"Maybe she's mentally ill, you know, bipolar or split personality or something," Max suggested.

I recalled her constant surliness, her occasional explosive temper, and the rapid mood swing I'd witnessed on Mr. Grant's porch. One minute she'd been a shrew, the next, cajoling and plaintive.

"Maybe," I acknowledged. A squirrel caught my eye as he dashed across the road and disappeared into the underbrush. I shrugged. "We have no way of knowing. You know what I mean ... from everything you hear, drugs make some people act like they're nuts whether they are or not."

"I guess you're right. And I guess it doesn't matter, does it, whether she is actually mentally ill or not?"

"Not to us, maybe. But I bet Mrs. Cabot cares."

I heard Max sigh. "Yeah." After a pause, he asked, "Josie, does it make sense that Andi would sneak into your place and leave the Renoir? After killing her own grandfather to get it either because she's insane or because she was high on drugs, wouldn't she have kept it?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But if she'd learned about the Matisse and the Cezanne, and if she knew that I had been to the house the same morning and was considered to be a suspect, maybe she was willing to sacrifice the Renoir in an attempt to frame me. She'd still get millions from the other two paintings if she could get her hands on them, and if she did a good enough job with the setup, I'd be arrested and maybe even convicted, and she'd be completely off the hook."

"Yeah," he mused, "plus, once the investigation was over, and probate granted, the Cabots would get the painting back. It was a gambit ... like in chess ... you know?"

"Well, actually, no. I don't know how to play chess."

"A gambit," Max explained, his voice animated, "is an opening move in which a player sacrifices a piece in order to secure a desirable position."

"Wow. I see what you mean. You're right. That's exactly what she did. She sacrificed the Renoir-temporarily, at least-as a way of shifting suspicion onto me, which, to her, was a favorable position." I looked out at the barren street, the leafless trees, and the empty, overgrown sidewalks. "Wait. Let's not forget ... ultimately, it didn't work."

"No, but she tried. As a strategy, I've heard worse."

"Yeah." I shivered again, chilled at the thought that a malevolent spirit strategized how to get me. I'd done nothing to deserve her antipathy, yet I was her chosen target. I felt tears begin to form, and my heart started to thump. I swallowed, trying to regain my composure. "Max," I asked, as calmly as I could, "is it truly possible that someone would do something so ... so ... fiendish?"

"Yes," he answered softly. "Yes, I think it is."

"Do you think that Mrs. Cabot knows what Andi did?" I asked, glad to shift the conversation to less personal ground.

"I don't know. I just don't know, Josie. Actually, we don't know that Andi did anything. We're just speculating."

"I suppose so. Regardless, I'd like to tell Mrs. Cabot that I found the paintings, but I don't want to burden her if she's, you know, overwhelmed because of Andi."

Max paused. "I was just thinking about whether it's prudent to reveal that they've been found. Let me put in a call to Alverez and ask him. Then, once we have an okay, why don't you get in touch with her and see how she sounds? Use your judgment. You can always just tell her the bare facts, and, if she's not in any shape to talk to you, discuss the details later."

"That makes sense."

"Just remember, stick to the facts. Don't hypothesize. And don't editorialize."

I nodded and took a deep breath. "Yes, I can do that."

"Are you kidding?" Max said. "I saw you in action last night. You can do anything."

I smiled, surprised and pleased at the compliment.

I pulled into my parking lot and saw that Griff was on duty, guarding I don't know what. He told me that I could go in, no problem, and that he'd be leaving in a minute. "We'll be coming by pretty often," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Just to check."

"Check on what?"

"A regular patrol, is all. You don't need to worry."

I got it. I wasn't going to learn anything from him, even if he knew anything in the first place, which wasn't by any means a given, so I thanked him, and went inside.

It was eerie. I walked through every area of the warehouse and couldn't see a thing out of order, and yet, apparently, Alverez had caught a murderer within my walls only hours earlier. The cameras, microphones, and metal cabinet were gone. I felt unsettled. Ignoring the amorphous disquiet, I climbed the steps to my office, and began to work.

I drafted an e-mail to Gretchen explaining my idea for Prescott's Instant Appraisals, and asked her to contact Keith, the graphic designer we used on an as-needed basis to create a themed campaign for the booth itself, newspaper ads, and flyers that we could tuck into bags when we packed up items. It had occurred to me that if Barney was more or less broke, he wasn't much of a compet.i.tive threat, but I decided to proceed with the instant appraisal idea anyway. As a strategy to get a leg up on good inventory and build traffic, I didn't see how it could be beat. Plus, it sounded like fun.

I stretched and glanced at the computer clock. It wasn't even 7:30 yet. I wondered where Alverez was, and what he was doing. I stood up and paced, sat down, and then, a minute later, stood up and paced again, this time in a different direction.

I sat down, determined to focus on tasks at hand. I turned to the computer. I'd told Sasha that I'd take care of researching the leather trunk, and I hoped that doing so might stop me from wasting time and energy on other, pointless thoughts.

It didn't take long to find the information I needed. There were loads of comps. The trunk's silky-soft leather was a sign of the quality of its construction, and its unusually large size and remarkable condition set it apart from similar pieces. I estimated that it would sell for between $1,750 and $2,000.

Eric arrived just as I was finishing writing it up. He called out a general h.e.l.lo, and I shouted back that I'd be right down.

"Hey, Eric," I said as I hurried down the steps, "I feel like I haven't seen you in a c.o.o.n's age."

"Yeah, if we stay this busy you're going to have to schedule staff meetings so we see each other."

"From your mouth to G.o.d's ears!" I said, laughing. "Are you ready?"

"Yup. I just got to pick up the money and the paperwork."

"I'll get you the money. Just give me a minute."

I went to the safe and counted out a dozen hundred-dollar bills. We'd need to replenish our cash reserves soon. Returning to the office, I handed the money to him. He was swift to insert the bills in the envelope containing the inventory and a receipt that Gretchen had prepared, but I stopped him.

"Count it, Eric."

"Ah, Josie, I know you're not going to screw me over."

"Right. But everybody makes mistakes. Even me."

"Nah. Don't believe it."

"I'm flattered, but indulge me. Always count money, Eric. And always read papers before you sign them. I shouldn't have to tell you this over and over again. When you accept money, you're responsible. Take it seriously."

"I do," he said, almost, but not quite, whining.

"I know you do, theoretically. But I'm focused on practicality. Remember the old saying, 'Trust, but verify'? Well, do that every time. Always ... even with me, Eric. Trust, but verify."

"Okay, okay," he said, not quite casting his eyes heavenward, but acting as if he wanted to. He counted the bills, grinned, and said, "See, I knew it would be right."

"This time."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it."

"Go," I told him, shaking my head and smiling, "I'll see you later. And don't forget to count the d.a.m.n ducks!"

Since all I wanted to do was talk to Alverez, everything I did felt like busywork. I wanted an update. I wanted to know the details about what was happening. Instead, I was in limbo, waiting and wondering. Curiosity and anxiety consumed me, and, as a result, I had trouble focusing.

Fred arrived as I was considering my options. Wearing a gray sweater vest and black jeans, he looked ready for whatever came his way, office work or rolling on the floor examining the bottoms of furniture.

"Is Sasha here?" he asked.

"Not yet. I'm sure she'll be here any minute."

He got settled at the spare desk, and I decided to go to the Grant house and do some appraisal work. Sasha would, I was certain, arrive soon to cover the office, and if not, well, we had voice mail. I told Fred not to worry about the phone, gave him my cell phone number, just in case, and asked him which room I should work on at the Grant house.

He consulted his notes, thought about it, and finally suggested that I start on a small room on the top floor that had been used, apparently, as a sewing room. I grabbed a notebook and my purse, and left.

Max called as I drove. "When I called before, I left a message for Alverez," he explained, "asking whether it was all right for you to tell Mrs. Cabot that the paintings had been found. I just got a call back with his answer-yes. That's it. No other information or news."

"Thanks, Max," I said. We ended the call by agreeing that our curiosity about what Alverez was doing-and with whom-was white hot and growing.

When I arrived at the Grant house, I saw that O'Hara, the police officer who'd kept an infuriated Andi at bay while Alverez entered the house with me, was sitting on the porch steps smoking a cigarette. He stood as I approached and we exchanged greetings.

Ten minutes after I entered the sewing room, while rummaging through loose photos stuffed in the bottom drawer of a tallboy, I found a picture labeled on the back, "Us and Arnie Zeck, Paris, 1945." Mrs. Grant's ledger had stated that the Renoir, the Cezanne, and the Matisse had all been purchased from someone or something called A.Z. It wasn't much of a stretch to conclude that I was looking at the man who'd sold the Grants paintings that had been stolen from Jewish families.

I sat back on my heels and studied it. The grainy black-and-white image showed three people, two men and a woman, sitting at a table near a gra.s.s tennis court, drinks in hand, laughing. All three appeared healthy, happy, and carefree. Neither of the men looked familiar, and I wondered whether one of them was Mr. Grant, and if so, which one.

I sorted through the rest of the photographs. They were a jumble, and I doubted that they had any market value. I put them aside to send to Mrs. Cabot.

I turned my attention to the Chippendale-style walnut tallboy. It was beautifully built. Lying on my side to better examine the lower portion of the piece in detail, I noted restoration to the ogee feet. I'd already noticed that several spots along the fluted, canted corners were slightly nicked. Still, it was a bold and desirable piece, dating from the 1770s, and I expected that it would sell for more than $3,000. If it hadn't been restored, it might have been worth twice that.

I finished jotting down the imperfections and thought about calling Mrs. Cabot. According to my cell phone, it was 9:30, a reasonable time to call. I stood up, stretched, and walked across the room to stand at the window and look out at an un.o.bstructed view of the ocean.

I found her number where I'd written it in my calendar, and thought about what I wanted to say. After a moment of indecision, I realized I was in deep avoidance mode. I didn't want to make the call. I didn't want to deliver more pain to that nice, stoic woman. When I'd faced the fact that my father was dead, I'd been in shock, ragged with emotion, unable to focus on anything except my incalculable loss. If she was like me, she wouldn't even register that the paintings had been located, and if she did, she wouldn't care.

I wondered if she knew about Andi. With her father just dead, murdered, she was, no doubt, overwhelmed with grief. How could she bear knowing that her daughter was the killer? I shook my head, weighed down at the thought of the anguish she must be enduring.

Still, she had to be told that I'd found the paintings. The stolen art had to be returned. Do it, I told myself. Talk to her, and, as Max suggested, follow her lead. If she didn't want to know the details, I wouldn't force them on her.

I dialed, and after six rings, I got an answering machine. I made a fist and soft-punched the window frame. Having girded myself to speak to her, it was a real disappointment to get a machine. I closed my eyes again, and focused on the message.

"Mrs. Cabot," I told the machine, "this is Josie Prescott. I found both the Cezanne and the Matisse, and I have important news about them. I look forward to filling you in. You can reach me on my cell phone anytime." And I gave my number.

I felt satisfied with my message, and it was only when I noticed that my hands were trembling that I realized how hard that call had been to make. I hated disappointing people that I cared about. And, it seemed, I'd come to care about Mrs. Cabot.

I turned my attention to a small sampler hanging on the back wall, but before I reached it, Mrs. Cabot called me back.

"I'm sorry I missed your call," she said. "I stepped outside for a moment." She sounded the same as always, polite and pleasant.

"No problem. Thanks for calling back so quickly."

"Chief Alverez called as well, but he wasn't available when I tried to reach him back. By any chance ... do you know if he has news?" she asked.

My throat constricted and my heart began to race. I swallowed twice, panicked, uncertain what to say. Max's standing instructions came to me. Tell the truth and give short answers. And the truth was that I didn't know anything. Speculation wasn't fact.

"No, I don't know anything." I gripped the phone, hoping she wouldn't ask additional questions. Poor Mrs. Cabot.

"He's very good about staying in touch," she remarked. "I'll try him again when we're done talking."

"How are you holding up?" I asked.

There was a long pause. "All right. This is a difficult time."

"Yes," I agreed. I didn't know what to say. I wanted her to know how much I'd liked her father, and that he'd been laughing and seeming to enjoy life in the days before his death. I determined to write her a note. The sympathy cards people had sent me had provided great comfort, more so than spoken words. When they'd talked to me, I'd had to respond, to hold up my end of the conversation, and during those first weeks, that had proven impossible. Reading meaningful recollections, though, had consoled me.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Cabot," I said, finally.

After a pause, she said, "Thank you." She cleared her throat. "Yes, well ... you said in your message that you found the two paintings?" she asked.

"Yes. They were hidden here in the house, quite cleverly."

"Where are they now?"

I swallowed. "The police have them."

"For safekeeping?"

"Well, not exactly," I said, hating that I had to be the one to tell her.

"What do you mean?"

"It seems that there's no clear proof of ownership, I'm afraid. In fact, I have to tell you that I have reason to believe they're stolen."

"I see," she said in a tone so low I could barely hear her. She cleared her throat and I could picture her troubled eyes. "I thought as much."

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

"No, no, don't be. I've been troubled by the thought for more than forty years. Certainty is always better than speculation. From whom were they stolen?"

I wondered if her suspicions about the paintings had led to the argument with her parents forty years ago, but I didn't want to ask. Instead of trying to find out what might have happened when she was a girl, I answered her question directly. "My research suggests that they were taken from three different Jewish families before or during World War Two. Probably by the n.a.z.is."

I heard her inhale. "How awful."

"Yes. They were all sold, apparently, by a man named Arnie Zeck."

"Arnie Zeck. He was a friend of my parents. They knew him in Europe. I've seen photos."

"Yes, there's one mixed in with a bunch of others in a drawer of the tallboy in the sewing room."

"I never knew. ..." she started, her voice trailing off.