Page 52 of The Chase
“Hope you’ve got green thumbs, Zara. Bonsais are very sensitive. One wrong move and it withers.”
“Oh, I’m always up for a challenge,” I said.
Elena rose out of her chair. “We have a couple of clients arriving any minute. If you’ll excuse me.” She waved to me as she headed out.
Logan sat casually on the edge of my desk. “I’ll wait while you sign it.”
“As an attorney you know the wisdom of having a lawyer review any document before you sign it.”
“Yes, but this is formyclient.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Don’t make me show you what I’m capable of, Zara.”
I stood stock-still, staring at her.
“I don’t have time for this.” She huffed out her frustration.
No, I didn’t do bullies.
She headed for the door.
“Please tell your client we’ll be in touch,” I called after her.
I left my office and strolled toward the east corridor, needing to put distance between us. I’d reassured Tobias I was going to proceed with discretion and wanted him to believe me. And if I was forced to sign anything, I’d need Adley’s approval first.
I found Elena in the conference room chatting with a middle-aged couple, and even from behind the glass I could see the conversation was tense.
Elena’s expression softened when she saw me and she signaled for me to join them.
Inside, fresh brewed coffee filled the air, and at the end of the table sat a plate of uneaten doughnuts. Those fraudulent paintings hung on the walls to mock us. That Pollock now gone, returned to its rightful place at the National.
The couple rose to their feet and reached out to shake my hand. They both looked worn with worry, and their tattered coats gave away their modest lifestyle.
“This is Zara Leighton,” said Elena. “One of our art specialists.” She gestured to me. “Zara, this is Mr. and Mrs. Fairweather. They’ve come all the way from Lancashire.”
“Please, call me Harriet.” Mrs. Fairweather pointed to her husband. “Stewart.”
“Zara,” I said, joining them at the table.
Elena went on to explain they’d come down on the train to have a painting appraised. They’d inherited a house full of antiques from Harriet’s mom who’d lived in Pendlebury, and had found this painting—the one on the table—and were eager to see if it was worth anything.
Only, what they hadn’t accounted for was Huntly Pierre’s ten-thousand-pound appraisal fee prior to the assessment.
“But I thought it came out of the profit if we sold it?” explained Harriet.
Stewart nodded in agreement. “If it’s worthless, then we’re down ten thousand pounds.”
“I’m so sorry for any confusion,” said Elena.
Harriet looked nervous. “It’s just Stewart lost his job a few years ago and we could really do with the money. We can’t afford it if it’s worthless.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Elena swapped a wary glance with me.
“I’m sorry we wasted your time,” said Harriet.
“Not at all,” I said. “We love to see paintings.”
