While she wrote a check, I printed out my standard letter of agreement. She read it carefully and signed it without comment. She also gave me a key to the Grant house and a note authorizing me and my staff to enter at will.

We stood just outside the front door in the parking lot. The sun was steady now, and bright. I noticed two dozen or so cars, a good omen since it was barely ten and both the preview and the tag sale had just opened.

"I'll call you Monday evening. Is that all right?" I asked.

"Yes, thank you. I won't be leaving until Tuesday."

"And then you'll be back in Boston?"

"Chestnut Hill, yes," she answered, naming an affluent suburb just west of the city.

A black Lincoln pulled up, and a small Asian man got out, leaving the engine running. He nodded at me and opened the back door for her.

"Does your daughter live in Boston, too?"

"No," she said. "New York. Why?"

"Just curious. One more thing," I said, changing the subject. "I was just thinking that I might stop by the house tomorrow, if it's all right."

"I don't know. You'll need to check with the police."

"May I call them directly?"

"Yes, certainly. In this endeavor, you're my representative."

I smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Cabot. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't."

"What's your room number at the Sheraton?"

"Room three-nineteen."

I nodded. "Thank you."

She turned to step into the car, then paused. As she swung her feet inside, I noticed that they were average sized, and at a guess, her shoes were about a seven.

"How long do you think it will take you?" she asked.

I wondered which task she was referring to-generating an independent inventory, verifying authenticity, a.s.sessing value, or finding the missing paintings.

"If I can find everything, and if it's all as described, no more than a couple of days for the inventory itself. For the verification, a week to ten days. For the appraisal, another two to three weeks." I shrugged and made a Murphy's Law joking grimace. "If this, if that. If it rained in the Sahara, it wouldn't be a desert. You know how that goes."

"Of course. I understand. Obviously time is of the essence. I know you'll work as quickly as you can."

I nodded. "Realistically, I expect it will take a month to six weeks, soup to nuts. I'll do my best to speed the process along." Wes had told me that the police had made an inventory. I wondered if she was aware of it. "One thing that might save time," I added, pleased at my boldness, "is if we can work off an existing list. For instance, do you know if the police made an inventory?"

"Ask Chief Alverez. As I said, in this matter, you're my representative."

She reached out her hand and we shook. Her entire att.i.tude conveyed something more than the confirmation of a business deal with a new partner. There was that, but there was also a melancholy resignation, as if she was proceeding along the best path she'd found, but that while it might be the best, it was none too good. I had the sudden realization that, to her, anything I discovered was likely to be bad news. If I found the paintings, Andi would be furious. If I didn't, Andi would go crazy, perhaps accusing me or others of stealing them. An ugly scene was almost guaranteed, regardless of the outcome.

I stood for a moment and watched as the car drove away. Walking inside, I wondered if Mrs. Cabot had already planned how she'd handle Andi's explosion when it came.

"Good news?" Gretchen asked when I stepped inside.

I grinned. "Well, we didn't get the estate sale, but we get to appraise everything."

"Yowzi! That's great!"

"And it's interesting work, too. Sasha's going to love it."

"Congratulations."

"It's a tribute to us all." I waved it away. "Tell me both the preview and tag sale are open."

"Yup. On time, and looking good."

"Great. I'm going to the tag sale. Would you go ask Tom if he'd like a cup of coffee?"

"Okay," she said, whining, stretching out the last syllable for effect. "Only for you."

"He's not that bad," I argued.

"Yes, he is," she responded, laughing. "He's a jerk! But he's our jerk, right?"

"He's talented," I said, wanting to quash her open expression of dislike and remind her of his value. I shrugged. "I don't care about his personality. He does a great job for us."

"I know, I know. I wouldn't say anything to anyone else, even joking. For your ears only."

Not for the first time, I was struck by her loyalty. "Okay, then," I said with a smile, and added in a whisper, "Just between us, he's a huge jerk."

She laughed again, and I smiled back, grateful that her breezy, sunny spirit lightened my load.

I headed to the tag sale to make sure Eric was okay. He served as on-site manager, and that was a lot of responsibility for a relatively young man. I trusted him, but thought it made sense to keep in fairly constant touch.

My father always encouraged giving responsibility to young people. When I'd got the job at Frisco's and expressed wonder that they'd entrust both valuable antiques and clients to me, an untested and unknown twenty-one-year-old, he'd remarked that we, as a nation, entrusted our security to eighteen-year-olds with guns, and that that strategy had worked out pretty well for us so far.

As I pushed open the door from the warehouse into the tag-sale section, the first thing I saw and heard was Martha Troudeaux making herself obnoxious.

"But it's mislabeled," she said, her voice shrill.

"Hi Martha," I said calmly, approaching with a smile.

"Ah, Josie. I'm glad you're here. There's a major problem with your pricing."

"Really? I'm surprised. We try so hard to get it right. What's the problem?"

"This stool. It's not from the Empire! Why is it priced as if it were?" She sneered, her self-righteous tone of outrage making me long to slap her face.

I looked at the small bamboo stool. The tag, tied onto a leg, stated that it was a reproduction. The price was twelve dollars. If it were genuine, dating from around 1890, a stool of this size and quality would fetch more than ten times twelve dollars. Rude and ignorant. What Barney saw in her mystified me. It occurred to me that maybe she was neither rude nor ignorant; maybe she was trying to create a scene, to make me look bad.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Barney stood not far away, his back to us, near the boxes of art prints. He seemed absorbed in a conversation with Paula, the blond part-timer who preferred T-shirts with messages to the Prescott one, but wore it as instructed. Barney was probably trying to weasel the name of my art source out of her, but she couldn't tell what she didn't know, so that was no worry.

Turning back to Martha, I spotted Alverez half-hidden by a post near the mechanical toys section. I bristled. Alverez's presence was more troubling than Barney's. I glanced around, considering whether customers knew who he was and thought less of me because of his presence. I also wondered whether I should call Max and report his unexpected arrival.

Focusing instead on Martha's nasty aspersions, I forced myself to smile. "Perhaps you didn't see the word reproduction,' " I said politely.

"The price is too high!" she complained.

I tilted my head to really look at her. She was a pretty woman, tall and thin. Her very short, almost black hair was layered and suited her. It was unfortunate that her eyes were calculating, with no hint of warmth, and that her tone was always strident, never pleasant. She was eminently unlikable.

"Then don't buy it," I said, smiling a little, trying to convert her attack into a semipleasant interaction.

She was having none of it. "It's not worth more than five dollars, and I wouldn't buy it even at that price because it's in terrible condition. And one more thing ..."

I listened to her for a moment longer, my attention drifting to Alverez who seemed to be watching me while pretending not to, and to Barney, still talking with Paula. I scanned the venue. There were about fifty customers, par for a nonholiday weekend at this time of day. I noted that Alverez had moved on to housewares and appeared to be interested in a stainless-steel bar set from the '50s.

"Excuse me, Martha. Someone's calling me," I fibbed. I headed straight to Alverez.

"Hey," I said, approaching him.

"Josie," he answered. "Things look great."

I felt the familiar tug of connection, the inexplicable chemistry we shared, but ignored it. "Interested in barware?"

"Not really," he answered, grinning.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, not smiling.

"Isn't this open to the public?" he asked, gesturing broadly.

"Yes, but that doesn't answer my question."

He paused. "That's the only answer I have to give you right now."

"Should I call Max?" I asked.

"Why? Because I came to a tag sale?"

"Don't play with me. I'm upset."

"I can tell you are, but I'm not sure why."

"Oh, never mind. I have work to do."

I glanced back over my shoulder as I walked away. He stood watching me.

"Hey, Eric," I said, joining him at the cash register. Only Eric and Gretchen were authorized to haggle or accept money. And me, of course. Our standing policy was that dealers who were known to us or who had proper bonafides got a 10 percent professional courtesy discount, but that we didn't offer discounts to consumers. As closing time approached, however, we'd been known to bend that rule, especially if we had the opportunity to move hard-to-sell inventory, like mismatched china or undistinguished volumes of old books.

A part-timer was wrapping each piece of a six-part set of Sandwich gla.s.s in old newspaper and I noted with mingled pleasure and pride that there was a line waiting to pay.

"I can help you here," I called to the next person in line. As I wrote up the sale and scanned the bar code on the 1970s silver-plated tray, a real bargain at four dollars, I looked back toward the furnishings area, and was pleased to see that Martha was gone. Paula was helping a customer, so I guessed that Barney had left with Martha. I noted that Alverez was nowhere to be seen either. Confirming that all three were gone made me feel good, empowered somehow, as if I'd succeeded in chasing them away.

With both the tag sale and auction preview under control, I went back to the office to talk to Gretchen. She was on the phone when I arrived, and eavesdropping, I was pleased to hear her tell Roy, one of our best pickers, that he should come on by now.

"Roy?" I asked, when she was off the phone.

"Yeah. He says he has some interesting books."

"Good," I said. "Have you made a copy of the Grant tape yet?" I asked. As policy, all tapes are to be copied immediately-just in case.

"Yeah. All done."

"Make a copy for Sasha, okay?"

"You got it."

"And these," I said, pointing to the ledger-page copies that Mrs. Cabot had left with me. "Make a copy for each of us, and keep this with the file."

"Okay."

"Also, keep an eye on Eric," I said. "He had a little queue a minute ago at the checkout line. If it gets busy, you may need to help him."

"Sure thing."

"I'm going up to my office," I told her. "Buzz me at one if I'm not down by then, okay?"

"Should I bring you a sandwich?"

Since we provided food for the staff during public events, and Gretchen would be coordinating distribution, bringing me a sandwich would serve two purposes-her delivery would alert me to the time, and I'd be certain to get something to eat. Gretchen, my caretaker, at work.

"Good idea," I said.

As soon as I got upstairs I called Max and got him on his cell phone. I could hear street noises in the background, a horn blaring, and, in the distance, a siren. I wondered if he was out and about running errands with his children.

"Max," I said, "a couple of things."

"Okay. I'm ready."

"Mrs. Cabot has hired me to appraise Mr. Grant's estate before sending the goods to auction in New York."

"What do you think of that?"

"I think it's a great opportunity."

"Good, then."

"She thinks I can get into the house tomorrow. Can you check for me? Or should I call?"