Free Deadly Appraisal by Jane K. Cleland Page B

be out of the City. If I’m not in his face, maybe he’ll ignore me.”
    “Maybe,” she said, sounding unconvinced.
    “So, how are you?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
    We chatted about the new man she was dating and politics at Frisco’s, the weather in New York and when it really started snowing in New Hampshire, and who was up for a promotion and who’d been passed over, and by the end of the conversation, I realized that I was truly thankful to be out of the corporate fray and on my own.

    A truck rumbled into the lot.
    Making my way down the spiral stairs, across the warehouse, and into the desolate auction venue, I turned on lights while avoiding looking at the spot where Maisy had stood. The vision of her tumbling forward, shrieking, “Ahhh . . . al . . . alahaaa . . . dah . . .” in a panicked screech was forever branded in my memory. I didn’t want to remind myself of the scene. There’d be time enough to look at the platform again after the place was cleaned up.
    I unbolted the double doors and swung them wide, enjoying the rush of autumn air. Eddie was opening his truck’s back doors. I spotted two helpers.
    Eddie was tall, maybe six three or more, and he was big all over, with thick arms and powerful thighs. His short red hair was turning gray.
    “Hi, Eddie. How are you doing?”
    “Hey, Josie,” he replied. “I’m holding up pretty well, all things considered. How about you?”
    “Good.” I grimaced. “So-so, if the truth be known.”
    “Yeah. It’s a helluva situation.”
    “Yeah. Listen, you have our auction schedule, right? We’re still on for those dates.”
    He flashed a grateful grin. “Yeah. Thanks, Josie.”
    We weren’t friends exactly, but he was chatty and open. Whenever he set out the wine and snacks for our monthly auction preview receptions and I was around, he told me more about himself.
    “You never know, Josie, how things work out,” he’d told me with a chuckle as he set up for the Gala. “Never say never.”
    He recounted how, last year, at forty-eight, he had, on a whim, quit his boring corporate job and signed up for a fancy cooking course. Three months later, with his certificate of completion in hand, he opened his catering business.
    “With my contacts,” he confided to me, “it should have been a snap. But I wasn’t prepared for the competition.”
    We chatted briefly now and I watched as he directed his staff. After a minute, I said, “I’ll be up in my office if you need me. Okay?”
    “You bet. Thanks, Josie,” he said, and though his eyes looked worried, he waved a cheerful good-bye.
    I looked back as I reached the door to the warehouse. He stood between two of the display cases, overseeing his workers.
    To one side was a Plexiglas case containing a nineteenth-century “Theatre Gringalet” clock entitled “This Evening Grand Representation.” The elaborate scene showed a man playing a drum and a woman playing cymbals. Both figures stood on a stage, dressed in period costumes. Above them, a monkey looked down, observing their performance. Fabricated of metal, the clock measured fifteen by twelve inches and featured a French eight-day movement. The design was both practical and witty, and for someone who liked its style or who collected rare timepieces, it was a real find. We estimated that it would sell for around $2,300.
    To Eddie’s other side, also under clear Plexiglas, was the gorgeous faience pottery set I’d described to Detective Rowcliff.
    As I stepped into the warehouse, I heard Eddie shouting directions to someone named Randy. He sounded so in charge, I thought that maybe I was wrong to worry about him. Perhaps the depression I’d observed on Saturday night was a natural reaction to the shock and sadness of Maisy’s death, not, as I’d feared, from worry about his catering business.

    Upstairs, as ways and means of discovering information about Trevor and Maisy simmered on my mental back burner, I reviewed