Deadly Appraisal by Jane K. Cleland

with Sasha and Fred so that there was always office coverage.
    “I don’t know. I have nothing going on this week, so I’ll let Sasha and Fred pick first.”
    I nodded. “They were in yesterday, working on the Picasso.”
    “Oh yeah?” she said, spinning around to look at me. “What’s the word?”
    I raised crossed fingers and flashed a quick grin.
    Gretchen smiled. “Great!”

    I was halfway to Newington when my cell phone rang, interrupting my disordered thoughts. Between fanciful anticipation about my upcoming conversation with Ty and fretting about the implications of Maisy’s murder, I was agitated and perplexed.
    “Hello,” I said, angling my head to keep the phone in place.
    “Josie. It’s Max.”
    “Hi, Max,” I said, my worry meter spiking.
    “I just spoke to Detective Rowcliff. He wants to see us this afternoon.”
    “Why?” I asked, not really wanting to know. My heart began to thud.
    “Apparently, he has questions about a few things—including some about Trevor Woodleigh.”
    “Do you think there’s a problem?”
    “I think he just wants to clarify some things.”
    “That doesn’t sound bad.”
    Max paused. “Well, Rowcliff isn’t as forthcoming as I might like, so it’s a wait-and-see situation, I think.”
    The studied neutrality of his response added to my anxiety. If Rowcliff had bad news, he wouldn’t say a word to Max, no matter what Max asked, but if Rowcliff had good news, either he would have volunteered the information or Max would have discovered it. I felt a sense of impending doom.
    “So,” I said, knowing there was no alternative, “when?”
    “How’s three?”
    I thought about how long I’d be at the Newington house. Verna, the woman who had called to schedule the appointment, was on her lunch hour, so I guessed that an hour was the outside limit. Twelve thirty to one thirty, a quick lunch, yes, I could get to Portsmouth by three o’clock.
    “Sure,” I said, feeling resigned to my fate.
    “Rowcliff asked if we’d come to the police station. Are you okay with that?”
    “Why? Why does he want to meet there?” I asked, on the edge of panic.
    “His convenience. I could refuse, but that might make us appear uncooperative.”
    I swallowed as I turned onto Woodbury Avenue, pushing the panic aside. You’ve done nothing wrong, Josie. You’ve done everything right . “Sure,” I said as calmly as I could. “No problem.”
    “Let’s talk for a minute in the parking lot before we go in, okay?”
    “Okay. About ten of?”
    “Perfect. I’ll see you there.”
    I tried to recapture the giddy pleasure of fantasizing about Ty, but unease about my impending interview with Detective Rowcliff had taken hold.
    As I turned into Verna’s street and searched for house numbers, I found myself fighting tears. I winked away the dampness as I pulled into the pockmarked driveway of 11 Melody Lane.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    I
    was a few minutes early, so I sat in my car and dialed the number for Maisy’s apparent friend, Pam Field.
    “Field Design Studio,” a woman answered briskly.
    “Pam Field, please.”
    “This is she.”
    “We’ve never met,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott. I don’t know if my name is familiar to you.”
    “Oh wow,” she said, suddenly somber. “The Gala.”
    “Right.”
    “Poor Maisy. It’s just so awful.”
    “Absolutely,” I agreed. “I understand you and Maisy were friends.”
    “Yes. Very much so.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said softly.
    “Thank you. It was quite a shock.”
    I paused, trying to find the words to ask my questions without offending her or seeming too pushy. I decided to keep things vague. “I didn’t know Maisy well. But now—well, this whole situation is so confusing—I’m trying to learn more so I can understand what happened.”
    “How can anyone understand murder?” she asked rhetorically.
    “Of course.” I cleared my throat. “Listen, you’re located on Market Street, right?”
    “Yes. Near