outside signing in the early birds."

I nodded. "Good." Katrina, a part-time worker with a year's experience, would be with Sasha all day helping her register bidders, pa.s.s out catalogues, record winning bids, and run errands.

"Tom is here," she said, pointing toward the front.

I spotted him near the podium, scowling at the catalogue. Today, as always, he wore a rumpled brown suit and a glum demeanor. I didn't care that he was routinely surly before and after the auction. With a gavel in his hand, he was transformed. He worked the crowd with seemingly effortless ease, exuding goodwill and confidence, and creating eager bidders. With a nod to Sasha, I headed toward the stage, calling to him as I approached. He turned and frowned at me.

"Do you have everything you need?" I asked.

He snorted. "Not unless you have a check for a million dollars in your pocket."

I smiled politely. "I wish. You have the catalogue, I see."

"Did you do the research?"

"No. Sasha did it. And wrote the descriptions."

"It's good." Words of high praise from a man who knew.

I smiled my thanks. "She and Katrina will be here all day if you need anything."

He nodded and waved me away. I told Sasha I'd be back in a while, and left. I stuck my head into the office, and called, "Gretchen? I'm going to dash over to the tag sale to be sure we're ready to open. Anything for me first?"

"Yes," she said, standing up and turning to face me. She wore her Prescott T-shirt with flair, looking as stylish as always. "Mrs. Cabot is here to see you."

Mrs. Cabot, Mr. Grant's daughter? In a dazzling flash of hope, I imagined that she'd selected me to handle her father's estate. I caught myself beginning to hyperventilate at the thought and quelled my impulse to hoot and holler and kick my heels in the air. Stop, Josie, I admonished myself. Stop, breathe, and think. Forcing myself to slow down and think, I took a deep breath. And another. Okay. I was ready.

I stepped inside. Mrs. Cabot sat in an upholstered guest chair near the front, her feet firmly on the ground, gripping her handbag tightly.