Deadly Ruse

by E. Michael Helms

  I didn’t know much about diamonds or other gems, but the ring I’d given my ex when we got engaged was a quarter carat, all I could afford at the time as a Marine corporal. Most of these were larger than that, several quite a bit larger. About a third looked like the normal diamond you’d see set in a ring, but most were irregular-shaped and not as clear or shiny as what you’d expect to find in jewelry stores.

  “These are rough diamonds,” Kate said, picking up one of the larger irregular stones and placing it in her palm. “Wes once showed me the difference. See?” She selected what I’d call a store-quality diamond and placed it beside the other.

  I studied the two stones for a few seconds. “You said that Ramey hired Wes as a gem buyer, right?”

  Kate nodded. “Yeah, he bought from wholesalers mostly in the South, but now and then he’d travel to different places around the country.”

  “But those were finished diamonds, right, the kind you’d find behind the counter in any jewelry store?”

  She nodded again.

  “So, what was Wes doing with a bagful of cut and uncut diamonds in his personal filing cabinet?”

  Kate’s face flushed. She turned away and stared out the window for a moment. “I found something else.” She walked over to the filing cabinet, slid the bottom drawer open, and lifted out a folder. She handed it to me. “I don’t know what this means, if anything.”

  I opened the folder, pulled out several loose sheets of paper, and flipped through them. Some were written in English and some were in what appeared to be Spanish. I divided the papers into two small stacks. The English papers were all from the country of Guyana and appeared to be receipts or some other sort of paperwork. They definitely had something to do with diamonds. There were columns of figures showing number counts of stones, carat weights, and values in US dollars.

  I only knew a few words of Spanish, my favorite being “Corona la cerveza mas fina,” but I did recognize the words República Bolivariana de Venezuela printed on the Spanish documents. More columns of figures, but written in Spanish. Right then I would’ve bet my boots these papers were speaking the same lingo as their English compadres.

  I looked at Kate. “You got a map of South America around somewhere?”

  For a second Kate stared at me like I’d gone loco, then her eyes lit up. She pointed across the room to a chest of drawers, atop which stood a globe of the world. “Will that do?”

  It didn’t take us long to verify that Venezuela bordered both Guyana and Brazil, just as Dr. Garrett had mentioned. That’s where Rachel Todd’s plane supposedly disappeared over the Canaima National Park a couple of weeks after Robert Ramey’s boat capsized. A bag of diamonds, paperwork in two languages relating to diamonds, a missing-and-presumed-dead missionary to Venezuela—it looked like things were beginning to add up.

  “This could be big, Katie girl,” Frank said as he finished going through the paperwork spread on his desktop. He picked up the Crown Royal bag and shook it like a kid with a bag of prized marbles. “You do realize that this doesn’t look good for Wes and the others?”

  Kate bit her lower lip and nodded. “Yes, but I need to know the truth, Uncle Frank. I haven’t slept well since Dr. Garrett told us he didn’t think Rachel had a brother. I just need to find out the truth about Wes, whatever it is.”

  “You already know about the trouble he was in as a kid,” Frank said.

  Kate sighed. “Yes, but people can change.”

  Frank glanced across the desk at me. I gave my head a slight shake.

  Kate almost came out of her chair. Her brows arched as she locked eyes with me. “And just what on earth does that headshake mean?”

  “Nothing,” I stammered. Damn, I was hoping she hadn’t noticed. I looked forward to telling Kate about Travis Hurt and Rachel like I would a case of the clap.

  “Mac found out Garrett might have been correct about Eric and Rachel not being related,” Frank said, digging my hole a little deeper.

  Kate crossed her arms and pursed her lips. Her stare bore through me like a laser. “Mac?”

  My mind scrambled for a way out. Fortunately, Frank came to my rescue.

  “Whoa, Katie. I told Mac not to discuss what he learned in Texas yet, so the blame is on me. He needs to make another quick trip to verify that the information he found is on the up and up. There’s no sense in any of us assuming things until we know for sure, right?”

  Kate redirected the laser at Frank. After a moment she let out a deep breath. Her shoulders relaxed, and her hands rested in her lap. “I suppose, if you think it’s best.” She turned back to me. “What trip?”

  “Atlanta,” I said. “I need to check out some stuff about Robert Ramey. You’re welcome to come with me.” I hoped the invitation would be enough to appease her.

  “When?”

  “Wednesday,” I said, pulling the day out of my magician’s hat. I hadn’t even found out if Ramey’s mother was still living, but I was on the spot and had to tell Kate something.

  She frowned. “Dang, I can’t. The cobia tournament starts Wednesday. And with the Easter holiday coming up I’ll be working tomorrow through the weekend.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Frank said. “Mac, you head to Atlanta Wednesday and see what you can turn up on Ramey. Katie, you try not to worry your pretty little head until we can verify a few more things. When we know, you’ll know. That’s a promise.”

  Frank jiggled the bag of diamonds again. “Meanwhile, I’ll check with a friend of mine who’s retired FBI. He just might be able to tell us what we’ve got here.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I headed back to St. George as soon as our meeting ended. Kate said she had a few more things to attend to and would be home later. I didn’t ask what the “things” were. Kate was definitely giving me the cold shoulder, and I didn’t want to complicate matters. She’d changed lately, and I didn’t much care for the direction the changes seemed headed. There was one thing I was sure of. Despite the negative info we’d learned, Kate still carried a torch for Wes Harrison. I could only hope that torch wouldn’t burn whatever bridge was still connecting us.

  Back home, I spent the early evening doing my homework via the Internet on Mrs. Edmond Randolph Ramey, née Darla June Spence. To my good fortune several articles from the online Atlanta Journal-Constitution showed she was very much among the living, occasionally still participating in various social and charitable events, and entertaining in her upscale Buckhead neighborhood home. Hell, the old lady’s address and phone number were even listed on Whitepages.com, along with a generalized map showing directions to her home.

  I whispered a prayer to the Internet gods and dialed the number. A woman with a pleasant Southern accent answered. I identified myself and asked if I was speaking with Mrs. Edmond Ramey, though the voice sounded much younger than a woman who I figured must be on the backside of eighty.

  No, she wasn’t Mrs. Ramey; her name was Alice Spence, Mrs. Ramey’s niece and live-in caretaker. She seemed friendly enough, so I took a chance and popped the question. Would Mrs. Ramey feel up to seeing me regarding her late son and a possible new development in the accident? Perhaps tomorrow or Wednesday, or whenever would be convenient for her?

  Alice, as she insisted I call her, asked me to hold. A couple of minutes later she returned with the good news that Aunt Darla would be pleased to see me. Would noonish tomorrow be convenient?

  How easy was that? An hour of computer research, one phone call, and I was in like Flynn. This PI business might not turn out to be such a bad second career after all.

  Atlanta’s about three hundred miles from St. George, but I counted on seven hours to get there, allowing for the city’s infamous traffic and tracking down the exact location of the Ramey home. After talking with Alice Spence I’d gone to MapQuest and printed out more detailed directions to the Ramey house. I also surfed over to Google Maps and downloaded a couple of satellite shots of the house and property. I’d done the same thing with the Harpers
’ home and Barfield Fisheries last year while working on Maddie’s case. You never knew if or when they might come in handy.

  I drove through Tallahassee, on north to Thomasville, Georgia, and picked up Interstate 75 at Tifton. A few boring hours later I’d passed through downtown and midtown Atlanta to where Interstates 75 and 85 converge. Somehow I managed to find the correct Peachtree Road that took me through the heart of the Buckhead district.

  I passed close by the Governor’s Mansion, skirted Chastain Park, and found Powers Ferry Road. It was a beautiful area, winding through wooded hills studded with fancy estates of Atlanta’s elite old-money families. Following the map, I soon came to Ramey Way, which led through an open wrought iron gate and down a concrete and brick drive to the Ramey house.

  “Mansion” would be a more fitting word. I’m no expert on houses, but I guess you could call this one a cross between a Southern plantation and a Victorian. The house was mostly beige brick trimmed with matching native stone. A pair of stout columns stood sentry on either side of the wide stone steps leading to the front entrance. Big porches with elaborate railings spanned the length of the first two stories. The third story was dominated by huge stone dormers at either end. Four brick chimneys rose above the slate-tiled roof. Silver spoon, top to bottom.

  I checked my watch. About ten minutes early, but close enough for a three-hundred-mile trip. I pulled to the side of the drive, parked, and grabbed the manila envelope with the photos I’d brought. The front door was a massive eight-footer with leaded glass and ornate antique brass handles. I took a breath and punched the brass doorbell, almost afraid to smudge it.

  The last note of the Westminster chime was fading when the door swung open. The attractive woman who answered took a quick step back, eyes wide and brows arched. After a second she relaxed and flashed a smile. “Oh, you must be Mac,” she said, breathing a little heavy. “I’m sorry, I’m expecting a package today and I thought you might be the FedEx man.” She patted her forehead with a small towel and extended her hand, palm down.

  Recognizing the voice dripping with Southern charm, I took her hand, wondering if I should shake or kiss it. I gave the palm a gentle squeeze. “And you must be Alice. Sorry, I’m a few minutes early.”

  “Nonsense. Please, come in.” She stood aside and motioned me in with a graceful sweep of a well-toned arm. “Forgive my appearance,” she said, brushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes, “I was shredding fat with Jillian Michaels when the bell rang.”

  Forgive? Alice Spence was some looker. Early thirties, I guessed, and not a wrinkle in sight. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her face with the high cheekbones, big green eyes, and full lips was Hollywood-caliber. And just where the hell was the fat she was trying to shred? The black V-neck leotard and white leggings didn’t do a thing to hide her knockout figure. I stepped past her into a foyer the size of a large living room in an average house.

  Alice led the way into a great room that would’ve made the cover of Southern Living proud. I’ll spare the details, but think Tara of Gone with the Wind fame, before the Yankees arrived. We stopped under a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Alice motioned to a corner near a stone fireplace where a couple of overstuffed beige leather chairs, a huge matching sofa, and floor lamps were arranged around a fancy carved coffee table.

  “Make yourself comfortable over here while I go see if Aunt Darla is ready. And please excuse her if she seems a bit distracted. The poor dear is showing some early signs of dementia, bless her heart. Meanwhile, would you care for something to drink, Mac? Coffee, sweet tea, a Coke perhaps?”

  “Coffee would be fine, thanks. Black, no sugar.”

  Alice excused herself and turned to go. I chose a chair and watched as she sashayed out of sight through an arched doorway and down a hall. I began rehashing how I was going to approach Mrs. Ramey with the news that one of the men who’d disappeared with her late son years ago might still be alive. It had all seemed much more straightforward last night when I’d rehearsed it several times before falling asleep. Now, my confidence was shot. I’d felt more at ease leading assaults against the mujahedeen during the Battle of Fallujah.

  Footsteps on the marble tile floor snapped me back to attention. I glanced up and stood as Alice came into view, now wearing a loose-fitting Georgia Tech sweatshirt over black jeans. “Ah, a Yellow Jackets fan, I see.”

  She smiled. “Guilty as charged. Rabid fan. I also happen to be a proud alumnus. Not to brag, but I graduated with a master’s in business administration from Tech.”

  Just then a slim elderly woman with stylish gray hair wearing a light-blue pantsuit appeared behind Alice. She was a handsome lady, probably quite the looker herself in her younger days, and her back was straight as an arrow despite using a cane.

  “Aunt Darla, this is Mac McClellan, the gentleman who called last evening about Cousin Bobby.”

  The old woman craned her neck and looked me over. After a few seconds her gray eyes seemed to light up and her lips broke into a smile. She offered a pale hand with blue veins and age spots. “Nice to meet you, Mac. Were you a friend of Bobby’s? I’m afraid I don’t remember faces quite as well as I used to.”

  I took her hand and gave it a gentle shake. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  “No, Aunt Darla, Mac didn’t know Cousin Bobby,” Alice said before I could answer Mrs. Ramey’s question. “He’s here because he might have some new information for us about the accident, remember?”

  Mrs. Ramey touched her cheek. “Oh, you’re that private investigator from... where was it now?”

  “Florida, Mrs. Ramey. I—”

  The clacking of footsteps and rattling of dishes cut me off. A portly black woman with graying hair wearing a black dress with white collar and apron walked into the room. She carried a tray with a silver coffeepot and what I guessed was a real china tea set.

  “Thank you, Miss Lettie,” Alice said. “Just set it on the table and we’ll help ourselves.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Miss Lettie took care not to upset anything as she placed the loaded tray on the coffee table. “Y’all need anything else, just holler.”

  After Alice poured tea for Mrs. Ramey and coffee for herself and me, we got down to business. I spent several minutes giving them a brief rundown of the case, emphasizing Kate’s encounter with Wes Harrison at O’Malley’s, especially their eye contact. Deciding it was best not to offer Alice or Mrs. Ramey any more info than necessary, I didn’t mention that Kate and Harrison had been an item, just that they had been friends. I was also careful not to reveal Kohler’s real identity, or that I’d learned that he and Rachel weren’t brother and sister.

  When I finished, Mrs. Ramey looked confused. Knowing the old lady wasn’t as sharp as she once was, I figured Alice was my best bet to pick up anything that might be useful to the case.

  I reached for the coffeepot to top off my cup. “Are you familiar with any of the names I mentioned, besides your cousin, of course?”

  Alice set her cup and saucer on the table. “Yes. In those days I stayed at Bobby’s home in Sandestin quite often, during spring break and summers mostly. In fact, the house is still in the family. We try to get down there whenever we can. My aunt says it makes her feel closer to Bobby.” She turned and smiled at Mrs. Ramey. “Isn’t that right, Aunt Darla?”

  Above the rim of her teacup Mrs. Ramey’s eyes darted in Alice’s direction at the sound of her name. “Hmm?”

  Alice reached over and patted her aunt’s knee. Either Alice had drifted off-topic or was evading my question. A little reminder was in order.

  “You were saying you remembered some of the people I mentioned.”

  “Oh, pardon me,” Alice said, touching the base of her throat. “Yes, I remember Eric quite well. He was the manager of Bobby’s store in Destin. Bobby would sometimes treat me to earrings or other jewelry when I was visiting. Eric was always so very friendly and helpful.

  �
��And I remember meeting Eric’s sister Rachel at one of Bobby’s parties. We got to be quite friendly in the short time I knew her. She was a missionary pilot, of all things. Can you believe it? Such a pretty, petite girl; it was hard to imagine her flying an airplane all over the jungles of South America by herself like that.”

  “Did you ever hear from Rachel after your cousin’s accident?”

  Alice’s lips pressed together. “No, now that you mention it. I believe she was in South America when it happened. I don’t recall her coming back for the memorial service. I suppose she was trying to keep busy with her mission work. There was really nothing she could’ve done back in Florida anyway.”

  “What about Kate Bell?”

  Alice hesitated and then shook her head. “Sorry, no, not that I remember. Was she a friend of Bobby’s? I suppose I might have seen her at a party. Bobby used to entertain quite often.”

  I ignored Alice’s question. “Wes Harrison?”

  Alice’s eyelids fluttered and she blushed. She looked away for an instant, like she was trying to gather herself. “Yes. Actually, Wes and I dated a few times.”

  I almost dropped the cup when I heard that.

  “I was still a student at Tech, and... well, he was such a charmer and so much fun to be with. Wes seemed quite worldly at the time, being older and from California and all.” Alice paused a moment. “Now may I ask you a question, Mac?”

  “Sure.”

  “What makes you believe that Wes might still be alive, other than this Kate woman claiming she saw him at the theater?”

  I took a sip of coffee while I thought it out. “I know Kate very well, and she swears up and down the man she saw was Wes Harrison.” I mentioned again how Kate was sure he’d recognized her and turned away when they made eye contact.

  “But surely she can’t be certain it was Wes just because the man had different-colored eyes,” Alice said. “There must be lots of people with eyes like that.”

  “Actually, not as many as you might think. But it’s not only the eye color, Alice. Kate’s absolutely certain the man recognized her and deliberately broke eye contact. I believe her.”