The Jewelry Case

by Catherine McGreevy

  Paisley looked down at the sidewalk, dealing with a slew of mixed emotions. For some reason, she was upset to find out Ian had kept a secret from her. So much for her early impression of integrity! If he would misrepresent an important fact, such as that his father's company no longer existed, who knew what else he would lie about? Nor was she sure she wanted to sit through lunch with Shirley interrogating her. Paisley had already spilled enough personal information to Steve and was already regretting it.

  When one grew up with an alcoholic father, one learned to keep a lot of things to oneself. For press interviews, she had developed a spiel that sounded forthcoming while managing to keep her private affairs ... well, private. She suspected Shirley would be harder to foist off than mere reporters.

  On the other hand, Paisley was curious too. Shirley had grown up with Jonathan, and in some ways, probably knew some aspects of him better than Paisley did. And, in an odd way, the shopkeeper's was frankness refreshing. Hadn't the hospital shrink had said it would be therapeutic to talk?

  With the same sense of throwing caution to the winds as Julius Caesar must have felt when he tossed the rock across the Rubicon, she took a deep breath and said, "Sure. Let's go eat."

  "Great." Gleeful as a child with a new toy to play with, Shirley went to get her purse and reappeared moments later with bright orange lipstick freshly applied to her lips and a colorful, hand-knitted green, red, and yellow Jamaican cap crammed over her short hair. Escorting Paisley to a beat-up bottle-green Volvo parked behind the building, she instructed her with the sternness of a mother to fasten her seat-belt—not that Paisley needed the warning. She never got into a car these days without a frisson of fear, and she always, always buckled up.

  "Fred's Fish Shack is halfway between here and Calistoga," Shirley announced, gunning the motor, "but it's worth it. You like fish, don't you? Even if you don't, I promise you'll like it at Fred's."

  Paisley had wanted to try the café across the street, but she meekly nodded.

  Shirley hadn't exaggerated. The cod was flaky and flavorful, the rolls yeasty and warm from the oven. They had to wait in a long line to place their orders, and once they were seated on barstools at the counter, their conversation started out on general topics, enlivened by Shirley's trenchant humor.

  Their talk inevitably turned to Paisley's life with Jonathan, her travels, the celebrities she had met, and her short-lived career. Paisley found herself answering freely. There was something reassuring about Shirley's plain, open face and blunt questions. The reporters who had interviewed her in the past seemed to see her as nothing more than a story to sell magazines, but Shirley, by contrast, seemed to see her as a real person, not a celebrity, and showed genuine interest.

  Paisley asked questions in return about Esther's house, and Jonathan's family. "You said you knew about the place's history," she said, breaking apart a roll and buttering it.

  "Yes, it has been around since the 1880s. For this area, that's pretty old. Interesting architecture. It was said to have been built by the same guy who built the house next door."

  "Steve Lopez' house?"

  Shirley nodded vigorously, her double chin flapping. "Can't you can see the similarity? The same windows, the same decorative tower. All the land around here used to be part of a huge rancho, back when California was part of Mexico. The two properties didn't get split up until Borys and Henka Perleman emigrated around 1900. They bought their parcel from Steve's great-grandparents, who were original Californios. The Lopez family goes clear back to the mission era, but that's way before the era you're interested in." She paused. "So, see anything interesting while you've been puttering around the house?"

  Paisley jumped. Then she did her best to hide her surprise. "Someone put sheets over the furniture and emptied the fridge when Esther moved out," she said, fingering her water glass, "but otherwise it's pretty much the way it was when she lived there. I wouldn't call that interesting."

  Shirley looked disappointed. "That's it?"

  At least she was not trying to hide her nosiness. Again, Paisley found the fact refreshing. With Shirley, what you saw was what you got. But Paisley didn't want to talk about the strange resemblance Ian had seen between her and the photograph of Ruth Wiegel, or the unsettling dreams that had marked her first day in the house.

  "Nothing other than the ordinary things you'd expect," she said. "Nothing that sheds any light on the history of the house. Although—" Paisley wrinkled her forehead. "That seems odd, doesn't it? If the family lived there so long, you'd think there would be more documents, photo albums, and things of that sort lying around. Except for a few pictures on the wall, I haven't found any family history."

  "Hmmm. Esther wasn't sentimental, and she wasn't overly fond of her family members." Shirley finished off her fish and beckoned the waitress over to order chocolate lava cake for dessert, adding, with a wink, "And bring two spoons." Turning back to Paisley, she continued, "Esther offered me a bunch of old books when Jonathan's parents moved out, mostly Ellery Queen and other pulp writers that weren't her taste. I was hoping you might have found some more stuff in the attic I could sell. I pay cash, as long as they're marketable."

  Paisley considered. "Esther did have a lot of paperbacks. Mostly romantic suspense, mysteries, and that sort of thing. Can you use them?"

  Shirley perked up. "Absolutely. Kindle and Amazon are going to put me out of business eventually, but so far there are still people who prefer to cuddle up with a good, old-fashioned book. Bring me what you've got and I'll make an offer. Or, if you prefer, I'll come by. I'd love to see the inside of Esther's house again."

  "'Again?'"

  Shirley chuckled. "Oh, honey, I've been in that old house a hundred times. When I was a kid, I used to play under that big oak tree with Jonathan until his grandma came out and chased us away. It was a great place to play Tarzan and Jane, or pirates, or astronauts."

  "Did you know Esther well?" Paisley asked. "Outside of working together on the community theater plays, I mean."

  "I used to go to over her house for poker every month with a group from the historical society. Esther would tell hilarious stories about her escapades as a teacher and serve us bratwurst and beer." Shirley smacked her lips reminiscently, her eyes shining behind the lenses of her glasses. "We'd stay up until two in the morning, having a grand old time."

  "Esther was a teacher?"

  "Yup, she taught at a high school in Sacramento. McClatchy High, I think it was. They have some kind of magnet program there. She came back here some twenty years so, after Jonathan's parents moved to Florida."

  "What subject did she teach?"

  "History. It figures. Losing one's family in the holocaust gives a certain perspective on world events, don't you think?" Shirley grew uncharacteristically sober, tracing a pattern on her glass with a finger tipped with inexpertly applied nail polish in a shade that matched her lipstick. "Esther encouraged her students to make a difference in life, and a surprising number took on the challenge. They became doctors, foreign service officers, and politicians—good ones. There are a few out there. Once Esther returned to the old family home, she made it a project to turn River Bend into a better place to live as well. And dammit, she succeeded. Those hanging baskets on the lamp poles? Her idea. The downtown used to be ugly as hell. The senior center?" Shirley shrugged. "She ran fundraisers until they could afford to buy the old Moose hall."

  "And the community theater? How did she start that?"

  Shirley settled more comfortably in her seat. "Well, after the school district said they didn't have funds to continue the high school drama program, Esther brought her numerous friends to the board meeting. She told the school board members that any town worth its salt should have a theater, and bullied the board until they granted use of the high school auditorium, as long as she could create a self-funded program. Sure enough, she amassed a group of volunteers, including me, to run it. No one thought it was possible, but Esther managed it." Shirley's voice was
admiring.

  "I wonder why Jonathan never told me," Paisley mused. "If he and his great-aunt both had an interest in theater, it's even stranger that…." She broke off.

  Shirley prompted, her hazel eyes bright with curiosity. "That what?"

  It was the same question Paisley had asked Steve, earlier, the question that had puzzled her from the beginning. "Why did she leave the house to me, not to him?" she finished the thought. "He was her nephew, after all, the closest living relative she had, except a cousin back east. And if they shared the same interests...."

  Shirley eyed her shrewdly. "You mean you really don't know? Come on, you were married to the guy."

  Paisley blushed. She was well aware of Jonathan's flaws. They had fought often enough over them: his stubbornness, his insistence on doing things his own way. And, then, of course, that last argument. Once again, Paisley saw the girl emerging from the bathroom, clad in a towel, meeting her eyes and smiling contemptuously. Her fists clenched, fingernails digging painfully into her palms.

  "Look." Shirley rested her jowels on her hand, plump elbow braced on the counter. "We all admired Jonathan, but when he left, he didn't leave behind many friends. To be honest, most of his relatives were pretty much the same. Cold and aloof. All except Esther. She must have been a throwback to the European branch of the family, because she sure wasn't like the others."

  Paisley remained silent, and Shirley cocked a sparse eyebrow. "I don't hear you contradicting me. It was no secret Esther wasn't a big fan of her own family either. In fact, when Jonathan surprised everyone by marrying you...."

  She stopped abruptly, gulped down a big bite of chocolate cake, and immediately began coughing. Paisley was dying to hear what her companion had been going to say, but she waited, fighting down her curiosity, until Shirley caught her breath again.

  Shirley drained her glass of water and looked over the top of her thick-framed glasses at Paisley. "What the hell, I'll tell you. We were at rehearsal … it was The Music Man that year … and during one of the breaks, Esther told me, a propos of nothing, "You know, Shirley, I feel sorry for that lovely girl that Jonathan married. She's not at all what I expected." Those were her exact words." Shirley's eyes twinkled. "You must have made quite an impression on her. And that, you see, is why she left you the house."

  "I still don't understand," Paisley murmured. "I hardly…."

  "Oh come on, honey. I see it too. You put on an act of toughness, like so many girls these days, and yet you agreed to take time out of your day to have lunch with someone like me, when you could easily have given me the brush-off. How many people of your stature would do that? And you're showing interest, genuine interest, in the life of an even older woman you hardly knew, your late husband's great-aunt. To me, that spells a mensch, as Esther would put it."

  Paisley grimaced. She knew several former acquaintances who would disagree. Clawing to the top of the opera world was uber-competitive, and not always conducive to being "nice." Once, maybe, that description might have fit. Before she'd met Jonathan and learned one had to fight to get what one wanted. "Thanks," she muttered.

  "Don't thank me. Kindness isn't exactly in vogue these days. It's probably a good thing you've developed that shell. Not everyone can be trusted."

  Paisley looked at her new friend's suddenly serious round face. The warning sounded out of place in this cheerful restaurant, decorated with fishing nets and lobster pots, surrounded by chattering day-trippers with their cameras and shorts. Most of Paisley's decisions lately had only concerned herself, her own needs and wishes. Maybe Shirley was confusing her with someone else, someone genuinely altruistic. Like, say, Esther. Or Shirley herself.

  "Don't worry," she said. "I can take care of myself."

  Shirley's face wreathed itself in its usual smile. "Good. Hey, if you don't have any plans this afternoon, maybe you can come see the rehearsal for Pirates of Penzance. You might get a kick out of it. Three o'clock sharp, in the high school auditorium. Nathan's mom is bringing donuts. He's playing the Pirate King."

  "What about your store?"

  Shirley shrugged. "I'll hang up my 'gone-fishing' sign. One of the perks of living in a small town is I get to set my own hours."

  Paisley tried to think of a polite way to refuse. Although she had enjoyed her visit with the bookshop keeper, attending a rehearsal with a bunch of high school kids didn't interest her. However, she had already made the mistake of revealing that she didn't have plans for the afternoon, and she didn't know how to wriggle out of the invitation without offending her new friend.

  "Okay," she said reluctantly, thinking, What could it hurt?

  Not until later did she realize that phrase sounded like famous last words.

  #

  To kill time during the hour before rehearsal, Paisley borrowed Shirley's computer and browsed the internet. On Wikipedia, she found a synopsis on Ruth's brief career, but there wasn't even a picture to accompany the text: just a dry account of the roles for which she had been famous, some of them obscure German operas Paisley had never heard of, and the singer's birth and death dates. Nothing more. No stories about a famous set of rubies and diamonds, a Russian count, or anything interesting.

  Discouraged, she closed the browser while Shirley dealt with a pair of lingering customers in front. In the bookcases, she found another copy of True Stories of Northern California, and she remembered guiltily that the one she had purchased still sat on her nightstand, waiting for her to read it. Unfortunately, its awkward prose could not compare with that of the more tempting paperbacks in the bookcase downstairs, and despite Paisley's good intentions, she had not made it past the first few pages.

  Remotivated, she flipped through the book, skimming the text, searching for any local information. Shirley had been wrong: the town of River Bend was featured in a very short chapter toward the end, after the more famous towns of Napa, Calistoga, and Sonoma.

  Intrigued, she settled on a hard metal folding chair in the back of the store to read more closely. The highlights of River Bend's history consisted of the granting of the Spanish land grant for the formation of the rancho Shirley had alluded to and, a century later, a regional championship by the high-school wrestling team. Paisley found little relating to the Perleman family except a grainy black-and-white photo of Jonathan at age seventeen accepting a high-school orchestra award.

  Then, upon closer examination she was rewarded to find her little white house mentioned in a footnote. The structure had been acquired by Esther's uncle, Borys Perleman, she learned, who had immigrated from Warsaw in 1914 and ventured west as a peddler. He and his wife had settled in River Bend in 1920, where they opened a drygoods store. The home, the author added, was a particularly good example of the Queen Anne style, as was the larger structure constructed next door.

  That was it. Once more, there was no mention of jewels, or a family legend of a beautiful ancestress courted by a Russian nobleman.

  With a feeling of disappointment, Paisley put the book back and wandered outside. With more time to kill before the play rehearsal, she walked down the block and found herself passing by the senior center again, where the clarion voice of a bingo caller drifted through the open window.

  Outside, the two white-haired men were still at their chess game, looking as if they hadn't budged since the last time she passed by.

  The tall one with the red suspenders sensed her presence first. His head jerked up, and he winked at her. "I have a feeling my luck is about to change, Hugo. Pull up a chair, young lady, and I'll show you how an expert plays this game."

  Paisley pulled up a chair. Soon she was old friends with Hugo and Walter, and was even talked into playing a game with the winner, which she lost with humiliating speed. With more finesse than Shirley, they pried out the same information about her background and plans for the summer, and she found herself opening up more than she had before. In turn they regaled her with reminiscences of Jonathan and his increasingly evident musical prodigy. Both claimed to
have predicted his success first.

  "Interesting family, the Perlemans," Walter stated, nodding his white-bearded head for emphasis. "All of them were musical, but everyone knew Jonathan would make it big. I gave him his first job, you know, down at the gas station." He chuckled. "Truth is, he wasn't much help. Always ignoring the customers while he studied his music scores under the counter. Had to let him go after a couple of weeks. But he didn't care. He'd already got news of his scholarship to Julliard in the mail. Never looked back."

  "Jonathan was the biggest thing to come out of River Bend," Hugo agreed, hooking his thumbs under his suspenders. "We get tourists from as far as Sacramento wanting to see where the maestro grew up. Then they stay for the apple pie at Rosie's Diner. Course, we don't get anywhere near the number that go to resort towns like Calistoga or Napa. Too far out of the way. But any extra traffic helps."

  "People come to see where Jonathan grew up?" repeated Paisley, touched by the news. Jonathan had never shown much interest in his home town. He hadn't known, or cared, how much the residents followed his career or the pride they took in his success. Now she wished that she'd encouraged him to visit once in a while.

  "Now, looky here," Hugo said sternly, looking at Walter over the top of his spectacles. "No sense reminding this young lady of her loss. I apologize for my friend's thoughtlessness, Mrs. Perleman. I know this must be a hard time for you."

  She shook her head. "Call me Paisley. And it's okay. I'm fine." Oddly, it was true. She could think of Jonathan without a stab of grief and anger. Perhaps it was a sign that she was starting to heal. "Tell me about Esther," she said, to change the subject. "Did you know her well?"

  "'Course we did." Hugo settled back in his seat, his expression softening. "Everyone around here did. Not just because it's a small town, either. Esther liked to join things. She was always in the middle of everything, putting in her two cents and getting things done. She was the original pint-size dynamo." He chuckled reminiscently, and Paisley wondered with a stab of surprise if the two had enjoyed a flirtation while Esther had still been alive. She had never thought of that side of Esther before.