Deadly Appraisal Read online

  “To which you respond?” I asked with a smile.

  “No.” Wes’s voice was quiet when he spoke the word, adding to its impact.

  I nodded but didn’t reply. He cocked his head, watching me closely.

  “So, will you help me?” he asked.

  I didn’t want to reveal that I was terrified and desperate for information. Knowing Wes, he’d pounce if I revealed a vulnerability. While I knew that he was using me, I could see no advantage to letting him know that I was using him, as well. “Knowledge is power, and all that,” I said vaguely. “So, anything I tell you is off the record?”

  “Absolutely. Unless and until you tell me otherwise.”

  “What if you learn something from another source? I read once that if you have two independent sources, you can publish things you learn from me—even without my permission.”

  “Why? You have something to hide?” he challenged.

  “Of course not! The point is that I don’t want any more litanies of ‘No comment’ making me look like I crawled out from under a rock.”

  He nodded. “There may be facts I learn independently that involve you or that are central to the story that I’d go with. But I can guarantee you—I give you my word—that anything I learn from you is off-limits unless you tell me otherwise or until the case is resolved.”

  “Resolved how?”

  “Resolved by an arrest being made.”

  I looked over at him. His chubby face held an earnest, concerned expression, which I found reassuring. In the past, his word had been good. “Okay,” I said.

  “I won’t let you down.”

  I nodded. “Thank you. I’ll hold you to that commitment.” He must be on to something, I told myself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so conciliatory. It made me wonder what he had up his sleeve. “What do you want to know, Wes?” I asked.

  “How well did you know Maisy?”

  “Only through working with her on the Gala. Why?”

  He shrugged. “Learning as much as I can about Maisy is a logical first step in figuring out why she was killed.”

  I nodded, thinking how little I knew about her. “Sorry I can’t help,” I said, wondering who might have known her well enough to describe what she was really like—was she serious and unstylish, as she’d appeared to be during the months we worked together? Or was she bubbly and frivolous, as she’d seemed at the Gala?

  “So you can’t tell me anything about her?” Wes asked, sounding as if he didn’t believe me.

  “No. I barely knew her.”

  I gazed out toward the ocean. A ship—a tanker, it looked like—had appeared out of nowhere, heading south. It was so far away, it looked like a child’s toy. After a few seconds, I added, “You said on the phone that you knew something about me.”

  Wes sipped some coffee. “Yeah. Well, it’s kind of complicated.”

  “That sounds bad.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. But I thought you’d want to know.”

  I turned to him with narrowed eyes. I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Have you ever noticed how when someone says they think you’d want to know something, you almost never do?” I said, joking.

  “I’m serious, Josie.”

  “Me, too.”

  He sighed deeply, Wes-speak for his willingness to endure what he took to be my ill-timed jest because he had his sights set on some greater good. “I’ve come across what seems to be a pretty good motive for someone to want you dead.”

  “What? That’s absurd.”

  “Don’t be so quick to react. You may not know about it yet.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He looked at me and pulled his earlobe a couple of times, as if he had an itch. “Well, I checked out your background.”

  “My background! Why are you checking out my background?”

  “It’s just part of being thorough, that’s all.”

  “And?” I asked, allowing my impatience to show.

  “Do you know someone named Trevor Woodleigh?”

  I recoiled as if I’d been slapped. Wes must have seen something in my face, because he immediately asked, “Are you all right?” He sounded worried.

  I looked away from his knowing eyes, forcing myself to breathe deeply as I watched a series of low-rolling waves sweep toward shore and break with a frothy murmur.

  Trevor Woodleigh had been my hero. As CEO of Frisco’s, he’d been generous with his time and attention, helping me hone my skills as an antiques appraiser. From the first day I met him—during a new employee orientation workshop, at which he’d offered a gracious welcome to us all—until I wore the wire that caught him dead to rights conspiring with his chief competitor to hold commissions steady, I’d considered him a mentor, a leader, and an inspiration.

  I still flinched when I thought of those months—my hero breaking the law; the sharklike press that circled around me for weeks, ready to attack; the unremitting icy contempt I endured from my colleagues; and the terse explanation from a newly hired acting CEO that they were concerned about my ability to function as a team player, and so, regretfully, I was being let go. I’d gone from golden girl with an unlimited future to pariah in a matter of months.

  I shook my head, trying to regain my composure. “Yeah. I know him,” I said.

  “From what I read, your testimony was central to his decision to accept the plea bargain. What was the original charge?”

  “Didn’t you read that part, too?”

  He looked a little self-conscious, but it was a prideful look. Wes was pleased with his comprehensive research. “Yeah, I did. Conspiracy to defraud. Racketeering. Perjury. I think there might have been a grand larceny charge as well, but that one was dropped as part of the plea bargain. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  I recalled how awful I’d felt when the prosecutor congratulated me for doing a good job, telling me that my testimony had led Trevor to accept the government’s offer of a plea bargain. I hadn’t wanted to do a good job. All I’d set out to do was tell the truth, but somehow my altruism was perceived as a betrayal of the firm, and by Trevor himself as a clever power-grabbing ploy. I’d learned a bitter lesson. Never again would I expect to be valued for doing the right thing. My testimony cost me more than my job; it cost me my innocence.

  “Why did you ask if I knew him?” I said, watching a gull spike and dive into a wave in pursuit of a fish.

  “Seems he just got out of prison.”

  I turned and stared at Wes. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t speak. I took a sip of coffee and coughed. “Trevor’s out of prison?”

  Wes nodded. “Yeah.”

  “When?” I asked. “When did he get out?”

  “Three days ago,” he said.

  I was speechless, stunned at the implication. A man who, from all reports, sincerely believed that I had conspired to entrap him in order to further my career by eliminating him as a rival was out of prison, free to exact revenge.

  CHAPTER TEN

  W

  here is he now?” I whispered.

  “At his sister’s house in Manhattan.” He extracted a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and turned it over. “On East Sixty-fifth Street. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes,” I replied, looking at the ocean. The tanker had passed out of sight.

  East Sixty-fifth Street was a world away from New Hampshire, but less than six hours by car.

  “Do you suspect that he . . . I mean, are you saying that he . . .” I left the thought unspoken.

  Wes shrugged. “I’m checking further.”

  “What are you checking?”

  “I’m looking into his whereabouts the night of the Gala.”

  My heart skipped a beat. Can it be?

  Images of working with Trevor, of being with him, flooded into my head. Horrible courtroom moments and exhilarating work experiences came together in a confusing mix. On some level, I missed him, and that was sick. According to Wes, there
was a chance he wanted to kill me.

  “How?” I asked, trying to hide my fear from Wes.

  “I have sources working on it,” he said, sounding important.

  I nodded, knowing enough not to ask for details. It wasn’t just that he wouldn’t want to tell me; it was also that I didn’t want to know. I maintained a calm exterior, but the truth was that I was seriously shaken.

  Until Wes put a name to the threat, it had seemed absurd to think that someone wanted me dead. But now I wasn’t so sure. Sitting on a seaweed-strewn beach in New Hampshire, I’d assumed that I was safe. According to Wes, there was a good chance that I’d been wrong.

  I kicked myself for not tracking Trevor’s status, shaking my head in mute astonishment—it seemed that denial was a more powerful force than I’d realized. Despite Detective Rowcliff raising the potential that I, not Maisy, had been the target, it hadn’t occurred to me that Trevor might be behind the murder.

  Still, Trevor as cold-blooded murderer seemed incredible. Trevor was a thief, not a killer. But considering what I knew about Trevor Woodleigh, I began to question my automatic denial that he would plan and execute murder. My heart began to race.

  Trevor was a man of impressive intellect, guided more by passion than reason. And he loathed me. If the anger that had simmered just below the surface throughout his trial had boiled over while he was in prison, I had no doubt that he’d have both the impulse to kill me and the smarts to pull it off. It was a terrifying realization.

  “So what now?” I asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  Wes stood up and stretched, preparing to leave. “Now I keep digging,” he said.

  Me, too, I thought. I’ve got to know where Trevor is and what he’s up to—and I’ve got to find out quickly.

  “You’ll keep me posted?” I asked.

  “Give me an exclusive.”

  “Who else would I talk to, Wes?”

  “Deal.”

  He flashed a quick V for victory and lumbered through the sand to his car. Whose victory is he hoping to inspire? I wondered. Mine for my survival? Or his for writing a Pulitzer Prize–winning feature?

  I sat for several minutes trying to decide what to do first—follow up on Trevor or try to learn more about Maisy—but I reached no conclusion. And, I wondered, is Trevor an immediate threat? Do I need a bodyguard? I shook out the blanket, folded it up, and made my way across the sand to my car, all the while considering my options.

  My father once told me that no matter what, it was always better to know the truth than not. He never said it wasn’t frightening, just that it was better than the alternative. Ignorance, he said, is never bliss.

  Leaves crunched under my tires as I drove through my parking lot.

  The sound was evocative, bringing forth happy childhood memories of jumping into towering piles of raked leaves before my dad and I stuffed them into oversized trash bags. Life was easy then.

  I saw that Gretchen, my assistant, was just getting out of her car, her ginger-colored hair hanging in gentle waves almost to her waist.

  “You’re here bright and early,” I called. “It’s not even eight thirty!”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I finally gave up and decided to come in. It was either that or do laundry,” she said, making a funny face.

  I laughed, appreciating her lighthearted take on the world, even in the face of strife.

  “Well, Prescott’s appreciates being the beneficiary of your insomnia, even if you rank us just slightly above laundry.” I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The chimes tinkled as I punched the code to turn off the alarm.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” she responded with a giggle. “Laundry is way more important than work, but I finished it as a result of yesterday’s insomnia, so I had no choice but to come in.”

  I smiled, signaling that I got the joke. “Why are you having trouble sleeping?” I asked.

  Gretchen’s normally luminous green eyes clouded over. She shrugged and turned toward her computer, her upbeat mood gone, as if she’d thrown a switch. “Maisy, I guess. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about her.”

  “It’s not stupid at all. I’m having a hard time, too.”

  “I don’t know what to do to stop my mind from replaying everything like a movie, you know?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Have you heard anything? Do they have any leads?”

  I paused, considering how much to reveal.

  Gretchen was an enigma. She’d arrived on my doorstep the day I’d started in business, begging for a job, yet refusing to give me any information about her background or qualifications. She’d looked at me straight on, her expressive eyes revealing nothing, and promised that she’d work hard and help my company grow. In a strangely impulsive act for a methodical and research-oriented sort like me, I hired her on the spot, and have thanked my lucky stars ever since. She was a treasure, as much for her office skills as for her caretaking personality and upbeat attitude.

  But she wasn’t a friend, and outside of work, we had little in common. I liked her but felt no particular rapport with her. And knowing her fondness for gossip, I found it hard to imagine that she’d keep my secrets private.

  “Nothing official,” I said.

  She sighed and nodded. “What do you do to turn off the replay?” she asked.

  That one was easy to answer truthfully. “I work,” I said.

  She tried for a smile and almost made it. “You mean you don’t do laundry first?”

  I patted her shoulder as I started for the warehouse door. “Almost never. I’ve been known to buy new clothes rather than do laundry.”

  She laughed, and as I picked up the preliminary tag-sale financial report, a memory came to me.

  Rick, my ex-boyfriend, had burst into my New York City apartment one evening about eight or nine years ago, excitement radiating from every pore.

  “I got the assignment!” he exclaimed, pulling me away from the stove to do a fancy pirouette, spin, and dip.

  “Oh, that’s great, Rick! Congratulations!”

  “Come with me!”

  “Where?” I asked, thrilled that he’d want me to join him anywhere.

  “Rome.”

  “They’re sending you to Rome? For how long?”

  “Just for meetings tomorrow and Monday. Which means I get the weekend in Italy—company-paid! Our flight is at eleven.”

  “Our flight? Tonight? You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  From his lopsided grin and eyes blazing with anticipation, I could tell that he was serious.

  “But tomorrow’s Friday. I have work,” I objected.

  “Call in sick,” he said, his eyes promising fun and, I thought with a jolt, something deeper and more intimate, as well.

  I felt my pulse race and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He pushed me gently backward until I reached the wall. His eyes seared into mine with passionate intensity. He leaned down and kissed me. My heart thudded and I pushed my hips against him in response. I lost myself in the moment, surrendering to his embrace.

  “So, will you come to Rome with me tonight?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, my eyes still closed, smiling.

  He did a quick jig. “Fantastic! Let’s go!”

  “But . . . I need to pack, and everything I own is dirty. I was going to do laundry tonight.”

  “Who cares? While I’m working tomorrow, you can go clothes shopping.”

  And so I went to Italy with a toothbrush and my makeup case, and nothing else.

  “I’ll be upstairs,” I called to Gretchen now, shaking off the memory.

  I didn’t miss Rick at all, but thinking of him made me miss Ty a lot. Is Aunt Trina okay? Is he?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  T

  he phone rang. Listening to Gretchen’s side of the conversation, I could tell that it was Eddie, the caterer, letting her know he was on his way.

  “Once Eddie’s f
inished, call Macon Cleaners, will you? Tell them about the wine stains and see what they can do.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll let Eddie in.”

  I left Gretchen to her work and walked through the morning-chilled warehouse toward my private office. Except for the clomping of my work boots, the quiet was absolute.

  I decided to greet Eddie myself instead of sending Gretchen, so I could reassure him that I still wanted him to cater our upcoming auction dates. Maybe it wasn’t a necessary gesture, but I was a little worried about him. Saturday night, after Detective Rowcliff had supervised the removal of Maisy’s body, I’d spotted Eddie sitting alone in a far corner of the room, silent and morose. He’d put a lot of eggs in the Gala basket, and from his demeanor, I concluded that his situation was bleak. Catering my monthly receptions probably didn’t represent enough business to save his company if things were as dismal as his manner Saturday night had suggested, but knowing that he hadn’t lost an account might help him muster the energy to persevere.

  As I walked across the shadowy warehouse en route to my office, I could see the outlines of hundreds of items in various stages of preparation. While Fred or Sasha worked on the appraisals, Eric cleaned and polished the pieces, readying them for sale. Lesser-quality goods went to the weekly tag sale, while better items were sent to auction. Except that sometimes I tucked a low-priced special piece into the tag-sale mix to encourage regulars to seek out bargains week after week.

  The warehouse was a little more than half-full, and that was great news. Half-full meant business was good. A little more than half-full meant business was growing. As I passed by stacked shelves and roped-off areas filled with furniture, I smiled, proud of my accomplishment.

  I sat at my desk and turned on my computer. While it booted up, I gazed at the old maple outside my window. Its branches swayed gently in the soft morning breeze and orange leaves fluttered to the ground.

  I wondered what people in New York were saying about Trevor’s release. I reached for my old Rolodex and found the entry for a former colleague named Shelley. We’d worked together at Frisco’s for years—and she was still there. We’d never been close friends, but we’d always gotten along, and during my last days with the firm, she’d remained neutral. She hadn’t rushed to my defense, but neither had she participated in the witch-hunt. I got her on her cell phone as she walked to work.