“Really? How can you know that?”

He paused, then said, “It’s what I do, actually. I find things out. Like, for instance, the grocery-store delivery folks always came to the front door, by request.”

I nodded. “Funny, isn’t it? We’re in the same business. We both are paid to find things out.”

“Yeah. Same, but different.”

“Yeah.” I thought about what he said about the lock. “Should I tell Mrs. Cabot to change the lock?”

“Absolutely. I plan on telling her, too. We’ll be providing security until we figure out what’s going on. But she might want to add more, like an alarm system. Until the contents are removed.”

“That’ll be pretty soon, I guess. In a week or so, probably Dobson’s will take control of everything and put it all in storage in New York. So they can do their own research.” After a short silence, I added, “Well, I guess I better go.”

“Will you be all right to get home?”

“Sure. I’m glad to be away from the Grant place, I’ve got to tell you.” As I spoke, I decided not to be alone there again. “When you said you’re going to be providing security, does that mean that you’re going to station men at the Grant house?”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Call me crazy, but I don’t really want to be there on my own again. And I don’t think I ought to let Sasha be alone there, either.”

“Makes sense. For the foreseeable future, I’ll have someone there.”

“Good. We’re scheduled to start the appraisal tomorrow morning. Will it be all right for us to enter?”

“Yeah, no problem. The technicians are just about done already. They’ll be out of here within an hour. I’ll tell the man on duty that you’re expected.”

“Thanks. Well, then…”

“You need me,” he interrupted, “you call. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed, grateful for his attention, yet still feeling self-conscious about my emotional spectacle. He came around the car to hold the door for me as I jumped down from the SUV. When I had my motor running, I waved a quick “See ya,” and he nodded and stepped back. As I pulled out and drove north, I glanced in the rearview mirror, and saw him, standing still, watching me.

Home again after spending more than fifty dollars at the grocery store, I put on a CD of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and made a martini. I broiled a hamburger and ate it with sliced tomatoes standing at the kitchen counter.

I was feeling better, more energized and less fearful. Even though it was approaching 10:00, I decided to proceed with preparing Monterey chicken. I was definitely not ready to rest, and it tasted better if it sat overnight in the refrigerator before baking anyway. I was grating Parmesan cheese for the bread-crumb mixture when Wes called.

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s meet tomorrow. Same time, same place, okay?”

“What do you have for me?” I asked.

“Another doughnut.”

“Please, God, no,” I said, understanding that he wasn’t going to give anything away on the phone. “Seven? At the beach?” I asked to confirm.

“Yup.”

“I’ll drive myself.”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“See you then,” I said.

I turned back to my butterflied chicken breasts, white-hot curious about what he had to tell me. While I prepared the recipe, I went over everything I knew about Mr. Grant’s murder and the missing paintings. Where would Mr. Grant have hidden the masterpieces? I wondered if I had walked past them secreted somewhere and not even known it.

I ran water over my hands, rubbing my fingers to rid them of the breading mixture I’d used to coat the rolled chicken breasts, and stretched the plastic wrap taut over the roasting pan. I smiled as I placed it in the refrigerator and saw a carton of eggs. Tomorrow, I’d bring breakfast and show Wes an alternative way to eat. I put water on to boil.

Twenty minutes later, hard-boiled eggs and fruit salad ready to go for the morning, I finished wiping down the counter, turned the dishwasher on, and with my mind still absorbed in thinking of possible hiding places, I went to bed.

But sleep eluded me. I was exhausted, yet fretful and exhilarated as well. Tossing and turning so relentlessly that I jelly-rolled myself in the sheet, I finally gave up and turned on the light.

I decided to read for a while, to try to relax. I selected a favorite romance that I knew well, The Reluctant Widow, by Georgette Heyer.

It didn’t work. I found myself staring into space, pages unturned, for minutes at a time. Suddenly, just before two in the morning, I found the answer I’d sought.

I put the book aside and sat up in bed. I had it. I thought it through, methodically working through the various issues involved. Satisfied, I nodded, convinced that I knew where the paintings were and how they were hidden.

And I had a plan to protect them.

I smiled, satisfied, and to the mournful whine of a screech owl, my still-active brain succumbed to my body’s fatigue, and at last. I slept.

When the alarm went off, I hit the snooze button repeatedly until I finally forced myself out of bed, dawn’s light seeping into the room through ill-fitting curtains. When I saw that it was after five, I panicked, and flew into the shower.

I planned to secure the missing paintings and set the protocol we’d use in the appraisal before meeting Wes, and that required that I get to the Grant house by 5:30.

I didn’t make it. It was closer to 5:45 when I pulled up in front. A police officer stepped out onto the porch as I got out of my car. He was one of the young men I’d seen at the Rocky Point police station during one of my interrogations, and he looked tired.

I started up the walk, smiled, and said hello. “I’m Josie,” I said.

He nodded. “Chief Alverez said you’d be coming by.”

“And you are?…” I asked.

“Officer O’Hara.”

“May I enter?”

“Sure.” Officer O’Hara stepped aside and I went in.

“I’ve got to tell you,” I said to O’Hara, looking back with a smile, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

He looked surprised, as if he was more used to people objecting to him or something he was doing than he was to receiving thanks. Or maybe he thought I was being cagey, a murder suspect trying to lull a cop into believing in her innocence.

“I’ll stay out of your way, but I’ll be around,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Okay.” I shut the door, and through the window, I saw him sit on a bench and stretch his legs out in front of him.

I hurried into the study, turned on the lamps, and looked at the three Taverniers sitting side by side on the far wall, hanging from the crown molding on metal brackets. Reaching up, I lifted the painting closest to the door off its brackets, and gently lowered it until it rested on the carpet and against the wall. I examined the frame carefully, rotating the painting one turn at a time, carefully searching all sides. I twisted it so I could see the back, spotting nothing unusual in its construction, except that it was oversized, perhaps four or five inches deeper than it needed to be. The second Tavernier seemed to be constructed in the same way. I saw nothing odd. The third one, when I lifted it down, was noticeably lighter than the first two, and as soon as I positioned it against the wall, I saw a gap, as I expected.

The three-sided structure in the basement was designed to slip into the top of this frame like a drawer, sliding into place, meshing perfectly. No doubt, that was where the Renoir had been stored.

Returning my attention to the first painting, with its three-sided removable frame still in place, I tried to pry it loose. Nothing happened. I couldn’t see how to wedge it free. There was no handle or pulling device visible.

I unhooked my flashlight and leaning back on my heels, I examined the frame inch by inch, and there it was. On the top, in the center, was a tiny square plastic button, painted black to match the rest of the frame, and inlaid so perfectly, it was only by the closest examination that it ever would be found.