Deadly Appraisal Read online

  “What?” Verna asked, shocked. “Eight hundred dollars? I would have expected more than that for the contents of the living room alone!”

  “You have some nice pieces,” I said without sounding overly enthusiastic. “But, with all due respect, most of the goods aren’t special. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying they aren’t special to you and your husband. I’m simply talking from my business perspective.”

  She shook her head impatiently as I spoke. “No, no. I’m not talking about sentimental value. I’m talking business, too. I had another dealer in here and he offered me more than twice what you’re offering.”

  “Really? Who was that?”

  She tilted her head. “I don’t think I should tell you.”

  I didn’t believe her. Other than the good stuff on display in the living room, there wasn’t much else. Amateur oil paintings hung next to chipped gilt-framed mirrors. There were two sets of flatware, both stainless, not silver or silver plate—and incomplete. Most of the furniture was painted and had been constructed of cheap veneer to begin with. She had a lot of stuff, and it would cost a few hundred dollars out-of-pocket to rent a truck and hire the temporary employees we’d need to help Eric pack and move everything. In situations like this, where there’s a mixed bag of good stuff and junk, there are two options: cherry picking the good stuff or basing your bid on the good items but offering to take it all. Most dealers want the former and most owners want the latter. My strategy of bidding on everything has several advantages to Prescott’s—it helps generate inventory for our tag sales, disguises where my true interest lies, and thus creates a barrier to competition. Because most dealers don’t want to deal with an entire houseful of miscellaneous goods, I have a leg up, and almost never overbid.

  I shrugged. “I think you should accept that person’s offer. I doubt you’ll do better.” I headed for the door.

  “Wait,” she called after me. “Actually, that offer was contingent on our selling some of the pieces we decided to keep. You didn’t see them. Eight hundred cash?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She looked at me for several seconds. “Okay. What the hell? Sold.”

  My offer was fair, but her attitude made our interaction seem somehow sleazy, a feeling I hated. If a negotiation ends with anyone feeling bad or shortchanged, it’s a failure, my dad told me when I was first given bargaining responsibility at Frisco’s. It’s more than “win-win,” he explained, which sometimes is more a matter of smoke and mirrors than substance. It’s being fair.

  Do the right thing, kiddo, he added, and you’ll never be sorry.

  I stood with the sun on my back, straddling the front door threshold, promising that we’d be there at 12:30 tomorrow, cash in hand, and that we’d pack and move everything out right away.

  As I walked to my car, I dug my cell phone out of my bag and called Gretchen.

  “Hey, Gretchen,” I said, “everything under control?”

  “Absolutely. How did it go?”

  “We got it!”

  “Great!”

  “Well, sort of. There’s a few good pieces and a lot of junk. Got a pen?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Eric will need four guys and a twenty-footer, and they have to be there at twelve thirty sharp. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “They’ll only have a few hours, but that should be okay, because very little has to be packed carefully. Mostly, it’s furniture, so simple padding will do.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll talk to Eric, but if you speak to him first, tell him that he should focus on the living room and let the other guys take the rest of the house.”

  “What’s in the living room?”

  I took a quick glance at my notes. “Five cut-crystal bowls, two pairs of sterling silver candlesticks, and thirteen vintage evening gowns.”

  “Cool!” Gretchen exclaimed.

  “Yeah. Be sure he has proper packing—there’s lots of beading that can fall off.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’ll need eight hundred in cash.”

  “I’ll get it ready.”

  “Stress that he needs to count the gowns and bowls.”

  I wouldn’t have put it past Verna to hold back one or two of those gowns, and if questioned, claim that they were favorites and weren’t included in the sale. It happens a lot, sometimes for nefarious reasons, and sometimes out of pure sentimental attachment. Regardless, it’s why I have a cast-in-concrete rule that the owner has to sign off on a listing of what we’re buying.

  “Will do. Are you on your way back?”

  “No,” I told her. “I have some other things to do. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  That’s the truth, I thought as I ended the call. Knowing Rowcliff, I might be stuck at police headquarters all afternoon, enduring God only knew what innuendos and abuse at his hand.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  M

  ax was leaning against his car, his eyes closed, a small smile softening his determined-looking features.

  I hated to disturb him and stood several paces away, watching him. Today’s bow tie was dark green with small yellow polka dots. It went nicely with his cocoa-brown and green tweed suit and yellow shirt. His sandy hair was cut short and combed back. After a long minute, I cleared my throat and he opened his eyes.

  “Were you six thousand miles away in Hawaii?” I asked.

  “No, I was only about ten miles away, in my backyard, smelling the last of my tomatoes and wondering whether we could bring the basil inside for the winter, or whether it’s doomed.”

  “Yum.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. He stood up and straightened his jacket. “So,” he asked, “how are you holding up?”

  “Good. Better than I would have expected. It helps that I just made a terrific buy. Most of a houseful of goods.”

  “Great!” He looked at me. “Are you ready for Rowcliff?”

  “Nope. No one can properly prepare for a jerk.”

  He smiled. “I think he’s a good cop, actually. I just think he’s got a lousy bedside manner.”

  “Well, that part’s true enough at least. Why do you say he’s a good cop?”

  Max looked over my shoulder, watching the traffic flow for a moment. “He asks good questions.”

  I nodded, remembering some of the pointed questions he’d asked me. “What should I expect?”

  “No way to know. But regardless of what he does, I know what you should do.”

  “And that is?”

  He shrugged and, with a twisted grin, said, “Tell the truth. Give short, responsive answers. Don’t volunteer information. Follow my instructions if I tell you to stay quiet. You know, same old, same old.”

  “How scary is it that I’m getting good at handling homicide interrogations? Jeez. What does that say about me?”

  “It says that you picked a good lawyer—one who’s terrific at guiding his innocent clients.” He lightly tapped my shoulder and I smiled at his attempt to reassure me.

  Three police officers stood talking quietly in the lobby of the old building when we pushed open the heavy door and entered. One of them greeted Max by name, and each of them gave me a once-over.

  Glancing around the entryway, I spotted a used copy of yesterday’s Seacoast Star resting on a bench, and nearly choked. I felt hunted, unable to escape its censure—PRESCOTT INVOLVED IN SECOND MURDER. With a sideways peek to confirm that no one was watching me, I scooped the section up and folded it in half, hiding the headline, and stuffed it into my purse. Staring straight ahead, panic and embarrassment faded, and wrath simmered to the surface.

  Detective Rowcliff entered the lobby through a door on the left and waggled his fingers, indicating that we were to follow him. His expression was severe, his gesture impatient. I wasn’t intimidated at all. I felt pretty damn severe and impatient myself and utterly uncooperative. I didn’t want to help anyone learn anything more about me.

  Rowcliff led us dow
n a serpentine corridor to a small conference room. A tiny window, up near the ceiling, was soot-stained and allowed almost no light to penetrate. It was austere, devoid of warmth.

  I sat on a folding metal chair, facing the window, hoping he’d do something outrageous so I could justify telling him exactly what I thought of him. Wes wasn’t handy, but Rowcliff would do.

  As Max was extracting a pad of paper from his briefcase, the door opened and Officer Johnston appeared, notebook in hand. Max said hello and I nodded. We both watched as he got settled. Once Johnston recorded the date and time and indicated that he was ready, Rowcliff jumped in.

  “Tell me about Trevor Woodleigh,” he said.

  “What do you want to know?” I groused.

  “I want to know about your relationship,” Rowcliff responded, his tone matching mine.

  “He’s my ex-boss,” I said. “I have no relationship with him.”

  Rowcliff rolled his pencil back and forth on the pitted metal table. “Tell me about the relationship you used to have,” he said, trying to convey patience and sounding patronizing instead.

  “Oh, come on,” I responded, fed up with Rowcliff’s attitude. “That’s so five years ago.”

  “Well, is there something about your relationship with Woodleigh you don’t want to talk about?” Rowcliff asked provocatively.

  Yes, I shouted silently. Everything. I don’t want you to tramp on the threadbare remnants of my pathetic hero worship.

  “Josie,” Max interjected quietly, gripping my forearm.

  I turned to him. His eyes conveyed a warning. Stay cool, they signaled. He leaned over and whispered, “Answer his questions, Josie. Short answers. Lose the sarcasm. Play it straight. Got it?”

  “Okay, okay,” I whispered back. The pulsating anger I’d felt in the lobby on seeing the newspaper faded to mere irritation.

  Max nodded encouragingly and squeezed my arm before releasing it and resettling in his chair. I took a deep breath and after a short struggle pushed the last of my rebellion aside.

  “Okay. Where were we? Is there something I don’t want you to know?” I repeated, turning my attention back to Rowcliff, ready to fib. “Right. No. Ask away.”

  “Okay, then,” he said, tapping his pencil on the table edge. “So?”

  “So, I worked for him for a long time. I used to know him well. I’ve had no contact with him in over five years. What specifically do you want to know?”

  “Has Woodleigh threatened you directly?”

  “No.” Unless you count his courtroom stare, a hateful look that would have enlivened a marble statue to flee a garden perch, I thought.

  “You just said that you’ve had no contact with him since the trial. Is that right?”

  “Yes. None.”

  “Has he tried to contact you? Left a voice mail, for instance, and you didn’t return the call? Sent a letter and you didn’t respond?”

  “Nothing like that. No.”

  Rowcliff shifted in his chair, staring at me. “Why do you think he might be out to kill you, then?”

  I paused, trying to think of how to express my amorphous concern. “I didn’t. I don’t. I can’t imagine it. But you asked if I could think of anyone who might have a reason to kill me.” I shrugged. “On paper, Trevor fits the bill. That’s all.”

  Rowcliff nodded, thinking.

  “Did you check him out?” Max asked.

  “Yes. Two detectives from New York met with him.” He turned to me. “You’re not his favorite person. But he has no trouble explaining his whereabouts for all day Saturday.”

  “So he’s out of it?” I asked eagerly, relieved.

  “Not really. He went for walks, paid cash for entry into a museum and a movie theater, ate alone in Central Park, et cetera, et cetera. Could he have left New York at noon, driven to New Hampshire, killed Maisy, and driven back to New York before someone missed him? Yes. Did he? We’re continuing to investigate.”

  “Which means . . .” Max prodded.

  “Which means we have no idea and may never know. On the face of it, his alibi is perfect. Every minute is accounted for, and we can’t—so far, at least—disprove anything he’s said.”

  “What about the car?” I asked. “Does he own one?”

  Rowcliff shook his head. “No.”

  “How about a rental?”

  “Not under his own name,” Rowcliff answered begrudgingly.

  “What about not under his own name?”

  “Who’d rent it for him?” he responded, his question a challenge, not an answer.

  “His sister,” I said, remembering how he’d often escorted her to company parties. “When I knew him, they were close.”

  Rowcliff nodded. “Who else?”

  I shut my eyes. I recalled Trevor at work. He never walked from point A to point B. He’d stop at every cubicle, look at you straight on, without guile, and chat, or ask how it was going, or share a funny anecdote. And he always smiled. “That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.” Shakespeare knew.

  “There were three people who were all geared up to testify at his trial on his behalf—character witnesses. No matter what facts were revealed, they remained loyal.” I shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that they still are.”

  Detective Rowcliff slid his notebook across the table and handed me a pen. “Write down their names.”

  I glanced at Max and he nodded. Feeling like a tattletale, I did as I was told and slid the notebook back across the table.

  He looked at Max, then back at me, rhythmically tapping his pencil. Reaching a decision, he slapped the pencil down and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.

  “Here’s the situation,” Rowcliff said. “I have no viable theory of the crime. All I know for sure is that Maisy drank poisoned wine and died on the spot.” He leaned forward and his chair legs made a sharp slapping noise as they hit the floor. “We’ll continue checking his alibi, but I’m not holding out much hope. If we find anything out, it won’t be through running down alibis.” He turned to me. “Have you remembered anything else about your mystery waiter?”

  “He’s not my mystery waiter!” I responded, bristling. “All I said was that I didn’t notice much about him, that’s all.”

  “Did you happen to notice what Maisy said when she collapsed?” he asked sarcastically.

  I wondered what Max would do if I walked out. I wondered what Rowcliff would do. Barely controlling myself, I answered as calmly as I could. “She screamed,” I said.

  “Can you describe it?”

  “It was kind of a shriek. Is that what you mean?”

  “Mimic it.”

  I looked at him, confused. “Me? Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mean I should yell?”

  “Did Maisy yell?”

  “It was kind of a guttural noise.”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. Here goes nothing.” I thought for a minute. “Maisy’s eyes opened wide and she shrieked, ‘Al-ahhhh! Aurrrruaghhh-alah! Aladah! Dahhh!’” I trembled, recalling the awful scene. “Something like that.”

  “Then what happened?” Rowcliff asked.

  “I jumped up and my chair fell. I remember hearing it thud against the carpet. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was as if I were frozen, watching a horror movie.” I closed my eyes for several seconds. “Maisy sank to her knees, then fell forward and rolled off the platform onto the floor.” I looked up, to find Rowcliff’s eyes fixed on mine. “I unfroze and rushed toward her. I heard gasps all around.”

  “Maisy didn’t say or scream anything else?”

  I shook my head. “No. That was it.”

  Rowcliff tapped his pencil and nodded.

  “So where does that leave us?” Max asked.

  “With a lot of questions but not a lot of answers. But if Josie was the intended target after all, someone might get impatient and try again. In which case, we’ll catch him for sure.”

&n
bsp; “Gee, thanks. All someone has to do for you to charge him with Maisy’s murder is kill me. Is that what I just heard you say?”

  “No, don’t be so quick to fire up,” Rowcliff responded. “They don’t have to succeed in killing you. All they have to do is try.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A

  bout ten minutes after Rowcliff uttered his chilling comment, Max and I left the station and walked across the parking lot.

  “What was up with that display of attitude?” he asked as we approached my car.

  “What attitude?” I replied cheerily, hoping that my perkiness would distract him enough to skip the issue. In my current mood, the last thing I wanted was a lecture on proper decorum during police interrogations.

  “Josie?” Max sounded stern, apparently unimpressed by my assumed insouciance. “It’s a serious situation, and when you joke around, you sound defensive, not playful.”

  “I was trying for sassy, not playful,” I said brightly, flashing a thousand-watt smile, still trying to distract him.

  He didn’t respond; he didn’t smile back at me, and his eyes conveyed neither amusement nor reassurance. I brushed my hair aside, suddenly feeling childish in the face of his distress. What was I thinking—that I could wish the situation away? I looked aside again, girding myself to face the music.

  “I’m sorry, Max,” I said, sighing. “I know I shouldn’t let him push my buttons.”

  “It’s okay,” he responded. “No permanent damage was done. But you shouldn’t behave that way again.” I nodded acquiescence, and he reiterated what I knew, that it was crucial that I stay calm, act professional, and not take anything Rowcliff said or did personally.

  Listening to the lecture I hadn’t wanted to receive, hearing nothing new, was tough. Tougher still was facing why I’d acted as I had. The bottom line was that I was full up with anxiety and worry, and as a result, my exterior toughness was worn down. It was as if my nerve endings were closer to the surface than usual, so that Rowcliff’s normal sarcasm and cynical disdain were not merely irritants, but felt like sandpaper that had rubbed me raw. Regardless of the why of the situation, my reaction now struck me as sophomorically self-indulgent, dumb, and, worse yet, counterproductive.