Page 82 of Over Her Dead Body

Owen steps inside. “You did say that, yes.”

“And yet.”

I should have booked a car anyway. A driver would have taken my suitcase without asking what I intend to do once I reach the other side of the Atlantic.

He sets the coffee and paper bag on my dresser and looks at the open suitcase. “How large is the collection?”

“No one knows.”

“Family?”

“Unnamed.”

Owen’s attention shifts to me. “Inventory?”

“Not yet.”

He nods. None of this surprises him. Private collectors spend decades acquiring things no one is allowed to know they own, then expect an auction house to understand the privilege of being denied basic information.

“What period?”

“Nineteenth- and twentieth-century European paintings. Several unattributed studies.”

“Could be good.”

“It could be wallpaper.”

“That too.”

I pick up one of the dresses.

Owen watches me fold it. “And Martin?”

“What about him?”

“Is he involved?”

I smooth the fabric unnecessarily. “Celeste says he isn’t.”

“He lives in Lisbon.”

“Does he?”

Owen nods. “So do several art advisers you haven’t spent half the night researching.”

“Research is part of the job. You know that.”

“Of course.”

The agreement irritates me more than an accusation would have.

He takes the dress from my hands and folds it properly.

“Do you remember Sabine Hampton?” he asks.

“I try not to.”

“You warned me about her.”