The Jewelry Case

by Catherine McGreevy

  Paisley flipped through the empty pages, frowning. The reference to the slap startled her. But physical punishment was more common in those days. Perhaps the incident meant nothing.

  More importantly, the record had been written by a sensitive, intelligent child who had escaped the most horrendous genocide of all time. Why hadn't Esther related anything of real importance or revealed her deepest feelings in her diary, as a girl her age might be expected to?

  Paisley could only think of one reason. Esther suspected that her diary might be read and so had deliberately left out anything that might ruffle anyone's feathers. Except, that is, for one telling sentence that had seemingly burst out of her pen in spite of herself, and which Paisley could not get out of her mind: She slapped me and took my coat away.

  Paisley wondered what question Aunt Henka could possibly have asked her niece that would have resulted in an outbreak of anger when the young girl had refused to answer? Perhaps Esther had declined to do some chore, and Aunt Henka had considered her niece ill-mannered or defiant. But it was the reference to the coat that made Paisley wonder.

  What if Esther had brought the jewels to America in the hem of the coat which her grandmother had carefully constructed for her? What if Esther had refused to hand them over to her American relatives, provoking Aunt Henka's ire?

  Reading the diary once more, Paisley grew more certain than ever that young Esther had been miserable. How could she be happy with an aunt who constantly harangued her and who had, on at least one occasion, shown physical violence? Yet as an adult Esther had chosen to return to this small town, to the very house where these events had happened, and some of her friendships had apparently lasted a lifetime. Surely, River Bend must have held some good memories for the young holocaust survivor.

  The sun had touched the horizon, and it was time to prepare dinner. Paisley put the diary with the worn green cover in the top drawer of her dresser for safekeeping, wondering when Ian would be back from Berkeley. Certainly, he would find the contents of the diary as interesting as she did.

  Walking into the kitchen, she saw a flash of gray outside the window, in the shrubbery, and her heart skipped she raced to the door. Although she had faithfully filled the bowl every day, and seen every night that it was empty, she had not yet seen the elusive cat. But it was out there now, somewhere, in the shadows of the large back yard. It must be losing its fear of her.

  "Here, kitty," she cooed, bending over with her hands on her knees and searching for another flash of gray. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

  Like a genie emerging from a bottle, a pair of pointed ears appeared from the greenery, followed by a flat muzzle with a pink nose. She had no treat to offer, but she held her hand out, hoping to fool the cat into coming out of its hiding place. Carefully it put out one white paw, then another, until its entire form was exposed. For a moment the cat crouched still, staring at her from yellow eyes as if she were a mouse it hoped to stalk. Then, with a flash of a tail as fluffy as an ostrich feather, it was gone again, back into the shrubbery.

  Impulsively she followed in its direction, before noticing a crushed stalk of honeysuckle in the flower bed and, just beyond it, magnified by the lengthening shadows of early evening, the clear imprint of a shoe. In the center of the footprint were two stylized letters: "VA."

  She stopped short, stunned. The footprint was not hers. Not only was it far too large, but she hadn't stepped into the garden since before yesterday's rain had softened the dirt. Nor did she own a pair of Vans sneakers. But Paisley had no doubt to whom it belonged. Vans was a popular brand with teenagers.

  For a flash, she thought of calling back the police, then just as quickly decided against it. They probably wouldn't take her statement any more seriously than they had the first time, even with the footprint. Besides, this was something she could deal with alone. But it would have to wait until later, for she heard the unmistakable sound of a pickup engine turning up her driveway.

  #

  Paisley was surprised how glad she was to see Ian walking toward the front steps, back from his trip to Berkeley. Despite the fact their frequently arguments, Ian always took her points seriously and, occasionally, even changed his mind: rare traits in a man and therefore all the more refreshing.

  "I'm not too late, am I?" he asked as she let him in. "I can come back in the morning, if I'm interrupting your dinner."

  "No, I'm glad to see you. I have a new theory I wanted to run by you."

  When she had brought out a platter with the remaining gingersnaps and told him about her belief that Esther had been abused by Aunt Henka, he looked disbelieving. "Aunt Henka, cruel?" He wiped away dark crumbs from the corners of his mouth and reached for another cookie. "Now you're jumping to conclusions. Sure, the old lady was intimidating, maybe even scary to a young kid. But there's really no basis to say that."

  "Aunt Henka slapped her. Esther wrote about it in the diary."

  Ian looked thoughtful and tapped his chin with his finger, as she noticed he often did when considering a new fact. She realized she was getting to know his little quirks as well as she had Jonathan's. Then he shook his head. "I won't argue that Aunt Henka was not a particularly nice person. But does one slap make her abusive? Especially in the days of spankings, washing mouths out with soap, and taking misbehaving kids to the woodshed?"

  "Well, I believe she was abusive," Paisley argued. She was not sure why she was so certain, but somehow she knew. "I think Esther arrived in America with the jewels, as planned, but because of the way her relatives treated her, she decided not to hand them over. I think Aunt Henka knew that, and so she hated Esther for the rest of her life. Jonathan told me there was a long-standing feud between Esther and her relatives. That must be how it started."

  He considered. "I guess that's possible."

  "Isn't it obvious?" Paisley said impatiently, disappointed by his tepid response. "That could mean we were right! If Esther did have the jewels, that explains why she hid them. For a while, they may well have been in the box you found in the wall, where her mean aunt wouldn't have found then. But for some reason, if Esther took them out and hid them somewhere else, they could still be around here, somewhere." Once again, Paisley was aware of making a leap not supported by the meager evidence, but nevertheless it seemed plausible.

  Ian surprised her by reaching out and taking her hand while looking down at her. His fingers were strong and warm, calloused from long hours wielding a hammer. She wondered if his father's hands had felt the same. "Paisley, I understand how important this is to you, but at some point, you have to be realistic. Those jewels will likely never turn up. This has been an interesting intellectual exercise, but if you think of it as anything more than that, you're bound to be disappointed.

  They both jumped as music went off in her purse: the first notes of Mi Chiamo Mimi, from La Boheme. She had programmed her cell phone when she had first found she was on the short-list for the role of Mimi. She fumbled for the device, and by the time she found it under her wallet, lipgloss, and assorted scraps of paper, she had missed the call. No way to call back, either: the screen read caller unknown.

  "I'd better be going," Ian said, snagging the last gingersnap and heading regretfully for the door. "Tomorrow's Sunday, and I have a lot of work to do on my thesis. I've been neglecting it, thanks to you. See you Monday."

  Once again she realized she had completely forgotten that he was her employee, and that was the sole basis of their relationship. Or was it? Their relationship had changed so subtly over the past few days that she no longer knew exactly how to define it.

  Just before getting into his truck, Ian turned, and the edges of his mouth spread upward. "Just a few days to go, then the renovations will be done," he said. "We'll try not to wake you with the hammering. And if I find anything unexpected, I'll let you know."

  #

  The telephone call had been from Steve. He left a voice message, and when she returned the call, she listened to his pleasant voice, fee
ling as disoriented as if she had been awoken from one of her strange dreams. It had only been a few days ago that he had asked her to dinner, but her days had been so full that the invitation was the farthest thing from her mind.

  "Uh, no, I haven't forgotten," she told him when he brought it up, mentally crossing her fingers.

  "If you're busy, I don't want to interfere with your plans," said Steve, sounding slightly hurt.

  "No, no, that's not it." She didn't want to admit that his invitation had slipped her mind. "So, um, we're on for tomorrow night, right?"

  He sounded relieved. "Tomorrow. Six o'clock?"

  "Six o'clock."

  As she lay in bed later, waiting for sleep to overcome her, it was not her upcoming dinner with her handsome neighbor that filled her mind, though. It was Ian's implied criticism of her behavior in seeking Esther's lost jewels.

  Was she being greedy and materialistic? Was her search for the jewels a justifiable act of desperation—or was it something uglier? Was the spirit of Esther helping her to find them, or was it warning her away?

  Exhausted and full of self-doubt, she punched the pillow, trying to fight down the warring thoughts.

  #

  For her dinner with Steve, she dressed carefully, smoothing the wrinkles out of the red Stella McCartney jacket and dabbing extra cover-up on the scar, noting with pleasure that it seemed to have faded somewhat. All those walks had put color in her face as well.

  What would Jonathan think of her having dinner with his neighbor? she wondered. She instinctively knew the answer. He wouldn't approve at all. And yet, he had had no qualms about socializing with other women, often with the flimsiest of excuses. And yet, she had been insecure enough to put up with it, accepting his stories. Until that last day.

  For the first time since the accident, she allowed herself to dwell on the painful topic. It was almost a cliché: she had returned to their hotel room after rehearsal, unexpectedly early--just in time to see the young woman emerge from the bathroom clad only in a towel.

  Anger rushed through her, as she relived the memory. She had rushed to the parking garage, got in the rented car, ready to drive away. Jonathan had run after her, seized the keys from her grasp, insisted on driving. Said he could "explain." No wonder he had not been paying attention as they argued, had wandered into the wrong lane just as the truck came over the hill....

  With a stab of anger mixed with sorrow, Paisley wondered how many friends had known the truth all along, but had been too tactful or too loyal to Jonathan to tell. Frowning, she turned away from her reflection and reached for her purse. Enough looking back, she told herself sternly. It was time to move forward.

  #

  Steve looked flatteringly glad to see Paisley. His warm brown eyes ran from her shining updo to her strappy four-inch-heeled sandals. She was vain enough to feel gratified, and she warmed to him.

  True to his word, he had prepared authentic Mexican-style enchiladas with what appeared to be homemade corn tortillas, black beans and a firey salsa that burned her tongue. A bottle of red wine stood on the table with an artistically crafted label that matched the hand-painted sign outside the winery and the ivory-colored business card he'd handed her when they had first met.

  "Where's Kevin?" she asked, looking around the room.

  He shrugged. "Off doing something or other. You know how teenagers are."

  Paisley frowned down at her plate. She had looked forward to seeing the teen-ager, and Kevin's absence made the dinner for two feel too intimate, like a date. On the other hand, it gave her an opportunity to discuss the troubled teenager with his step-father.

  "Kevin's new to River Bend, isn't he?" she said, without mentioning the footprint she had found in her garden. "He told me he'd moved here this summer from New Jersey." She helped herself to another enchilada. Her mouth was burning, but the food was delicious. She reached for water to wash it down. Her wine glass stood untouched.

  He nodded, sipping from his own glass. "Kevin came here after his mother died, about six months ago."

  "No dad in the picture?"

  He shrugged. "His father died when he was a baby. I was probably the closest to a father figure he had. I was married briefly to Sarah when Kevin was a toddler."

  "Weren't there any other relatives?"

  Steve hesitated, glanced at her. Then he shrugged. "There was a grandmother around, on the dad's side. But she was getting too old to care for him, so she asked if I would give him a home."

  "Oh," Paisley said, a pang of sympathy shooting through her. She imagined how Kevin must have felt, watching both parents die, one after the other, then seeing his grandmother deteriorate into illness. His fate had fallen into the hands of a stepfather—no, not even a stepfather; a former stepfather—who, it seemed clear, had taken him in only out of a sense of duty.

  She had lost her appetite, but she took another bite, thinking. Kevin had arrived in River Bend months after Esther had moved to the Sunny Acres Retirement Center. Most likely, he had never met the old woman. So why had the boy looked at Paisley so strangely when he had learned she was related to the Perleman family? Unless she had imagined that furtive look, which was entirely possible: she was no expert at reading the expressions of troubled teenagers.

  "It must be a difficult situation for both you and Kevin," she said, realizing she had been silent for too long. "It was nice of you to take him when you had no legal obligation to do so."

  He smiled wanly. "In other words, no wonder Kevin is having trouble adjusting?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "But I'll bet you were thinking it. Cut off from his former friends, yanked across the country against his will, living with a step-father he barely remembers...."

  "I noticed that he seems to hanging around by himself, a lot," she admitted. "And you mentioned that he spends a lot of time in his room alone."

  "True." He poured another glass of wine and swirled the glass, gazing into its depths absentmindedly. "Actually, he was a troubled kid even before his mom died. I heard there were some incidents in New Jersey...." His voice faded and he shrugged. "His grandmother hoped coming out here would give him a fresh start. The poor kid had no one else."

  "He's not happy here, is he?"

  He looked up. "River Bend's a small town. It can be hard to fit in when everyone else has known each other all their lives, a city kid coming to the country. But there was really no choice." He shrugged again. "Kevin and I are both doing the best we can."

  She looked up with a bit of enchilada suspended from her fork as a thought occurred to her. "If you grew up here, you must have known Jonathan." Funny, she hadn't realized that before. After all, Steve and Jonathan had been neighbors.

  He nodded, settling back in his seat while a reminiscent look spread over his tanned features. "He was five years older than me, so he didn't hang out with me much. Saw me as an annoying pest, probably, since I kept trying to tag along when he wasn't going to music lessons or practicing the piano." He grinned suddenly. "We must have looked like complete opposites: him, a classical music prodigy who was going places, and me, a jock who only left his home town once, and that not for long. But in some ways, maybe, Jonathan and I had more in common than you might think."

  Then he looked at her empty goblet and raised his eyebrows. "You haven't tried my wine. It's a small vineyard, I know, but it compares well with some of the better-known labels. I have high hopes for it. Are you sure you don't want to try some?"

  Paisley pushed away her empty goblet. "Sorry. I should have warned you that I'm a teetotaler. My father was an alcoholic, and I swore I'd never touch the stuff." She looked up to gauge his reaction.

  "I get it. Why play Russian Roulette with genetics? But you've come to the wrong part of California if you want to avoid wine." To her relief he was smiling. He did not press her again, nor did he ask any questions about her father. Maybe Steve was more sensitive than she had expected, she thought, warming up to him even more.

  "I take
it you're not interested in visiting the winery, then?" he said when they had finished their meal.

  "Actually, I'd love to." She blotted her mouth and set down her napkin. "I've heard it's a fascinating process. Lead the way."

  He escorted her to a large metal-roofed stucco-walled building behind the house, and she could see pride in his expression as he reached behind a large stone in the planter outside the door and removed a key. "I started the business after my father died," he told her, as they stepped into the dimly lit interior. "This land used to be a rancho, under the Mexican land grant system, and my father farmed it." The room was larger than it appeared on the outside, with large barrels stacked up the sides. "With the success of Napa Valley, I decided to try growing grapes, instead. So far the winery is mostly a vanity project, though; we only produce a few thousand bottles a year, which are mostly sold locally. The winery barely pays for itself. But I'm hoping that if we add some acreage, maybe we'll be able to compete with some of the larger producers. If we bring in some tourists, build familiarity with the brand, who knows what might happen?"

  Ian had said her neighbor's winery was losing money hand over fist, and that Steve was in over his head. Ian had been exaggerating, she thought. The winery looked certainly clean and prosperous, and Steve seemed sure it was poised for success. Perhaps Ian was just jealous. Then something her neighbor had said sank in.

  "Tourists?" she repeated. Looking at Steve’s face, glowing with ambition, Paisley remembered how she had felt at her first national opera competition when, for the first time, she had realized she actually had a chance to win. When Jonathan, who had been one of the judges, came up to her after and invited her to lunch to discuss her career....

  "I'd like to add landscaping out front, build a tasting room, and buy a few dozen more wine barrels," Steve was saying. "French oak are the best. They add that touch of flavor that sets apart the best wines. But those barrels are imported, and they're not cheap. Still, the improvements will be worth the investment if we can build up word-of-mouth, and get rated by some of the top connoisseur magazines." He laughed uncomfortably, and smoothed his black hair, shrugging. "Like they say, it takes money to make money."