Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds

by Nancy Martin

  Sidney loved the trappings of wealth. He swanned out of the Civic Center and with a royal nod to Reed, climbed into the backseat, carrying Jean Pierre as if he were the crown jewels. Disapprovingly, Reed stepped forward to relieve me of my burden.

  I got into the car while Reed stashed Sidney's things in the trunk. I suppressed a sneeze and wondered if it were true that a person could kill a thousand brain cells that way. If so, I'd be down a quart of IQ points by the time we reached Sidney's shop.

  I gave Reed directions to Jeweler's Row, just a few minutes away. The city's best wholesale jewelers were all located around that single city block. The crowded buildings were all three-story Federal-style town houses with the street-level windows enlarged so that every shop could display an astonishing array of wristwatches, diamond rings and fine jewelry. When business was slow, the proprietors often stood outside together, talking on the sidewalk. Today, however, the street was nearly deserted.

  Sidney's name was painted in gilt letters on a small door wedged between two flashier shops. He unlocked it and led me into a small foyer that contained a lift chair to help elderly clients avoid climbing the stairs to his second-floor atelier. Sidney scrambled onto the chair, fastened the seat belt around his paunch and pressed the button. He rose smoothly upwards, with the cat on his lap. I labored up the narrow steps behind him, lugging Sidney's bags.

  His shop was barely more than a waiting room with three overstuffed chairs and a coffee table suitable for displaying his wares. Today, an exquisite silver sauceboat graced the table alongside a gracefully curving ladle, the handle shaped into the form of a deer antler. A stack of his distinctive mint-green shopping bags was within easy reach.

  "This way," Sidney commanded, unlocking another door and leading me past the safety-deposit-style drawers where he kept his inventory. Finally we arrived in his private quarters.

  Sidney's apartment was even more torture for me. The stench of litter box hung in the air like industrial waste over Bayonne. Cat hair floated everywhere. It lay on the antique furniture, the chintz draperies, the glass-topped tables. When Sidney opened the door, I could see large tufts blow across the floors like miniature tumbleweeds. I stepped inside and let out a tremendous sneeze.

  Sidney stopped stock-still. "You're catching a cold. Good thing I have such a strong constitution or I'd throw you out right now. But germs don't bother me in the least. This way."

  Like most cat owners, he breezed through the stinking apartment without a clue as to how the place smelled to anyone else. He put Jean Pierre down on the kitchen counter. The cat sat and waited for his supper like a dauphin patiently enduring the service of a slow valet. Sidney bustled around the kitchen and finally slit open a foil bag of tuna. He forked the fish out onto a glass plate and placed it in front of Jean Pierre. The cat sniffed the pungent dish, then turned up his nose.

  "Oh, Jean Pierre!" Sidney looked distressed. "You're queasy, aren't you? He hates to ride in a car. He mopes for days. I wonder if I should call the vet?"

  "Maybe he just needs time to relax," I suggested, resisting the urge to point out we'd hardly been in the car more than five minutes.

  "He's already relaxed! He just dislikes cars." Sidney stroked the cat's head, but Jean Pierre swatted his hand away with irritation. Sidney sighed. "He's out of sorts. Well, let's have some tea and hope for the best."

  Sidney's kitchen was done in stainless steel and shades of silver—all the better to show off the cat's blue-gray fur, not to* mention Sidney's collection of cookware, which hung from a massive wrought-iron rack attached to the ceiling. Everything Sidney owned had been chosen for its aesthetic appeal. He filled an Alessi teapot with water, opened a Quimper jar filled with mint tea leaves, then sliced a loaf of crusty bread with a German knife and dropped the pieces of bread into a silver toaster shaped like a Volkswagen. All the while, he regaled me with descriptions of the silver he had acquired for my grandmother.

  "There was one Irish wine ewer," he rhapsodized. "She wasn't one for ewers, frankly, because the handles often looked awkward to her, but I had a lovely one and convinced her to pick it up. She was so surprised! Of course, it had exquisite balance. Very cleverly decorated, too, without being undignified."

  "You're a master, Sidney. Grandmama knew it."

  "I had to convince her first!" he objected. "You don't know how many times I had to literally cajole her!"

  "Do you still have time to give such individual attention?" I asked.

  "God, no. People flock to buy whatever I choose to have around. Your grandmother was very special."

  "My mother appreciated your help, too, Sidney. She was very grateful when you were able to sell the coffee service for her."

  He sniffed. "I told her she shouldn't part with that service. It really was one of a kind. But sometimes we have to let beautiful things find new homes."

  "You must see a lot of wonderful jewelry, too."

  "Only the best." He spooned loose tea leaves.

  Ever since walking into the cat show, I'd been debating how to draw information out of Sidney. He claimed he didn't gossip, so my challenge was to find just the right chink so the dam could burst.

  I said, "You have excellent security, too, I notice."

  I had seen the stickers for a well-known guardian firm on all the windows.

  "I've never had an incident," he said. "I'm very careful about locks."

  "Not everyone is so vigilant."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I know people who have had jewelry stolen."

  He blinked at me. "From their homes?"

  "Yes. Even at social events. Actually, I was at the Cooper estate on Friday, and I swear someone stole Grandmama's sapphire ring while I was there."

  "No!"

  I displayed my bare hand as evidence.

  "Oh, God, what a tragedy!" His pasty skin turned whiter than before, but then the toast popped, and Sidney hastily turned to stack the slices onto a silver toast rack. "Well, you can't be frightened out of wearing your good things in public," he lectured. "Fine jewelry needs air and light."

  "Of course," I said. "But I wonder what happens to things that are stolen?"

  "Are you hoping to find your ring?"

  "I hope to get it back," I said quite honestly. "Do you know where a thief might get rid of stolen jewelry?"

  "Certainly not with me," he replied sharply. "I don't accept that sort of thing. Not ever. It's wrong, wrong, wrong."

  "But where—?"

  "At some cheap criminal's lair, I suppose," he went on quickly. "But not here. Never, never. I deal with reputable families, upstanding people who have legitimate reasons for disposing of their items."

  "No one would question your integrity, Sidney. Not a soul."

  "Not a single soul," he corrected.

  The tea kettle began to whistle, and he turned to lift it from the stove. I felt a twinge in my conscience as I said, "I suppose you heard about Laura Cooper."

  The kettle clattered back onto the burner, but he snatched it up again quickly. "Heard! I had phone calls half the night!"

  "The police say it was suicide," I ventured.

  "They'll soon learn otherwise," Sidney declared. "If ever a woman was the ideal murder victim, it was Laura Cooper."

  "You're joking, of course."

  "Not even slightly. Everyone hated that girl. Including me." He poured boiling water through the tea leaves into the teapot. "I've spent many a night contemplating her murder myself."

  "Not you, Sidney," I said, smiling.

  "I'm not kidding." He looked at me darkly.

  He put the tea things onto a silver tray and carried them out to his dining room. I followed hastily, and we sat at the table. Sidney poured, then passed me toast and marmalade.

  Slathering his own toast, he said, "Many of us disliked Laura Cooper. Do you know anyone who was a friend to her? Of course not! Because she had alienated everyone over the years. And you know how."

  I noticed cat hair floating i
n my teacup and put it down gently. "How?"

  "Don't play dumb," Sidney commanded. "She stole from people."

  "Are you sure, Sidney?"

  "Of course I'm sure. Some of the best pieces that ever came through my inventory disappeared because of her."

  "How can you be certain Laura was the thief?"

  He placed one plump elbow on the table and leaned towards me like a conspirator. "Did you hear what occurred in Palm Beach last winter?"

  "No. What happened?"

  "Oliver Cooper invited all his friends down to his winter house for a long weekend. And every single guest lost a piece of jewelry! I'd just sold an exquisite brooch to Mamie Hill, and it was gone in sixty seconds. Word has it that Oliver himself asked Flan to take his wife home before somebody called the police."

  "Why didn't one of the guests confront Laura?"

  "Confront her?" Sidney laughed coldly. "Who would accuse Oliver's daughter-in-law after he offered to take everyone on a shopping spree to replace their jewelry? I'm sure somebody finally decided to bump her off! And I congratulate whoever it was." He lifted his teacup in salute.

  "Are you sure Oliver replaced the things people lost?"

  "I have it on good authority. A Florida competitor. You see, not a single person came back here to buy from me! And if everyone starts worrying their things are going to be stolen, they're not inclined to buy more. I could be out of business in a snap!"

  I made sympathetic noises. "Do you know who attended the Florida house party? What about Tempeste Juarez, for example?"

  Sidney dropped his teacup into its saucer. The clatter made us both jump. Hastily, he began mopping up spilled tea with his napkin. "What about her?"

  "Was she at the Palm Beach house?"

  He concentrated hard on dabbing up the spill, but his hands shook and he managed to knock over the toast rack. "Well, perhaps. I think so. I can't be sure."

  "I wonder if Laura ever stole from Tempeste?"

  "At least once," Sidney said without forethought.

  "Are you sure?"

  "A few years ago Tempeste had a screaming fit when a ring went missing. She went on like a deflowered virgin in an old-fashioned talking picture. I'm surprised the newspapers didn't give her a review on the drama page." He dropped his napkin and took a healthy chomp into his toast and marmalade. A dribble of marmalade landed on his chin when he shook his head. "There's nobody with a worse temper than Tempeste when she's lost one of her sparklies."

  "You know Tempeste?"

  "I wish she'd never crossed my doorstep. But yes, I do know her. She was a good customer long ago. Not anymore, of course." Bitterly, he snapped, "She's found better places to buy her damned sparklies."

  Just talking about Tempeste made his cheeks quiver. He soon had marmalade on his sweater as well as his chin. He grabbed another slice of toast, and I wondered what his history with Tempeste was. Carefully, I ventured, "Considering Tempeste's great jewelry collection, I assumed she was one of your most frequent customers."

  "She used to be." Sidney took another vicious bite out of his toast. "I'd rather not discuss the circumstances of our parting. It's too painful."

  "I'm sorry."

  While he chewed, Sidney made a business of stirring more sugar into his mint tea. "If you're interested in Laura's death, you might consider her current lover."

  I must have looked startled, because Sidney laughed.

  He said, "You didn't know? You're out of the loop. Laura had another man on the side. Personally, I think she was an old-fashioned gold digger from the very start. Even after she was married, she was looking for a better deal. Her lover was—well, let's just say he's a very good customer of mine. I've sold him many tennis bracelets."

  Sidney was playing coy. I felt uncomfortable pressing him for more gossip, but I wanted to be sure he was talking about Yale. I bought myself a few seconds of time by pretending to sip from my cup.

  In a moment, Sidney leaned forward, unable to hold back. "In fact, he buys all kinds of jewelry from me. And quite frequently, too."

  "He must have a busy love life, whoever he is."

  "He does. You'd be surprised what men tell me while they're shopping for jewelry." He tapped his spoon on the cup rim. "As if I'm remotely interested in that sort of thing!"

  "Your customer bought something for Laura?" I held my breath.

  Nonchalantly, Sidney said, "A tennis bracelet, yes. But Laura was only a passing fancy, not an important conquest, if you know what I mean. He has many lady friends. I just sized an engagement ring for him. Not the first."

  "He's engaged?"

  "I gather he plans to pop the question soon. He's picking up the ring tomorrow. And his intended is no lightweight, as well you know."

  "As well I know?" I repeated.

  Sidney said mysteriously, "Let me show you the ring."

  We left the table. Yale Bailey had plowed a swath through some of the best families in the city. We all assumed he was shopping around for just the right combination of looks, brains, money, influence and sex appeal before he chose a wife. Who was he chasing now? I wondered.

  The cat accompanied us down the hallway, swishing his tail against my legs. I nudged him away with my foot. It wasn't a kick. Just a nudge. Really.

  Sidney used a double key system to open one of the heavy metal drawers in his vault. He withdrew a tray and carried it ceremoniously to the coffee table in the shop. He put the tray beside the footed sauceboat and turned on a Waterford crystal lamp. Then he opened the mint-green velvet cover on the tray. Three diamond rings lay on the velvet. Sidney picked up the largest of the rings. Lamplight flashed in the thousands of facets of the enormous emerald-cut diamond that was the centerpiece of the ring.

  "I knew you'd be moved by this piece," Sidney said, seeing my tears.

  "Sidney, it's beautiful." I wasn't exaggerating. I used my handkerchief to hold back an allergic gush from my itchy eyes and bent to get a closer look. The huge diamond was surrounded by sprays of smaller stones that managed to soften the shape but increase the dazzle of the primary jewel.

  "The young man wanted something outstanding, so I found this. It was created in the twenties, can't you tell? The workmanship! But he wasn't looking forward to ending things with Laura, let me tell you. He said she was going to go ballistic."

  Maybe their breakup had turned into a murder scene?

  Sidney looked at me sagely. "You see? Your jeweler knows everything."

  I was trying to come up with an acceptable way of asking who Yale's most recent fiancee was when Jean Pierre leaped up onto the table. His hind paws landed squarely on a velvet-wrapped bundle.

  "Oh, Jean Pierre, be careful!" Sidney cried. He snatched up the bundle, but the wrapping slipped and out onto the table slid a glittering silver gun.

  I gasped.

  "Don't be nervous." Sidney picked up the weapon with terrifying clumsiness. "I don't keep it loaded. I must have a gun, you know, for security reasons. But the bullets are in a drawer."

  Jean Pierre leaped onto his master's lap and nudged the gun aside. He braced his front paws on Sidney's chest and began to lick the dribbled marmalade from Sidney's chin. "Darling boy," Sidney cooed.

  I ruined the moment by exploding with a gigantic, splattering sneeze.

  Chapter 7

  When I got back to the farm late that afternoon, Emma was there trying to unload a horse trailer by herself. I thanked Reed and sent him on his way, then walked across the lawn to the paddock. My sister was perspiring as she held a thick rope with both hands. The other end of the rope was clipped to the halter of one very annoyed horse that refused to exit the trailer.

  "Need some help?" I asked.

  "Not from you," she replied, not tearing her gaze from her adversary. "You'll muss your hair. This one bites and kicks."

  I looked into the trailer where the wild-eyed animal stood glaring at us and dripping sweat, just like Emma.

  "He's pretty," I said.

  "He's a son of a
bitch," she said. "But he's going to learn to jump tall buildings in a single bound."

  "Only if he learns to get out of a trailer first."

  "Well, yes."

  "What's his name?" I asked, thinking something dramatic and inspiring like Sheik or Apollo might fit.

  Emma spoiled my fantasy. "Mr. Twinkles."

  I leaned on the fence to watch, careful not to get my St. Laurent coat dirty. "Em, what do you know about Yale Bailey?"

  She quit glaring at Mr. Twinkles and came over to the fence. With one hand, she swatted a cloud of dust from her riding breeches. Then she bent down and retrieved a beer can from the grass. She took a thirsty slug and lit a cigarette. "Why do you want to know? God, he didn't ask you out, did he?"

  Tartly, I said, "Is that such an impossible idea?"

  "He's hardly your type."

  "Rumor has it he was seeing Laura Cooper before she died."

  "Doesn't surprise me. Yale goes after anything in pink panties."

  "Including you?"

  She blew smoke. "My panties aren't pink. And I'm not an idiot."

  "You think Laura was?"

  "You tell me."

  "She was unhappy with Flan, I know. But why take up with a social climber like Yale?" I sighed, unable to make sense of it. "Unless it was the sexual thing that drew them together. She was a victim from the word 'go.'"

  Emma watched me think. "What's up?"

  "I talked with a police detective earlier today."

  "That kid?"

  "Detective Bloom doesn't act like a kid. He wants enough evidence to make Laura's death a homicide case. And he has some incentive for me to help him."

  "Incentive?"

  "He found Grandmama's sapphire on Laura. He'll trade it for information I dig up."

  Emma whistled. "What are you going to do?"

  "I could turn him in for blackmail or coercion or something."