Summer Kisses (121 page)

She scanned the data. “No, nothing…wait. There was a license issued last spring for a Marcus Friedman, but it expires at the end of the month. Was that the guy’s name?”

“I think so. But if I saw the picture, I’d know for sure.”

“Sorry, but I can’t give out information like that.” She glanced over her shoulder at the corner office then shot him a coy look. “You don’t want to get a girl in trouble, do you?”

“Not at work. But the man really wants my trailer, and I’d hate to disappoint him. What could it hurt?” He gave her what he considered his most persuasive smile. “I would really appreciate it, Tiffany,” he said.

Her eyes flickered sideways, but she turned and pressed some keys then tilted the monitor toward him. “Is this your friend?” she whispered, shooting another glance down the hall.

Blue eyes, brown hair, patrician features. Possibly a European accent. The name read Marcus Friedman, and his age, forty-seven, fit the voice in the barn.

“That’s him.” Kurt memorized Friedman’s address a full three seconds before she turned the monitor away.

“I can’t give you his address, but I’ll write the phone number down.” She jotted on a business card and handed it to him with a confident flourish. “My home number is on the back as well.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said. “Marcus and I both appreciate this.”

“Betting tips are a nice way to show appreciation.” She leaned toward him, and her silk blouse gaped again. “A drink after work is even nicer.”

“Sure,” he said, already calculating how long it would take to drive to Friedman’s house. “How about tomorrow?”

She checked her calendar and made an exaggerated moue. “Sorry. I’m busy.”

“Some other time then. I have your number.” He stuck her card in his pocket, but he already had what he wanted. “Now who do I see about entering a horse?” he asked.

Kurt slid into his truck and punched in Archer’s number. An automated voice requested he leave a message. He recorded his destination, flipped the phone shut and entered Friedman’s address into his GPS.

Thirty minutes later he was in Elbow Valley, on the west side of the city.

The address matched a luxurious home perched on a rolling hill overlooking the city center. He drove to the bottom of the manicured lawn and parked on the gravel shoulder. A stooped groundskeeper tended a bright garden, and he raised his head as Kurt walked up the drive.

“I’m lost.” Kurt sagged his shoulders.

“Wha’cha looking for?” The man creaked to his feet, peeled off soiled gloves and wiped a liver-spotted forehead.

“Olympic Hill,” Kurt said. “I must have missed the turnoff.”

The gardener shook his head. “Nah, just get back on the highway. Head west another five minutes. You can’t miss it.”

“I was told I wouldn’t miss it earlier, but I ended up here.” Kurt casually inspected the property. No sign of horse ownership. “Nice house,” he added, trying to peer around the back. “You’ve got a great view of the city.”

“Oh, this isn’t my place. I just look after the flowers. Look good, don’t they?”

“Yeah, they do,” Kurt said with a spike of longing. The fresh spring smell reminded him of mountain meadows, lusty sex and Julie. The old man was staring at him, so he flattened his mouth. “Must be an oil man that lives in that house,” he added.

“No, Mr. Friedman owns a jewelry shop. ‘Pieces of Seven’, I think it’s called. Can’t be doing so good though, because the real estate agent was here last week. Standing right where you are now. She liked my flowers too.”

“Yeah, they’re real nice,” Kurt said. “So the owner is selling?” He bent over and helpfully tossed a weed into the wheelbarrow.

The man stiffened, and Kurt guessed maybe it hadn’t been a weed after all. He stepped away from the flowers, and the gardener relaxed.

“Selling out, is he?” Kurt prompted.

“Yeah, the housekeeper said he’s moving back to Europe. Selling his house and cars. His wife don’t like it here. She already left.” He scratched at his thin chest leaving a smear of dirt on his shirt. “Sure hope the new buyer keeps me on.”

“Yeah. Wonder why they’re moving...” Kurt let his voice drift.

“Dunno. Mr. Friedman don’t talk to me much. Housekeeper says he’s homesick.”

“Homesick, yeah.” Kurt nodded. “That’s probably it. Well, thanks for the directions. Good luck with the new owners.”

Anticipation pulled him down the hill, and it was an effort not to jog to his truck. He did a U-turn, waved at the helpful gardener and punched ‘Pieces of Seven’ into his GPS.

No such shop existed. He searched every type of jewelry business. Had driven ten blocks east, cutting cross-town, when the screen finally showed a store called ‘Pieces of Eight.’ Ah, bingo. 37th Avenue, SW.

Fifteen minutes later he stood on the sidewalk in front of a neglected building. Several gold letters had peeled from the sign, leaving its name unreadable. Assorted silver jewelry was displayed in the window, but steel bars blocked his view and three large stickers warned of a security system.

He stared through the window, scanning the pattern on the silver. Designs focused on the city’s western heritage—lots of chuck wagons, cowboys and bulls. Odd location for a retail outlet. The stuff might appeal to tourists, but this avenue fringed a residential area. It felt like a shop with no real desire to sell.

He jogged up the three front steps and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled; a lady bustled from the back room. Her pink shirt was tucked into shapeless beige slacks, and silver jewelry matched the type on display. ‘Betty’, her nametag read.

She eased to a wary stop, staring at him, as though suspicious he intended to rob the place. He gave a reassuring smile.

“Good morning.” She relaxed a notch and stepped forward. “May I help you?”

“Probably,” he said. “I’m looking for a gift for my girlfriend.”

Her head bobbed with eagerness. “We have many lovely gifts. What kind of jewelry does she like?”

“I’m not sure.” He glanced around, studying the shelves.

Betty’s bracelets jangled as she pointed at a glassed display case. “A chain or a brooch might be nice. What color—”

“Green, and her hair is like honey with blonder streaks.”

“I was going to ask what color she wears. Green?”

“No, that’s her eye color.”

She smiled then, a big approving smile. “Some men have been married for years and still don’t know the color of their wife’s eyes.”

Kurt shrugged. He was a trained observer. Only natural he noticed everything about Julie. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

“We have some popular pendants with a Stampede theme.”

His mouth tightened as he remembered Julie’s persistent cowboy friend in the red shirt. “Nothing with a cowboy,” he said quickly. “Maybe something with a stone.”

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t sell those. Our silversmith designs all the pieces here, but he doesn’t set stones.” She gestured hopefully toward a smaller display. “Maybe you’d like to look at something over there?”

“No stones?” His disappointment was so acute he gripped the edge of the glass case. Another dead end, yet he’d been certain he had it figured. Otto and friend couldn’t be smuggling silver; it was much too bulky to conceal on a horse.

“Well, we do have some zircons,” Betty said. “But they’re not sold out of this shop.”

“Zircons?” Kurt blew out his relief, and his fingers did a relieved tap dance on the glass. “Are those the fake diamonds?”

“It’s a mineral,” she said primly, “not a fake diamond. We usually ship them to overseas customers. But maybe we could find an extra one, just for you. Please wait a minute.”

She bustled through the door and reappeared in seconds with a portable display cradled in her arms. “Ted designed these pieces and can add a zircon anywhere you want. The stones are lovely. Not many people can tell the difference between a zircon and a diamond.”

“Bet not,” Kurt said. “Is Ted the owner of the store?”

“Oh, no. Ted is my son. He’s the designer.”

“May I talk to him?”

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “No one is allowed in the back. Store rules. I’ll just fill out an order form and have Ted come out.”

“Wait.” Kurt worked hard to maintain a solemn expression. “Before I place this order, this
special
order, it’s imperative I see Ted in his work environment. It makes the jewelry much more personal. I believe the artist’s individuality is the very essence of his creation, so it’s important to have a sense of his work.”

Betty stared, her mouth slightly open, and he feared he’d overdone it, but then her head bobbed. “Yes, yes. You’re absolutely right, sir,” she said. “And you do understand the creative process. I didn’t realize you wanted a special design. Follow me. But you can only stay a few minutes.”

“Of course.” He tracked her behind the counter.

“In this door,” she whispered. “Ted doesn’t mind visitors, but the owner is very…fussy. Teddy!” she called. “I have someone here who wants a special order.”

Kurt followed her into a spacious workshop. A young man sat at a bench, engrossed with shaping a strip of silver. An assortment of pliers and snips covered his plastic work surface.

He peered at Kurt over the top of black-rimmed glasses. Acne dotted his face, and a lank strand of hair was shoved behind his ear. His black t-shirt sported music notes, a confusion of foreign symbols and a spattering of shoulder dandruff.

“Working on a ring.” Ted gestured with his head as he placed a strip of silver on an anvil and tapped it with a steel rod. His eyes narrowed in concentration. He seemed untroubled and largely oblivious to Kurt’s presence.

Kurt scanned the room. On his right there was a jeweler’s bench with a more elaborate lighting system. A gold-framed picture hung above it. Looked like Friedman with a smiling woman and a sullen-faced teenager. He eased sideways.

“You can’t go there! That’s Mr. Friedman’s section.”

Kurt stopped at Betty’s sharp warning. She plucked nervously at the silver chain around her neck. Ted didn’t look up.

“Does the owner do the same work as you?” Kurt asked, obediently moving back beside Ted.

“No. He only sets stones.” Ted shook his head in disdain, still tapping with his rod. “I design my jewelry from scratch using sterling silver. Look at this.”

Kurt looked down at the unremarkable sheet of silver. “Wow,” he said.

“This is the silver before I transform it. It’s 925/1000 pure. I started designing using copper and pewter, but now I only work with silver.”

“Great. Excellent progress.” Kurt gave a hearty nod, stealing another glance at Friedman’s table. He didn’t know the names of the tools and equipment, but the shop seemed exceedingly well equipped.

The door chime jangled. He felt Betty’s stare and pretended an absorption in Ted’s silver creation. Her footsteps receded as she left to greet the new customer, but he waited until the door clicked shut before he spoke. “Your mother said you could add zircons to a custom-made piece,” he said, speaking quickly. “Could I see some of the stones, Ted? I understand there’s a wide range of quality on the market.”

“I have a few in my drawer, but most of them are locked over there.” Ted jabbed at the corner workstation. “Mr. Friedman looks after the settings for overseas customers. But you can pick a stone from this group. Prices are listed on the back.” He pulled out a display case and dropped it in front of Kurt.

Kurt tingled with satisfaction as he studied the spectrum of colors. “What did you say the owner’s name was?” he asked.

“Marcus Friedman. He’s from Belgium or Germany, someplace like that. Last year he saw me selling my pewter at the flea market and hired me on the spot. He pays for all the materials, the tools and the workshop.” Ted squared his narrow shoulders in pride. “I get a percentage of sales. Just like an owner.”

“I see. And how are sales going?”

“Well, kind of slow.” His smile faded. “But Mr. Friedman says it takes time for artists to build a customer base. Anyway, the shipments to Antwerp are going well.”

“How often do you ship overseas?”

“Four or five times a year, I guess. Mr. Friedman delivers them himself.” Ted adjusted his glasses and glanced around as if expecting Friedman to pop up any moment. “I guess that’s where he is now,” he added.

“So the pieces shipped always have zircons in them?”

“Either zircons or fake stones. They really like that stuff over there.”

Kurt muzzled his satisfaction as he fingered a colorless stone. “This one looks like a real diamond. Must be hard to tell the difference.”

“Yeah, especially the ones used as diamond simulates. The stones we send to Europe are top quality.”

“Where do you get the zircons?” Kurt propped his hip against the table, keeping his voice casual.

“I think they’re mined in Australia or Thailand, places like that. They come in brown and green crystals.” Ted shuffled through a drawer. “Anyway Mr. Friedman looks after all that stuff. He wants me to concentrate on the silver design and not worry about gemstones.”

“Of course.” Kurt cemented a bland expression, but his heart thumped with triumph.

“So, did you want a brooch or a pendant?” Ted found a piece of creased paper and extracted a stubby pencil from his drawer.

“What?” Kurt frowned. “Oh yeah. How about a pendant. And stick this rock in it.”

“You sure you want a zircon? That’ll make it quite expensive.”

“Doesn’t matter. Can you design a mountain peak and put the rock at the bottom? Use one of those chains out front to hang it on.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll feather the mountain and put the zircon right here.” Ted sketched an image and tapped the paper with his pencil. “That’ll be ready in two weeks.”

Kurt peeled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the workbench. “How about a little extra,” he said, “if you finish it in three days?”

“Three days isn’t a problem.” Ted scooped up the money.

The door tinkled. Seconds later, Betty hurried back. Her eyes relaxed when she saw Kurt lounging harmlessly beside Ted.

“Ted, I just sold a ring.” She included them both in a bright smile and looked at Kurt. “Isn’t his work lovely?”