Blood Rubies

by Jane K. Cleland

  Ellis cocked his head. “No.”

  Stefan dropped his hands and sat back.

  Ellis crossed his right leg over his left knee, Mr. Casual. “If the real reason you drove is unrelated to a crime, I can keep it quiet. A poker game, maybe?”

  Stefan stood up in one seamless motion. “What I did on my trip is none of your business.” He headed for the door.

  Ellis swung his leg down in no hurry and stood up. “I do appreciate your cooperation. Very much. I’ll walk you out.” He used the remote to turn off both recorders, then led the way out of the interview room.

  Five minutes later, Ellis walked me out, too.

  “Sorry for wasting your time,” he said.

  “It wasn’t a waste. You had me in reserve in case I was needed.”

  Ellis smiled at me, and seeing the crinkling lines around his eyes, I realized he was as tired as I was, maybe more. He pushed open the door and took in a deep breath of cool, fresh air.

  “Do you know Maurice Charpentier?” he asked out of the blue.

  “Maurice? The pastry chef at the Blue Dolphin? I met him briefly. Why?”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He seemed, um, I don’t know … volatile.”

  Ellis nodded. “Thanks, Josie.”

  It was after seven by the time I got into my car. The temperature had dropped, and it felt more like winter than spring. I was famished, to-my-bones weary, cold, and cranky. I called Ty.

  “Do you still want to go dancing?” I asked.

  “Sure. Don’t you?”

  “No. I feel battered. I’m starving and freezing and I’m sad. I’m really, really sad. I want to change into my pink chenille bathrobe and my fuzzy slippers and have a watermelon martini, a hot bath, and eat. Then I want to go to bed.”

  “Okay, then. You have a rain check. I’ll poke around the fridge and see what I can come up with, foodwise.”

  “You’re wonderful.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  I felt my eyes well with unexpected tears. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, but the tears kept coming.

  “Josie?” Ty said, wondering about the too-long silence.

  I gulped. “Sorry.”

  “You’re crying. Do you need me to come get you?”

  Yes, I thought. “No,” I said. “I’m okay. I’ll be home soon.”

  I listened to the local news as I drove. When I heard Wes’s voice, I realized I hadn’t returned his call and pulled off to the side of the road.

  “You’ve been at the police station again,” Wes said, as omnipresent as ever. “How come?”

  “Never mind that now, Wes. I got your message. Do you think I should approach Heather’s mom in the morning?”

  “Yes. Get her talking about the family. What are Ana and Peter really like? You know … get the picture.”

  I stared out over the dune toward the horizon. The sinking sun cast orange and yellow glitter on the near-black water.

  “Josie?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What happened at the station? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I said, snapping out of my funk.

  “Heather and her mom have developed a routine. They have breakfast every morning at eight in the Pelican coffee shop. Heather has a fruit plate. Mom has cereal. Maggie says I should eat more fruit and less bacon. What do you think?”

  “She’s right.”

  Wes sighed. “At nine, Heather heads to the gym, leaving her mom alone in their room. Guess who also goes to the gym at nine?”

  It took me a moment. “Peter?”

  “Bingo on that.”

  “And the hotel can’t stop him because he’s a registered guest.”

  “Double bingo, ring the bell! Heather told them this guy freaks her out, and they agreed to post a security guard in the gym from nine to ten. She must have some pull, huh?”

  “More like risk mitigation. Once she reported her concern to the hotel, there’s an implied liability. What’s Peter’s reaction to the guard?”

  “From what I hear, he ignores the guard and is a perfect gentleman around Heather. Bring your gym clothes and sneak in. Take photos.”

  “God, Wes.”

  He chuckled. “They’re in room five-twelve, but you should call up. The room is registered under the mom’s name—Allison Walker. Hotels don’t give out room information willy-nilly, so if you just show up at her door, she may freak out.”

  “Will do.”

  “Call me after.”

  I promised I would, and Wes ended the call with a brisk “Catch ya later.”

  I slipped my phone back into my tote and eased back onto the road.

  Talking to Wes helped me refocus. I had work to do. I needed to consider ways and means of tracing the Fabergé egg snow globe, and I needed to think how best to approach Heather’s mom, Allison. Nothing might come from either initiative, but doing something was always better than doing nothing. If idleness was the devil’s tool, inertia was one of his favorite weapons. I no longer felt like crying; instead, I felt like thinking, and for that I silently thanked Wes.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  As soon as I pulled into my driveway, Ty stepped onto the porch and stood in the circle of golden light from the overhead fixture. He smiled and waved. I waved back, scrambled out of the car, and ran into his arms. He hugged me tight, then kissed me.

  “You’re feeling better,” he said.

  “’Tis true.” I took his hand and led the way inside. “What’s for dinner?”

  “You have options. I pulled a London broil from the freezer—it’s thawing in marinade now. Or there’s leftover roast chicken.”

  “I could eat both, I’m so hungry. The roast chicken is ready, so let’s go with that.”

  “Done. I made a salad, but you’ve got to make the dressing. I don’t have your touch.”

  “It’s my mother’s secret.” I put on a French accent. “And I will not tell you, my darling. To enjoy it, you must let me prepare it for you.”

  “That’s the worst German accent I’ve ever heard.”

  “That wasn’t German! That was French.”

  “Oh.”

  I started laughing, and soon Ty was laughing, too. After a minute, I caught my breath and said with what dignity I could muster, “I’m going to change into my robe.” I reached the doorway and looked back over my shoulder with a sassy flair. “M’sieur.”

  Ty grinned and shook his head. “We’re going to have to sign you up for some German lessons. Worst accent I ever heard.”

  Later, after we’d eaten, I sat on the bench that ran behind my kitchen table while Ty loaded the dishwasher. I was tucked in the far corner leaning against cushy orange and blue pillows. The bench stretched along all of one wall and part of two others to form a U.

  “Do you think people can change?” I asked.

  He shot me a glance. “Sure, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked out into the blackness. Streaks of moonlight gave the trees and flowers a silvery luster. “Wes has a girlfriend.”

  “Who’s trying to change him?”

  “Who seemingly has changed him. He has a new car. He was wearing a tie. He’s eating less bacon.”

  “That’s all superficial stuff. Is he still Wes on the inside?”

  I thought about that. “Yes.”

  “Then it sounds like she’s bringing out the best in him, not changing him.”

  “That’s a great way to look at it.” I smiled. “You bring out the best in me.”

  Ty got the dishwasher started, then dried his hands on the linen towel my mom had embroidered with a strawberry pattern.

  He sat on the short end of the bench, at right angles to me. “How so?”

  “You help me see the best in people. You help me be more patient.”

  “You’re forgetting that I also point out your flaws.”

  “What flaws?” I asked, feeling fussy. “You’ve told me you think I�
��m perfect.”

  “I think you’re perfect for me. That doesn’t mean you don’t have flaws.”

  I narrowed my eyes, waiting for him to continue.

  “Like your German accent,” he said and starting laughing again.

  I laughed, too. “You’re so right. I admit it.”

  He stretched his hand toward me, and I took it in mine.

  “I love you, Josie. You are perfect.”

  I kissed his palm. “You’re perfect, too.”

  “We’re so lucky,” he said.

  “What if we change?”

  “Then we adapt.”

  “What if we can’t?”

  “We will.” He squeezed my hand, a love-squeeze. “What’s wrong, Josie?”

  “I’m scared of change.”

  He slid along the bench until our shoulders touched. He put his arm around me.

  “I’m not worried. You and I love one another. If one of us changes, the other one will adapt.”

  I laid my head on his shoulder and sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

  * * *

  At 9:05 A.M. the next morning, with a box of Mandy’s Candies in hand, I used a house phone on a console table in the lobby and asked the operator to ring Heather’s room. A woman, not Heather, answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi. Is Heather there?”

  “No, I’m sorry. May I help you? I’m her mother—Allison Walker.”

  “Oh, hi. I’m Josie Prescott. I met Heather the other day. Ana Yartsin introduced us. I wanted to pay my respects, to tell her how sorry I was about Jason.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you. She’ll be back in … well … I guess it will be an hour or so.”

  “Oh … darn! I should have called ahead. I’m downstairs in the lobby. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to wait that long, and I really wanted to touch base. I’m wondering … would you have a minute? I brought a little something for her.”

  “Sure. Come on up. Room five-twelve.”

  I stepped out of the elevator onto the small fifth-floor landing. A sign told me room 512 was to the left, and I turned that way, pausing at a double-wide window that faced the back of the hotel. Through a thick stand of white pines and maples I could see Interstate 95 running parallel to the hotel about a quarter mile away. Straight down, I saw an uninviting pool area. The standard-issue rectangular pool was surrounded by concrete slabs and enclosed by an industrial chain-link fence. A blue plastic tarp, dotted with a winter’s worth of bird droppings, twigs, and dead leaves, was lashed over the pool. A four-foot-high weathered picket fence enclosed a work area. I wondered if they set out big tubs of palm trees and strung colorful lights along the fence for the summer season or whether austere was the Pelican’s style.

  The hallway was austere, too. The carpet featured a kind of paisley pattern in shades of dull brown and dark green, no doubt selected because it hid dirt, and that was the only color in the place. The walls were painted off-white and devoid of artwork. The overhead light fixtures were simple white globes.

  I knocked on room 512’s door, standing directly in front of the peephole. The same woman I’d seen with Heather at the police station and in the lobby opened the door. She was in her midfifties, with gray hair cut short and skin my mom would have described as peaches and cream. She wore blue jeans and a black turtleneck with silver and turquoise earrings. She was barefoot.

  “You’re Josie Prescott,” she said, smiling. “Stefan pointed you out at the police station. Please come in.”

  She turned to lead the way to a small table by the window, and I saw that her back pockets were decorated with sparkly crystals arranged in a chevron pattern.

  “I was about to order a pot of coffee,” she said as we got settled at the table. “Will you join me?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I handed her the box of chocolates. “I brought this for Heather. Mandy’s Candies is Rocky Point’s best.”

  “That’s lovely of you,” she said, placing the box on one of the two unmade double beds. “Heather will be very appreciative.”

  The room was as austere as the hallway. The walls were the same plain white. The one painting, a bowl of orangy-pink pears, hung on a wall over the TV. A bedside table stood between the two beds. Lamps on folding gold metal arms were mounted on the back wall.

  She called room service and asked them to send up a basket of breakfast rolls with the coffee.

  “It’s awfully nice of you to stop by.” She sat across from me and looked into my eyes. Hers were hazel, green flecked with gold. “Did you know Jason?”

  “Not really. I only met him this week. He asked my firm to appraise his chess set collection.”

  “I didn’t know he had one.”

  I paused. “How’s Heather?”

  “Not well.” She looked at her hands resting on the table. Her fingernails were painted a glossy peach. “To be expected, of course.” She raised her eyes and smiled. “I’m a widow. Just about a year now. I’m young, well, relatively young. I’m only fifty-six. Doesn’t fifty-five seem young to be widowed?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “It’s not. It’s the average age a woman is widowed in America. I’m average.” She shook her head, a private thought being cast off. “Of course, averages aren’t medians. It doesn’t take many twenty-year-old widows to shift the numbers.”

  “You weren’t prepared to be a widow any more than Heather was prepared to lose her fiancé.”

  “That’s right.” She waved it away. “It’s amazing what you can deal with if you have to. Women have great coping skills. More than men, I think.”

  “My dad was widowed in his forties. He did all right.”

  She held up her hand, signaling a mea culpa. “I withdraw my chauvinistic comment. Most people have great coping skills.”

  “Some do. Some don’t. I suspect the ability to cope is very individual.” I smiled again. “It seems to me that you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.”

  A rat-a-tat-tat, shave-and-a-haircut knock sounded on the door, and she whip-turned, startled.

  “My nerves are shot, still, after a year.” She exhaled, smiled, and stood up. “I’m sure it’s the coffee.”

  “Quick service,” I said, just for something to say.

  Allison let the room service waiter in. He placed a brown plastic tray on the table, had her sign the check, and left.

  “Have you known Ana for a long time?” I asked, watching her pour the coffee.

  “Oh, my, yes! Since she was a little girl.”

  The basket of rolls was covered with a cloth napkin. After she passed me a cup, she opened it. There were two croissants, two blueberry muffins, a huge cinnamon bun, and a cherry Danish. A tub of butter and one of strawberry jam were tucked in the middle.

  She pointed to it. “Have one … or cut off a piece if you’d prefer.” She paused for a moment. “Our families had summer houses on the same street on Strawberry Hill. The girls were inseparable, as if they were twins. They were the same age, and they shared interests. They both swam like fish, loved clamming, and would talk and talk and talk about I don’t know what for hours on end. They were both readers, too. Such special girls, both of them. I think they were shocked to learn they weren’t actually related.”

  I smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful that they’re still close. It doesn’t always work out that way.”

  “I agree. Our families, too, are still friends,” she said, taking a blueberry muffin from the basket and cutting it in quarters, “although we’re not as close as we were when Maria was alive—that’s Ana’s mom.” She ate one of the muffin bits. “Ana went through some rocky patches, of course. Nothing is all smooth sailing.”

  I tilted my head and opened my eyes a little wider, silently asking for details.

  She laughed, a little embarrassed, and sipped her coffee. “I don’t think I’m telling tales out of school if I tell you that Stefan can be a bit domineering. Maria mellowed him,
and when she died … let’s just say, I was thinking of Stefan when I said men didn’t cope as well as women. After Maria’s death, Stefan changed. He became snappish and quite controlling. He positively bullied Ana into going for her MBA. He wouldn’t hear about culinary school, he just wouldn’t listen, and she hadn’t found her own strength yet.”

  “I didn’t know. I thought she did go to culinary school.”

  “She did. But only after she finished business school and had a few years’ experience under her belt.” She laughed a little. “It sounds absurd, doesn’t it? What a mean dad, encouraging his daughter to get an MBA. Especially now that she’s running her own business. I suspect she’s glad she has some business expertise in her pocket.”

  “Maybe, but a bully is a bully.”

  Allison sighed. “I know. I wondered if I should have tried to help her, to reason with Stefan on her behalf, maybe.” She shrugged. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda.”

  “What happened that made Ana decide to go back to culinary school, do you know?”

  “Not really. She was working for some company in upstate New York. She had a very good job in marketing. She liked the owner very much, but I don’t think she liked the work. She got some unexpected money, a bonus, I think—enough to pay for culinary school. I don’t recall exactly. I’m just glad she finally went for it.”

  “Did Stefan push Peter to be an engineer, or was that Peter’s choice?”

  “There was some arm-twisting. Peter wanted to be a photographer.” She paused to eat another piece of muffin. “I hear Peter is very happy in his career.”

  I shook my head. “I’m so surprised to hear this. Never in a million years would I have pegged Stefan as a bully. I only met him briefly, but he seemed so kind and caring.”

  “You’re right … he is. During the last several months, he’s changed back into sweet Stefan.” She laughed again, this one rueful. “It gives me hope that in a few years I, too, will regain my balance.” She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they were moist. “I loved my husband very much.”

  I thought of the grief I’d endured. “I don’t know that you ever get over a loss, not really. It changes you.”

  “I appreciate your saying that. Most people talk in platitudes.”