"Mrs. Cabot," I said, smiling as I walked forward. "I didn't see you."

As I got closer I could see that her eyes were moist and reddened. I knew the look; she'd been crying.

"h.e.l.lo," she said quietly, pushing herself upright. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing me. Not at all. You met Gretchen?" I asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Cabot said with a nod and half smile.

"Absolutely," Gretchen responded. Turning to Mrs. Cabot, she asked, "Would you reconsider about coffee?"

"No, thank you, though."

"Are you sure?" I asked Mrs. Cabot.

"I'm fine. Thank you."

"What can I do for you?"

She cleared her throat. "I was hoping ... do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Sure." Her look of relief piqued my curiosity.

As I was about to invite her to sit down again, her eyes flitted toward Gretchen, and I read the unspoken request. "Come up to my office. We'll be more comfortable up there. It's private."

"Thank you."

I gestured that Mrs. Cabot should walk ahead. "Gretchen," I said, "will you go find Eric at the tag sale and make certain he's okay?"

"You bet," she answered.

My priorities had shifted in an instant. At that moment, nothing was more important to me than talking to Mrs. Cabot.

Mrs. Cabot, wearing a royal blue suit, sat on a bright yellow love seat. I took a chair across from her and waited for her to speak.

"It's hard for me to be here," she said softly.

"I can see that you're upset," I said. "Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea? Or some water? Something?"

She shook her head and cleared her throat. "I'm here to ask you to help me. I have no reason to think you will, and I'll certainly understand if you say no. But I thought ... it occurred to me ..." She glanced down and twirled her gold wedding band. A widow who still wore her wedding ring. A sign, I a.s.sumed, of a happy marriage.

"Please ..." she continued, "I hope that you ... I mean I am asking that you ... I'm here because I don't know whom else to ask." She finished in a rush, as if she wanted to get the words out before she changed her mind.

"Help you do what?" I asked, wary.

"First, I must tell you that I'm not going to offer you the sale of my father's estate. I've decided to bring in a New York firm, Dobson's."

I felt a stab of such great disappointment that I had to look away. I took a deep breath, my father's warning against letting people see my emotional reactions to business frustrations resonating in my mind, stiffening my spine, and enabling me, after a moment, to look back and smile.

"I understand. There's a lot of research to be done. Dobson's is top drawer."

She nodded. "Your role will be key. And your fee will be more than fair."

I stared at her for a moment. "My fee for what?"

"For helping me."

"Helping you do what?" I repeated, uncertain of my ground. On the face of it, it sounded as if Mrs. Cabot was trying to bribe me. And I figured that the longer she took to get to the point, the more troubling her proposal would be.

"It's important that you understand why I chose you. I understand you moved from New York not long ago. I checked you out. You have an excellent reputation."

"Thank you," I said. Definitely a bribe, I thought. I couldn't imagine what she wanted me to do, nor could I think of anything I possessed that she might want to buy.

"I'm paying not just for your knowledge but for your integrity. What you did to help the police during that price-fixing trial, you know, coming forward and testifying, well, I was impressed."

Maybe what she said was true, and she wasn't offering a bribe after all. If she was speaking the truth, and not setting me up somehow, it would be a huge relief. I found myself wanting to believe her and to smile. I was surprised at how pleased I felt that she knew about my past. It occurred to me that perhaps I'd discovered a reasonable litmus test of trust-be aware of my involvernent in the Frisco price-fixing scandal and think well of me because of it. Still, I didn't know how to respond, so I stayed quiet.

After a long pause, she continued, "Chief Alverez has told me that he expects the technicians to be done by tomorrow."

"Which technicians?"

"The ones investigating my father's cause of death. And the scientists who've been working at the crime scene."

"So they can release the body?"

"Yes."

"And you can hold the funeral."

"That's right. It will be on Monday."

I shook my head a little, the way people do to show empathy.

"Chief Alverez said the scientists have finished investigating the murder scene."

"So that you can enter the house?"

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "Everyone is very impatient."

I paused for a moment, thinking what to say. "Are you referring to your daughter?"

She nodded, a small movement, then half smiled. "I hate being hurried. Sometimes my daughter thinks I'm indecisive, but it's not that."

I nodded, understanding, I thought, what she was trying to express. "You just like to think things through before you act."

"How nice of you to put it that way," she said with more of a smile. "It's true, though. I'm methodical, not impulsive. I never have been."

I wondered about her sudden departure forty years ago. Wasn't that an impulsive act? Maybe not. Maybe she'd planned to leave all along, and the shattering scene Wes had described was coincidental. I wanted to ask her about it, but the timing was wrong.

"Well, no matter," she said, refocusing her attention. "I need to tell you about my mother's lists."

I waited for her to continue.

"I don't know if my father showed you her ledgers? The inventories ?"

"No, he didn't."

She nodded. "He showed them to Mr. Troudeaux."

I shrugged.

"That isn't a compliment to him."

"I don't understand."

"No, how could you." She sighed and shifted her position slightly. "I knew the ledgers existed. All my life, I knew. I'd see my mother update them every evening." She shook her head. "She tracked everything. It was a kind of obsession with her." She opened her purse and extracted a sheaf of papers, stapled and folded in thirds. "These pages were copied from the ledger that detailed household goods. As you'll see, most of what's listed are antiques."

She handed the doc.u.ment to me. I reached across and accepted the pages. Flipping through, I saw a list of furniture, artwork, and decorative items detailed in a fine up-and-down hand. The first entry was dated April 3, 1943; the last on the 15th of March, a year ago.

I looked up. "What do you want me to do?" I asked quietly.

"Confirm that everything is there, and as described."

"In other words, you want a detailed appraisal?"

"Yes. What I want you to do is make certain that everything my mother listed is there, intact, and genuine-that her list was accurate and is complete. And I want to know how much you think I can expect to receive when the items are sold."

"I can provide you with a range of values."

"That will be fine," she said.

"What will you do with the information?" I asked.

"Ensure that Dobson's does a proper job."

I considered whether she was telling me the truth. This approach, sending the auction house an independently authenticated listing, was smart. It helped keep everyone honest. But given the situation, I couldn't help wondering if that was her only motivation. "Why did you say that your father showing the list to Mr. Troudeaux isn't a compliment to him?"

She paused and looked away. "I can't be certain, but I'm concerned that my father was ... perhaps he thought he could ..." She seemed to shake off her uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Perhaps he was talking to Mr. Troudeaux about a private sale so he could avoid paying taxes. I'm not sure, of course, but knowing my father, it's certainly possible. I don't know Mr. Troudeaux, so I hesitate to imply that he might be involved with something unethical. But I did know my father, and I must confess that he had been known to skirt rules more than once or twice."

"Oh, my."

She nodded. "Yes. A bit dispiriting."

She'd referred to Andi, her daughter, as impatient, when she was, in fact, a termagant. Now she was describing her father's dishonesty as "dispiriting." Another masterful example of understatement. I glanced at the papers wondering what to do about the missing Cezanne and Matisse. I knew the paintings hadn't yet been found, but I didn't know whether she was aware of it or not. Surely, I thought, the police had told her. Taking a deep breath for courage, I asked the question that was foremost in my mind. "What if something's missing?"

Looking at me dead-on, her eyes clear and her focus intense, she answered, "I trust that you'll find it."

I wondered what she thought I could do that the police hadn't done. I tilted my head, watching her watch me think it through. I had a startling thought. I wondered if she thought the paintings were hidden somewhere in the house, somewhere an antique dealer would know about, but that the police might not discover.

"Did the police tell you that I helped them look for the Renoir?"

"No. What did you do?"

"I remembered having seen a partners desk. And I knew that it was pretty common for the old English partners desks to have hidden cabinets." I shrugged. "I found the secret cabinet, but not the painting."

Speaking slowly, as if she were carefully choosing her words, she said, "There may well be other places you will discover."

I nodded. We continued to look at each other, and I was struck by her composure. I stood up and stretched, then walked to my desk for a bottle of water. I looked out of the window. A big old maple sat right outside, and it looked fine. Last summer, a huge branch fell in a thunderstorm, and I had worried that the tree would die.

"Does Andi know that you're hiring me? And Dobson's?" I asked, my back to her.

"No. I thought it best ... that is ... I'll explain after ... no."

I didn't know what to say. I would have bet big money that even if she knew where the paintings were hidden, she didn't want to tell me. If she found the missing paintings on her own, Andi would try to bulldoze her into selling them privately. If she helped me find them, Andi would go ballistic. But if I located them, no matter how many fits Andi threw, there'd be no choice but to return them to their rightful owners. My best guess was that Mrs. Cabot wanted to bring me in to help her do the right thing in the face of nearly overwhelming familial pressure.

"Thank you for explaining the situation," I said, turning to her.

I could see the relief on her face. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll give your name to Dobson's. And no matter what," she said, clearing her throat and looking down, "I won't let Andi disturb you."

I nodded, wondering how she could stop Andi from disturbing me. Probably, I thought, Mrs. Cabot held the purse strings, and used the threat of withholding money to keep Andi under control. I bet she hated her role as enforcer. And heaven only knew what havoc Andi would wreak once she got her hands on her share of her grandfather's fortune. Poor Mrs. Cabot. I shook my head, feeling sad for her and powerless.

For some reason I thought of Eric, maybe because he needed money, too. I recalled the day that I'd driven by his house en route to a buy. His mother was sweeping the walkway and I'd waved as I went past. She'd glared at me, perhaps not recognizing me, but still, her glower was uncalled for and odd. When I got back to the warehouse, I mentioned that I'd driven by and had seen his mom outside. I was immediately sorry that I'd spoken.

He was embarra.s.sed, explaining inarticulately, "Mom works so hard taking care of the place. I plan to fix it up, but, you know, everything costs so much."

"I hadn't noticed that anything needed fixing," I said politely. "All I noticed was how big and beautiful the house is. And those apple trees! I can taste the pie now!"

"Yeah," he responded. "My mom makes a great apple pie, that's for sure."

I got the sense at the time that he was grateful that I ignored his dilapidated house and crabby mother. But now it made me wonder what he would do if he inherited a fortune. Would he fix up the house and buy mom luxuries? Or, like many nineteen-year-olds, would he flee, deserting both the run-down structure and the fractious woman who held him close?

My father once told me that money didn't buy happiness, it bought freedom. The trick is to decide what sets you free. I didn't know with Eric. I sometimes thought that there was a lot I didn't know about him, hidden layers of his personality. Mostly though, I thought he was just what he appeared to be-a devoted son, a nice guy who was good with his hands and loved his dogs, an able worker who lacked ambition.

I realized that Mrs. Cabot was waiting for me to comment. "I'll plan on getting started on Monday," I said.

"About your fee ... what would be reasonable, do you think?"

"The identification of items is easy. The verification is tough. a.s.sessing value is time-consuming and detail oriented, and requires a lot of judgment. Finding missing items, if there are any, might be impossible."

She nodded, and paused. "How's twenty-five thousand dollars as a retainer?"

I swallowed. That was more than my company grossed in a month during most of the year. "That will get us started," I said. "And the final fee? How should we set it?"

"You'll know how hard you worked, and what was involved. At the end, you'll bill me, and I'll pay it."

"I'll be fair," I a.s.sured her.

"I know you will. Remember," she said, smiling again, "I checked you out."