Bloodstone

by Gwen Hunter

  “Have you heard anything?” she asked, tears already rimming her lower lids. “The police won’t tell me anything. They say I’m making a nuisance of myself, and that I have to quit calling and coming by.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me to call or go by the police department. But then, I had my very own cop communicator in the person of Evan Bartlock, a man with one ear in the local law-enforcement center and the other in Aunt Matilda’s bony fingers. Had to be painful.

  “I miss him so much. Please tell me you know something.” She wiped a tear and I wondered how long it had taken her to work up into a good cry. Okay, I was feeling snarky. I had been, ever since Stan left me for another woman.

  “No. Nothing new.” Not that I’d tell you, you…you… The word tramp came to mind but I repressed it.

  “We’ve fallen in love. Deeply in love.”

  “No. I didn’t know.” Or I hadn’t until I heard it on television. Now, ask me if I believe it.

  “I just need to know that he’s coming back. That I have something to hold on to, to hope for. So many men have asked me out now that he’s gone.” She blew into a tissue and dabbed her nose. “But I can’t say yes, if Davie’s still alive.”

  “Say what?” Okay, that was a weird twist. And then it hit me. I couldn’t keep the incredulity, the stunned shock from my voice. “Are you trying to ask me if Davie’s dead, so you can start dating? Or are you thinking that he’s still alive, so you intend to hold off on dating a while longer? You know, just in case.” You little slut.

  Gail’s eyes widened and dried fast.

  I was pretty sure I hadn’t said that last part aloud, but I was so mad I didn’t stop myself from continuing my analysis. “Davie’s a really good catch,” I said, looking her trim form up and down. “Very stable. Very rich.” I focused on the necklace. “Fortunately single. One of the nicest men on the planet. But if he’s gone, you don’t want your dating life to be inconvenienced? That’s what you mean?”

  I reached out and gripped her wrist, opening myself to her. And was sucked down into a darkness. Her center was a miasma of need entwined with shame. Hope and fear. Want. Guilt and regret and craving. A whirling quicksand of light and dark, cold and heat sucking me down. A sexual compulsion so strong it staggered. Obsessive, silent, aching secrets. A memory-vision of Davie, naked, stretched out on a bed.

  My gorge rose. I wanted to wash my hand, scour my soul.

  I saw am image of a man, older, face suffused with passion, excitement, determination. Bending over her.

  He…grandfather…

  NO!

  “Spit and ashes,” I whispered, whipping my hand away.

  Her eyes widened, face grew even paler. Even her lips were bloodless.

  Davie had touched this woman? This desperate, lonely, abused woman? How had he borne it? But I had sensed Davie there somewhere in that swirling miasma of pain and need. He had cared for her. On some level, he had felt a responsibility for this broken soul.

  Jubal was suddenly here, an arm around my shoulders. “We’ll call you the moment we hear anything,” he said. He took my hand. I was instantly bathed in his concern, a peaceful warmth that banished the heated prison of Gail Speeler’s mind. “You have a call, Tyler,” he said, moving me toward the workroom.

  “A call?”

  “Promise?” Gail asked.

  “I promise,” I said, looking over my shoulder.

  “From Colin Hornsburn.”

  I looked up at him. “It was awful.”

  “I gathered, from the look on your face. And I know something of her history, so I’m not surprised.”

  “What? Her history?”

  “Later. Come on, honeybunch. Buck up just one more time today. Then you can soak in a hot bath and listen to Matchbox Twenty.”

  “Promise?” I echoed Gail.

  Jubal nodded, settling me onto a bench and putting the receiver of the land-line phone in my hand. I looked at it, then back up, and saw Evan Bartlock, a phone in his hand, as well. “Okay.”

  “We’ll punch the button at the same time,” Evan said. “On three.” His finger poised over the keypad. “One, two, three.”

  I punched the talk button. “Tyler St. Claire.”

  “Tyler, Colin Hornsburn here. How are you holding up?”

  I fumbled through the pleasantries. Agreed the weather was awful this winter. Heard myself asking after his health.

  “I know it’s too soon, with your brother not found yet, nothing finalized.”

  Confused, I looked at Evan. He made a circular motion with his hand, telling me to keep going. “Yes?”

  “But I understand you will be executor of his estate. And I want to say, want to tell you I’ll be happy to help in any way I can. I know how difficult times like these are to family members, the feeling of being lost, tossed to the four winds.”

  “Yes?” Times like these? What times? Then the confusion cleared. This idiot is implying Davie is dead.

  “Your brother and I, while not close friends, were associates of sorts. And I know he’d want me to help you get through this painful, perplexing time, help you to provide for Jane’s future.”

  The white mist in which I’d been wandering parted. Associates? Davie and this man? I raised my head, feeling the blood pound through my system. “Yes?” My voice sounded stronger. Hornsburn didn’t seem to notice. Evan’s lips twitched.

  “Wading through settling an estate, dealing with estate taxes and such can be a frightening and overwhelming experience, especially in the midst of the grieving process.”

  “Really?” You pompous imbecile.

  “I’d like to offer the services of my lawyer. He’s the best moneyman in the state.”

  Evan made the rotating gesture again, but I had no idea what he might want me to say or ask. “Davie has a lawyer, I’m sure.”

  “Well, of course he does. He would. And you would want to keep using David’s first choice. I fully understand. But remember my offer. I’m here to help.”

  “Thank you.” Sure you are. You just give and give and give. A real humanitarian. The mental sarcasm gave me strength. Evan was laughing silently, holding my gaze.

  “And while I know it’s too early, I’d like to discuss with you—whenever you’re ready, of course—the purchase of several pieces of property that your brother had offered to sell. I’ve faxed the properties we had talked about to your man of business.”

  Evan pointed to himself and held up a sheaf of fax papers. I nodded.

  Colin Hornsburn was still talking. “I’d like to proceed with the purchase, at a handsome profit to Jane. Very handsome. Her welfare is uppermost, I assure you.”

  “My brother?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Davie,” I deadpanned.

  “Well…yes.”

  “My brother, Davie, the world’s biggest environmentalist?”

  “Ah—”

  “The region’s most dedicated tree hugger, in a town full of tree huggers, offered to sell property to you, a developer.” I felt stronger. Crossed my legs and started tapping my foot. “A man he recently accused of raping the land, a man who puts houses on the sides of hills and destroys the habitats and makes money off of it. That brother, Davie?”

  Evan had turned red, and I thought he might be biting his tongue.

  “Well, now, you know, Tyler—”

  “Colin?”

  “Yes?”

  “Go jump off a high ledge.”

  “Uh—”

  “You are lying to me. And because of that, not counting the fact that Davie hated your guts, I wouldn’t sell you the time of day. I wouldn’t sell you the street corner where your mother walks.”

  “Uh—”

  “Nothing! You dithering detrimental diphthong. You devious destructive dolt.” I hung up the phone and looked at Evan, who burst out laughing. He dropped the phone on the workbench.

  “You just called his mother a streetwalker.”

  “Yeah.”

&nb
sp; “And what is a diphthong anyway.”

  “A vocalized sound. An open-speech sound.”

  “Like ‘uh’?”

  “Yeah. I personally have no feelings against development, if it’s done well and right and the environment isn’t harmed much. But not by that man. I could feel the smell of his lies through the phone lines. He gets off on lying and getting away with it.”

  “I like you, Tyler St. Claire.”

  Quite suddenly, I felt warmed through and through, the heat banishing the specter of Gail Speeler’s pain. “I like you, too. We won’t tell Aunt Matilda, though.”

  “Oh, heck no. She’d have us married with babies before we could take another breath.” Evan looked like that wouldn’t be so bad a thing, however. His smile was way too soft for a cop.

  I felt like squirming under his gaze. “She’d never let us live it down that she played Cupid.”

  “Horrors.” Evan Bartlock stood and walked the short distance to me, bent and pressed his parted lips to mine. I reached up and encircled his neck, sighed into his mouth, and kissed him back. Aunt Matilda or no Aunt Matilda, Evan Bartlock could kiss.

  My visits and calls by those thinking—or perhaps hoping—that Davie was dead, were not over. Only minutes before we locked the front door of the shop, Orson Wylie entered Bloodstone Inc. and sauntered up. The moneyman behind Colin Hornsburn had been in a business suit the last time I saw him. Now he sported a fedora, heavy khaki slacks with a knife-edged crease, lace-up boots and a plaid flannel shirt beneath a down vest, all brand-spanking-new, each with little logos in strategic places. Orson hadn’t bought his clothes at the local Wal-Mart. He was the high-end department store, GQ version of a mountain man.

  While he didn’t have the savoir-faire of the developer, Wylie was a charismatic businessman, the kind who made eye contact with every person in the room as he entered and instantly looked at home. He nodded to Jubal and tipped his hat to Noe, who flashed him her tongue stud and grinned. I had to give him points for not reacting to that one. He pulled his hat off when he saw me. I had just finished gift wrapping a heavy amber ring for a repeat customer, the last customer in the shop, when he sauntered up and held out his hand. “Orson Wylie.”

  I don’t know why, but his greeting just got all over me. I crossed my arms, looked at his hand, and when I spoke, my voice had icicles hanging from it. “Mr. Wylie. Tyler St. Claire. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to steal a few minutes of your time, Ms. St. Claire.”

  Like you stole my brother? I felt my throat flush and knew I was getting the splotchy red welts I hated so much. My shoulders went back and I smiled. “Sure. We’re open for business for a couple more minutes. What would you like to see?” I asked, pretending an obtuseness to his purpose. “We have some new items, excellent for Valentine’s Day. Over here,” I said, moving behind a counter, “is this year’s Blood-stone heart jewelry. Perfect for the woman with the moxie to wear big, chunky-style jewelry.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Of course, not all women like big stones.” Jubal snorted softly at my choice of words. I pretended not to hear. “And in that case, Bloodstone Inc. offers some smaller stones, delicate designs created to please a woman of discriminating taste and a desire for elegant, semiprecious jewelry.” I was quoting from Bloodstone’s online catalogue.

  He held his fedora in both hands, circling the rim. “Ms. St. Claire—”

  “Now, take this little necklace right here.” I held up a long strand of pale, faceted aquamarine beads with a pendant in a darker shade. The depending stone was cut into a teardrop shape, and the molded eighteen-carat gold setting appeared to snuggle around it like arms. “It is a lovely piece, and notice the setting for the pendant. It has little hands that grip the stone. Just as your loved one might grip your heart.” And squeeze till it pops. “Very pretty.”

  Wylie placed the hat on the counter. “Yes, it is. Ms. St.—”

  “And if she likes amethysts, we have a large selection that are sure to please that special lady on your list. Look at this one.” I held up an eighteen-inch strand. “It’s one of my favorites. Elegant and sophisticated, with just a touch of whimsy in the pendant. I always did love bear totems, and this one is charming. Note the garnet used to make the bear’s eye. And it’s only twelve hundred.”

  “I’m not here for that,” Wylie said, frustrated. “I’d like—”

  “Something more refined. I understand. Like this simply sumptuous piece of pearl and amber. The freshwater pearls are a golden shade that catch the light, and the free-form shape is stunning, isn’t it?”

  As I talked, Noe had locked the door and flipped the Open sign to Closed, grabbed a cup of tea and pulled one of the wing chairs around. She sat facing me, crossed her legs and settled in, as if for a good show. Jubal just sighed and started putting the more expensive items into the safe. I kept on with a practiced prattle that allowed Wylie no time to speak. I showed three other items and then came back to the pearl-and-amber necklace.

  “Clearly you liked this one best, an indication of your excellent sense of style. We take all the major credit cards, and have a layaway plan that is more than fair. We do our own wrapping and shipping. And I can guarantee that your lady love will adore something from Bloodstone Inc. We design to please all tastes and styles. Don’t you like the pearl and amber?”

  “Ms. St.—”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.”

  “Great! Cash or credit?”

  “I came to talk, not to buy.”

  “But this is a store, Mr. Wylie. We are here to sell, not talk.”

  “Ms. St. Claire, this is a beautiful shop. Do you own or rent?”

  I paused at the non-sequitur. “We own.”

  “Glad to hear that.” Wylie plopped his hat to the counter-top and leaned across on his elbows, a musing expression on his face to match the one in his voice. “And do you have adequate insurance? On the building and stock, as well as on each other, your business partners?”

  A cold dread skittered up my arms and down my legs at the words. “Our business arrangements are none of your concern.”

  “Because, as a businessman, I understand how important it is to obtain and maintain appropriate coverage. Accidents happen all the time.” He smiled. The momentum of our one-sided dialogue had changed. Wylie owned the discussion now. “Fires, electrical shorts, accidental death of partners, like when a car goes off a slick mountain road at night. So sad what the loss of property or people can do to a business.”

  Fear made me mad. Always had. And mad made me cocky. I leaned across the counter to him, invading his space. “Are you offering advice, or a threat of some sort, Mr. Wylie?”

  “Neither, Ms. St. Claire,” he said, eyes wide with faux-surprise. But a threat danced in the deeps of them. “Merely the sage wisdom of my years in the business world.”

  I wanted to scratch his eyes out. “And what would I need to do or buy to lessen the threat of accidental injury or loss?” I could hear the sound of my breathing in the suddenly silent room. The pulse pounded in my head, starting a headache.

  Wylie smiled, a paternal smile that made me wish I had a handful of heavy stone in my fist. His voice didn’t drop. He didn’t care who heard him. “The good wishes and good grace of good men?”

  “And I do that by giving them what they want,” I said flatly. I gripped the edge of the display case to keep from coming over the top at him.

  “There is that. Or you could buy big policies and hope for the best. Please allow me to steer you to my insurance agent.” He positioned a card on the counter exactly between us. “You have access to something we want, Ms. St. Claire. Land. Mr. Hornsburn and I are willing to pay handsomely for the land we hope to develop. I suggest you sell. Or you may find the cost is too much to bear.”

  A red haze closed in around me. “All I want is my brother back, Mr. Wylie. And for the people who took him to pay for it.”

  Wylie started
. I could have sworn it was real surprise. “We don’t have your brother, Ms. St. Claire. If we did, we wouldn’t need you.” Holding my eyes, Wylie placed the fedora on his head, shoved it down against the possible tug of wind. “Think about it.” He turned his back to me and walked away.

  No one else in the shop moved until Wylie reached the door, which Noe had locked. He stood there a moment silently, his back to us. Finally Noe unwound herself from the chair and walked across the shop. Her boots made clopping sounds in the silence. She jangled her keys until the GQ-style hoodlum moved aside. The back of his neck was red, his exit line ruined. Served him right. Noe unlocked the door and opened it. An icy gust blew in.

  Just as he stepped across the threshold, Noe said, “I recognize the accent. Brooklyn, right? Yeah. I got a cousin from Brooklyn. She thinks she’s tough too.” Noe patted her thigh, drawing Wylie’s eyes. She was holding a gun against her leg. A big gun. Where did she get it? Wylie looked amused as he turned to the street.

  “You ever hear of survivalists, Mr. Wylie? People with bomb shelters, caches of food, and lots—lots—of weapons?”

  I couldn’t see Wylie’s face but Noe smiled. It was a scary smile. Wylie’s shoulders tensed.

  “Around here, we look after our own. New York tough don’t mean nothing. Bunch a wimps with thirty-twos and a couple cans of gasoline. So let me say this once. You come after us or Bloodstone Inc., and your cost of doing business goes up dramatically.” Her smile widened. “C4 and antipersonnel mines can make a real mess out of construction sites. Water in gas tanks can bring an entire project to a halt. And houses under construction can go up in flames. You think about it. ’Cause I got friends. And so does Tyler.” Noe shoved the door shut in his face, turned the lock and stood there, her back to him.

  Noe’s eyes were blazing, her shoulders were stiff and her hand cradled the gun against her leg like a lover. The blue streak in her hair stuck straight up, incongruous against her pose. “That was fun. He gone yet?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jubal said, his tone awed. “Totally gone. Your parents—those first-generation immigrants to the hills—they like guns?”