When Kevin finished, however, she didn't go up to congratulate him. The place was too crowded, and besides, she didn't want to compete with the horde of teenage girls shoving ahead of her. Nevertheless, as she slipped out of the coffee shop, she felt pleased. She had found her Pirate King.
Now she just had to work on recruiting the Major General.
#
Paisley stopped by the town's only realty office, a tiny storefront a few doors down from the Chapter Two bookstore. Through plate-glass windows plastered with snapshots of local homes for sale, she saw Ray leaning against a glass-and-metal desk, holding his heavy ceramic coffee mug in his big hand and chatting animatedly with a co-worker. As the door chime jangled, he looked up. His thick eyebrows shot up.
"Mrs. Perleman! So you've finally decided to put the house up for sale?" He straightened his tie in the jerky gesture she remembered from the last time they had met before coming forward to pump her hand. With his best professional bearing, he escorted her to a metal desk which was piled high with flyers and documents.
A few framed photographs were arranged on the wall behind him: one of a large dog, some muscular tan-and-brown breed with heavy jowls, and another of a younger, slimmer Ray wearing desert camouflage and brandishing a rifle in the midst of several other soldiers. A memento from his time in Afghanistan, no doubt.
"Your dog?" she asked, nodding at the first picture.
A shadow crossed his features. "Buzz died a couple of years ago. I'd replace him, but I haven't been able to find just the right one."
"I've heard how it is with a pet," she said, thinking about Esther's cat, which she still hadn't seen close-up. Cats were supposed to be unsentimental, but maybe the gray ball of fluff was so elusive because it missed its old owner. "As for your question about the house, no, I'm still not ready. I came to talk to you about something else."
"Oh?" He gestured her to a seat. Setting his mug carelessly on top of a stack of FOR SALE flyers, he steepled his large fingers and gave her his full attention. "Well, ma'am, what can I help you with?"
"It's about the play I'm helping out with," she confessed. "I'm sure you've heard of it, the posters are all over town. We need you."
He leaned back in his seat, chuckling as he shook his head. "So that's it. No thanks, I already bought a half-page in the printed programs."
"I'm not here to sell ads," she corrected him. "We need someone to play the role of the Major General. You'd be perfect."
He sat still, as if he hadn't heard her. Then, carefully he set the pencil down and positioned it on his desk, before rolling back his chair a few inches. "Let me get this straight. You actually want me to perform in The Pirates of Penzance? As an actor?"
"I heard you sing," she reminded him. "Just a snatch, but it was enough. Besides, the part is comedic, so you don't need professional training."
He folded his arms across his barrel chest. "Absolutely not."
She had expected this. "Just think what it could do for your business." She gestured around the cramped office. "The publicity you'd get would be much greater than an ad in the back of the program. The local newspaper will provide coverage." Surely there was a local paper? But of course there was. There always was in towns like this, even if most of the broadsheet's content consisted of classified ads or public notices. "I've been working with the crew every day during rehearsals, and trust me, it is going to be a production you'll be proud to be in."
At that, he sat up straighter, she noted with satisfaction, and his stubborn look turned thoughtful. The blond woman was busy talking with a client on a telephone, and they had a moment of privacy.
"And I bet Shirley would give you that half-page ad for free," Paisley added impulsively. She would have to tell Shirley about that incentive later. She wasn't sure what her friend's reaction would be, the budget for the community theater being as tight as it was.
"Hmmm." It was a rumble from his chest. Not an answer, but a long way from "absolutely not."
"Call Shirley and let her know," she said, rising, and let herself out the door. As a performer, she knew how to make an effective exit. The little bell jingled like a good-luck charm, above the sound of the blond woman's chatter on the telephone.
#
One more task remained. On her way home, she called Steve to ask how she could get in touch with Kevin.
"He's not here. Kevin usually doesn't come home until six o'clock for dinner." Steve's voice sounded concerned. "Why do you ask? Is he in some sort of trouble?"
She was surprised by Steve's assumption that something was wrong. "No, not at all. I have something to ask him, that's all. A favor, you could say. Do you have any idea where I might find him?"
"No, but I'll give you his cell phone number. You know how teenagers are. Like feral cats. Always wandering around, impossible to tie down."
"Except at six o'clock, for dinner," she said, displeased by the note of criticism in Steve's voice. Kevin seemed like a nice kid in spite of his semi-goth attire and mercurial temperament.
Steve chuckled. "Touché. Speaking of dinner, don't forget you promised to come over for homemade enchiladas some time. Are you free next Tuesday?"
With everything else going on, she had forgotten his invitation. She made up for it by putting extra enthusiasm in her voice. "Tuesday's fine. Dinner at six o'clock, I presume?"
He laughed again, sounding genuinely amused. "Why not?"
After thanking Steve, she dialed Kevin's cell phone and, when he didn't answer, left a brief voicemail. No point telling Kevin the object of her call. She didn't want to scare him off until she had a chance to try to sell him on the idea of being one of the stars in the play. He was skittish enough already.
Last, she turned to a task she had been putting off. The day's mail had brought a rash of more bills, forwarded, of course, by Barry. So far, she had done her best not to worry about finances, but now she had no choice but to confront them.
She spent the evening going over everything until her head ached. It was a good thing Ian had agreed to let her pay in installments, she thought. And of course, the singing lessons would help, once she got her fledgling music school off the ground.
Then she remembered that she had not yet followed up on her suspicion that Esther might have some funds in a local bank account. It was unlikely, almost as unlikely as finding Ruth Wegiel's legendary jewels. But it was certainly worth checking out.
*
"Why, yes, there is a checking account," the teller said, after checking Paisley's identification. "But you'll see it's practically empty. Still, we've been waiting for you to contact us. Just a moment, please." He left and returned shortly with a small key, which he handed to her. "There's this too, of course."
She looked at it blankly.
"For the safety deposit box," he explained. "Our records state that you inherited it when the previous owner passed away. Weren't you notified about it along with the bank account?"
Paisley thought of the papers Barry had thrust at her and which she had signed without reading them. It was another painful lesson. From now on, she vowed, she would pay more attention to her affairs.
"Thank you," she said, weighing the key in the palm of her hand with a tingle of curiosity. A safety deposit box? As she followed the man into the room with the safety deposit boxes, she imagined what Esther might have left. Stacks of stocks and bonds? A glittering array of rubies, like the ones she had worn in that dream?
The man stopped in front of a row of metal boxes. "Here, forty-one B. Take all the time you need." He left.
Heart beating a little faster, she inserted the little key and pulled out the long, metal container. Then she let out her breath in a sigh of disappointment, just like when she had opened the dusty cardboard box from the room with the slanted ceiling. This box held nothing but a well-used dark-blue passport whose gold letters nearly worn off, and a small green diary of the sort children wrote in.
She sat for a moment contemplating the two objects.
Then, with an air of resignation, she reached in and took out the diary. It fitted perfectly in the palm of her hand. The once-bright gilt clasp was broken and tarnished, and the green cloth cover was faded and ripped at the edges.
Then Paisley's interest began to grow again. In its own way, she thought, the diary was a sort of treasure, a chance to get to know Esther better. Who knew? This discovery may be even more important than the aerogramme Ian had been so excited about. Not everything had to be of monetary value.
She touched the worn cover gently before opening the yellowed pages. To her relief, the words were in English. The large, carefully rounded penmanship was that of a schoolgirl; it hardly resembled the dark, spidery handwriting of the woman Esther had grown into.
Sifting carefully through the pages, she noted that most of the entries were dated in the early 1940s. Esther must have been about ten years old by then. Although the spelling was imperfect, the writing was remarkably fluent for a girl who had only lived in the United States less than a year. There were several references to a pet cat, to a favorite teacher, and to a birthday gift from a best friend named Georgiana. Paisley wondered if the pet cat was an ancestor of the one that haunted the premises.
Then, something struck her. Startled, she re-read the passage. Georgiana. Where had she heard that name before? The memory eluded her, and shrugging, she put the diary in her purse to read later.
The bank teller had returned, so she only glanced quickly at the passport. The photo had somehow managed to capture the sparkle in Esther's dark eyes, although she was already an old woman by the time the photograph was taken. Paisley thought the small booklet was less interesting than the diary, although the stamps showed that Esther had traveled extensively. England, France, Mexico, Egypt, Israel, Italy. Not Poland, though. Perhaps that country held too many painful memories, she thought. And there remained no one to return to. They were all gone: grandparents, uncles, cousins ... even Aunt Adeladja.
Paisley put the passport in her purse with the diary and returned the empty safety deposit box to its place, wondering if Ian's friend had translated the aerogramme yet. What did it reveal about young Esther's flight to America? Did it tell how the child had managed to stay a step ahead of the Nazis who would eventually destroy her family? She found herself desperately wanting to know.
#
Rehearsal that afternoon was, as usual, chaotic, and Paisley was somewhat distracted by her discovery. As the actors reviewed lines and positions, she worried privately that Kevin hadn't yet returned her call. The Pirate King understudy was struggling with his part, and after flubbing the lines yet again, he looked anxious to return to the chorus to hang out with his friends.
Well, the play would just have to make do with a weak Pirate King if necessary. During breaks, however, Paisley left several more messages for Kevin. She resisted the urge to follow up with Ray Henderson, though, for instinct told her that nagging wouldn't help. More likely, it would only cause him to dig in his thick-soled heels. Maybe if she sent a plate of brownies with a nice note ... and the promise of a free, full-page ad in the program....
Neither bribe turned out to be necessary, however. To her surprise, she returned from break to find the real-estate agent in front of the stage, looking self-conscious in his gold jacket. He held a script awkwardly in his hand, while Shirley danced attention on him.
Paisley caught her friend's eye and telegraphed a fist pump. What had changed Ray's mind, she wondered: flattery, or the prospect of publicity for his business? It didn't matter. He was in. Now if only they could snag Kevin....
Shirley came over as the policemen practiced Tarantara onstage, bumping each other and tripping as much by accident as for humorous effect. "I was right," she whispered loudly to Paisley. "You're magic."
"Ray brings a certain authenticity to the role, don't you think?" Paisley said, trying not to laugh as the beefy former marine squared his shoulders and took center stage as if born to command.
"Except that, unlike the Major General, he has no kids. I heard he wasn't even in the Marines very long, in spite of that buzz cut and all those 'Yes, ma'ams.' Washed out of special ops, or something." Shirley frowned. "Or maybe it was something else. I'm not sure."
"Was he injured over there?" Paisley wondered.
"I don't know. In spite of the posturing, he doesn't talk about it much. Maybe he was involved in something top secret, or maybe he just doesn't want to remember what he's seen. That, I can understand." Shirley's shrugged. "I'm just glad he's in the play. An older actor is just what we needed. It gives the production a certain gravitas, if that's the right word for a comic opera. Want a ride home?"
Paisley turned down the offer, although she soon regretted her show of independence. Although the weather had been beautiful most of the time, it had rained earlier that day, and she had to skirt mushy parts in the unpaved side of the road. By the time she reached her house, the sun had set and long shadows stretched across the deep yard.
Her stomach was rumbling with hunger by the time she fumbled the key in the back door. Too tired to make a regular meal, she made a tuna-fish sandwich and opened a bag of potato chips before sauntering into the living room, where she intended to eat on the couch while listening to one of Esther's old records. Under the arch that separated parlor and dining room, however, she came to a sudden halt.
The room had been in immaculate condition when she had left that morning. Now, the books were no longer neatly lined up in the bookcases, and the sofa cushions were askew. The front door hung slightly ajar.
Paisley set her plate on the coffee table with shaking hands and quickly went through the rest of the house looking for more signs of the break-in. Every room showed some slight evidence of being disarranged.
The burglar must have waited until Ian and his crew had gone home for the day, she thought, returning at last to the living room. Surely the intruder would not have dared go through the house with workmen still there. Although it appeared whoever broke in had taken some pains to try to put things back as they were, the person had done an unprofessional job of it, since she had immediately noticed something wrong.
At least, Paisley thought, nothing appeared to be missing. She'd already gone through all of Esther's things, so she was sure she' have noticed if anything important was gone. Her own clothes and personal possessions seemed to be intact as well.
It was not the first time the house had been vandalized, she remembered. Hadn't Ray pointed out a broken window before she'd moved in? She shook her head. Could it be the jewels they were after? The thought was crazy, but what other motive could the intruder have? She had nothing of value. Of course, the burglars might have believed otherwise.
Although they didn't appear to have caused any real damage, it repelled her to think of unknown persons invading her space, running their hands through her underclothes and personal possessions. Until now, she had thought of the house as place of refuge, of safety; somehow, that made the violation even worse. Shuddering, she picked up the phone.
River Bend was a sleepy community, and the police apparently had little to do. It was only a few minutes before a black-and-white pulled up the long driveway. The stocky policeman with the bushy mustache was polite and professional as he filled out the form and asked if anything was missing.
"No," Paisley said automatically, and then stopped. Could the burglar have found something she had missed? How would she know?
The policeman waited patiently, his pencil poised over his notepad.
"Er … nothing that I know of," Paisley said. There was no reason to report that some imaginary jewelry might be missing from behind a secret panel or under a loose board. The cop would think she was a nut.
"Anybody or anything hurt?"
"No."
Officer Smith snapped his gum. Paisley had the impression that the importance of the report had sunk below the level of an unpaid parking ticket or fishing a kitten out of a tree.
He finished the report, then advised
Paisley that due to lack of physical evidence it was doubtful the miscreants would be found. Before leaving, he warned her to be sure to lock her doors and windows in the future.
"You did lock your doors when you went out this afternoon, didn't you?" he asked, looking down his large, pockmarked nose at Paisley without troubling to hide his boredom.
Paisley was forced to admit that she wasn't sure. The question made her feel she was somehow at fault for the break-in. "I didn't think it was necessary to double-check," she said, somewhat defensively. "Besides, I had a work crew here most of the day."
"Everybody thinks it's safe in the country, ma'am. Well, it isn't. Big city problems happen everywhere. You name it. Burglary, assault, meth. . .we've got it, just like Sacramento or San Jose. And this house has been vacant for a long time. Just practice basic safety precautions and you should be all right. You might want to invest in a deadbolt and a house alarm, if you're concerned."
"Thank you, officer," Paisley said, because it seemed the right response. But when the black and white police car pulled away a few minutes later, she realized the officer hadn't dusted for fingerprints or even checked the premises for whatever it was that police checked premises for. Dropped business cards engraved with the burglar's name? She was suddenly certain the report would be filed away at the station, and nothing would be done to follow up.
The shock of the intrusion had caused her to lose her appetite. She scraped the tuna into the cat bowl and threw away the rest of the sandwich. She forced herself to clean everything up before going to bed so there would be no reminders of the break-in tomorrow. Although she was exhausted, she got up twice during the night to check that the locks and the windows were securely fastened.
As she tossed and turned, she remembered that she had not called Steve about the break-in, although he'd asked her to telephone at the least sign of trouble. Tomorrow, she thought. First thing in the morning.
Chapter Eight
Before she had a chance to call Steve about the break-in, Ian arrived, even earlier than usual. He looked freshly showered and chipper, wearing a clean T-shirt and jeans, but when she opened the door and he saw her face, his cheerful whistle faded away. "What happened?"
The Jewelry Case Page 12