Celeste looks annoyed, but not surprised. “Another hunch?”
“It’s just that there’s no family name,” I say. “No photographs. No inventory. It doesn’t seem like enough to warrant a trip across the Atlantic.”
“Private collections are often private.”
“They asked for me.”
Celeste gives me a measured look. “You are a senior specialist.”
“Not in Portugal.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Did Martin Hale refer them?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Doesn’t he have a home in Lisbon?”
On paper, Martin Hale has belonged to Lisbon’s art world since before Reid died. An adviser referring an appraiser to a private estate is not suspicious. Neither is a Lisbon family requiring discretion.
Except I invented the collection last night.
“I don’t see what one has to do with the other,” Celeste says. “Besides, it isn’t your job to question where every referral comes from. You know the rules, Emma. Discretion is part of the job. And even if Mr. Hale wanted to send business our way, why wouldn’t we welcome it?”
Because he’s my dead husband, not who you think he is does not sound like a reasonable answer, so I settle for, “You’re right.”
“Good. The family wants a preliminary assessment,” Celeste says. “Admin will book you on a flight out this evening.”
I look at the inquiry. “Can’t it wait a few days? I have work here.”
“This is your work. And no, it cannot wait.”
Celeste pulls up my corporate-card statement and turns her monitor so it’s fully facing me. “Your concern for procedure is also arriving rather late.”
A same-day ticket from Austin to Lisbon.
My name.
The corporate card.
“You were expected in Vienna,” she says. “Instead, the house paid to send you to Portugal. Why were you there?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Then it should have been personally funded.”
I look at the screen. “The corporate card was saved to the airline account.”
“You booked an international flight without checking the card?”
“I was going to reimburse it.”
Celeste’s gaze stays on me. “When?”
“Today.”
“How fortunate that I asked.”