Consigned to Death

“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 glass 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 sca

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 ru

“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?”

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 fu

“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 anticipation, I entered “Apples in a Blue Bowl with Grapes” and “Ceza

I leaned back in the chair and read the brief description. According to the site, the painting had been the property of the Vie

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 Michelle Rosen. The address was in the sixth arrondissement 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 circumstances. 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.