Philadelphia
One block from Jeweler’s Row
BOBBY O’FARRELL
parked his car in the Liberty Place parking garage. Today was special—the highlight of his career. Bobby was a courier, but not just any kind of courier. Many years ago, he’d forgotten how many, an unnamed caller left a phone message for the young, and at the time, unemployed man with a wife to support. There was a job to be had, if he wanted it. Yes, he wanted it!
On the seat next to Bobby was an attaché case complete with a security chain and wrist cuff. The case contained one of the rarest of all gemstones—the fabled Vice-Regal Diamond. The Indian king Nader Shir had the stone cut and fitted into a crown for his beloved queen. The diamond was all that remained of the more than one hundred rubies, pearls, and emeralds that had made up the headdress. Bobby had checked and rechecked the case before flying from New Delhi to Rome, and then on to Philly. His car was still in its usual place at the airport lot. A fine layer of grit testified that it had sat undisturbed for a week. No one knew, or was supposed to know, that he had the jewel with him, let alone that he was about to casually walk down a city street and deliver it to Spencer & Hillier, jewelers to Philadelphia’s glitterati.
Bobby drove the company car into the parking slot. He turned off the engine and pocketed the car keys. He brought the case onto his lap. Slipping the cuff over his right wrist, he closed and locked it then pushed the key into a tiny slit on the side of the attaché case. Only one other key matched the cuff’s lock, and that key was with Spencer & Hillier. He stepped out of the car, set the motion-sensitive alarm, then turned toward the car park’s exit.
The blow was crushing. Later, Bobby would say that he heard nothing, saw nothing, remembered nothing. Right now all he could think about was the awful pain. People were shouting questions at him.
Who is the president of the United States?
What city are you in? What was the Titanic? Do you speak English?
Bobby tried to focus. He tried to answer, but all he could think of was the pain, and the blood.
Why is there so much blood?
Philadelphia
Thomas Jefferson Hospital
DANIEL JELSKI
walked into the hospital room.
“Mr. O’Farrell? My name is Daniel Jelski. I’m an attorney.”
Bobby looked up from the magazine he’d been reading.
“Attorney? I’m not buying a house, and I’m not suing anybody. I don’t need an attorney.”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand. It is you who is being sued… by Spencer and Hillier.”
Bobby furrowed his brow. “Sued? What for?”
“Not for the loss of the Vice-Regal Diamond,” Daniel said as he pulled a metal chair close to the bed and sat down. “You are bonded, of course. The insurance company will settle with any claimants, but the chance of avoiding a court appearance is unlikely. Spencer and Hillier is claiming that your losing the diamond caused them not to get the fee for their services, and, more importantly, they allege that this situation has cost them business. They feel that their one-hundred-year-old reputation is damaged.”
Daniel looked at Bobby, waiting for a response.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Bobby threw back the bedsheet. “Look at me! They cut off my hand, for Christ sake! So, what? You’re here to serve me papers? Nice of you to do it in person.”
“I’m not representing Spencer and Hillier. I’m here to represent you—that is, if you want me to.”
“What are you, some kinda ambulance chaser? You just hang around like a hyena waiting for the sick and the dying?”
Daniel slipped one of his business cards into Bobby’s left hand. Bobby saw Templars of Law embossed on the card. He looked more closely at Daniel. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“We’ve never been introduced,” Daniel answered, truthfully.
The two had never met, but Daniel remembered Bobby from the Kensington neighborhood where they grew up. He knew, too, that Bobby O’Farrell had once been Jan’s best friend.
Bobby tossed Daniel’s card aside saying, “Well, I can’t afford a lawyer, and I certainly can’t afford one with a Rittenhouse Square address!”
“Actually, I was hired to represent you.”
“Who would spend money on me?”
“Anonymous.”
“You don’t know who hired you?” Then sarcastically, “Now I know this is a joke.”
“Your benefactor, if I may use the term, wants to remain unknown. It’s not all that unusual.”
“Well, it is to me. If I didn’t hurt so much, I’d laugh.”
Daniel sighed and then shifted in the chair “Sir, we have a lot to talk about, and not much time to do it in. I have to say, you’re lucky to be alive. Your attackers didn’t count on you falling against your car. That’s what set off the alarm.”
Bobby held up his handless arm. “It didn’t stop them from doing this to me. How am I supposed to… to… and you say I’m lucky!”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but let’s just get through this first, okay?”
Bobby shook his head wearily. “Where do you want me to start?”
Camac Street, Philadelphia
AÏDA FABIAN’S
house sat square in the middle of Camac Street. Two doors down on her right was Jan’s doublewide townhouse. Directly across from Jan’s house lived Kat Manlove, a woman straight from a Harlequin romance novel. To Aïda’s immediate left lived Larry Sinclair, an aging retired army general with a penchant for women’s underwear and vintage Balenciaga gowns. In many neighborhoods he would have been an object of scorn, but among the eccentric denizens of Camac Street, he was welcome.
“My dear, you mustn’t think harshly of the general,” Kat had said to Jan on their first meeting. She had dragged him toward a bouquet of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling. Sweeping her arm around the gaily decorated room, now crowded with people, she said, “As you can see, he throws the most wonderful parties!”
Two doors down from Kat Manlove, and directly across from Mrs. Fabian’s home, lived Charlotte De Vere. Every Friday morning, sleet, snow, or shine, Charlotte chaired the planning meeting of the Quaker City Opera Company.
This particular Friday Aïda Fabian sat patiently in her high, wingback chair. Her “power” chair as she called it. She was waiting for Jan. Beside the chair was her constant companion, Schiller, a 110 pound Rottweiler. Before her a gleaming silver tea set stood on a round table of bird’s-eye maple. Beside this table was a set of Sèvres china, reputedly owned by Napoleon Bonaparte’s onetime mistress, the Countess Maria Waleska. Aïda ran her fingertips over each piece. She knew where every item was, right down to the location of the spoons and white linen.
Opposite Aïda’s chair, a smaller version of her “power” chair waited for Jan. She kept it reserved for these Friday occasions. A tall case clock set between the front windows ticked away the minutes. Aïda thought that a clock’s tick-tock was the loneliest sound in the world.
“Wonder what’s keeping Jan,” Aïda said absently.
Schiller raised his massive head and replied with a heavy sigh before relapsing into his nap.
For many years Aïda had been a mover and shaker in Philadelphia politics. She knew everyone. She had been a powerful voice in Mundus, also. But that was before the accident. She picked up the morning paper and fingered the edges of the pages. Disgusted, she dropped it back onto a side table. Of course Aïda could read her own copy, specially delivered to her door each day, but that would mean reading in Braille and accepting for the millionth time that she was irretrievably blind. No, she preferred to wait for Jan.
Philadelphia
Quaker City Opera House
CHARLOTTE DE
Vere looked up and shook away the mass of black curls that gathered around her face, just as Bruce Fletcher, the Quaker City Opera’s stage manager, hurried into the small conference room used for Friday staff meetings. Bruce muttered a muffled sorry and took his seat. His coffee, already poured, had gone cold. Nonetheless, he took a sip. Coffee preparation for meetings was Elizabeth’s expressed wish. Refusing to drink it, cold or blazing hot, would only beg the wrath of the company’s set director and the wrath of Elizabeth Morales, which was to be avoided whenever possible, as many a stagehand had learned from experience.
Before Charlotte could speak, Elizabeth Morales piped up, “Well, Bruce, where the hell is he?”
The “he” Elizabeth referred to was Aram Faji, the company’s costume designer.
“Thank you, Liz, you took the words right out of my mouth,” Charlotte said icily as she searched Bruce’s face for the answer.
“Damned if I know!” Bruce said. “The last time I saw him was Monday. He told me he’d have the new costumes ready today. When he didn’t show up this morning, I thought he might be sick, so I called his house. His phone has been disconnected. I even called the Broad Street Diner to see if he was still there.”
The two women exchanged wondering glances, and then looked at Bruce with expectant frowns.
“He has breakfast there every morning—I thought you knew.”
Charlotte drummed her fingernails on the tabletop and said, “I didn’t know. Is it important?”
“No… I guess not,” Bruce said, unsure why he felt embarrassed. He wrinkled his forehead. “You know, what’s weird is his phone being disconnected. People do that when they move house. You’d expect him to mention something if he was doing that, especially since he has a boy in school. Yet the people at the diner said he did eat there early this morning. They said they noticed him especially today because he’s usually alone, but today he was with somebody. So I can’t figure why he’s a no-show.”
“Well we can’t wait much longer. I have a meeting with Rena Frank to go over the program notes for the season. Aram’s report is the only item pending before finalizing the winter program,” Charlotte said. “I had my heart set on kicking off the season with the Handel.”
“What’s to stop us? He’s not the only one here who knows how to sew beads,” Elizabeth said.
“Don’t you have enough to do with the sets?” Bruce snapped. The remark was clearly intended to suggest that Elizabeth was putting her nose in where Bruce felt it didn’t belong.
“You had my set report last week. Did it look incomplete to you?” Morales said.
She didn’t wait for Bruce’s reply. Turning to Charlotte she said, “I could get a costume design proposal ready by next week.”
“What, another minimalist ensemble with black drapery and black pearls? People want pageantry, Liz! This is Handel for God’s sake, not Alvin Ailey!” Bruce said, his voice taking on a tone just short of derision.
The two turned and looked to Charlotte to decide which would win the battle of egos.
Charlotte bowed her head.
These two are going to kill me! Aram is the only one who isn’t a prima donna around here!
Her choices were limited: wait for Aram to show up or cancel the hoped-for production of the rarely performed
Alexander’s Feast
and headline
Cavalleria
Rusticana
, or let Liz Morales have a go at the costumes for the
Alexander
.
Charlotte said, “Okay, Liz, you give it a shot. If we have to, we can bump up the Cav. Then, if Aram shows up, we can reconvene. Anything else? No? Then we’re adjourned.”
Bruce and Elizabeth left Charlotte deep in thought. Tardiness was not in Aram Faji’s rulebook. That he had missed an important meeting was disturbing. She knew Aram well. He was talented, conscientious, and punctual. Charlotte knew something else about Aram the others did not. The two had been lovers. That was long before he had married, and before Charlotte was involved with the Quaker City Opera. The affair ended for a host of reasons that both acknowledged, but failed to comprehend in spiritual terms. Still, they remained friends. When Charlotte needed an artist who could manage huge costume designs and changes, she immediately thought of her former lover. There was another bit of information neither Elizabeth nor Bruce had. Aram had left a disjointed message on her home answering service the night before. Charlotte had been too tired to make anything out of it, and so she deleted it thinking Aram would explain everything at the meeting. Now she wished she hadn’t been so hasty.
Sleuths
SCHILLER EMITTED
a cautious woof as Jan rapped on the door.
Jan pushed the front door open.
“Mrs. Fabian? Are you decent?”
“Alas, Jan, I’m fully dressed. I didn’t have time to slip into my peignoir before you arrived—forgive me?”
“I’ll try to get over it,” he laughed.
“Come sit down. The tea is ready and the bakery just sent over some apricot scones. I know how much you like them.”
Jan took his usual seat. Aïda ran her hands over the tea service until she found the pot and began pouring.
“You’re watching me,” Aïda scolded.
“I’m sorry. I’m just amazed how you do all this yourself.”
“It’s not so hard, Jan… once you get used to it…. So, what’s new in our fair city today?”
“Hmm? Oh, uh, nothing much to interest us.”
“Oh, that is disappointing. I was hoping for a real mystery.”
“There is one thing that’s got the cops puzzled. It’s that rash of thefts in the diamond district. It seems the thieves are hitting the couriers en route, which suggests an inside connection. They strike, lie low, and then strike again. Two of the couriers have been severely beaten, and one is permanently crippled. Needless to say, the gem merchants on Samson Street are on edge. The thing is, no one knows where the gems are, or even if they’re still in the country. They spend like cash and they’re untraceable.”
“I don’t doubt they are,” Aïda said.