“I swear, if you help me with this one small thing, you’ll never have to see me again. I’ll have enough money to retire in South America.”
“That sounds inviting,” I said sarcastically.
“At least think about it, Caro. I’ll contact you by the end of the week. That should give you enough time to talk to him—if you will.”
He strode to the kitchen door.
“Where are you going?” I hadn’t meant to ask, but the words had a will of their own.
“It’s better that you don’t know. I’ll be in touch.”
The door closed softly behind him. I peered out through the glass panel but saw no sign of him. I heard a car start up and drive off. It was as though he’d never been here.
Sleeping was out of the question. I gave up trying and went into the living room to watch TV. But I didn’t watch, of course. Just sat there, thinking about Jim Singleton walking in and out of my life when I was young. At first, my mom would make up stories that he was away on business and would bring Jordan and me presents when he came home. He did come home with presents for us, but that only happened once. Later on, I found out from a classmate that my father was in prison. I went running to my mother, and she finally admitted it was true.
Of course, I had no intention of doing what he’d asked me to do. I was squeaky clean when it came to the law, probably a reaction to the shame of having a father who was a thief. In seventh grade, I never joined my two best friends the afternoon they went shoplifting candy bars. And I kept scrupulous records for my taxes. Still, as five o’clock approached, I was tempted to consider contacting Benton Parr if it meant I’d never have to see my father again.
Eventually, I went back to bed and fell asleep. I would have slept through my alarm, but Smoky Joe padded around my pillow, purring like a buzz saw until, feeling like a zombie, I got up to feed him. I showered and dressed, then downed a cup of coffee. He came dashing into the hall as I was putting on my parka. He loved being the Clover Ridge library cat and took his job seriously.
There wasn’t much traffic, so my drive to work took just under ten minutes. I parked in the library’s parking area behind the building. The library, like most of the shops, restaurants, and art galleries bordering three sides of the Green, was once a white, wooden-framed mansion. Aunt Harriet and Uncle Bosco’s house, where I’d lived for several months, was one of the many private homes of similar architecture on the fourth side of the Green.
As soon as I set him down, Smoky Joe scampered off to the children’s room, where I knew Marion and her assistant gave him treats despite my instructions that no one was to feed him but me. I tried to smile every time one of my friends stopped by my office to tell me what a wonderful time she’d had at my party. Only Angela, with whom I was closest, realized something was wrong.
“Spill it, Carrie. Did Lover Boy dump you last night after we all left?”
“Of course not! We’re good.”
“Then why the long face after that fab party? Even Steve had a great time, and he hates going to parties that don’t include his noisy friends.”
“It’s nothing.”
Angela’s snort told me she didn’t believe me for one minute.
“I’ll tell you about it—soon.” Though I wasn’t up to discussing it now, I needed to run my father’s visit by her and get a dose of her common sense.
“Lunch later at the Cozy Corner Café?”
“I’ve got too much to do today, finishing the holiday decorations. I brought in leftovers for lunch.”
“Okay, girlfriend. I’m here when you feel like talking.”
I went downstairs to the closet where the decorations were stored, and carried up an armload. I knew I didn’t have to work on this right now. The Christmas tree, menorah, and Kwanzaa candelabra were already on display. Susan Roberts, my assistant, who was a whiz at decorating, would be in later that afternoon, but I needed to do something physical to keep me occupied.
Dorothy Hawkins stared at me as I passed the reference desk.
“Morning, Dorothy,” I said, determined to maintain the fragile peace we’d established a few weeks earlier.
“Hello, Carrie. See my aunt lately?”
Evelyn Havers, a former library aide, had died six years ago. Dorothy discovered, to her dismay, that her aunt’s ghost often visited me in the library.
“She stopped by a few days ago,” I said. “I never know when she’ll show up.”
“When you see her next, tell her hi from me. And tell her she was right.”
“Will do,” I said, not even trying to fathom what she was talking about.
Smoky Joe was waiting outside my office, which meant he either wanted to use his litter box or eat. The litter box it was. I’d no sooner dropped the decorations on my desk than Evelyn Havers materialized not two feet from where I stood. Smoky Joe jumped into the air and hissed.
Evelyn laughed. “Calm down, kitty boy. It’s only me.”
I petted Smoky Joe to soothe him. “He can’t see you, but he senses your presence.”
“He’ll get used to me,” Evelyn said. Today she wore a white blouse and a violet cardigan over a black pencil skirt, looking very elegant for a sixty-something ghost.
“Your niece says hi and gave me a cryptic message to pass on to you: you were right.”
“Hmmm, very cryptic. But I think I know what she’s referring to, poor girl.” She glanced at me sideways. “Is she behaving herself with you?”
“We’re not BFFs, but she’s civil these days.”
“Good.” I shivered as Evelyn walked past me to lean against the wall. “And how did your party go?”
“Wonderfully—well, until…”
I hesitated. I could trust Evelyn to keep my secret. Besides, the only other person in Clover Ridge that could see and hear her was little Tacey. “Until my father showed up.”
“Jim Singleton,” she mused. “I remember him and his brother when they lived at the old Singleton farm. His father wasn’t much of a farmer; not like your uncle Bosco. Jim’s father moved his family to Haddam, I believe, when the boys were in grade school.”
“He’s a thief, Evelyn. He’s spent time in prison.” It was the first time I’d said this to anyone.
“So I’ve heard.” Evelyn glanced at me. “And you’re ashamed of him.”
“Most of my childhood, I hardly saw him. I missed him so much. And now he’s trying to involve me in his criminal activities.”
I told her what my father wanted me to do. Evelyn gazed off reflectively as she listened.
“Benton Parr. I never trusted the man, not even to clean my rings.” She laughed. “My husband thought I was paranoid, but I didn’t like the way he strutted around town wearing a Rolex watch and a pinky ring big as a weapon.”
I giggled. “These days he’s added a diamond stud earring.”
“Rumor has it he took his mother-in-law’s emerald and diamond necklace and bracelet set and fenced them in Manhattan. Somehow, his wife managed to hush that up and get back her mother’s jewels. Sweet thing, Mariel. I’m sure Benton only married her for her money.”
“He’s a thief two times over,” I said. “It gives me the shivers to think he’s on the library board. And he’ll be here tomorrow night, talking about gems.” A wave of panic swept over me. “What should I do? What can I do?”
“My advice is to do nothing.”
“Nothing?” I stared at her in astonishment.
Evelyn’s half smile was full of compassion. “You can’t save the world, Carrie. You were almost killed helping to solve two murders. Tell your father you can’t help him, and be polite when you introduce Benton to his audience tomorrow night. Their association has nothing to do with you. I’m sure they’ll resolve their differences, and your dad will leave town.”
I watched her disappear, hoping she was right.
Chapter Three
Early Tuesday evening I brought Smoky Joe home and ate a quick dinner, then drove back to the librar
y. I stood outside the downstairs meeting room and checked off names as the patrons who had signed up for Benton Parr’s talk arrived. All sixty spots had been filled immediately at registration, but there were always a few no-shows, and a few on the waiting list were standing by, hoping to be let in. Though I dreaded the mess the construction of the new addition would cause, I looked forward to the new stadium-seating auditorium and second meeting room that would showcase the library’s events and programs I’d be presenting.
Benton had arrived twenty minutes earlier, dressed in a dark gray suit, light gray shirt, and a purple tie sprinkled with golden crowns. In his right ear, he sported what looked to be a two-carat diamond—at least it was the same size as the stone in his chunky gold pinky ring. Slick, slick, slick. He carried an iPad. A man’s leather bag hung from his shoulder.
“Good evening, Carrie. Thank you for setting up the screen and the tables exactly as I requested.”
“Of course.” I forced myself to sound pleasant. “It’s my job to make sure our programs run as smoothly as possible.”
Benton observed me with narrowed eyes. I wondered if my contempt had seeped through, despite my best efforts to act in a professional manner. No need to worry, I realized, watching him beam as the two young people accompanying him wheeled a jewelry tray carrying cases, to where we stood. The tall, slender girl placed an acrylic display case on the table.
“Carrie, this is my daughter Dina and my assistant, Chris Crowley.” He winked. “They’re here to keep an eye on the merchandise.”
“Thanks for helping out with the program,” I told them.
“Don’t mind us,” Dina said. “We’re only here to fetch and carry.”
She was a pretty young woman in her early twenties and would have been stunning if she’d attended to her long, stringy hair that hung halfway down her back.
“Hi.” Chris raised a limp hand in greeting. He had a stocky build and stood half a head shorter than Dina. Both were dressed casually, wearing sweatshirts and jeans under their parkas.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
Dina and Chris opened the leather cases and began placing open boxes of jewelry in the acrylic showcase. They chatted as they set up for Benton’s program, giving me the impression that they were used to working together.
“Do you help out your dad at the store?” I asked Dina.
“I’ve been working there part-time since I was seventeen. This year Dad needed someone full-time, just when my course load started taking up more of my time.” She bumped Chris playfully. “That’s why Dad hired Chris.”
Do you know your father’s a thief? I wondered.
“Be right back,” I said, needing to get away. I retrieved three bottles of water from the fridge in the small adjoining room and left them on the table, then went to open the doors to the waiting audience.
At seven thirty I introduced Benton Parr to a full house.
“Most of you know Benton Parr, a member of our library board, and have visited Parr’s Precious Pieces, his jewelry shop in town. He’s here to talk about gems—the real and the fake—and how to tell the difference between the two.”
Benton waited for the applause to die down and began his spiel. I leaned against the wall beside the first row, the library’s camera in hand. I was about to snap my first photo, when Benton stopped midsentence to glare at me.
“Please don’t take any photos during my program.”
Startled, I said, “We like to have them for the newsletter and records, but if you’d rather—”
“Thank you.” He waited until I slipped the camera into my cardigan pocket and continued.
What was that all about? Had Benton brought the stolen gems as part of his program and was afraid to have them photographed? It didn’t make sense, since whatever he’d brought would be exposed for everyone in the room to see. I took my seat in the first row, curious to learn how this was going to play out.
I had to admit that his subject was fascinating and his approach engaging. Benton certainly knew how to draw in his audience and keep their attention. He stood behind the table that now held his computer and began by talking about the appeal that gems have for humans.
A man called out to say he wore no jewelry and had a twenty-dollar watch. When the laughter died down, Benton asked if he’d ever bought the woman in his life any jewelry.
“Well, sure,” the heckler said. “I got the wife a watch last Christmas and a string of pearls the year before. Set me back a good amount, let me tell you.”
“And I bet you’re proud as punch when someone compliments her watch and pearls.”
“Maybe. So?”
“So men might not wear as much jewelry in the twenty-first century as they did, let’s say, during the time of the Tudors, when upper-class gentlemen wore heavy chains of gold to show off their position and wealth. These days they show off—if you’ll excuse the expression—by buying baubles for their womenfolk. Such as an engagement ring with a stone weighing several karats.” Benton glanced at me. “Lights, please.”
I dimmed the lights and he began his slide show. The first slide was of two enlarged diamonds. “One is real; the other is a CZ, or lab-created cubic zirconium. In the next few shots, you’ll see how each stone fares with the water test, the fog test, and the newspaper test.”
The audience watched in absolute silence as the real diamond sank to the bottom of the glass of water, remained fogged for no more than one second, and they saw how the newspaper print was not visible when the diamond was placed over it, yet could be seen fairly clearly through the CZ.
“One failsafe way of making sure you’re buying a real diamond is dealing with a reliable jeweler. Diamonds are rated according to the four C’s: cut, carat size, clarity, and color. Carrie, lights, please.”
I switched on the lights and Benton fielded questions: about synthetic high-pressure, high-temperature and chemical vapor deposition diamonds, the two common production methods; conflict-free diamonds not mined in war zones to raise money for rebel factions; and ethically free diamonds that were mined in mines safe for the men who worked there.
“I could talk to you about diamonds for a week straight without exhausting the subject. However, we only have an hour left, and I’d like to move on to rubies, sapphires, and emeralds as well as some of the more popular semiprecious gems like the amethyst.” He paused for effect. “And of course, show you some wonderful examples of the various gems, all of which are available at Parr’s Precious Pieces.”
I tuned out much of what Benton had to say about the other gems, gathering that there were artificially created rubies, emeralds, and sapphires—many of which were held in high regard. Natural gems could be improved on in a variety of ways. Amethysts could be color enhanced. There was coating and fracture filling to fill inclusions or imperfections in diamonds. A diamond’s color could be enhanced; laser drilling was often used to remove small, dark inclusions, where the inclusion is burned away and the space filled with a bleaching agent. “Feathers,” or white fractures, are often injected with a glass-like substance.
My head was reeling. The subject of diamonds alone would be a wonderful subject for a program. I opened my mouth, about to make that suggestion, when I remembered that Benton was a thief. I wasn’t about to encourage him to make any more presentations.
“Do jewelers tell potential buyers about these improvements?” someone asked.
Benton smiled. “They do if they’re honest.”
Do you tell customers about corrected flaws in the pieces they’re thinking of buying? I wondered.
“And now for the part of the program you’ve all been waiting for,” Benton was saying. “I’ve brought several genuine beautiful gems in lovely settings. They’re all one of a kind, since I designed each piece myself.” He winked. “They’re all for sale at Parr’s Precious Pieces.”
Chris and Dina removed rings, bracelets, and earrings, still nestled in their boxes, from the acrylic case. They walked slowly up th
e aisle, showing the audience the pieces as Benton spoke about each one. They were gorgeous, I thought, especially a pair of gold drop earrings. But though I could now afford them, they cost more than I cared to spend.
Finally, Chris reached into the large bag he’d carried into the library and withdrew an elaborate gold, sapphire, and diamond necklace on a padded velvet bust display easel, with chandelier-length matching earrings. The audience oohed and aahed as Benton explained that the set had once belonged to a Russian noblewoman and was for sale for an undisclosed price.
I realized this was the grand finale and that none of the loose gems Benton and my father had stolen would be making an appearance. What was he planning to do with the gems? Or had he already sold them? No. Benton liked to make up his own designs, so I figured he hadn’t touched them yet.
At nine fifteen, I thanked the audience for attending and mentioned the movie we’d be showing later that week. Several patrons rushed up to the table to get another look at the pieces as Chris and Dina were packing them away. A well-dressed gentleman asked to see one of the rings, and Chris handed it to him. The man examined it and said he’d be in the next day to buy it for his daughter.
Benton placed the sapphire and diamond set back in the bag. As I walked toward him to thank him officially for a successful presentation, a middle-aged woman beat me to it. I waited while they chatted for a few minutes. I heard snippets of their conversation: “a ring” “reset in yellow gold” then saw her smile as he spoke into his smartphone, noting the time and day when she’d be coming in for an appointment.
“Thank you for a wonderful program,” I said.
Benton smiled. “It was quite a hit, wasn’t it? And I’ve managed to snag a few sales. Always a pleasure.”
Dina and Chris chatted in low tones as they packed up the articles of jewelry and stacked them in the leather carriers.
“Everything’s accounted for,” Chris told Benton.
He laughed. “I would hope so. I wouldn’t expect anyone to walk off with any of our pieces here in the library. Right, Carrie?”
“Of course. Our library patrons are law-abiding.”
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