“That’s as good a theory as any. But who would have done it?”
“That’s the best I can do. I have no idea who would want to kill him. And I don’t know any more than what you’ve told me.”
My shoulders slump. “You can’t blame me for trying.”
“I don’t blame you for anything—other than quitting and leaving me in the lurch.”
“Oh, give me a break, Rog. Just think of my departure as my donation toward Tiffany’s little splurges. And don’t talk about exorbitant raises you can’t afford. Look at it this way. Now that I’m gone, you don’t have to pay me, so the store’s profits go farther.”
He runs a hand through his steel-colored hair. “Don’t even mention Tiff. I’ve been working so many hours, I’m in the doghouse.”
“Uh-oh. I bet I’m in trouble with her too.”
His smile was smug. “She knows who left me to work all those extra hours.”
“You know what, Rog?” I cross my arms and arch my right brow. “Your pathetic efforts to guilt-trip me back to work for you aren’t going to work. And . . . Tiff’s
your
wife—your pro-blem-oh!”
He mirrors my pose. “And the dead ruby vendor’s yours.”
My spirits deflate. I start to pace. “I don’t know why I thought you’d have answers for me. My gut tells me Mr. Pak was murdered for the—”
I catch myself. I haven’t mentioned the parcel stolen from the mine. There’s no point bringing it up.
A shrug, and I go on. “I’m sure he was killed for his rubies. But if that’s the case, the killer has to be someone who knew he’d have stones with him.”
“How would anyone know that? Unless he’d called ahead to make an appointment, like he used to do with us. And how are we supposed to know if he made any appointments?
There are millions of jewelers in the U.S. You don’t expect me to know them all, do you?”
“Did he ever come to the U.S. just for fun?”
His turn for one of those helpless shrugs.
“Exactly. I’m not ready to start pointing fingers, but we both agree the killer has to be someone who buys stones from him. And I don’t buy the random jeweler theory.”
That
gets to him. He sits way up, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders square. “I hope you’re not hinting what I’m afraid you are. Because if you are, then you’re dead wrong. I didn’t do a thing to that man.”
“You think I’m accusing you of killing Mr. Pak?”
“I know how your mind works—if it stinks of rotten fish in Denmark, then there just might be rotten fish in Denmark. Or in this case, in Manhattan.”
“Give me a break, Roger Hammond. What you smell is New York fumes. Remember? Trash sits out on the sidewalk for days before the sanitation guys come get it.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Bingo! And what you think I meant isn’t what I meant. I didn’t come here to accuse you. I came to talk because you know more people in the gem world than Leno knows in Hollywood. Who else would I go to for help figuring out this mess?”
“All right, all right.” He rubs his forehead, holds his splayed-out hands in a gesture of pure helpless ignorance, then squeezes his eyes shut, wrinkles his nose, and gives his head a couple of small shakes. “You’ve got to admit, a guy’s going to feel the bull’s-eye on his forehead if someone comes in out of the blue and starts talking murder conspiracies.”
“I’m sorry. And you’re right. I must have come off as some bad TV gumshoe. But you know? When some creep turns you into target practice while you’re crashing and bumping down rutted dirt roads, you tend to look at your world through suspicion-colored glasses.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” He’s quiet for a minute . . . two. I prop my behind against his desk again.
Roger tents his hands, then, “His rubies, huh?”
“Why else? I don’t think anyone’s that sick of his mouthy parrot. At least, not to the point of rubbing out the guy— instead of the bird, that is.”
His laugh sputters out. “Rubbing out the guy?” Another laugh. “Andie! What have you been doing down in your backwater? Watching prehistoric B movies? That’s awful.”
“So’s walking into your employer’s vault and finding a dead guy—a dead guy you’ve known for a couple of years and liked very much.”
His humor vanishes. “I can’t imagine how that must have felt. But look at it from my point of view. I’d heard nothing about Pak’s death until you walked in and stunned me with the news.”
“I’m surprised. I told the cops I’d met Mr. Pak through you.”
“Well, they didn’t come here to ask questions. You did.” I wink. “And how did I do?”
“Weird. But that’s normal—for you.”
I throw a play punch at his shoulder. “That’s support for ya.” A glance at my watch tells me my flight home might just leave without me. “So you can’t think of anything that could help.”
“Nothing, Andie. Nothing comes to me. Sorry. Wish I could help. This can’t be a good time for you.”
“You’re right about that.” I jump off the desk. “And you can imagine what it’s done to Aunt Weeby.”
“Her?” He laughs. “She must be in her element, playing sleuth.”
“Bite your tongue! Miss Mona left Aunt Weeby in charge of her brand-new, very successful TV shopping channel.”
“Are you kidding! For all that Miss Mona of yours knows, your aunt’s already turned it into . . . oh, I don’t know. Maybe a brokerage for . . . I’ve got it! Pygmy angora goats with blue fur. Is that insane enough for her?”
Aunt Weeby and a herd of fluffy blue goats. “That’s scarier than a Stephen King book.”
“Your aunt’s scarier than Stephen King.”
“But so lovable.”
“And way older than you. You’re at the age where you need to come back to New York and get a life.”
“Look who’s talking, Mr. I’m-Working-Too-Many-Hours-For-My-Wife. You want me back here so I really don’t have a life, like you!”
“I have a life.”
“Sure you do. And an angry wife—”
The bell on the front door chimes into my words. “Roger?” a woman asks.
“And that angry wife’s here,” I say. I grab my handbag, drop a quick kiss on Roger’s suddenly greenish cheek, and head for the back door. “Gotta go. She’s all yours, pal.”
“Traitor,” he mutters, then steps toward the front. “I’m here, honey! What brings you to the store?”
As I let myself out, I hear Tiffany’s little-girl voice, but I don’t catch her words. I’m glad. I’m not crazy about Roger’s trophy wife and her extravagances. Yes, I do like designer duds, but I shop discount—something Tiff would never dream of doing. She’s all about that price tag and the “because she can” factor.
I hurry down the back alley to the sidewalk, make my way down to the corner, and check my cell phone. As a proud procrastinator, I haven’t deleted New York numbers yet, and right there, on my contact list, is the one for my favorite cab company—the one with English-speaking drivers, since I’m not multilingual—that doesn’t have speed issues.
When the company promises a cab in six minutes, I shut my phone and get ready for my short wait. And that’s when I get a hinky feeling.
I turn around but see no one. Well, no one but the messenger guy on his bike, the suited exec fixated on his blackberry, the young woman in a tailored tan suit—you get the New York picture. Still, the short, downy hairs at the back of my neck are all lined up like good little soldiers. I know that I know that someone’s watching me.
That’s all I need.
Lord? More trouble? It’s been coming at me for ages now,
and I think a dead ruby vendor, gun-happy Burmese goons,
a nutty aunt, and a shrieking parrot are enough. Oh yeah.
And about the cohost? You know I really don’t need him,
on any of many levels, so you can send him back to Podunk,
Missouri, or wherever he came from. Don’t you think I’ve
earned a vacation?
When I realize what a self-serving excuse for a prayer that is, I try again.
I’m sorry. That reeks of pride, doesn’t it? Let me
put it a different way. I know you know everything, especially
what really matters. You also know what’s coming down in the
future, and while I’d rather think about new designer shoes, I
don’t think it’s looking like that’s going to be my top concern
anytime soon. So . . . if you could, please keep an eye on me.
I wind up in more trouble than anyone else I know. Help me
listen to you better—I know, I know. You don’t bellow, but
sometimes I’m kinda thickheaded and don’t catch your warning.
I can use some help there too. Especially with that pride
thing. It’s not pretty. I’m sorry. And thanks.
The cab squeals to a stop, bringing the traffic to a standstill in the already nasty snarl on the street. The guy in the car behind the cab honks his horn, rolls down his window, and yells an obscenity. The one in the red Chevy behind him is another story. He stares at me, then at the loudmouth, at the cab, and at me again.
Goose bumps pop out all over. It’s splitsville for me, especially since I’ve begun to see a bad guy behind every cab, hot dog stand, and trash can or two.
I collapse on the backseat. The guy behind the wheel isn’t sporting a turban, but he doesn’t look like the all-American guy next door either.
“JFK, please, and I have to be there yesterday.”
“Excuse, please? Yesterday? I no understand.”
“Are you new with RideSafe?”
“Yes. I come from Greece three months back.”
“Who owns the company now?”
“Own? Company?”
“Sure. Your boss.”
“Oh. Cousin Spiros new boss. He good man. Give me work.”
I fight to squelch the urge and touch of hysteria that zip right through me.
It’s all Greek to me
won’t exactly win the driver’s cooperation.
Instead I say, “I’m flying US Airways.”
“Okay.”
While it isn’t a white-knuckle ride, it isn’t a Sunday drive in the country either. I pay, jump out, and then I see it again. The same red Chevy whose driver stared at me back at the street corner near Roger’s store. When I’m about to call 9-1-1, a tall brunette in a designer black suit walks up to the car, opens the rear door, puts in her overnight case, and then sits in the front passenger seat. They pull out, slowly, too slowly for my comfort.
Still, they’re gone.
Who says there’s no such thing as coincidence?
While my flight home is uneventful, I know that I know that I know something out there made me feel weird. Paranoia isn’t usually a problem for me. I didn’t imagine what I felt. I also know what I saw the driver of that red Chevy do. On the one hand, he stared. On the other, he drove away when his companion hopped into the car.
So I must have imagined that someone’s-looking-at-me feeling before he drove up.
Right?
Wrong?
If someone was staring at me, who could it have been? And why?
Well, I’m pretty sure I know the why. Mr. Pak. And his rubies. But that doesn’t get me any closer to the who. More to the point, was it tied to the Burmese shooting spree on the dirt road to Mandalay?
Probably. Mr. Pak dealt with Mogok Valley rubies. And he’s the only connection I have to Myanmar.
Why? Why? Why?
Why would he come to see me? Why did he bring me an invitation to Myanmar? Why did someone kill him? Why did they stick him in our vault—or kill him there? Why did someone shoot at us? And to top it all off, why did Mr. Pak bless me with a loudmouth bird?
Back home in Louisville, I’m faced with the reality of parrot ownership. The first thing I hear when I walk into Aunt Weeby’s house is that mind-altering
“Squawk! Shriek,
shriek!”
I will my heart to return to its normal sluggish pace, then, “Shut up, Rio!”
A couple more shrieks and a squawk follow, and finally the
clump-clump
of Aunt Weeby’s cast makes its way across the upstairs. “Is that you, sugarplum?”
“Sure is!” I grin as she clumps downstairs. When I get my welcome-home hug, I wink. “And how many other late-night visitors do you get?”
“Pshaw! Mona wanders in whenever the fancy strikes her, the girls from the church’s benevolence group all have keys—”
“They all have keys? When did you start locking doors?” She tightens her pale pink chenille robe wrapped around her petite frame. “Since Mona’s become a pain about it in the last few months. C’mon, Andie. Tell me. Do you honest-to-goodness think a lock’s gonna stop one a’ them agents a’ Satan if they want to break in and rob me blind?”
“You do have a point. Where there’s an evil will, there’s always way more than one single way.”
“Amen. And that’s why them locks are a waste of time—to good folks, that is. I have to remember to carry a key, remember what key chain I put it on, remember where I put the key chain . . . it’s too much bother. And for what? All of this”—she waves toward the beautiful parlor and foyer— “means nothing before our Father. It’s only what we’ve gone and done for him that counts.”
“I know that.” The locked/unlocked door argument was making me dizzy. “So do you lock or do you not?”
“When I remember.”
“I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d lock. There’s no reason to invite the wackos in.”
“Maybe and maybe not. Remember that girl the rapist from Atlanta kidnapped after he killed a bunch of folks at his trial? She read to him from
The Purpose-Driven Life
. He didn’t kill her.”
“But he didn’t repent either. He’s back in trouble for . . .” What was it he did? I know I heard it on the news one day. “Oh, I don’t remember. It’s late, we had the weirdest trip, I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep.”
“Weird? You had a weird trip? How weird is weird?”
I groan. “I should’ve known better than to say a thing. There’s plenty of time tomorrow—”
“Now you just hold them wild horses there, sugarplum. I get me a call from Mona telling me you and that boy Max are sleeping together in front of everyone and their great-grand-nanny in some airport, then you come home and tell me the trip was weird. Don’t you think that calls for a little explaining here?”
I’m gonna kill Miss Mona. Boss or no boss.
“Fine. If you’re going to grill me, at least let me make myself a cup of cocoa. I’m going to need it.”
I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, then hook my arm through hers and head to the kitchen. She sits at her favorite end of the ancient farm table that has been in the family for more than a century and a half. I take a pan from a cupboard, splash a generous amount of milk in it, take out the Ghirardelli cocoa—oh yeah!—add sugar, and mix it all together.