After a pause, Max said. "I'll do it. I'll call Alverez."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. What else?"

"Could you ask him if they inventoried Mr. Grant's possessions, and if so, how it compared to Mrs. Grant's ledger? In other words, is anything missing?"

"I'm making a note. Okay. Anything else?"

"Well, it was kind of funny, but ... Chief Alverez was here just now."

"Where?"

"Here. At the tag sale. Looking at stuff."

"Did he say anything?"

"He acted like he just was at the tag sale for the tag sale. But I didn't believe him."

"I'll ask him about it when I call him."

"Thank you, Max. One more thing. Did you ever ask Epps about who inherited from Mr. Grant?"

"Yes, the daughter and granddaughter-a fifty-fifty split. Didn't I tell you?"

"I don't think so. It doesn't matter. I was just curious."

"Well, anyway. Yes, I asked him, and yes, they split it all." Confirmation. I allowed myself to relax a notch, relieved to learn that Wes had told me the truth. And it occurred to me that maybe, if one thing he reported was true, so too was everything else.

I turned on my computer, and when it had booted up, I went directly to the Web site where I'd learned that Mr. Grant's Renoir was stolen. My heart pounding with antic.i.p.ation, I entered "Apples in a Blue Bowl with Grapes" and "Cezanne" in the Web site's search engine, and felt no surprise when, within seconds, the listing appeared.

I leaned back in the chair and read the brief description. According to the site, the painting had been the property of the Viennese collector and businessman Klaus Weiner and his wife, Eva, who were forced to sell it in 1939 to pay the "Jew tax" imposed by the n.a.z.is after the Anschluss of 1938. The site asked that anyone with knowledge contact a man named Jonathan Matthews, a trust officer with the Imperial Bankers Trust, a private bank in Dallas, and promised a no-questions-asked $1 million reward for the painting's safe return.

I opened a bottle of water, thinking about the ethics of offering a reward for the return of stolen goods. Wouldn't that simply encourage more theft? I shrugged and dismissed the thought as irrelevant. Rewards had been offered and accepted for the return of lost or missing items forever. "I'll cross that bridge if and when," I said aloud, then added, "Not my issue. At least, not right now."

I turned back to the computer and typed in "Matisse" and "Notre-Dazzze in the Morning." Another hit. According to the site, it had been owned by the Rosen family, who had lent it to a small museum in Collioure, a French village on the Mediterranean, in 1937. In February of 1941, the curator reported it stolen along with seventeen other works. No explanation of the museum theft was given. The contact was listed as Mich.e.l.le Rosen. The address was in the sixth arrondiss.e.m.e.nt in Paris.

Three paintings, three stories of loss. And starting tomorrow, I'd have free rein to search for the two that were still missing. I couldn't wait. I felt an exhilarating excitement and wished I could head over to the Grant place now. But I couldn't. I took a deep breath and forced myself to think instead of act.

One decision I had to make was what to tell Sasha-and when. Another decision was to create a protocol for our work. Just as cleaning a house required an answer to the question When is it clean enough? so too did research demand an answer to the question When do you know enozcgh? Sometimes I consulted a specific number of sources. Sometimes I aimed to achieve a certain depth of information. Other times I insisted on answering particular questions. No one approach was best for all circ.u.mstances. I needed to determine what was best in this situation. And I needed to figure it out before we began or we'd waste time and energy.

I was eager to get under way, yet I felt anxious, too, fearful of what I might learn as I examined the Grant antiques for clues about the missing paintings, convinced that if I found the art, I might also discover a secret that had led to Mr. Grant's murder.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The day was a success. At the auction, everything sold, and we beat our estimates; several people told me they were impressed, including a woman who made an appointment for an appraisal; and Bertie, from the New York Monthly, looking for fodder for her article on scandals in the antique business, learned nothing.

The tag sale went well, too. Revenue from sales was flat, but three people invited us to make offers on selling miscellaneous household goods to spare them the ha.s.sle of running yard sales. Anyone in the antique business will tell you that buying is tougher than selling, and the search for quality goods is constant. So to have opportunities to acquire inventory was all that was needed to transform a good day into a megawinner.

Max called around seven that evening, just as we were getting ready to close up.

"I finally reached Alverez," he said.

"And?"

"And it's okay for you to go to the Grant place anytime."

"That's great."

"He mentioned that they're maintaining a loose patrol, so if you're questioned, it would make your life easier if you had some kind of written permission on hand."

"I have a letter from Mrs. Cabot."

"Good. Go ahead and fax it to me, and carry it with you. Moving on ... I asked him about the inventory."

"And?"

"And everything is accounted for except two things. You've seen Mrs. Grant's ledger, right?"

"Yes."

"Then you know about the Cezanne and the Matisse?"

"Yeah, I saw."

"Well, those are the only two items missing."

I was prepared for the news. So far, Wes's source, whoever it was, was batting a thousand. "Pretty amazing, huh?" I said.

"Just a little," he said dryly.

"Yeah."

"Also, I asked him about being at your place today."

"And?"

"And he said he went to your tag sale because he likes tag sales."

I paused. "Did you believe him?"

"Sure, why not? I like tag sales, too. And you should see my wife."

"I don't know ... he just doesn't strike me as a tag-sale sort of guy."

"Well, whatever his reason was, I wouldn't let it worry you."

"Okay," I said, willing to stop discussing it, but unconvinced. "Any other news? Did he indicate they're making progress on the investigation?"

"No news. He said they're still following up on several promising leads, whatever that means."

"What do you think it means?" I asked, not liking the sound of it.

I could imagine Max's shrug. "Probably just what it says. That he's following up on several promising leads."

The phrase "following up on promising leads" chilled me. Somehow, the wording sounded ominous.

We agreed to talk on Monday after I'd been through the Grant house, or sooner if I needed him. His rock-solid support was an enormous comfort to me. I pictured him sitting in his suit and bow tie, his brow furrowed as he listened, and I wished I was nearby to touch his elbow, to thank him for helping me navigate this unchartered sea.

As I hung up, Sasha came into the office.

"We're all set," she said, looking exhausted.

"You did a great job, Sasha," I told her.

"Thanks," she answered, blushing, her awkwardness at being complimented manifesting itself in a quick hair twirl.

"New project," I said, changing the subject.

"Oh, yeah? What?"

"The Grant goods. We've been hired by Mrs. Cabot, Mr. Grant's daughter, to verify, authenticate, and value the contents of the house. You and I will work together, but you'll be doing most of the research."

"That's great!" she exclaimed, her eyes blazing at the prospect, exhaustion a thing of the past.

"The first step is for you to watch the tape I made. And read the inventory Mrs. Grant kept. Review them before Monday, okay?"

"Absolutely. This is so exciting! Thank you, Josie."

"You're welcome. It's great, isn't it? Let's meet at the Grant house at, what? Nine on Monday morning? Is nine okay for you?"

"Sure, nine is good."

"Okay. Make sure you have the address."

She smiled and thanked me again. From her perspective, I was offering a rare treat. She was visibly excited at the prospect of spending her weekend studying the tape I'd made of Mr. Grant's antiques and poring over the inventory. Lucky me.

I slept until noon on Sunday. When I awakened, I felt dis...o...b..bulated, uncertain of the day or, even, momentarily, where I was. No remnant of a dream lingered, so I couldn't blame my confusion on that. Shaking off the amorphous discomfort proved tough, and it wasn't until I showered and ate eggs, cooked just the way I like them, scrambled soft with tomatoes and onion mixed in, that I began to feel more like myself.

At three, dressed in jeans and a lightweight sweatshirt, I headed for the Grant house planning to stop at a grocery store on the way back to buy the ingredients I needed to cook Monterey chicken. I took the scenic route, glad for an excuse to drive along the sh.o.r.e.

It was a warm day, the bright sun hinting at summer. I rolled down the windows, relishing the ocean breeze. As I drove, I spotted several sailboats coursing along, running parallel to sh.o.r.e. I'd never sailed, and I decided that once I was clear of the Grant situation, I'd learn. Why not? I asked myself.

Driving through the village, I saw that the Taffy Pull's door was propped open, and impulsively, I swung right into a vacant parking s.p.a.ce. According to Wes, someone from the Taffy Pull had called Mr. Grant shortly before he'd been murdered, and I wanted to know why.

I stepped out and looked around. The street was deserted, but there were several cars scattered along the stretch of Main Street where the shops were nestled.

The Taffy Pull's front window was decorated with displays of small piles of sand, artistically arranged to suggest the beach. Miniature lawn chairs dotted the sand piles. Brightly colored salt.w.a.ter taffy pieces somehow connected to fluffy clouds dangled on nylon threads from the ceiling. It didn't make logical sense, but it was whimsical and cute.

I took a deep breath for courage, and entered the store. I blinked several times, trying to hurry my eyes along as they adjusted to the dim inside light.

A blonde stood with her back to me, stretching to pull down a small white box of candy from a high shelf.

"Hi," I said, looking around, glancing at the woman's back.

"h.e.l.lo," she answered over her shoulder.

Box in hand, she turned, and I'm certain surprise showed on my face. "Paula!" I exclaimed.

Paula, my part-time tag-sale employee who wore T-shirts emblazoned with her political views and causes, responded, "Josie?"

"I didn't know you worked here."

She grimaced, just a little. "Family business. Today's my turn."

"Got it." I smiled. I wanted to say something nice. A family business required a compliment even if she had made a face in telling me about it. "The display window's cute."

"Thanks. That's my mother's touch. She's the needlepoint and sc.r.a.pbooking type, so her window displays are always 'cute.'"

She spoke the word "cute" as if it were vulgar, or at least embarra.s.sing. I flashed on a memory from when I was about nine or ten, with my mother. My dad was busy with business, and the two of us had driven out to the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, about two hours west of Boston.

"It isn't just his craftsmanship, Josie," my mother told me later that night, as we sat eating dinner at the Red Lion Inn. "Obviously, Rockwell's a brilliant technician. But it's more than that. It's the emotion. He captured the moments in life exactly. You look at what he painted and you know how the people in his pictures felt about whatever situation he put them in. That's an amazing talent."

To this day, I loved Norman Rockwell. But I was willing to wager that Paula, like many of the hip, so-called sophisticates I'd run into during my years living in New York scorned him, viewing his ill.u.s.trations with disdain. "White bread," they called his work, dismissing it as ba.n.a.l. Too bad for them. I could just imagine the picture Rockwell would have created showcasing Paula's mother pridefully putting the final touches on the display window.

Paula seemed the same as always, cordial but not friendly. Solemn, as if she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. Today's T-shirt read Mind Your Own Religion. Appropriate dress, I guessed, for an atheist with an att.i.tude to wear on a Sunday.

Given her reaction to the window I'd just described as cute, I felt the need to clarify my comment. "I meant it as a compliment."

She paused, apparently unused to hearing positive remarks. "Oh. Sure. I'll tell my mother. She'll be pleased."

I smiled. "So you sell salt.w.a.ter taffy, do you?"

"Yeah. And other stuff. We sell all sorts of handmade candy."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," she said, placing the small white candy box on the counter.

"You know how a man named Mr. Grant was murdered?"

"Yeah, I heard. Terrible."