Read Online Consigned to Death by Jane K. Cleland - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane K. Cleland
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I couldn’t risk trusting her. Challenged by a stronger being, she’d probably fold, trading my confidences for goodwill.
Pushing aside my lonely need, I answered, “Thanks for asking. Everything’s fine.”
Better to lie than reveal a vulnerability. I wondered what my father would think about that decision.
She gestured toward the catalogue pages. “How does it look?” she asked.
“It looks great,” I said.
“Th-th-thanks,” she whispered, embarrassed. She blushed and looked down, her standard response to praise.
I pointed out the few typos I’d found, and Sasha said, “I’ll make the corrections and go to the quick-copy place.”
“Sounds good,” I told her.
I heard the click-clack of her shoes as she descended the stairs, then nothing. I was alone.
Watching the tape was upsetting. Seeing certain items, like the inlaid chess table that had belonged to Mr. Grant’s wife, triggered memories of the pleasant conversation we’d shared about its origin. I now perceived his jolly Santa Claus demeanor as a veneer disguising a big bad wolf licking his chops.
Well, I chided myself, maybe that was unfair. Just because his behavior felt like a betrayal didn’t make it so. I sighed. Mr. Grant had owed me nothing, and I had no complaint. If, as it now seemed, he was just using my appraisal to benchmark value so he could negotiate wisely with Barney, well, that was his prerogative, and in fact, was probably a savvy business move.
I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t disappointed, but I could learn from the experience. My naivete and gullibility had facilitated his research. I still believed he’d liked me. But now I understood that liking me hadn’t mattered a whit. Don’t be stupid , Josie, my father had told me once. In business, it’s all about the business. If someone won’t make money doing business with you, they won’t do business with you no matter how much they like you .
It felt good to remind myself of my father’s words. Doing so allowed me to view the tape with more objectivity than I otherwise might have been able to bring to the task.
As expected, there was no Renoir in sight, nor was there an empty space on a wall where it might have hung. Either Barney had already purchased it, as Max thought, or someone else had done so. Either Barney or Epps was lying and there was no Renoir at all, which wouldn’t surprise me a bit now that I was less naïve and gullible, or the painting was secreted somewhere.
I paused the tape to consider why Mr. Grant might have wanted the painting hidden. He had three sterling-silver tea sets dating from the eighteenth century and two mint-condition seventeenth-century Chinese square porcelain bottles on display, a Regency period dining-room set constructed of perfectly matched rosewood that he used daily, and scores of other priceless and near-priceless items all in plain sight. Why would he hide one painting? Obviously, he didn’t keep it hidden just because it was valuable. There had to be another reason.
It was hard to imagine, but maybe the painting had been stolen. Impulsively I turned to my computer and brought up an Internet browser, and then clicked on an Interpol site I’d bookmarked that was devoted to tracking stolen art. I typed in the painting’s title and “Renoir.” Nothing.
I shook my head in frustration. I had no way of knowing if it was true that Mr. Grant had ever possessed the painting, nor did I have a clue whether, if he had, discovering his reason for hiding it mattered. I warned myself not to lose sight of my goal. Whether I was being framed for murder or was an accidental victim, I needed to arm myself with knowledge.
I went through the tape again and counted twenty-three paintings. Not one was even close to a Renoir in reputation, importance, or value. None was remarkable even when compared to the other treasures in the house. The only artist whom I recognized was the nineteenth-century illustrator Jules Tavernier.
Pushing aside my lonely need, I answered, “Thanks for asking. Everything’s fine.”
Better to lie than reveal a vulnerability. I wondered what my father would think about that decision.
She gestured toward the catalogue pages. “How does it look?” she asked.
“It looks great,” I said.
“Th-th-thanks,” she whispered, embarrassed. She blushed and looked down, her standard response to praise.
I pointed out the few typos I’d found, and Sasha said, “I’ll make the corrections and go to the quick-copy place.”
“Sounds good,” I told her.
I heard the click-clack of her shoes as she descended the stairs, then nothing. I was alone.
Watching the tape was upsetting. Seeing certain items, like the inlaid chess table that had belonged to Mr. Grant’s wife, triggered memories of the pleasant conversation we’d shared about its origin. I now perceived his jolly Santa Claus demeanor as a veneer disguising a big bad wolf licking his chops.
Well, I chided myself, maybe that was unfair. Just because his behavior felt like a betrayal didn’t make it so. I sighed. Mr. Grant had owed me nothing, and I had no complaint. If, as it now seemed, he was just using my appraisal to benchmark value so he could negotiate wisely with Barney, well, that was his prerogative, and in fact, was probably a savvy business move.
I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t disappointed, but I could learn from the experience. My naivete and gullibility had facilitated his research. I still believed he’d liked me. But now I understood that liking me hadn’t mattered a whit. Don’t be stupid , Josie, my father had told me once. In business, it’s all about the business. If someone won’t make money doing business with you, they won’t do business with you no matter how much they like you .
It felt good to remind myself of my father’s words. Doing so allowed me to view the tape with more objectivity than I otherwise might have been able to bring to the task.
As expected, there was no Renoir in sight, nor was there an empty space on a wall where it might have hung. Either Barney had already purchased it, as Max thought, or someone else had done so. Either Barney or Epps was lying and there was no Renoir at all, which wouldn’t surprise me a bit now that I was less naïve and gullible, or the painting was secreted somewhere.
I paused the tape to consider why Mr. Grant might have wanted the painting hidden. He had three sterling-silver tea sets dating from the eighteenth century and two mint-condition seventeenth-century Chinese square porcelain bottles on display, a Regency period dining-room set constructed of perfectly matched rosewood that he used daily, and scores of other priceless and near-priceless items all in plain sight. Why would he hide one painting? Obviously, he didn’t keep it hidden just because it was valuable. There had to be another reason.
It was hard to imagine, but maybe the painting had been stolen. Impulsively I turned to my computer and brought up an Internet browser, and then clicked on an Interpol site I’d bookmarked that was devoted to tracking stolen art. I typed in the painting’s title and “Renoir.” Nothing.
I shook my head in frustration. I had no way of knowing if it was true that Mr. Grant had ever possessed the painting, nor did I have a clue whether, if he had, discovering his reason for hiding it mattered. I warned myself not to lose sight of my goal. Whether I was being framed for murder or was an accidental victim, I needed to arm myself with knowledge.
I went through the tape again and counted twenty-three paintings. Not one was even close to a Renoir in reputation, importance, or value. None was remarkable even when compared to the other treasures in the house. The only artist whom I recognized was the nineteenth-century illustrator Jules Tavernier.
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