Consigned to Death

Chapter One Eric!" I shouted from under the table. "Yo!" he answered cheerfully, close by. "Didn't I tell you to use linseed oil on this one?" "I did." I pushed myself out from under and stood up, brushing the grit from my hands onto my jeans. "Not on the back of the legs, you didn't." "I thought I did," he said, beginning to hedge. I'd been working hard and I was tired. Fighting an inclination to snap, I reminded myself that Eric was only nineteen, basically untrained but willing to learn, reliable, mostly honest, and pleasant to be aroundoverall, a much-better-than-average employee. I smiled a little, hoping to blunt the force of my next comments. "I just looked at it, Eric. You missed the backside of all four legs. Everyone considering bidding on this table will know its quality. And if they're willing and able to pay the price I expect it to fetch, they will damn sure get down on their hands and knees and examine it closely." He began to look embarrassed. The Mission-style table dated from the early twentieth century and featured select quarter-sawn oak finished in a warm brown. When properly oiled, the finish became lush and supple. It was a beautiful piece. "The problem with poor-quality work," I continued, "is that it creates a negative image for the firm, implying that we're lazy or sloppy. People may even think we're sleazy. For instance, potential buyers might figure that we slapped some oil on the table as a quick fix, to disguise its previous ill-treatment. Does that make sense?" "Yeah," he said, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry. I was in a hurry." "Don't be. I pay you by the houryou don't need to be in a hurry with a job like this." "Got it." I nodded and smiled again, sincerely this time. "Don't get me wrong. Being in a hurry is a good thing most of the timeyou know me, I hate slow." "Don't I know it," he responded, grinning back. "Josie!" Gretchen called, her voice echoing in the cavernous warehouse. "Josie? Where are you?" "Here, in the Wilson corner!" I answered, projecting my voice, referring to a roped-off area near the back where the Wilson estate's goods were being catalogued and readied for Friday's auction preview. "There's a police officer to see you." "What?" I called back to her, startled. "A police chief," she answered, as if that helped to clarify the situation. Leaving Eric at the table, I walked quickly toward the front, my unpolished engineer boots click-clacking on the concrete. I spotted a tall, broad-shouldered man, somewhere near forty, with dark, pockmarked skin and graying hair, waiting by the door that led from the warehouse to the entryway. He wasn't smiling. My heart began to thud. The last time a cop had asked to see me, it had damn near ruined my life. Gretchen, my assistant, stood beside him, her copper-colored hair falling in cascades below her shoulders. Her green eyes were big with news, and her flawless ivory skin showed a slight flush. "Hi," I said to the man as I approached. "I'm Josie Prescott."Cleland, Jane K. is the author of 'Consigned to Death ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780312347253 and ISBN 0312347251.