When the Day of Evil Comes

by Melanie Wells

  I picked up a pen. “Ready,” I said, and wrote down the information. It was a Dallas phone number.

  “Thanks, Janet. You’ve been a big help, as always.”

  “You take care of yourself. Come see me,” she said.

  I promised I would and hung up the phone.

  Tibor Silverstein. No wonder I couldn’t remember the name. I dialed the number and got a quick answer.

  “Tibor,” the man said.

  “Uh, Mr. Silverstein?”

  “What?” he demanded. Tibor Silverstein, apparently, was not a patient man.

  “My name is Dylan Foster. I’m Phil Foster’s daughter.”

  “Aach!” he said. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  I thought I just had.

  “What can I do for you, Phil Foster’s daughter?”

  I explained that I wanted to talk to him about some jewelry and asked him if I could arrange a time to meet him. I might as well have asked him for one of his toes, pretty please, for the reluctance he displayed in giving up ten minutes for me. But we agreed on four o’clock the following afternoon. I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. I didn’t need any more grouchy people in my life.

  I hung up and went back to staring at the jewelry.

  Actually I was alternating staring at the jewelry and staring out my kitchen window thinking about my mother, when I saw a car pull up. A faded blue Honda Accord. It looked like John Mulvaney’s car. John was a colleague of mine at the university.

  I checked the Honda’s window decal. University of Wisconsin alumni sticker. It was John Mulvaney’s car, all right. How odd.

  While I watched, John stepped out of the driver’s side, reached in and pulled his sport coat out of the backseat, and hunched himself into it. I sighed as he marched to the front door and rang the bell.

  I shoved the jewelry into the velvet bag and locked it hastily back in the buffet, and then hustled to answer the door.

  I couldn’t imagine why in the world John Mulvaney was ringing my doorbell on a Thursday evening. John was sort of a fluffy fellow—a soft, white, extremely lumpy academic—who couldn’t make eye contact with a baby bunny We’d never seen each other, outside of work-related events, in the two years we’d been working together. I wasn’t even aware he knew where I lived.

  I swung open the door.

  “Hey, John,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  John liked to be called Dr. Mulvaney, even by the other PhD’s. Some of them complied, throwing him a bone, I think, but he’d never gotten one “Dr. Mulvaney” out of me.

  The poor man was sweating bricks. I couldn’t tell if it was the heat or the enormous amount of stress he seemed to be experiencing. But he just nodded at me and continued sweating. I thought he might pass out.

  I reached for his arm. “Why don’t you come inside?” I said. “Let me fix you some iced tea. Or would you prefer a Coke or something?”

  He coughed out the word “tea” and nodded.

  I turned toward the kitchen, talking over my shoulder to him.

  “This is a surprise,” I was saying. “I didn’t even know you knew my address.”

  No answer.

  I turned around to see that he wasn’t behind me. I walked back into the foyer. He was still standing by the front door, stuck to the same spot, staring at the ground.

  “John?”

  He looked up. “Huh?”

  “Why don’t you come with me into the kitchen?” I said gently “Here, let me take your coat. It’s a hundred degrees out.”

  I reached over and helped him take his sport coat off and hung it on the doorknob. I didn’t want to send any sort of “welcome guest” message by hanging it in the closet on an actual hanger. I don’t know why I bothered with the distinction. John wasn’t the type to catch that sort of subtlety.

  I led him back into the kitchen and settled him onto a bar stool, then fussed around for a minute to produce the promised glass of iced tea, complete with mint leaves and a slice of lemon. My mother had taught me to be particular about such sundries.

  John gulped about half the glass down while I settled in on another bar stool. I kept an empty stool between us. I figured we’d both prefer that.

  “What’s up, John?”

  He put his glass down and made an attempt to look me in the eye. He looked me in the chin instead, which was pretty good for him.

  “Nothing in particular,” he said.

  Thank the Maker John was a research psychologist and made no pretense at having clinical skills. Rarely had I known anyone so profoundly unequipped for personal interaction. He wasn’t married, I didn’t think. At least, I’d never noticed a wedding ring. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine he’d ever had a date. He was that shy.

  I tried again. “Well, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Blue eyes staring at my chin. “No, not really. I just …”

  “Just what, John?”

  “Just …”

  “Yes?”

  “Thought …”

  “You thought what?”

  “Thought it was better to be early,” he blurted. “I didn’t know how long it would take me to get here. With traffic.”

  I found myself staring dumbly at his forehead. “Early? For what?”

  “I thought we might go to The Grape. I hear it’s nice.”

  The Grape is a romantic little spot in a groovy part of town. Fabulous mushroom soup. No way was I going to The Grape with John Mulvaney.

  “You thought who might go to The Grape? You and me?”

  Finally his eyes found mine. “Yes,” he said firmly. “At seven o’clock.” Eyes back to the chin.

  I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 5:30.

  “That’s an hour and a half from now.” I don’t know why I chose to tackle that particular point, there were so many to choose from.

  “I thought it was better to be early,” he repeated.

  “Early for what, John? Is there a faculty dinner tonight or something? I’m not sure what’s going on.”

  “Should I go and then come back at seven?” he asked.

  “Go where?” I said.

  “Is there a Starbucks?”

  Okay, rewind. “John, look at me.” His eyes made it up to my nose. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”

  “I’m here to pick you up.”

  “For what?”

  “Our date,” he said, and looked immediately down at his tea.

  “Our date?” I tried not to sound aggravated. “We don’t have a date, John.”

  “Is it tomorrow?”

  “No,” I said. “There is no date. Not tonight and not tomorrow. I’m not sure where you got the idea that we were going out.” Maybe he was having a psychotic break or something.

  “It was your idea.” He was defensive now, and I could tell he was horribly embarrassed.

  I softened my tone. “John, I’m sorry about the mix-up. I appreciate the thought. Really I do, but I’m sure we don’t have a date tonight. I hope I haven’t somehow given you that impression.”

  “Are you playing a joke on me?”

  He looked like he was about to cry. Suddenly I could see his childhood, vividly. Pudgy shy boy, picked on by classmates. Laughed at by girls he admired from a distance. And always, always alone.

  “John,” I said, “look at me. Look, at my eyes.” He managed to return my gaze with now-watery eyes. “John, I would never play a joke on you. I promise. This is just some sort of misunderstanding. What gave you the idea that I wanted to go on a date tonight?”

  “The Day-timer,” he said. “I told you I needed a new one.”

  I thought back to the day at the lake. John had received a leather Day-timer. It looked expensive. I didn’t remember him ever telling me he needed a new one. But all conversations with John were innocuous and centered around minutiae. He could have mentioned it half a dozen times and it wouldn’t have made an impression.

  �
��You think the Day-timer was from me?”

  “I know it was.” His embarrassment was turning to anger.

  “Why would you think that?”

  He got up and walked to the front door and out to his car, returning a moment later with the Day-timer. He flipped it open to today’s date and showed it to me.

  There it was, in lavender ink, written in what looked to be my handwriting: “John, thanks for your friendship. Let’s get to know each other better. Pick me up at seven. Dylan.” A heart was drawn around the words.

  I don’t own a lavender pen. I don’t draw hearts around notes to men. And I do not write flirty notes to John Mulvaney.

  “John, I don’t know what to say. I didn’t write this.”

  He grabbed the Day-timer from me and stared at the page.

  “I promise.”

  He continued to stare at the page, too humiliated even to meet my chin.

  “Hey,” I said, “I’m really sorry. It’s just a misunderstanding.” The drums should have started rolling then, because all my sick, codependent rescuer tendencies kicked in. “Tell you what … I’m not up for The Grape, but why don’t we go get a burger at Jack’s? I’ll buy.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Oh, come on. We’ve worked together for two years and we’ve never had a burger together. It’ll be fun. Have you ever been to Jack’s?”

  He looked up at me. “No.”

  “Greasy burgers, salty fries, and incredible chocolate malts. We can work on your heart attack.”

  He allowed himself a little grin. “Okay.”

  And so I spent the evening with John Mulvaney anyway. A mistake with repercussions far beyond a two-thousand calorie meal and one boring Thursday night.

  5

  FRIDAYS ARE NOT BAD DAYS IN ACADEMIA. MWF classes are usually only an hour long. And by the afternoon, the no-show rate has reached epidemic proportions. Plus, no one wants any office time from me after class. Everyone’s in too big a hurry to get home and get on with their weekend.

  All that to say, I was able to scoot away in plenty of time to make my appointment with Tibor Silverstein.

  The address Silverstein had given me was in an office building, tenth floor, which threw me off a bit. Not exactly like he was going to attract the Zales’ crowd with this off-the-beaten-path location. The door plate said only “Silverstein & Co.” No indication of what kind of business it was. I pushed open the huge wooden door and stepped into a tomb-like waiting room.

  I found myself alone and freezing, with air conditioning blasting onto my head through the ceiling vents. The carpets had fresh vacuum tracks in them. Clearly the waiting room didn’t get much traffic. My fanny was inches away from the seat of an expensive wingback chair when God spoke to me.

  It wasn’t God, really. But it was a booming voice from above with an eastern-European Jewish accent. Which was always what I imagined God would sound like (even though in all the Charlton Heston movies, everyone has a British accent).

  “Yes?” the Almighty said.

  I froze in midair, still poised above the cushion.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Silverstein,” I said.

  “Which Mr. Silverstein?” the voice demanded.

  “Tibor Silverstein.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Dylan Foster.”

  There was no answer from above. I heard a loud click as the door at the end of the room opened, apparently by itself.

  I looked around the room for the cameras, but I couldn’t spot them and didn’t want to be obvious. After all, I was being watched.

  I stood up and spoke to the ceiling. “Do I—?”

  “Through the door and all the way to the end of the hall,” the voice said.

  I did as I was told. Through the door, which locked itself behind me, and all the way to the end of the hall. I walked past six or seven closed, and I’m sure locked, doors on either side. Not a particularly collegial work environment.

  I reached the final door and pushed the button on the outside of the door. I heard a bell ring, and the door clicked open by itself. I stepped through the doorway and walked into the work area of Tibor Silverstein.

  He didn’t look up when I came in, which gave me a chance to look around.

  The space was tiny and dominated by a large, flat work surface—I’d say desk, but it really wasn’t a desk. It was more like a workbench, but not so official. It was an old, sort of plywood-looking structure, with tools scattered all over it and drawers half open. A bright worklight ignited little rainbow piles of gems dotting the desk.

  Over this workspace bent a man who could have passed for lumberjack, truck driver, or perhaps dictator of a third-world country. He was huge, bearded and rough-handed, and completely uninterested in me.

  “Should I—?”

  “Sit,” he said, still not looking up.

  I sat. And waited.

  Several minutes passed before Tibor Silverstein looked up from his work.

  “Vat do you vant?” he demanded, taking off thick, black-rimmed glasses.

  I translated silently to myself: “And what can I do for you, Ms. Foster?”

  Out loud I answered, “I don’t know if you remember making my mother’s wedding ring. My father, Phil Foster, had it made here—”

  “Platinum ring, antique setting. 1.2-carat diamond, VVS1 gem quality.”

  I pulled out the ring and handed it to him. “Is that the same ring?”

  Tibor took the ring from me, put his glass up to his eye, and studied the ring.

  “Yes,” he said, and handed it back to me. He looked at me. Clearly it was my move.

  “How can you be positive? Could it be a—”

  “No. I made that ring.”

  “How do you know?”

  He handed me the glass. “Look through the loupe,” he said. I guess that little glass thingy was called a loupe. “Same stone. And look on the inside, underneath the stone.”

  I looked. Engraved in the platinum were the initials TS and the numbers 969.

  “What do the numbers mean?”

  “September 1969.” He swiveled in his chair and opened a file drawer, pulling out a thick folder and opening it on the desktop. He placed a pair of wire reading glasses on his nose and squinted through the papers until he found what he wanted.

  He handed me a pink sheet of paper.

  The print was faded, but clearly legible. It was a mimeograph copy of the original design notes, along with a detailed description of the stone. My father had signed off on the order. It was dated July 15, 1969.

  “This says July,” I said.

  “September is the completion date. I delivered it to him …” he checked the file, “September 8.” He looked up. “A Monday.”

  “You keep good records,” I said.

  “Yes.” He stared at me over his glasses. “Is there anything else?”

  I thought a minute, trying to decide what to do. Finally, I said, “Yes, there is. Could you just … give me a minute? This is sort of a strange situation.”

  “Vat is sort of a strange situation?”

  “The original ring,” I said, “was buried with my mother. Two years ago. And now it’s turned up again, and I am looking for an explanation. You’re sure no one else could have made that ring? Maybe even copied the markings?”

  He was shaking his head before I finished. “Same stone. And only record of those markings is in these files. And as you can see,” he smiled for the first time and gestured toward the door, “I keep a very tight shop.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Aach! You are naive.” He poked through one of the piles of stones on the table, picked out a big sparkly diamond and handed it to me. “Look.”

  I put the loupe up to my eye and was dazzled by the brilliance of what I saw—faceted white light sprayed with rainbow color at the edges.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “Wholesale.”

  I pursed my lips and handed it back to him.
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  “And the meticulous records?”

  “Insurance,” he said. “Always they require detailed records.”

  “Can you think of any way—?”

  “A thief,” he said simply.

  “A thief,” I repeated, staring at him. The man was rude and insane.

  “Yes. A thief.”

  “You mean someone dug up my mother’s grave and stole her ring? I don’t think so.”

  He shook his head impatiently “Before she was buried. A thief. He slips it off her finger, he puts it in his pocket, and he feeds his family for months. No one ever will find out.”

  “But I saw it on her finger.”

  “Did you see them close the lid to the … what do you say, casket? And did you lose sight of this casket between that moment and the moment they closed the grave? Did you ride with this casket in the car to the burial yard? Many, many opportunities for a thief. Many.”

  I didn’t say anything. He had a point.

  “It’s happened before,” he continued. “A few times I have been asked to verify a piece of jewelry that disappeared in the same way.”

  I stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Silverstein.”

  “Tibor,” he said gruffly Then he looked at me sideways, his expression softening. “How is your father? Will he marry that woman?”

  “Kellee? I’m afraid so.”

  Tibor shook his head regretfully. “It is a very gaudy ring.”

  “You’re making Kellee’s ring?”

  He nodded. “Yellow gold. Six-carat yellow diamond, pear-shaped, with two round white diamonds, two carats each, on either side.” He shook his head again, his face softening at last. “It is a ring that would choke a farm horse.”

  I laughed out loud and held out my hand. His hand covered mine completely. I wondered how such huge hands had mastered such delicate work.

  “It was good meeting you, Tibor.” I turned to go. “I do appreciate your time.”

  “How do you like the necklace?” he asked.

  I froze.

  “What necklace?”

  “Your father. He ordered you a necklace.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “He hasn’t give it to you yet? Ach. I spoiled the surprise.”

  “What does it look like?” I repeated.