"Was he a customer?"

"A customer? I don't think so. I don't know. Why?"

"Did you know him?"

Her look of surprise at what must have struck her as an out-of-the-blue question seemed genuine. "No. Why?"

I shrugged, not wanting to explain. "No reason. He's a local, that's all."

A man entered the store holding hands with a girl of about seven or eight. They were laughing.

"Hi," Paula greeted the newcomers.

"Hi," the girl answered sweetly. "Oh, look, Daddy...." and she led him to a display of pink-wrapped taffy.

There was no point in asking any more questions, even if I knew what to ask, which I didn't. I didn't feel right not buying something, so I pointed to the small box she placed on the counter, asked if I could buy it, and when she said yes, paid in cash. As I was about to leave, I turned back and got her attention. "You did a great job yesterday."

She seemed taken aback. "Thanks."

"I'll see you next Sat.u.r.day."

Paula almost smiled. "You bet."

Getting in my car, I placed the little white box of candy on the seat beside me, noticing the kind-of-hokey, kind-of-sweet tag line under the logo: Made with pride by the Turner family.

The smell of ocean salt and musky seaweed swept over me, and I decided to walk to Mr. Grant's. I estimated it was less than two miles, and it would feel good to stretch my legs. There were no parking restrictions on Sunday, so I could leave the car where it was.

As I headed south, the ocean on my left, I found myself thinking about Paula. I realized I knew very little about her. In fact, I realized, feeling slightly guilty, I'd never actually thought about her as an individual at all. It was habit more than desire that led me to keep employees at a distance. Idly, I wondered if that professional reserve was wise. I shook my head. No way to know the answer to that one.

I knew more about Paula than before. I knew she had a family, and was involved enough to honor her responsibilities to the family's business. Still, discovering her there was odd. Maybe it was just a coincidence that one of my employees worked at the Taffy Pull. But if I'd named all the people I might have expected to find there, Paula Turner wouldn't have been on the list.

The Grant house, an icon of a gracious age, had been built around 1920 and beautifully maintained ever since. As I approached, I spotted a policeman in uniform sitting on the porch, gently rocking in a weathered Adirondack-style chair. I recognized him. He was the middle-aged black man who'd led the search of my house. His belly hung over his pants. I was sure we'd been introduced, but I didn't remember his name.

"h.e.l.lo," I said as I started up the flagstone walkway.

He stood up, hitching his pants and taking a step forward. He nodded.

"I'm Josie Prescott. We've met."

"I remember."

"I'm authorized to go inside."

"You got a letter or something?"

I dug into my purse, pulled out Mrs. Cabot's note, and handed it to him. He read it slowly, turned it over, I don't know why, and gave it back to me.

"You going in now?"

"Yes. Is that all right?"

He shrugged. "Sure, why not? I was just checking on things. Nothing much going on."

My guess was that he was more interested in relaxing on a sunny spring day than he was in checking on things, but all I did was nod. "I'm going to look around back."

"I'll be heading out now, but I'll back in a while. You going to be here for long?"

"I don't know. Not too long, I don't think."

I watched as he headed slowly toward the alley. That's why I hadn't seen his car, I realized. He was parked along the side. I looked around. Things looked fine. Someone, probably a landscaping service, had been maintaining the yard, for the lawn was freshly mowed. A stranger walking or driving by wouldn't know that the house was unlived in.

I circled the grounds slowly, looking for I don't know what, anything, I guess, that struck me as unexpected or out of whack. I saw nothing unusual, no recently excavated plot of land, no outside structure like a shed or tree house that might conceal two canvases laid flat or rolled. Entering with the key Mrs. Cabot had given me, I stood for a moment in the vast hallway and listened to the sounds of nothing.

Not even the ticking of the grandfather clock disturbed the quiet. No one, I supposed, had wound it. I walked toward it, shaking my head in admiration.

It soared more than seven feet tall, a beautiful example of a Pennsylvania Queen Anne grandfather clock, circa 1785, with a walnut casing burnished to a glossy sheen. The flat-top bonnet featured an arched door with free-standing turned columns enclosing the hand-painted faces. The ill.u.s.tration showed the phases of the moon, and at the bottom, an inscription read Jacob Spangler York Town. I stroked the side, relishing the feel of the satiny wood.

I turned toward the kitchen, visible through the open hall door. It was creepy. I considered leaving, but I wanted to remind myself of the layout, so when Sasha and I met tomorrow, I could direct her efficiently. I walked through every room. Shadows stretched through old-fashioned slanted metal Venetian blinds. A musty odor of disuse permeated the air, my footsteps echoed, a lonely sound, on the hardwood floors, and a thin layer of dust lay undisturbed on every flat surface. I felt my normal Sunday melancholy descending on me like a shroud.

An oversized leather trunk in the bas.e.m.e.nt caught my eye. Sitting on wooden planks about six inches off the concrete floor, it had probably been made in the 1920s. The cordovan-colored leather was b.u.t.ter soft and only slightly scuffed. I'd opened it when I'd surveyed the house for Mr. Grant, so I knew it was designed in two parts. On top was a tray, about eighteen inches deep, sized to rest perfectly on a small ridge. When I'd removed it, a larger section, maybe four by six feet, was revealed. Mr. Grant had used it to store stacks of old clothing. What had just occurred to me was that there might be a third section below the other two. Some old traveling trunks were built with a narrow but deep drawer at the bottom. Under the dim light cast by the single overhead bulb, I couldn't see well enough to tell, so I stooped down and used my flashlight to examine it carefully, and there it was. Two slots had been fabricated on the front side of the trunk, about 4 inches from the bottom, and in each slot, a metal handle lay flush with the leather surface.

My heart began to race. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was a perfect hiding spot. I reached down and wedged my fingers under the handles, and pulled. It resisted my efforts, and I tugged harder. The drawer slid out smoothly, and it was empty.

I felt deflated, but less so than when I'd sat on the floor in front of the partners desk and cried. Then not finding the missing paintings had left me disconsolate. Now the hunt got my dander up.

I stood and stretched, turned off my flashlight, and stowed it on my belt. I looked around. The bas.e.m.e.nt was a labyrinth of small rooms, and most were empty of items that would go to auction. One room housed the oil burner, another the washer and dryer, and a third was lined with wooden shelves filled with Mason jars of homemade preserves and pickles.

In a small workshop, presumably awaiting Mr. Grant's attention as a handyman, stood a nonworking lamp, a chair that needed caning, and two pieces of a broken china platter. I doubted they were worth our time, but decided to examine them more closely tomorrow. Next to the platter, on the chipped surface of the worktable, was a three-sided wooden frame painted black with a plywood backing, waiting, I guessed, for the final piece to be attached. Sitting nearby were plastic containers of screws, nails, and bolts.

I switched off the light and was ready to head upstairs when I heard a creak, the sound of a floorboard bearing weight. I felt my heart suddenly stop, then thud so hard I almost felt sick. I froze. I didn't know what to do. I stood and listened. Nothing.

I shook off the concern, telling myself I was still skittish. Don't be a silly-billy, I chided myself, you know very well that floorboards frequently make settling noises long after they're trodden upon, so what you're hearing is the aftereffect of your own presence. I smiled, wondering if I'd gained a pound or two.

At the top of the stairs, halfway in the kitchen, I heard a soft scroop as the front door latch clicked home. Shocked, I recoiled and almost tumbled down the steps. Then I froze again. Someone was in the house.

As the footsteps moved confidently and quickly away from the door, heading, I guessed from the direction of the sound, to the study in the front, I moved forward, trying to glide, my boots leaden as I moved. I tried to think who it could be, but no one made sense. It certainly wasn't Mrs. Cabot. And she'd a.s.sured me that she'd keep Andi away. Could the police officer have returned ? Maybe.

I left the bas.e.m.e.nt door ajar, not wanting to risk the sound the latch would make if I closed it, and listened. I heard what sounded like drawers opening and closing. A loud sc.r.a.pe startled me, and I tried to imagine what could have caused it. Something big, I thought, like a chair or an ottoman, being dragged across the floor would sound like that. Then I heard a soft thud, as if the item had tipped over and landed hard on a thick carpet. No, I said to myself, whoever it is, it's not a policeman.

I thought of calling 911, but quickly dismissed the idea. No. I'd make too much noise rummaging through my purse to locate my cell phone, and my voice would carry easily through the empty rooms.

All I could think of was how to get out. I headed for the back door, aiming to keep as much distance between me and the intruder as I could. I stepped gingerly into the mud room, and paused to let my eyes adjust. I had trouble catching my breath. In the gathering twilight, I could barely see the doork.n.o.b, and a rush of fear streamed over me. My heart hammering, tears welled in my eyes, making it hard to see. I brushed them away, forcing myself to focus on the problem at hand-getting out-and not think about my anxiety.

As soon as I could make it out, I reached for the doork.n.o.b, turned it, and pulled. Nothing. I tried again, pulling harder, then spotted a latch and turned it. Still, the door didn't budge. I looked at it more closely, and felt my stomach lurch as I realized it was a dead bolt and required a key to open, even on the inside. I was trapped, with no way out.

Peeking around the corner, my mouth was so dry, I struggled not to cough. I saw and heard nothing.

I slipped back into the kitchen and crept forward, and stood beside the refrigerator, shielded from view. Purposeful steps headed in what sounded like my direction, and looking around wildly, I ran across the room to a door that swung into the butler's pantry, connecting the kitchen to the dining room, and unsure where to go or what to do, I crouched down.

Even tucked away in a small room in the middle of the house, I heard a car pull up in the alley and stop. I could picture it. My thighs began to ache, but I seemed paralyzed with dread. Heavy steps approached the back door, and I heard the faint click of the dead bolt turning. Someone was entering the door that had held me prisoner.

A moment later, I heard a rush of scurrying steps, then a long moment later, a car starting and squealing away. I stayed huddled in the butler's pantry, rocking a bit, tears running down my cheeks unchecked.

"Josie?" I heard. I recognized Alverez's voice.

I sat down, hard, nearly fainting with relief, dropped my head forward, and began to cry in earnest. "In here," I called faintly after a moment, my voice m.u.f.fled with tears. I tried again, using as much willpower as I could muster to stem the flow. I swallowed. "I'm here."

I heard a soft whoosh as Alverez pushed open the swinging door from the kitchen. I looked over and saw faded jeans and brown boots. I didn't have the energy to lift my head higher.

"What happened?"

"Someone," I said, my voice cracking. "Someone was here. They left out the front."

"Are you all right?"

I nodded, and struggled to speak, but before I could translate my scattered thoughts into a coherent explanation, he was gone, running toward the front. "Stay there," he called.

I stayed, unmoving, listening. I heard his running steps, heavy thumps, then silence. After several minutes, he again pushed his way into the pantry and squatted beside me. "Can you tell me what happened? What's wrong?"

I hated that he was seeing me like this. I felt mortified. "I don't know. Someone was here. I heard noises and I panicked. I tried to leave, but I couldn't get out."

I started up, wiping away the remnants of my tears. "I never used to cry. You must think I'm a mess."

"No, no," he said. He helped me stand, holding my elbow. "Let's get you a gla.s.s of water and you can tell me what happened."

Meekly, I followed him into the kitchen and stood silently while he let the water run and opened cabinet doors until he found a gla.s.s. He filled it with water and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said, accepting it. I took a sip.

"I called for backup. People will be here in a minute, but in the meantime, I'm going to call the lab and get some technicians up here. Don't move."

"I don't mean to sound wussy, but don't leave me alone. Okay?"

Alverez smiled. "Okay. I'm just heading to the front door. Tag along if you want. But don't touch anything."

I followed him, carrying my water, taking an occasional sip. The front door was wide open.

"I take it you closed the door when you came in."

"Of course," I said. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it." I shook my head, the evidence of the open door startling me. I shivered.

"Was the door locked when you got here?"

"I guess. I used the key. I a.s.sumed it was."

He nodded. I listened as Alverez called someone and issued a series of instructions. When he was done, he went into the study and glanced around. Nothing looked different. The books lining the shelves were orderly, the blotter on the partners desk was centered, and the chairs were angled as I recalled.

"It looks the same, right?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah. But whoever it was wasn't here long."

"Right."

He gestured that I should lead the way out, and we stood in the foyer, waiting.

"How did you know I was here?" I asked.

"Griff told me."

"Griff?"

"The officer you spoke to."

"Oh, I didn't remember his name. Why did you stop by?" I asked.

He paused, then said, "Just checking on things."

Was he checking up on me? At the auction, thinking he was following me had made me mad. Here, I had a different reaction. For whatever reason, it was easier for me to believe that he was just doing his job than it was to think he was trying to trap me somehow. I guessed it was adrenalin-fueled relief that allowed me to trust him.

"Feel free to sit down," he said.

I went into the living room and perched on a French Provincial chair upholstered in blue-and-yellow fleur-de-lis chintz. He leaned on the doorframe, keeping an eye on the front door.

"So, are you okay enough to tell me what you're doing here?"

He didn't sound accusatory or judgmental. I looked up and our eyes met and held fast. The attraction I felt was deeper than before, more personal, based on my response to his actions, not just his looks. I felt myself relax and despite the anxiety of my situation, for a moment, all I experienced was the delicious, mysterious connection between an interested man and a willing woman.

A car door slammed and broke the spell. I looked away, disoriented, but calmer, and no longer frightened.

"So," he repeated, "what were you doing here?"

I shrugged. "Nothing. I was looking around. You know, getting ready for tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?"

"Sasha and I begin the appraisal. You heard, right? Mrs. Cabot has hired me to do a full appraisal."

He nodded. "Yeah, Max told me. Congratulations."

I smiled. "Thanks."

"So exactly where were you and what did you hear?"

"It just occurred to me that I ought to call Max."

Alverez nodded. "Sure. Do you have his number?"

"Yeah. On my cell phone." I retrieved my purse from the butler's pantry where I'd deserted it. Max answered on the first ring.