A Cut Above (5 page)

“Yes, the brilliance and the cut are fine. But that does
not
erase the other issues.” I look the stones over again, pray for guidance, and then take a deep breath. “I think you know a fair price is closer to $3000 or $3600 per carat, and that’s what I’m prepared to offer.”

Mr. Cruz’s right eye twitches and his nostrils flare. “If I’d wanted an insult, I would have gone to that other channel.”

Miss Mona gasps.

“Mr. Cruz.” I make my voice gentle and conciliatory, “I’m sorry you feel insulted, but in all good conscience, I can’t advise Miss Mona to buy these stones at your original asking price.”

“But my AGL assessment . . . you’re discounting the quality. You want to take advantage—”

“No way!” He’s the one doing the insulting here. “Ask around, sir. Other vendors will tell you I’m as fair as can be. I do know my gems
and
the rating systems, and I’m willing to pay what a piece is worth. These stones are only worth what I offered.”

“You’re trying to cheat—”

“Never.” I shoot an S.O.S. skyward. “You see, sir, Miss Mona’s not my real boss.” I send her an apologetic smile. “I answer to God first, and my honesty matters very much. I couldn’t face him every morning if I played that kind of game. And I won’t take offense at your claim.”

“Rodolfo,” Miss Mona says, her voice stern, a tiny line between her elegant brows, “I’ve known Andrea since she was born. I can trust her with everything I own. She would never, ever stoop so low. I can’t believe you’d think I’d try and deal with you in such a dishonorable way.”

Mr. Cruz nods his concession. “Very well. But I see Miss Andie is not satisfied with these gems. Perhaps she should see our entire collection, and then choose.”

His entire collection? Who travels with that much merchandise on him? Is this guy nuts?

“Why, Rodolfo . . .”

Miss Mona’s delight sets off my alarm-o-meter. Before I can get in the way of whatever runaway train she intends to catch, she goes on.

“That’s the best idea you’ve had so far.”

I cringe. I know that tone of voice. It
always
means trouble. For me. I’m going to regret asking, but I have to have some idea where she’s going with this. “What do you mean?”

The vendor folds a black velvet flap over the stones. “We can accommodate whatever you wish, Mona. You know that.”

“Then it’s settled,” Aunt Weeby’s cohort says, satisfaction in her voice.

No way. Nothing’s settled. Not like this. Not until she puts out on the table whatever she’s cooked up. “Whaddaya mean, it’s settled?” I ask. “You haven’t even told us what you’re thinking. And, knowing you, it could be . . . it could be as insane as . . . as . . . well, as crazy as that trip to Kashmir—”

I stop. As soon as I mention the sky-high land we recently visited, I know what her wacky mind has settled. “Nope. No way. Nuh-uh. Not this girl. I’m not going.”

Miss Mona waves. “But, of course, you’re going to Colombia, Andie, dear. Who else is going to know whether Rodolfo’s emeralds are . . . are 65s or 23s or Ms or Ls or As, Bs, Cs, or Zs. You, my dear, are headed for the Muzo mine country. And I won’t hear another ‘no’ about it, you hear?”

Up until I took Miss Mona’s offer of a job, I’d loved to travel. Who wouldn’t?

But since then, I’ve known nothing but danger, fear, guns aimed my way, and the inside of grody foreign jails. Not my idea of jet setting, know what I mean? And there are guerillas and drug lords in Colombia. I do not want to step into that kind of trap again.

I glare at Miss Mona. “If you think it’s such a great idea, then
you
go. I’ll give you charts and photos to take with you, and before you leave, I’ll teach you everything I ever learned about emeralds. But I’m not going. I’ve had it up to here with traveling to strange places where nobody knows we wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

My boss turns to Mr. Cruz. “Don’t pay her no never-mind, Rodolfo. Of course, she’s going. She won’t be meeting with strangers when she’s there, either. You’ll take care of her, and she’ll be fine, right?” She winks my way. “It’s time for you to use your negotiating skills. And you’ll be taking my credit card with you.”

What negotiating skills?

Yikes! I’m sure you’ll understand why I feel the waters on the deck of the
Titanic
licking my ankles.

I’m sunk.

Okay. I must confess. Six hours and forty-five minutes after that crazy meeting this morning, including a two-hour show with Mr. Magnificent, who doesn’t blooper once, but does do his charming best—be still, my heart!—when I gather my briefcase and purse and close my dressing room door, I’m not all that upset about the trip to Colombia any more. How could I be? After all, the Muzo mines there are just as legendary as those in Burma and Kashmir. Since I started my job at the S.T.U.D., I’ve visited both. Now I’m being given the chance to see the operations in Colombia, which is pretty cool.

What’s not so cool is all the criminal activity that goes on in that country. Not only is the place notorious for its drug violence and anti-government guerilla warfare, but also the land of its emerald mines is bathed in the blood of murdered miners.

“Good night, Nellie,” I tell the S.T.U.D.’s new receptionist on my way out of the building.

The rustle of magazine pages precedes her “See ya.”

Nellie is unique. She’s only been with the S.T.U.D. for three months, and in that time I’ve watched her voraciously consume every monthly issue of every health magazine known to mankind. And that’s in between reading titles such as
Regularity Through Colonics in Sixteen Days, Iron Out
Your Wrinkles
, and the inimitable
Halitosis Gone
.

I shake my head and push on the glass door. “A little knowledge’s a dangerous thing, Nell.”

She peers up at me through her bottle-bottom thick glasses. “Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more. That’s why I’m determined to educate myself.” She waves a prodigious tome entitled
Digestive Disorders Digest
. “I’m telling you, girl, I know I’ve come down with . . . with—wait a sec while I look it up again.”

I bang my forehead against the lobby door as she rustles through the book. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I know better than to get Nellie going. “Tell me tomorrow. I gotta go.”

“Irritable bowel syndrome! That’s it. You see, I . . .”

I let her go on for a few minutes, but when she starts in on the high cost of toilet tissue, I wave and sail out. I voice a prayer for her, that the Lord will bring her peace about her health, and head for my rental car. Our now-jailed gem thief bombed mine not so long ago.

Like a heat-seeking missile, the image of those lovely emeralds zips into my head as I pull out of the parking lot. They were beautiful stones, but at Mr. Cruz’s $11,000 per carat, way overpriced. They weren’t absolutely top-grade virtually perfect pieces. I’m not going to let anyone take Miss Mona to the cleaners like that. Not if I can help it. I’m going to have to be extra sharp when I face the vendor again.

Just pray the guy doesn’t have something equally sharp
aiming back at you when you get there
, the overactive little voice in my head pipes up.

GULP. No doubt about it. There is a touch of danger involved in my upcoming trip.

And it’s all about the money. Colombian emeralds are the most prized in the world. Their price tags do come with a lot of zeros on them. I rarely offer emeralds on the show for that reason. If we can’t give our viewers a better price than they can get at their friendly neighborhood jewelry store, then I can’t see why they’d be willing to buy anything sight unseen.

I’ve never thought of myself as a wheeler and dealer, but I held my own in Miss Mona’s office, if I do say so myself. I suppose I’ll find out how good I really am when I face off with Mr. Cruz on his turf. I’m looking forward to that.

That’s kinda scary. Maybe Peggy is right about me. Maybe

I’m only an emotional chicken—
cluck-cluck
. Maybe I do like the adrenaline charge I get from teetering on the edge of danger.

Who’d a thunk a boring old rock hound would have a . . . a—oh, I can’t believe I’m going to say this—a hidden-below-the-surface Indiana Jones streak to her? Maybe my former boss’s crook of a wife got it right. She dubbed me Andi-ana Jones and made the dopey name public during her trial. I’ve fought that label like a bunch of politicians in DC fight over a handful of votes.

“Lord? Was Peggy right? Am I kidding myself here?” At the continued silence, I shake my head. “Okay, Father God. Show me those parts of me I haven’t really met yet—or haven’t gotten to know so well after the introduction.”

At the red light, I drop my forehead to the steering wheel. Oh boy. I better brace myself. I know a dangerous prayer when I pray one, especially since God has been showing me a lot of unattractive flotsam inside me after I came home. But I really have to, as Peggy said, grow up. Thirty definitely makes me a grown-up.

I pull into my driveway, slip my garage door opener gizmo from the visor where I keep it clipped, click it, and then park my car inside the dim structure behind my house. I gather my purse and briefcase from the backseat where I’d dumped them, then head outside.

But I come to a complete and abrupt halt when I look up. I blink and blink, thinking my eyes have gone wonky because of the change from the dark garage to the sunny outdoors. There, however, on my driveway, sits a U-Haul truck that seems to have materialized since I parked. As I stare, the engine coughs itself to silence.

A second later, before I can nudge myself out of my frozen state of shock, Josh and Max jump from the two sides of the cab and slam the doors in their wake.

“Hey, you’re home,” Max says. “Miss Mona wasn’t sure you would be when we got here.”

“What are you guys doing here?” I wave at the truck. “And what’s that thing for?”

The two guys swap conspiratorial looks.

You know that alarm-o-meter of mine? Well, it’s
wee-uh-wee-
uh-wee-uh
ing like crazy again. First, I have to deal with the Daunting Duo of Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby. Now . . . now it looks like these two are ganging up on me too. Not fair. “Spill it already.”

Josh snickers.

Max saunters to the rear of the truck. “I think it’ll be a better surprise, what Miss Mona wanted, if we just do our thing, and then Andie can find it all the way Miss Mona wants her to.”

I cross my arms. “Are you telling me you have something in there that you plan to bring into my house without my knowing what it is? And what’s worse, that Miss Mona put you two up to it?”

They swap another set of looks.

Max snickers. “You got it.”

“Not on your life, Max Matthews. Back that Trojan horse out of my driveway unless you’re willing to open it and let me look at what you stashed in there first.”

He looks at Josh, then shrugs one shoulder. “Okay by me. But you’re the one who’s going to have to face the wrath of the ladies. Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes for that.”

“Bu—but, it’s my house—”

“For which Aunt Weeby gave you the down payment.”

My oomph wilts. He’s right. I can’t ruin their fun. Whatever those two kooks stashed in the truck will come into my house. And if I hate it as much as I suspect I will, well, then I’ll have to deal with it later.

Much later.

After my trip to Colombia. Wonder if Mr. Magnificent—as I call Max, just not to his face—knows about the trip yet. I blow out a frustrated gust of breath.

“Okay. Go ahead with your joke. I’ll just . . . ah . . . I’ll run to the store for a quart of milk.”

The two guys chuckle as I hightail it out of my place. After I toss them the keys. Maybe I do need to have my head examined.

But I don’t dawdle on my milk run. Once I have the plastic container in my grubby paws, I rush back home, praying every step of the way. I’ve given them twenty minutes. I hope that’s been enough for them to unload whatever.

I run up the front steps, pause to breathe a prayer, and then fling open the door. “Ready or not, here I—”

A gasp steals the rest of my words. Horror fills me. My eyes open so wide I feel my eyebrows meet my hairline.

My groan is heartfelt. “No way. Please tell me this is only a joke.”

“No joke, pardner,” the blond rat says between chuckles.

Josh holds his middle as he laughs without restraint.

I stumble in, beyond appalled. My lovely living room with its elegant natural wood-trimmed windows, carved natural-wood mantel over the delft-like tiles, and natural hardwood floors is now filled with Miss Mona’s spindly frou-frou French provincial furniture. The fussy brocade upholstery and painted and gilded wood looks about as right as a rhino at a Buckingham Palace tea party would.

“What parallel universe did I just walk into?”

Josh wipes a tear off his cheek and laughs some more.

Max leans back against the far wall, his chuckles infectious— but I do resist. I wave my hand in the circular motion that translates into “Go on.”

“Miss Mona . . .” His laughter breaks into his explanation. “Oh man . . . Miss Mona says she’s . . . she’s redecorating. You luck out with her . . . ‘lightly used treasures.’ ”