Free Vultures at Twilight by Charles Atkins Page B

his desk to the other. A tsunami was overtaking his life; if he didn’t put his business into order, everything he and Philip had built would be swept away. He imagined that the police would charge him with Philip’s murder. After all, people are usually killed by those closest to them.
    His attorney, Richard Thompson, III – Dick to his friends – had assured Tolliver there was nothing to worry about. ‘There’s no hard evidence,’ he’d said. ‘Nothing to connect you to the scene of the murder. I mean, hell, they’re not even certain where he got killed.’
    Tolliver fanned the messages over his leather blotter. He picked one at random; it was Ada Strauss calling to get his quote.
    How long ago that seemed, but it had only been two days; Tuesday, almost a lifetime. He remembered the two women and the translucent Hassam painting with its idealized images of beautiful Victorian ladies in pastel dresses at a seaside picnic. It was worth a fortune, and not the kind of thing he’d normally let slip through his fingers. ‘Just pull it together,’ he told himself as he picked up the phone and dialed.
    â€˜Hello,’ a woman’s voice answered.
    â€˜Mrs Strauss?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜This is Tolliver Jacobs; I came by earlier this week to look over an estate.’
    â€˜Of course, Mr Jacobs. Not to be rude, but you’d said you’d get back to me yesterday. I’d begun to think you weren’t interested.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’ His voice echoed in his head. ‘Things have been a little crazy.’
    â€˜I hope everything’s OK,’ Ada remarked.
    â€˜It’s good of you to ask. To be honest –’ and he wasn’t sure why he continued – ‘things couldn’t be worse. You see, my partner was found murdered.’
    â€˜In Grenville?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜How horrible for you.’
    â€˜It is. It’s the most awful thing I could have imagined.’ He held the phone to his ear and said nothing, having forgotten why exactly he had called. ‘Oh right,’ he said, looking at the pink message in his hand. ‘About the estate . . .’
    â€˜Are you sure you want to do this now?’ Ada asked. ‘I hadn’t realized. Obviously this can wait, or . . .’
    â€˜I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,’ he said, staring at the message slip. ‘They can’t release the body, and his parents couldn’t get a flight till Saturday. I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I think work may be what pulls me through this. It’s the only thing that feels half normal right now.’
    â€˜You could be right,’ she agreed as she reeled from what he’d just told her.
    â€˜Good, let me look at my notes.’ Finding comfort in the routine, he glanced through his three pages of jotted impressions. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, but usually I write these things up. I just haven’t gotten around to it. OK, now without the painting, which I would strongly recommend consigning to a New York auction, I could go one hundred thousand for the entire contents.’
    Ada paused. ‘I know this is the wrong time,’ she said, ‘but I’m curious as to how people arrive at their figures.’
    â€˜Everyone does it differently. Basically, I add it all up and divide by four,’ he said being more blunt than he’d ever been.
    â€˜So twenty-five cents on the dollar?’
    â€˜Yes. If it were all antiques I might go as high as thirty or even thirty-five cents, but where there’s a lot of household goods, it takes more man hours to realize less money.’
    â€˜That makes sense,’ she agreed. ‘I was in retail for years. Let me ask you this: is your quote firm, or do you have anywhere to move?’
    In spite of himself, Tolliver smiled. ‘How much movement?’
    â€˜Well,’ Ada